Heriburg and Jehan had reached the second ledge. A moment later, a basket slithered down the cliff to land beside Hanna.
“Sister Rosvita must go in the basket,” said Gerwita, her voice no more than a whisper. “I’ll climb.”
Rosvita did not protest as Hanna and Jerome helped her into the basket. Once the basket began to move, bumping up along the rock, Hanna strung her bow and knelt with an arrow held loosely between her fingers.
“Are you good with that bow?” asked Jerome diffidently.
“Not very good,” she admitted. “I don’t wish to kill anyone, only to encourage them to keep their distance long enough for us to get to the top.”
“If you could climb the north face, so can they.”
“Once they find it. Once they think to do so. We’ll have a little time.”
“For what?”
She smiled at him. Like the other clerics, he was young—not much younger than she was herself, in truth—rather sweet and a little unworldly, a lad who had grown up in the schola and spent his life writing and reading and praying. Not for him the tidal waves that afflicted the common folk, who had few defenses against famine, war, drought, and pestilence. No cleric was immune to these terrors, of course, but the church offered protection and stability that a common farmer or landsman could only pray for and rarely received.
“For Sister Rosvita to save us.”
The answer contented him; they all believed in Rosvita that much. He headed up the steps, following Gerwita. A head appeared to her right.
“Brother Fortunatus!” Even she was astonished how pleased she was to see him. With his good nature and sharp humor unimpaired over the months of their harrowing journey, he had wormed his way into her affections. But she did not move to help him as he swung over the edge and turned around to assist Ruoda, who was wheezing audibly, face red, nose oozing yellow snot.
“Go on,” he said to Ruoda. “Go up and help the others. I’ll follow.”
Aurea was only halfway up the ladder.
As the horsemen advanced across the open field, past the stumps of olive trees, a second score of riders emerged from the gully. No need to guess who commanded them. Even at this distance, unable to make out features or even, really, hair color, Hanna knew that the man in the red cloak was Hugh. She knew it as though he stood beside her, whispering in her ear.
Hanna. You know it is best if you wait for us. Do not think you can escape. You have been led astray by the Enemy, but we are merciful—
“Not to Liath,” she muttered, nocking an arrow.
She sighted on the approaching horsemen, measuring their path, leading with the bow, waiting. Waiting. The staff thrust up abruptly into her view. As Fortunatus heaved Aurea up and over onto the ledge, the first rider got within arrow shot. Hanna loosed the arrow.
It skittered along the ground just in front of the riders, causing them to rein back.
“Pull up the ladder!” she cried as she readied a second arrow. She had only a dozen arrows left. Fortunatus and Aurea reeled up the ladder and cast it against the baskets while the riders huddled out of arrow shot, unwilling to expose themselves further.
“Go! Go!” she cried. “I’ll cover you.”
The rest of the party, led by the presbyter, closed with the five scouts. Fortunatus and Aurea scrambled up the staircase while Hanna waited. Now, at last, she could protect the innocent. She had stood aside for months while the Quman slaughtered her countryfolk and done nothing. She had never risked herself. She had never been able to act. But she could now, and she would.
She was no longer afraid.
Hugh and the others halted beside the scouts to confer. The longer it took them to decide what to do, the more time Rosvita and her companions had to escape. Hanna waited, bow drawn.
Yet surely Hugh understood their predicament as well. He did not dither. When he broke away from the main party, she heard the cries of his companions, calling him back, but he raised a hand to silence them and rode forward alone.
She loosed a second arrow, aiming for the ground at his mount’s feet. The horse shied, but Hugh reined it calmly back and kept coming. She saw him clearly. The sun’s light, as it sank toward the western hills, bathed him in its rich gold. The world might have been created in order to display him. He was beautiful.
But so was Bulkezu.
She readied a third arrow and drew the bowstring. “Leave us, I beg you, my lord,” she called down.
He reined the horse up below, an easy shot, yet she could not make herself take it. She could not kill a man in cold blood. Would it have been easier if he were not so handsome?