“No, not all of them,” said Ivar reluctantly, seeing by their expressions that he could not win this battle using his careful arguments. They were not Wendish. He was. In a way, he had already lost.
“I’d stand up for Duke Conrad,” said the old man. “He’s of good blood even with that foreign creature that gave birth to him, but the old duke, Conrad the Elder, was his father. Nay, I say enough with the Wendish. Let them plough their own fields and leave ours to us who are born out of Varren soil.”
“So be it,” said Ivar. “Come, Erkanwulf. We’d best ride now, while we’ve still light.” He turned his attention to the chatelaine, who made no gesture to encourage them to stay. “I pray you, give us a loaf and cheese. If all goes well, and you aid us by keeping silence, we’ll rid you of the Wendish now biding on Varren earth.”
“What did you mean, back there?” Erkanwulf demanded as they rode out not long after. He was surly, having argued again with his sister and gotten only a perfunctory kiss from his mother. “‘Rid Varren soil of those from Wendar.’ I thought we meant to aid Biscop Constance! I can’t help that those fools back there don’t see her for what she is—a finer steward by far than Lady Sabella!”
“No use arguing with them. They can’t help us anyway. In truth, if many of you Varrens feel the same way, then we must act quickly. I thought there might be many who hated Lady Sabella’s rule. Those villagers by Queen’s Grave were willing enough to help us.”
“They have to feed and house the guards. At least two girls from that village was abused by the guards, if the story I heard is true. The folk there have no reason to love Lady Sabella. But as for others—what is one regnant to them, compared to another? They pay tithes either way, and live at the mercy of the weather and bandits and wolves and what measure of taxes the stewards take on behalf of the nobles each year.”
“Surely they must have seen that Biscop Constance was a fair ruler?”
Erkanwulf shrugged. “How many winters did she rule in Autun? The local folk know only that some Wendish noble was set in place by the Wendish king. We Varrens have no reason to love the Wendish, my lord. That’s an old grudge, for sure.”
“Yet you and your captain and his men were willing to aid Biscop Constance in getting a messenger out.”
“We took her measure, my lord, when we served her in Autun. We know her for what she is. But there’s war in Salia now. Our borders are at risk. Captain Ulric may no longer be barracked in Autun. He may have been sent southwest to fight. Or he may refuse to help us now. Maybe he’s done as much as he’s willing to do to aid Biscop Constance. I don’t know. Duke Conrad is fair to soldiers. He’s a good man to fight for.”
“Surely you know Captain Ulric well enough to know what’s in his mind! He sent you to aid me, after all.”
“We’ve been gone for months. Things have changed.”
They rode in silence for a while along the path that cut through woods. Ash and sycamore swayed softly among oak and beech and hornbeam. It was cloudy, as always these days, and cold and dry. The rains of last autumn had evidently poured all their moisture into the earth in the space of a month or so of incessant rain, Over the winter there had been little snow, although the clouds never lifted, and in time the roads had dried enough for Ivar and Erkanwulf to set off again from their refuge in the Bretwald.
“I didn’t like leaving,” said Erkanwulf after a while.
“What? Your village? They didn’t treat you very nicely.”
“Nay, not them. You see why I left! No, I liked that steading in the Bretwald. They were good, decent, kind people. That’s the kind of place I’d like to settle down, not that I’m likely to.”
“What do you mean? Settle in Bretwald?”
Erkanwulf was about the same age as Ivar, not as tall, and lanky in the way of a young man who never quite got enough food as he could eat growing up. He was tough—Ivar knew that—but he shrugged like a man defeated. “If I leave Captain Ulric’s company, I’ll have to go back to my village and let my mother make a marriage for me. Who else would have me? I’d be an outlaw if I left the place I’m bound to by birth.”
“They took in strangers in the Bretwald.”
“That’s true. Refugees from Gent. I liked it there, with no lord holding a sword over their head and telling them what to do.”
“Until bandits realize how wide that road is, and attack them who have no lord to defend them.”