“Wolf’s Head, the Rabbit Ears, White Face and Hard Rede,” Nell said, pointing to them. “My family’s from these parts. Morea’s another hundred leagues over that way.”
Ser Christos smiled at the page. “Not my part of Morea, young maiden. This is the soft south, where men grow olives, not warriors.”
Behind his back, Nell made a face. “Who’d want to grow warriors?” she asked.
They rode until the sky was dark and the stars twinkled overhead, and then dismounted and drank a cup of wine, every man and woman, their reins in their hands. Then most men changed horses, and the nuns were put up on three strange riding horses, and the next few miles passed swiftly as the three women learned to manage bigger, more dangerous animals. But no one was thrown, and they had another halt at a crossroad. There were four big wagons pulled into the other arm of the cross, blocking any traffic from the high hedges on either side.
Ser Christos grunted.
“What is it?” Amicia asked him.
“Food,” Christos said. “I wondered. He’s purchased food.” He nodded, as if satisfied.
The captain himself materialized out of the darkness like an unclean spirit. “It’s easy to get food now,” he said. “Wait ’til we’re running north. Then it will be exciting.” But he smiled, and his smile suggested he was more comfortable with the situation than he had been the day before.
Morning found them in another grove-this one bigger, on the eastern slope of another great ridge. Amicia thought she glimpsed the Albin running down to the sea in the middle distance-twenty miles. That put them far east of Harndon.
Holy Saturday.
They made a small camp. The women cooked-a rare event in the company-and made beef soup with dumplings and new greens-something Amicia hadn’t had before, but the nuns ate without complaint.
Ser Gavin and the other knights came for morning prayers. As they were singing, Sister Amicia saw one of the great imperial messengers circle and land on the captain’s wrist, and suddenly her outdoor service was much smaller. But the captain must have brushed them off-most of the knights came back to sing.
They turned west. For some reason, Amicia’s heart quickened. They moved at a trot for more than an hour and then turned south towards the river, rode into the outer wards of a small castle, dismounted, and collapsed into sleep.
When Amicia awoke, it was almost dark, and men were already mounting.
Ser Gabriel took her elbow. “We’ll halt at the monastery at Bothey,” he said. “Unless I miss my timing, you can all go hear Easter Vigil and greet the risen saviour.”
“And you?” she asked.
“I’ll spare you the details,” he said. He didn’t grin. He looked terrible, with straw on his clothes and deep circles under his eyes.
“Don’t be a foolish martyr,” she said. “You need rest, to fight. And Easter mass might help you in many ways.”
Then, he smiled. “Perhaps,” he said.
They rode into the late evening. The air was warm, fragrant with a later spring than they’d known ten days earlier in Albinkirk, where there was still snow under the trees. Here, it was the edge of summer, and in the last light of day, flowers bloomed in a riot of colour and scent along the road’s edges, and all the hedgerows were thick walls of green guarding fields where the plantings were already a fist tall or taller.
Darkness fell. An owl hooted repeatedly ahead of the column, and then another, to their right-the north, she thought.
The whole column moved from a walk to a trot.
Sister Mary didn’t even groan. She was a better rider every day, and she didn’t complain at all. She hadn’t moaned since they slept under the tree. Nor did Sister Katherine speak of the joys of riding anymore.
In fact, no one spoke at all. The saddles creaked, the armour clacked, and the company passed like shades of the past along the Harndon Road.
The moon climbed the sky.
She dozed, and then awoke to hear owls hooting to the front and to the right, again, and the column shuffled to a halt.
Amicia kept riding. She told herself that she wanted to be at mass if it could possibly be arranged, but she knew in her heart that she wanted to know what was happening. She could taste smoke-in the back of her throat, on the tip of her tongue. She saw the Moreans walling people-refugees-away from the column-at sword’s point.
At the head of the column there were a dozen men standing on the road around two points of mage light.
There was a newcomer in the command group and she knew him immediately from the siege-and took his hand.
“Ser Gelfred!” she said.
He knelt in the road, and she blessed him-and in moments she and her sisters had work. Gelfred and his corporal, Daniel Favour, were both wounded-long slashes with much blood and little immediate danger beyond infection. The three nuns sang and healed.
“Ser Ranald’s inside the palace with a dozen of the lads,” Gelfred said. “I can’t say more. You told us to keep our operations separate.”
Ser Gabriel smiled without humour. “Don’t do everything I tell you,” he said. “So you have no idea what Ranald is up to?”
“Not no idea,” Gelfred said. He smiled. “Sister, that’s the first time in four days I haven’t been in pain. God loves you.”
She smiled.
Ser Gelfred was back to work. “Not no idea, Captain. We brought Lady Almspend away a week ago; and yester eve Ranald handed us Ser Gerald and one of the aldermen. Alderwomen.” He shrugged. “And the paynim-no, I lie, he came from the knights.”
“The knights?” Bad Tom asked.
“The Archbishop’s disbanded the Order and declared all their lands and money forfeit. He tried to seize all of them.” Gelfred shrugged. “They’ve too many friends-by all the Saints, even the Galles love the Order. They probably had warning before the King signed the writ. Prior Wishart took all his people-he’s gone.” Gelfred wrinkled his nose. “Not gone far. Waiting for you, I reckon.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
“Disbanded the Order,” Sister Mary said.
“I told you, Sister,” Amicia whispered.
“It’s different, here,” Mary said, sounding scared. “Disbanded? What of our vows?”
“Our vows are unchanged, as is the Order,” Amicia said with far more confidence than she felt.
“And the smoke?” Ser Gavin asked.
“A good part of the south end of Harndon was afire yesterday,” Gelfred said. “The commons burned the archbishop’s palace.” He didn’t quite grin. “Someone took all the relics and-well-all the treasure from the cathedral.”
Ser Gabriel was stone-faced. “Harndon is burning?” he asked.
Gelfred nodded.
“Someone’s laughing,” he said bitterly.
“There’s more. The prince of Occitan is just south of the city. He’s made a camp-not a fortified camp, but an open camp like a tournament.” Gelfred coughed into his hand. “I-hmm-took the liberty of telling him that we had reason to believe the King would attack him.” Gelfred raised both eyebrows. “I do not think he believed me,” he added.
“How many men does he have?” Bad Tom asked, pragmatically.
“About what you have. A hundred lances-perhaps more.” Gelfred shook his head. “The Galles have three hundred new lances, and all the King’s Guard, and every sell-sword in the south.” He didn’t laugh, but again he allowed a smile of satisfaction to dent his mouth. “Including a fair number of my lads and Ranald’s.”
“Is the Prior at the monastery?” Ser Gabriel asked. He cocked an eyebrow.
Gelfred nodded. “Aye.”
Gabriel nodded, too. “Well-Easter vigil for everyone, then,” he said. “Mount.”
An hour later, and the company rode under the two high towers of the famous Abbey of the South-the Abbey of Bothey. Bothey had long been a favourite Abbey of both the Kings of Alba and the Earls of Towbray. It had all the marks of riches and royal favour-gold and silver vessels, magnificent frescos, some very old indeed-carved choir stalls and an altar screen of two knights in ancient harness fighting a dragon.