“Brother Percival,” said Vera, her voice suddenly husky, “we have done you an injustice. You and the other Skjaldbræður are welcome—more than welcome—inside our citadel.”
Their plan of inquiring after provisions forgotten, the party fell into loose formation: Istvan and Finn (back on his horse) in front, Eleázar bringing up the rear, with Feronantus and Cnán and Yasper and Rædwulf riding in pairs. Once, Cnán would have felt naked and exposed riding in the open, especially without some sort of helm or mail of her own—not that she had ever worn either—but surrounded now by the readied and alert knights of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae, she felt…protected.
The sensation was not unlike the one she had felt many weeks ago when she had first entered the Shield-Brethren chapter house for their Kinyen. At that time, such a sensation—while new—was not unexpected for being surrounded by the many knights and the stone walls, but she felt both awkward and elated to feel a glimmering of that sensation again when in the company of fewer knights. She tried to not dwell overlong on the source of her emotions.
They rode up the narrow road that ran alongside the river, keeping the winding track of water on their right flank. The gentle slope of the small hill rose on their left, and ahead the road diverged from following the river, dipping down to hug the base of the slope.
The smell of dead flesh was getting stronger. Either that, Cnán realized, or Yasper’s mint oil was starting to wear off.
They could see the back side of the hill now. On the crown of the smaller hill stood a dilapidated series of low buildings, hidden by a rough wall of hewn timbers. A narrow path—barely wide enough for a horse, much less a cart—wound precipitously down the slope, where it connected with the larger road not far ahead of them.
What caught their attention was the two men pulling a narrow cart up the hill and the armed company following them.
The company was dressed in mail—from coifs to chausses—and their long surcoats were white. Each carried a shield, along with a plethora of swords, axes, and maces. The insignia painted on a number of the shields was a red cross surmounting a down-turned sword. Knights, Cnán realized, like her present company in their armament and in the way they carried themselves. There, however, the similarities ended, for their faces were hard and pitiless, set with grim expressions that told her that these men were of a different breed from her companions. She counted heads. They numbered closer to thrice the number of her present company.
In comparison, the two men pulling the cart seemed almost nonhuman. Both wore filthy and threadbare robes that hung stiffly over their gaunt frames, and the heads that protruded from the robes were topped with tangled masses of hair and beard, so encrusted with dirt and other matter that it was nearly impossible to discern any sort of face. The rickety cart was not much more than a plank nailed to a pair of boards to which rough wheels were awkwardly attached. Piled on the cart was, at first glance, a stack of filthy hides, but Cnán saw a flash of pale movement and realized the bundle was another figure like the two hauling the cart.
Someone spotted the Shield-Brethren and a shout went up from the column of knights.
The company of knights stopped, turning in a block to face Cnán and the Shield-Brethren. The two ragmen began pulling their cart faster. A shriek floated down from the palisade at the top of the hill, more an exhortation of panic than the cry sounded by a bird of prey as it dove on its victim.
One of the knights stood nearly a head taller than the rest of his company, and they parted like water for him as he came down the slope. As he reached the tail of his column, he drew his sword and walked unhurriedly toward them. His men reformed in his wake, like a worm folding back on itself, and fell in behind him.
“Hold,” Feronantus said quietly to the other Shield-Brethren. “Let him make his intention clear.”
Cnán heard the sound of stretching sinew, and glancing over her shoulder, she saw Rædwulf draw his bowstring back. He appeared unconcerned that he might have to hold that position for some time. Behind him, Eleázar was looping the reins of his horse around the knob of horn mounted on his saddle. He needed both hands to wield his two-handed monstrosity of a sword, she noted, and the only way to control his mount would be with his legs. Should the situation come to that…
She shivered, suddenly chilled, and she wondered if this sensation was what they all felt at the approach of violence. She wanted to vomit.
The tall knight stopped a few horse lengths from them. Tufts of sandy hair curled out from the edge of his coif, and his beard was streaked with red. He laughed, and Cnán caught sight of strong white teeth. “Feronantus,” the knight called, “you are far from your rock, old man.”
The familiarity with which the man spoke stunned all of them, save Feronantus, who remained unmoved by the man’s taunt. If anything, Cnán thought, he was even more like a stone than per usual.
“And you wear the colors of an order that fell ignobly, Kristaps,” Feronantus replied.
Kristaps spat. “Schaulen. We were betrayed.”
“The only betrayal you faced was that of your master leading you into that trap.”
“Heermeister Volquin was a great leader, Feronantus, and a better man than you—”
“His leadership is no use to anyone now that he is dead,” Feronantus said sadly. “What am I to make of your motley band? Is this all that remains—this sad bunch of deserters—or is there some mischief brewing that requires you to dress ill-informed fools as real knights?”
Several of the knights behind Kristaps drew their swords and shuffled back and forth, clearly eager for an order to engage the Shield-Brethren. Istvan’s horse snorted and began to fidget, mirroring the Hungarian’s own restlessness. Cnán heard the thin creak of Rædwulf’s bowstring.
“I wonder the same of you, Feronantus,” Kristaps replied, unswayed by the tension between the two groups. “Are you lost?” He raised his hand. “Petraathen lies that way, does it not?” He gestured somewhat aimlessly as if he could not be bothered to make certain of the correct direction. “Though perhaps it will be gone by the time you get back.” He showed his teeth. “A long time has passed while you have been hiding on the rock, old man. The world has passed your Shield-Brethren by.”
Feronantus replied with a humorless smile. “Is this all that is left for you now—wandering far from your home, like mad dogs, rooting for scraps left on the battlefield?”
One of Kristaps’s men took a step forward, but the tall knight stopped him with a hand upon the shoulder. “We are God’s servants, on a holy mission,” he answered.
“‘Holy mission?’” Yasper snapped, unable to hold his tongue. “Is that what you call terrorizing the innocent people of this beleaguered city?”
And Cnán inferred what Feronantus and the others had already discerned: the people in the shantytown had mistaken them for men like these and had been trying to appease them with tribute, to forestall some persistent threat of violence.
“There are no innocents before God, only the sinful and the righteous,” Kristaps replied with icy calm, as though explaining something as obvious as the rising and setting of the sun.
Feronantus forestalled any reply from Yasper with an upraised hand. “Calm yourself,” he said quietly. He stared at Kristaps and the other knights, and Cnán noticed how his gaze lingered upon the sigil marking their surcoats. It means something to him, she realized, more than a simple identifying mark like the red rose of the Shield-Brethren. There was something else here that troubled his mind.