But a voice—like the voice of her mother, only far away and sad—spoke as if in her ear: “First arrow perfectly timed, perfectly aimed.”
Cnán understood immediately. She lowered her hand. The archer had accomplished precisely what he had intended. Likely he had left camp even before she arrived, to circle around, guard, and observe.
Running was useless. She was dealing not with Mongols or their jackals, nor with ill-trained bandits, but with men born and raised in the woods. At any false move, that second arrow could strip through the green branches and split her spine.
Cnán quieted herself. Her eyes twitched at more rustling, faint, very close. She had been tracked through the trees by at least two men: the archer, still unseen, off to her right, and the stalker, now approaching from behind. Both were almost certainly from the camp, posted in the woods as sentries.
The hunter behind her began to move freely, making plenty of noise, but she could not yet see his face, nor he hers, because of the pinned-up hood and the dense cowl of mud-crusted black hair falling from the part in the middle of her head. He circled her warily, and when he finally came into full view, they spent a few moments gauging each other.
Cnán had seen some wild-looking men during her long trek across the lands of the Ruthenians, but this fellow—clothed entirely in things he’d killed, sporting a matted beard thick as a bear’s pelt—looked half animal. Nothing woven—no womanly arts for him. Green eyes, sun-wrinkled at the corners, lent him a glimmer of youthful amusement.
No need to guess what he saw in her, since he announced it. His language was unfamiliar, but some of the words came from familiar roots. She recognized “woman” and “Mongol” and “spy”—the last a word very like her real name, in Tocharian.
She could have framed a denial in words he might vaguely recognize, but there were more effective languages that did not involve words.
Cnán shrugged out of her cloak, drew herself up, made a derisive snort, and fixed him with a glare.
It was better than slapping him in the face. The hunter recoiled half a step, then recovered with a mock stagger. Now the green eyes really were laughing. He glanced to his right, gathering a third party into the unspoken conversation: the archer, using the end of his bow to push a branch out of his way and step closer.
This was the tallest man Cnán had seen in years, possibly in her whole life. She knew that the men of Christendom were of greater stature than those of the steppes, but this one was likely a giant—even among his own kind. His hair and beard were red-blond. He was not handsome, but there was a strength in his face that demanded respect. He examined her for a few moments, then faced the hunter, who was still chuckling. They exchanged some halting banter that included a few more repetitions of the words “Mongol” and “spy.” Their languages sounded the same to Cnán, but must, in fact, have differed, since they were not communicating very well.
After a few misunderstandings, the archer broke into Latin. But the hunter only shook his head and held up his hands.
Time to take charge, clearly.
“I am Vaetha,” she lied—in Latin. The words from her mother’s second tongue rolled forth with surprising ease. “I come from lands far to the East with tidings for Christendom. I would deliver this news to the master of your Order. Please take me to him.”
The hunter shook his head again, grinned, then heeled about and sauntered back to the compound.
“Don’t move,” said the archer. He unsheathed his knife and warily moved in and around her, eyes narrow and glittering. He roughly cut the hood from the arrow, ripping the fabric in the process. Apparently the iron head of the arrow was more important, as he then carved away bark and pried it from the tree with the delicacy of a surgeon.
“I am Rædwulf,” he said, tossing the cloak to her feet. “What manner of person are you, and why do you speak Latin?”
“She is of the Bindings,” said a new voice, hollow and deep between the trees.
Cnán spun to discover that the older man had come upon them silently. He wore the robes of a Christian monk. His face was creased and rugged, counting at least threescore years, but age had not brought frailty. As he solemnly inspected her, he held his hand to his chest and drummed his sternum with his fingers. A chingle of mail suggested a hauberk under his travel-worn tunic.
All the activity had drawn the attention of the others in the clearing, even the younger ones busy hacking each other with sticks. They called a halt to the mock combat and took time to salute each other and shake hands before turning to amble in Cnán’s direction.
The horseman cantered past them and drew his horse up short, just at the edge of the woods, then sidled close behind the older man. He looked down on her, his huge mustache flicking in disgust, as if she were an engorged tick just plucked from his inner thigh.
“Mongol!” he proclaimed.
Without turning, the older man countered, “No, Istvan. She has the cheekbones, it’s true, but take a closer look at her eyes.”
“Bandit or corpse robber, then. Either way, kill her.” The horseman, Istvan, spat on the ground near her feet, expertly swung the stallion around, and cantered away.
The older man came closer and bent before her to pick up the torn cloak. Unafraid, polite, but far from humble, he handed it to her.
“I am Feronantus,” he introduced himself, “of the Skjaldbræður.” He used not their newer Christian name, but an older one, in the tongue of the Northmen: Shield-Brethren.
“I am Vaetha,” she said. “As you judged, I am a messenger.”
“‘One who sees,’” Feronantus translated. “From the Tocharian. Wordplay for ‘spy.’ Of course, you are lying about your name—we expect that. But Vaetha will serve until you trust me well enough to tell me who you really are.”
She tried to best his steady gaze but could not.
“Come,” said Feronantus. He turned his back on her and walked away. She followed him into the compound. The giant archer Rædwulf trailed after them both, clutching his precious arrow and smoothing the fletches as if it were a living thing in need of the master’s comforting touch.
The young blond watched with dumfounded amazement as she passed, then whirled on the others. They laughed at his astonishment.
The pell fighter leaned forward and stretched out a clutching hand toward the blond’s crotch. “She could have cut your balls off,” he chided. “No great loss!”
“Did you see her?” the boy asked sharply. He tagged along after Feronantus, his sidewise gait that of a whelp. “I’m called Haakon,” he said to her. “How do you say your name again?” Clearly he had never seen a dark woman before.
“Don’t bother,” Feronantus said. “She’ll be gone before you glean any truth from her. And remember your vows.”
The boy’s feckless astonishment disgusted Cnán. This Feronantus might be of the ancient school, but the others—the Saracen-looking fellow, the men still clutching their cups of country beer, the stick-swinging, rowdy youngsters, this rudely staring blond—appeared far more raggle-taggle than her mother’s tales of steel and glory had led her to expect. Clearly the warrior monks of Petraathen had fallen on hard times.
Perhaps her news would change all that.
Before they reached the tumbledown monastery they were using as their chapter house, Feronantus’s attention was drawn to the skin-clad hunter. He, for no obvious reason, crouched, then performed a clownish flop to the ground, and with eyes closed, pressed his ear against a settled and moss-covered tombstone.
Not his ear, actually, but the heavy skull bone behind it. He was listening for something.