“God speed you on your journey, Mistress,” said Father Richander as chatelaine and deacon mounted their horses. The soldiers readied themselves to walk.
Brother Gilles limped over to Alain. “If you wish for company on your path, you could walk with them,” he said. “You will return to us soon enough.”
“I will.”
He fell in behind the foot soldiers. Chatelaine Dhuoda, leaning to talk with the deacon, did not even appear to know he was there, trailing along after the others. No one paid him any mind.
They passed out through the monastery gates and began the long climb up the hill. From behind, rising out of the church, Alain heard the cantors begin the chant for the office of Nones. The voices of the choir drifted after him as they marched up into the trees. Then they were engulfed by forest.
He was used to the walk, but Count Lavastine’s soldiers grumbled among themselves.
“King’s monastery, that’s what they are,” said the youngest of the men.
“King of Wendar, you mean. No king of ours, even if he claims the throne.”
“Ha! Selfish bastards, too, fearin’ count’s levy will take their servants away. Don’t want to sully their hands with commoner’s work, do they?”
“Hush, Heric. Don’t speak ill of the holy brothers.”
Young Heric grunted irritably. “Do you think the abbot wonders, though, if the levy is being raised to fight raiders or to join Lady Sabella’s revolt?”
“Quiet, you idiot,” snapped the older man, glancing back.
Alain tucked his chin down, trying to look harmless. Of course they had noticed him. They just didn’t think he was worth acknowledging. But no man, even in Varre, would talk rebellion against King Henry in front of a man whose loyalties he did not know.
They trudged the rest of the long walk in silence. Alain measured it reflexively by the offices which would soon circumscribe his day. It took from Nones to Vespers to walk up and over Dragonback Ridge, down the long slope to the dragon’s head where lay the prosperous village of Osna. Fittingly it began to rain, a dreary mist that settled in around them. By the time the little party reached the longhouse of his Aunt Bel, he was soaked.
Chatelaine Dhuoda was expected, of course. She arrived once a year to exact the portion due to Count Lavastine from the village. Usually the young people who had spent the previous year in the count’s service returned with her. Over time St. Euseb?’s Day had become the traditional day for a young person to embark on an apprenticeship or to bring a fosterling home. But this year Dhuoda was alone except for her retinue.
Alain stood by the hearth, drying his clothes by the heat of the fire, and watched the greeting ceremony at one end of the hall. At the other end of the hall, his siblings and cousins and the servants of his aunt’s household laid the table on which they would serve a feast. Under the shadowed eaves on either side of the long hall the youngest children sat on chests or huddled on beds, keeping out from underfoot.
The baby began to cry. He walked over to the cradle and picked it up, and it stilled at once, sucking a finger and staring with now perfect equanimity at the scene. Motherless, this child, as he was; its mother had died birthing it, but there was no doubt that his cousin Julien was the father since Julien and the young woman had declared before the village deacon their intention to wed. Because Aunt Bel’s daughter Stancy was nursing a child and had milk to spare, Bel had fostered the baby in her house.
When it came time to serve, Alain handed the baby over to one of his young cousins to hold. It was a mark of Chatelaine Dhuoda’s importance that Aunt Bel, one of the richest persons in the village, had her own kin rather than her servants serve the table at which Dhuoda now sat. Alain poured ale and so he was able to hear much of the conversation that went on between the chatelaine and the merchants and householders who were important enough to be seated at table with Count Lavastine’s representative.
“Count Lavastine has been forced to keep for an extra year of service all of your young people whom you sent to us last year,” Dhuoda explained calmly, although most of the townsfolk regarded her with ill-disguised annoyance.
“I expect my son’s help in the harvest this year!” protested one; and another: “My daughter’s skill at weaving is sorely missed in my household, mark you, and we are well into negotiations for her betrothal.”
“These are troubled times. There have been raids along the coast. We need everyone who is already at Lavas Holding. More men-at-arms are needed. The cloister at Comeng was burned—” Here the chatelaine paused to survey the various expressions of distress on her listeners’ faces. “Yes, alas, the raiders grow more bold. They are a terrible threat to all of us who live near the sea.” She beckoned to Alain. “More ale.” As he poured, she turned to Aunt Bel. “A likely-looking lad. Is he one of yours?”