Not he.

PART THREE

THE VALE OF ICE

IX

A SLICE OF APPLE

1

WINTER laid in its usual store of bitter weather. For three days a viciously cold wind blew down from the north to turn the shores and shallows of the Veser River to ice. Every puddle that graced the streets of Gent had frozen through, and in some ways, Anna reflected, that was a good thing. It meant the stink froze, rainwater, sludge, and sewage in crackling sheets that little Helen liked to stomp on so she could hear them snap and splinter. At times like this Anna remembered the months she had hidden in the tanneries with her brother Matthias: the city had been cleaner when the Eika inhabited it, but perhaps that was only because it had been mostly deserted then.

Not anymore. Even in the dead of winter folk walked the frozen avenue alongside the freshly whitewashed wall marking the mayor’s palace. Walled compounds faced the avenue on the other side. Well-to-do artisans and merchant families lived and worked in these compounds. A peddler trundled his cart up to one of the gates and called out, hoping for admittance. A servant boy emerged and, after looking the peddler over and examining the condition of his heavy winter tunic and cloth boots stuffed with straw, let him inside. At times, these signs of prosperity still amazed her. It had been less than two years since refugees and newcomers had flooded back to Gent after the Eika defeat.

Anna had learned to amuse herself with such thoughts when she took Helen along on errands because inevitably she did a great deal of waiting. With her arms full of wool cloth, she couldn’t just grab hold of Helen’s arm and drag her along. The little girl didn’t understand any need for haste, nor did she seem to feel the cold even as Anna’s fingers grew numb, through her wool gloves. Helen warbled like a bird, phrases that leaped up and slid down with lovely precision, as she stamped on a particularly fine landscape of thin puddles, creamy with frozen shells that made a satisfyingly sharp crack when they shattered.

“Here, now, little one, this is no weather for a child to be playing outside.” The voice came from behind them. Helen continued her singing and stomping without pause.

Anna turned to see Prior Humilicus walking down the street with several attendants. The cathedral tower loomed behind him, marking the town square that lay just past the northwest corner of the mayor’s palace. The prior of the new monastery dedicated to St. Perpetua was a familiar sight in town these days, especially in the months since the abbot, Prince Ekkehard, had ridden off with Lord Wichman to fight in the east. Humilicus visited the biscop every day no matter the weather.

“Ah,” he said, seeing Anna’s face and her burden. “You’re the weaver’s niece.” Like all noble folk, he had the habit of touching without asking. He stripped off his sheepskin mittens and fingered a bolt of cloth admiringly. “Very fine, indeed. A rich scarlet. Did Mistress Suzanne dye this wool herself?”

Anna nodded. Helen had come to the last of the string of frozen puddles and was crushing the grainy ice that made a lacework of its miniature shoreline.

The prior’s lean face tightened and his lips pressed together. “You’re the mute one, are you not? God have surely afflicted your family twice over.” Anna didn’t like the way he examined Helen. From a filthy, abandoned, half-starved toddler, she had grown into an angelically pretty little girl, some four or six years of age. “She has a remarkably true voice,” he mused. “I wonder if she can be trained to sing hymns.”

His gaze shifted past Helen. The long wall of the mayor’s palace had once been painted with vivid scenes of the death and life of the blessed Daisan but had been painted over for the third time three days ago. Humilicus picked up a rose encrusted in hoarfrost, examining the wilted flower with the kind of scrutiny most folk reserved for maggots crawling on rotten meat. “I thought all these leavings were picked up last week.”

“They were, Prior,” said the eldest of the monks, whose thin nose was blue with cold. A gust of wind shook the banners set atop the palace wall and set Anna’s teeth chattering. “The biscop’s clerics go around every week collecting such offerings. They brought in two wreaths, one carving, and four candles yesterday.”

Helen darted forward to pluck the rose out of Prior Humilicus’ fingers, then scurried away to hide behind Anna.

“Here, now!” scolded the thin-nosed man.

“Nay, let her go,” said Prior Humilicus. “A whitewash won’t erase memory. If the common folk still lay offerings here after all this time, then chastising one witless girl won’t have any effect on the stain that’s crept into them. It was that stout lad who let the pollution in, he and his tongueless accomplice.” Despite his grim looks, he had a mild if somewhat sardonic disposition. He paused to examine the wall with an ironic smile. “A clever and well-spoken lad was Brother Ermanrich. It passes my understanding that God should have allowed the Enemy’s work to enter such a fitting vessel.”