That bellow brought a creak from the massive main door of Sigebert’s mansion. It opened to spill forth the yellow light of candles. A woman of formidable proportions emerged. Her features were like iron and her arms big as Sigebert’s. Household keys chimed at her belt. She gazed upon Cathula without astonishment.
“Take this wench and make her presentable. Burn the clothes she wears.”
“Aye sir,” Austrechilda said, with no more concern than had she been told to sweep the yard. Less, in truth; that she would have considered beneath her position, although she’d have obeyed none the less. Would be madness for a servant of Sigebert One-ear to do aught else when he spoke.
The big woman took Cathula by the wrist. Her thumb and fingers overlapped, though the stout farmgirl was not tiny. She was drawn within the house while the master watched the girl’s backside. She made one small effort to hang back and desisted swiftly when she felt the strength of Austrechilda’s grip.
Glancing at the big woman’s face, Cathula despaired of finding sympathy. Not that Austrechilda looked cruel. No, it was worse. The peasants of Cathula’s own village wore Austrechilda’s expression, year in and year out. Stolid, it accepted all, questioned nothing aloud and little in silence. It said, “The great ones of the world do as they please, and however bad they may be, we must bend our necks and like it, or they will do worse.”
Cathula felt a sudden scalding upsurge of hate. No! She was here, with no way to go back. So be it. She would watch and listen, however filled with danger that might be, and perhaps… perhaps she’d learn of a way to do her captor some great harm.
She had not yet even had time to mourn her mother.
Tucking her head down to hide the wild gleam in her eyes, she went meekly with Austrechilda. Her bare feet made no sound; Austrechilda was silent; her keys jingled, reminding all that the master’s mistress of household passed.
In the stableyard, Sigebert tossed his horse’s reins to a groom. Though he gave over his latest concubine to another to burnish without supervision, he would not deal so with his mount. Unusually for a Frank, the One-ear was a superb rider.
Sweat prickled on the groom’s unwashed hide at the prospect of seeing to the beast under those masked eyes. The rubdown had better be satisfactory. Sigebert had an affection for his horse that he showed no other living creature.
“My lord Sigebert!”
Sigebert turned at the hail, ripping forth his sword. The figure emerged from the shadows stopped dead while he repeated his greeting to a naked blade. Sigebert recognized him, and put up his sword.
“Faraulf! You are alone?”
“I am, sir.”
“You have word for me? Come within.”
The portal banged shut behind them and Sigebert drew its bolts. Hearing them snib, the groom expelled a breath of relief. Not even to himself did he wonder as to the stranger’s identity or purpose. Was no affair of his. In this household a lack of curiosity helped one live longer. He led the raven-hued horse to its stall.
Sigebert One-ear preceded the messenger through the richly furnished halls of his mansion. Lighted candles vaunted wealth.
The house went with his position. The city’s previous chief customs assessor had acquired all this by turning a blind eye to the dealings of a certain merchant with pirates; shares in the plunder came to the official. This had proven his mistake, and at last it had caught up with him. Sigebert was appointed to replace him. The treacherous Frank had done so right briskly. Both merchant and former official were dead now, executed in grisly fashion at Sigebert’s orders. Nothing to do with manse and furnishing save give them use…
In an arrased chamber on the upper floor, Sigebert lit more tapers. The wavery light imparted a sinister, even an inhuman look to the black leather mask he had not yet troubled to remove. The man Faraulf stood uneasily in his linsey-woolsy and leathers. He knew Sigebert of old, and had heard of his recent disfigurement.
Sigebert folded himself lithely into a chair. “Well?”
“I bring word from our lord Clovis, sir. ’Tis this: The ravens are flying!”
Sigebert hissed softly between his teeth. The pre-arranged code he had waited to hear! “So soon, then!”
“Aye, sir. Our lord Clovis moved swiftly after he heard of your… misfortune.”
“Faraulf,” Sigebert said very quietly, “you court… misfortune, yourself, by speaking of that.”
Faraulf paled. “‘The ravens are flying!’“ he repeated, for a change of subject-any change of subject. “Now, sir. This moment as we talk!”
“The black birds of war,” Sigebert muttered, and laughed aloud. “The death-birds! That is good to hear!”
Beside his chair squatted a small table on dog-curved legs. It supported a flagon of wine and five goblets. Sigebert swept the mask from his head with an exultant motion as he turned to pour. The taper-light fell on the unscarred side of his face, smoothly shaven, fair of skin, handsome beyond the ordinary.
“And do you know what means this word you have carried me?”
“I do, sir. The Frankish kings march against Syagrius. My lord Clovis added a word from himself to yourself; that when he has taken the kingdom, you shall be Count of Nantes.”
“Splendid.” The word was a soft purr of satisfaction. “Well, my friend, you have come far. I’ll hazard you are both weary and thirsty.”
Sigebert turned with deliberate suddenness to hand the messenger a brimming goblet-and to display the gashed corner of his mouth, the savagely scarred cheek on the earless side of his head. He saw the effect with twisted amusement: Hard as he was, Faraulf came nigh to dropping the wine-cup. He did splash golden liquid over the brim. And he drank deeply, swiftly.
“Thirsty indeed,” Sigebert One-ear murmured. “You may find yourself a bed, Faraulf. In a day or two I will send you back to our lord Clovis with my thanks.”
It was dismissal. Dismissal from him who’d be Frankish lord of Nantes, once Clovis and his Frankish army had crushed the last holding of Rome in Gaul. Glad to receive it, Faraulf drained the wine to the lees. He set down the goblet, bowed to his lord Clovis’s one-time master agent at the court of Soissons, and departed.
Sigebert lounged back in his chair, smiling, stretching forth long, good legs.
Good tidings to receive! Aye, splendid, as he had said. He had been greatly chagrined to be sent from the court of Soissons, to take this insignificant if lucrative post. Plainly Syagrius had begun to distrust him. Well, that distrust would not matter long, now! He’d be swept into the rubble of the past where resided all broken kings and “kings” and shattered kingdoms-and the empire of Rome. In place of the Roman realm would stand a Frankish one. This boring time of obscurity would be over; Sigebert would stand powerful and highly placed in the world again. He chuckled softly, savouring his reward in advance. Exultantly he emptied his cup and filled it anew with topaz-hued wine.
As he sat drinking, he bethought him of the girl he had carried off. He’d not intended to enjoy her this night. Anticipation was also a pleasure, and she’d be filled with wonderment and apprehension; and too he had ridden far this day. Now… he smiled. He changed his mind. The word brought by Faraulf fired him with exhilaration. The girl should be bathed and prepared by now. His smile was gloating. Just a bit more wine. Then he would show her the pleasures of the body, along with the pleasures of pain.
The tapers throbbed and faltered as if nearly bereft of air.
Darkness seemed to intensify in the chamber, to press palpably down on the feeble sources of light. Sigebert froze in mid-movement, and he frowned though his eyes had widened.
An odour filled the Frank’s nostrils… a smell as of musty feathers. His throat seemed to close. He had difficulty breathing. The chamber seemed smaller, as though giving way before another Presence.
Wildly Sigebert thought, I have felt this afore!