He shuddered and shifted. Rage and Sorrow pressed against him on either side. Their solid presence made him feel safe.
Unlike the foot soldiers who marched in Lavastine’s train, he now had a decent bed to lie on: the carpet that was always thrown down in front of the entrance to Count Lavastine’s tent. Every night after watering and feeding the other hounds and sending them in to sleep beside their master, Alain bedded down here. Though it was absurd—he had a spear and a knife and was barely trained in either—he thought of himself as protecting the count despite the fact that two guards stood watch at all times. But no one had demanded he move. Most likely no one dared to, not when he moved with hounds always at his side and Count Lavastine remained oblivious to all but his goal of aiding Lady Sabella.
Rage whimpered and stirred in her sleep. Sorrow was the quieter sleeper, but he would wake instantly if Alain moved. And now, of course, thinking of this, Alain simply had to get up.
Yesterday Count Lavastine and his army had caught up with Lady Sabella. The impressive retinue Alain had first seen at Lavas Holding almost two months ago was now a formidable army. Rodulf, Duke of Varingia, and a number of counts and lords had joined with Sabella. Lavastine’s arrival with one hundred and twenty more fighting men had been a convenient excuse for celebration. The feasting had lasted long into the night, and Alain had drunk more than he should of the ale passed around to the common soldiers. Indeed, his mouth was dry and sour-tasting, and he had a headache. And he really, really had to urinate.
One of the guards was asleep. The other yawned, disinterested, as Alain got to his feet. Sorrow woke at once as Alain ventured into the sparse cover of wood that lay twenty paces behind the camp. The hound followed, whining softly.
Alain relieved himself. The moon had already set, but a thin line of red rimmed the eastern sky. From the far side of camp he heard the sound, muted by distance, of clerics and fraters singing the service of Lauds, first light. As he turned to move out of the trees, Sorrow closed his jaws over Alain’s wrist and tugged. Alain tripped over undergrowth.
“What’s that?” A harsh whisper sounded from deeper in the wood.
Sorrow leaned so hard on Alain that the young man fell to hands and knees. Now he was partially screened by low bushes. He peered out through their branches to see two figures carrying between them a bulky weight. They had stopped to rest.
“Hush,” said the other.
Alain was silent. Sorrow was silent. The two mysterious men were silent. The clerics and fraters sang, distant voices blending in the chill air as the sky faded from black to gray.
“Nothing,” said one of the men. “We’d best hurry before camp wakes.” He hoisted the thing they carried up higher against his chest and they moved away through the curve of the wood toward the eastern end of camp.
They were carrying a body.
Alain’s heart went cold. Sorrow licked his hand. Together they crept after them, Alain keeping one hand on the nape of the hound’s neck. To reassure himself, he slipped a hand inside his tunic to touch the rose, still alive, still in bloom. The prick of its thorns gave him courage.
He could not tell if the body was man or woman, alive or dead. They carried it all the way round to the outskirts of Lady Sabella’s encampment, where the kitchen tent was set up, and then even past that and past the livestock, to where a shrouded cage rested fifty paces away from any tent or fire. A man, face hooded, arms bound in heavy leather wrappings, met them.
They spoke in low voices. At first Alain could not hear; no man would have been able to. But an Eika …
Alain strained, stilling himself until he heard Sorrow’s soft panting, heard each individual voice, some true, some off, as the clerics sang the final cadences of Lauds. He heard the scraping of claws against wood, the clack of twigs in the dawn breeze, heard even the loam as it crushed down beneath his fingers.
“… will have no questions being asked.”
“Brought him from the estate by Autun. Them are the Biscop of Autun’s lands, and so they be the false king’s lands. So does Biscop Antonia say, that false king’s men are fair game.”
The keeper grunted. “As long as we get no trouble of it. You must have walked all day, then, from the lands outlying Autun. Is he still alive?”
“Seems to be breathing. I gave him the drink, just as much as you said. Hasn’t woken or eyes fluttered once. What’s it for? Make him taste better?”
The keeper’s voice radiated his distaste. “No need to make him suffer more.”
“You feel mercy for the false king’s man?”