Even Geoffrey was wise enough to let it go. He stepped back, he bowed his head humbly, and took his little daughter—the new count—in his arms, the symbol of his victory.
Henry turned to regard Alain. Did he look aggrieved? Had his voice caught on that mention of lost sons? Alain was too numb to care.
“You have served God and this throne faithfully, Alain. I offer you this choice, that you walk away from Lavas Holding now and never return to any lands under its watch on pain of death, or that you accept a position in my Lions, fitting to your birth, and serve me.”
That fast, he had tumbled down Fortune’s wheel. It was simply too stunning to grasp. But he had to act. He had to think. He struggled to clear away enough fog so as not to make a fool of himself. God help him, he would not disgrace Lavastine by making a fool of himself in front of Geoffrey and his smirking family!
But of course, Henry knew what he was about. There wasn’t a choice, not really. Had he ever had any place to go except to return in shame to Bel’s steading, which he could not do anyway because Osna was under Lavas protection?
He came forward and knelt as, from his seat among the nobles, he had once watched Eagles kneel before the king, as servants had once knelt before him, although those days seemed impossibly long ago. The rose seemed to have sprouted thorns of ice, pricking his heart until he thought he must bleed in torrents all over the floor. He would perhaps have fallen over from the pain, but Rage and Sorrow paced forward and sat on either side of him, their big bodies pressing warmly against his trembling one.
King Henry did not step back, nor did they growl at him. “I will serve you as you command, Your Majesty,” said Alain.
3
PRINCE Ekkehard saw the gold feather lying on the road and, after one of his grooms fetched it for him, he held it up in his cousin’s face.
“Have you ever seen anything like this? I think it’s pure gold! What luck that I saw it first!”
“Get that thing out of my face, I pray you,” said Wichman, shoving Ekkehard’s arm back. “It smells.”
“It does not!” cried Ekkehard, holding it to his nose and taking a big whiff. At once he began coughing, and Wichman’s companions all laughed. Wichman took advantage of Ekkehard’s coughing to snatch the feather from his younger cousin’s hand, and by the set of his mouth and the frown made by his eyes, Ivar could tell he was intrigued.
“That’s mine!” objected Ekkehard as the fit passed.
“So it is, little Cousin, but right now I’m having a look.” Wichman handed it to one of his companions and quickly it was passed around among the older horsemen as Ekkehard fumed.
Wichman and his fighting men were not unlike a gang of bandits, Ivar reflected. Ermanrich had taken to calling them Lord Reckless and his noble companions Thoughtless, Careless, Heedless, Senseless, Mindless, Wordless, Useless, the three Thundering brothers, the six Drunken cousins, and of course the infamous Thruster, who had once been discovered doing unspeakable things to a ewe. Sigfrid did not approve of this levity, but he always ended up laughing anyway because Ermanrich had such a wicked ability to mimic.
“It’s gold,” said Thruster wisely as he twirled it, “and God damn it but I’d like to see those acrobat girls perform dressed in nothing but a skirt of these. I know what I’d do with’em then!” Known otherwise as Lord Eddo, he was the most single-minded person Ivar had ever met.
“Can’t be gold,” said Thoughtless who, like all the rest of Wichman’s cronies, was a fat-headed, bored young nobleman from somewhere in Saony. “Ain’t any birds made of gold.”
“Is too gold,” said Useless, snatching it from his hand. “‘Tisn’t a bird feather at all. It’s a Quman feather. They have wings, too, you know.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Wichman, which ended the matter. “But I’d like to see what bird it comes from. Here, Father Ekkehard.” He handed it back with a smirk. “Perhaps you educated churchmen can make more sense of it. Oh, God!” The groan came from him quite unexpectedly, and everyone started round to stare. He slapped his own forehead. “I forgot all my clerics at Gent!”
It had become a very old joke, but he and his companions still found it hysterical.
Amazingly, Prince Ekkehard had learned to keep his mouth shut at such times. He merely handed the feather to Baldwin for safekeeping.
They had passed the first signs of a village some time ago, woods logged out for firewood and buildings, grazed meadows, a litter of pig bones, and fields left fallow. It had been a quiet ride; there were remarkably few birds in the woods. Now as the sun sank into the afternoon, light filtered mellowly through spring leaves. They rode alongside a flowering orchard. Three half grown boys sprinted out from the cover of the trees to stare.
