The Burning Stone

“We could have done something for Sigfrid,” muttered Baldwin.



“Just like you could have done something when Margrave Judith came to fetch you? We’re powerless against them. Or do you want to go back to your wife? It was certainly warmer with her!”



Baldwin only grunted.



Wagons passed, then a peddler on foot and, later in the morning, clots of pilgrims dressed in rags, weeping and wailing the name of Queen Mathilda. No doubt word had already been sent to King Henry, by horse, but these humble pilgrims would spread the news among the common people in return for a bit of bread and a loft to sleep in.



Something stirred in Ivar’s gut, a feeling, an idea—or maybe just hunger.



“Look!” Baldwin jumped up, got his hair caught in the hedge, and swore as the branches yanked him to a halt. By the time Ivar had freed him, Prince Ekkehard’s cavalcade had come up beside them.



“How did you get so muddy?” said the prince with a frown for Baldwin.



“We had to walk here, my lord prince. What news of our friends?”



Prince Ekkehard had a habit of blinking two or three times before he replied, as if it took him that long to register words. He was all sun and light when happy but as sullen as a rainy day when annoyed. Right now he glowered. “It is no easy thing to question my aunt, I’ll tell you that. That comrade of yours is quite mad, and disrespectful, too. Imagine treating my grandmother’s memory in such a way! I didn’t like him, and my aunt said there’s some terrible punishment in store for him, so it’s no use to pine over him. He’s lost to us.”



“But you promised—”



“Enough! There’s nothing I can do.” Then he grinned. “But I got in a good kick to my awful cousin, Reginar. I told my aunt that the abbacy of Firsebarg has come free now that Lord Hugh is being sent to the skopos for punishment, so she’s sending him there. He was so grateful that he promised to do me a favor, so I told him there was a novice there called Ermanrich whom I’d seen in a vision, and that I wanted him to come to Gent to serve me.” His young attendants giggled. “Come now, fair Baldwin.” He turned coaxing, seeing that Baldwin still pouted. “I did what I could.”



“You could have got Sigfrid as well.”



“There’s nothing I could do against my aunt when she was in such a rage! He’ll deserve whatever punishment she metes out. What a terrible thing—” The young prince faltered, seeing Baldwin’s expression. “But I did everything else just as you wished, Baldwin. You do love me, don’t you?”



“Of course I do,” said Baldwin reflexively, then muttered, “as long as you keep me away from Margrave Judith.” Ivar kicked him, and he startled like a deer seeking cover. “I am grateful, my lord prince.”



“As well you should be. Come, ride beside me, Baldwin.”



A horse was brought. Ivar found a seat in one of the wagons, and there he brooded as he jolted along, listening to the chatter of the prince and his loyal retainers. He had heard the refrain often enough: That young men were reckless and feckless and untrustworthy by reason of lacking a steadying womb and the knowledge that they would give life to daughters, who would inherit after them. It was no wonder that women, like the Lady before them, held the reins of administration while they tended the Hearth. What could they expect from feckless men? Headstrong Prince Ekkehard? Pretty, spoiled Baldwin?



Was Ivar, son of Harl and Herlinda, any better? Trapped by desire for a woman who had never even wanted him. A coward, unlike Sigfrid, who however stupidly and disrespectfully had at least shouted the truth out loud, no matter the cost to himself.



He wept, although the day was bright.



4



“WHITE-HAIR! Snow woman!”



A dozen Ungrian warriors sat-cross-legged on the ground, sharpening their curved swords, but they had all paused to look up as Hanna passed. She had almost grown used to being the center of attention whenever she walked through camp, on account of her blonde hair and light skin. Except for Prince Bayan, the Ungrians knew no Wendish, but it seemed like every soldier in his retinue had all learned these few phrases, and they were completely unashamed when it came time to call them out to her in their atrocious accents.



“Beautiful ice maiden, I die for you!” cried one young man with black hair and a long, drooping and exceptionally greasy mustache. He had sweet eyes, and was missing one of his front teeth. Like all the other Ungrians, he wore a padded leather coat over baggy trousers.



“My greetings to your wife, my friend,” she called back in Ungrian. They all laughed, slapped their thighs, and began to talk volubly among themselves—probably about her. It was disconcerting, and tiring, being the object of so much attention.