The Burning Stone

Prince Ekkehard was actually able to bend one arm at the elbow so he could rub his nose with the back of a hand. “I think that’s enough for now,” he said.



“I pray you, believe us!” cried Ermanrich, loud enough that a number of people including some of Ekkehard’s other companions jumped. “His blood washed away our sins!”



Sigfrid tugged on Ermanrich’s robes and made a complicated signal of signs and grunts, sweeping rushes aside so he could trace letters into the dirt floor of the longhouse.



“Oh!” said Ermanrich, startled enough that for the first time he looked anxious. “Are you sure—Prince Ekkehard said—” Sigfrid nodded his head emphatically. “Uh, well,” continued Ermanrich, stuttering only a little. He glanced once at Sigfrid, his good-natured face drawn down in a frown, but Sigfrid’s expression was as fixed as adamant stone. “My good Brother Sigfrid says that you who have no faith in the truth of our words will see a miracle at dawn tomorrow, and then you will believe.”



Ekkehard called them aside after the villagers had straggled out to spread the news. “What are you talking about? I don’t want to lose the goodwill of these villagers by having you babble on and scare them! Baldwin!” Obviously the poppy juice was wearing off, but his arms had more flex and movement in them than they’d had the day before, and he submitted to having his bare shoulders bathed in pine oil water as he scolded Baldwin. “What if we reach my sister and she sends us all home because of your ranting? Ai, God! Nay, leave off!” he snapped at the servant who was probing the bruises on his shoulders. “I will ride out tomorrow. I can ride well enough, I’m much better. Lord protect me! All night I dreamed of naked succubi sighing and moaning beside me in the bed until I thought I’d go mad. I made a promise not to touch any of their daughters, and I don’t want to look bad now, not after I made Wichman look so bad in front of them, but we’ve got to get out of here.”



“Truly spoken, Your Highness,” said Ivar with a nasty glance at Baldwin.



“Let us go pray at the beast’s pyre, my lord prince,” said Baldwin. “The villagers stay away from it now, and we’ll be at peace.”



Ekkehard regarded Ivar with suspicion, as if he’d used sleight of hand to tempt Baldwin away from his rightful lord, but because he wanted to avoid trouble he agreed. Ten of the young men in Ekkehard’s company accompanied them back to the pyre.



“This is a change of heart,” muttered Ivar as they trod along the path. “I haven’t seen you praying much the last few months. Too busy kissing the feet of my lord prince.”



“Is this how I’m thanked?” retorted Baldwin. “With your petty grumpiness? Haven’t I been protecting you all this time? Didn’t I save us from Judith? God help me but I hope you can return the favor, for I can’t take another night like the one I just suffered through! They kept sneaking in through the window, one after the next, raving about angels and revelations.” He shuddered, but not even a grimace could mar his perfect features. Walking this close to him, Ivar smelled oil of jessamine lingering on his skin, A sprig of dried lavender was caught in his brilliant hair, and Ivar plucked it out and crushed it between his fingers. A faint scent burst, then dissipated.



“God protect us,” exclaimed Milo, who was walking at the front. Where the pyre lapped the stream, steam boiled up, and all the ashes and coals were hidden by the churning mist. A scent like flowers distilled to incense permeated the air. A whispery crackling came from the shroud of mist, melding with the babble of water over the stones and the curdling hiss of steam.



“I—I don’t like it here,” said Milo, taking several steps back, but Baldwin marched right up as close as he could stand and plopped down on his knees.



“Nothing could be worse than what I endured last night!” he proclaimed. “I would rather die than go through that again.” Sigfrid nudged him, and he added hastily: “Although of course I know that God protects us. We are meant to be here.” He grabbed Sigfrid by the sleeve and jerked him closer, lowering his voice. “Aren’t we?”



In this way, somewhat anxiously, the second day passed. Sometimes villagers came to look in on them, as if to make sure they weren’t getting up to any mischief, but mostly they were left alone although once or twice Ivar thought he heard giggling at the edge of the distant wood, far enough away that, when he looked back, he only saw pale flashes moving among the trees, dogs or goats, or poor Baldwin’s tormentors.



Baldwin prayed more beautifully than anyone, and he could lead them at prayers as long as Ermanrich prompted him.