The Burning Stone

  “Maybe she did witch you,” said Baldwin, coming up behind him and resting a hand companionably on his shoulder.

  Ivar began to weep, hated himself for weeping, and got angry instead. “What was the point of seeing the miracle at Quedlinhame? Why would God torment us with seeing Her handiwork so close up, and then abandon us?”

  Baldwin shrugged, found a ceramic pot on the ground, and used it to sluice water through his hair. When he straightened, he set the pot down and wiped water from his eyes and lips. A bead dripped from his nose. “God never abandoned us. The miracle is still with us in our hearts, if we let it be. Maybe Liath was really an agent of the Enemy, like they said at the council. The biscops and presbyters wouldn’t condemn her for no reason, would they? Maybe she shot a poisoned arrow into your heart, Ivar, and that’s why you’re so sad and angry all the time. Prince Ekkehard has noticed it. He’s not sure he wants you among his companions if you won’t drink and laugh and sing with the rest of us.”

  “And whore and be drunk every night and never pray and do nothing but please myself? That’s hardly God’s work!”

  Baldwin picked a spray of wilted parsley, chewed on it, then spat it out. “How can we know what God’s work is? I just do what I’m told.”

  “You don’t! You ran away from Margrave Judith.”

  “I had to,” said Baldwin solemnly. “God made me. God whispered to me that Margrave Judith sent her last husband into a battle where she knew he’d be killed, because she wanted to marry me. God warned me that she’d do the same to me in four or five years, when a younger, handsomer boy came along.”

  Ivar regarded Baldwin in the fine light of a pleasant winter’s morning. “Baldwin, there isn’t a handsomer man than you, not in this entire kingdom.”

  “She might still get tired of me. She might sell me to the Arethousans, and they’d cut off my cock. They like eunuchs there. That’s what Father Hugh told me. Anyway, I don’t like her and I never will. I don’t want to be married to a woman like that. She treated me like a horse! Just something she would use and then keep around until she needed it again!”

  “Is there a woman you would like to be married to?”

  Baldwin considered this for a long time. “One who treated me well,” he said finally. “But meanwhile, I’m free of her. If I had to be Prince Ekkehard’s whore before and his flattering courtier now, so be it. If I have to embrace his leftover whores because he thinks that’s funny, so be it. I don’t mind, as long as they don’t smell. Why should I mind it?”

  “Because it’s boring.”

  “Boring!” Baldwin’s perfect features registered astonishment. “A woman or two every night, or a friend, if you wish that instead. Hunting almost every day. Good food and the best wine. Singing and dancing and wrestling. Acrobats to entertain you in every way. Poets singing tales of ancient battles. How can that be boring?”

  “Ai, God!” The notion, once conceived, took root fiercely in Ivar’s heart. “But it’s just the same thing over and over again. In the end, you’ve nothing.”

  “The same thing! You can’t tell me you weren’t as amazed as the rest of us by those acrobat women and what they could do. Lord Wichman would have made them stay a month if he could have.”

  “But they didn’t stay a month, did they? None of them wanted to.” Ivar recalled the acrobats vividly. The lithe, half-naked girls who had done rope tricks were zealously guarded by the men of the troupe, even to the point of offending an amorous Ekkehard, but two of the older women had performed in other, quite astonishing, ways for the men. But the troupe had left as soon as their pockets were filled with coin and gifts. “They didn’t like us. No more than you liked being Margrave Judith’s husband. Animals eat and drink and hunt and rut, Baldwin! How are we different from the beasts, as we are now?”

  Baldwin blinked at him. A sudden burst of color and noise erupted from the dormitory hall as Ekkehard and his companions emerged into the cloister, laughing and chattering. The few monks who still labored under Brother Humilicus’ rule scurried away into the church, which was the only place Ekkehard never profaned with whores.

  “Come!” the young prince ordered. “Baldwin! We go to hunt!”

  Baldwin grabbed Ivar by the wrist. “You’ve got to humor him,” he muttered, “or he won’t protect us!” He tugged Ivar along in the prince’s wake, and Ivar let himself be led: After all, there was nothing else to do. At the monastery gate they were met by Ekkehard’s cousin, Lord Wichman, who paced with furious energy. Looking up, he saw Ekkehard.

  “You’re late abed, little Cousin!” he cried. “We should have been out an hour ago. I won’t wait for you again!” It had taken Wichman months to recover from the wounds he had received at the battle for Gent last summer, and he still limped, but he was otherwise hale and restless and, as Count Harl often said of such restless young men, ripe for trouble. He had made himself de facto lord of Gent in the absence of any other claimants, and he ruled by turns leniently and intemperately. He laughed now. “And I won’t have to! I’ve received news that there have been Quman raids in the East. My companions and I are going to ride east to fight the barbarians!”

  “I’ll go with you!” cried Ekkehard.

  “You’ve no experience fighting. You’ll just slow us down and get in the way.”

  Ekkehard had a pretty face and a mulish way of thrusting out lips and chin when he was crossed. “How can I get experience fighting if no one will let me ride into the field?”

  “You’re an abbot now.” Wichman laughed again, not particularly kindly. Ivar didn’t think Wichman liked his young cousin; he tolerated him because he was bored. “You have spiritual fields to tend.”

  Ekkehard did not back down easily. “But just yesterday you got a message from Duchess Rotrudis that you were to return to Osterburg to get married. What about that?”

  “I burned the message.” Wichman shrugged. “I’ll tell my mother I never received it.”

  “I won’t tell her that,” said Ekkehard slyly. “I’ll write to her myself and tell her all about your disobedience.”

  Wichman scratched his beard, shifting off his bad leg. “Very well. But it’s your head that’ll hang from a Quman belt, not mine, Cousin.” He didn’t say the words fondly. “You and your companions can ride with me, but I warn you, you must abide by my command. I won’t have you getting the rest of us killed because you’re foolish.”

  Ekkehard thought about this, but he wasn’t stupid. “Very well,” he agreed. “Now can we go to hunt?”

  One of Wichman’s companions stepped up and whispered in the lord’s ear. “Ah.” He beckoned. A ragged-looking person was brought forward from the rear of his troop. “I’ve a gift for you, a fish my guards netted at the gates last night. He demanded to be let in, said he’d come all the way from Firsebarg in Varre at your express order. But it’s just another monk, and a fat one, at that. I don’t think your lemans will think much of him.” Then Wichman laughed with a sharp grin. “He’s not pretty like the other ones.”

  And there he was, looking tired but still stout and untroubled. His bare feet were a mass of sores, and his hair was ragged and grown long, but he was happy to see them.

  “Ermanrich!” Baldwin pounded Ermanrich on the back and then led him before Prince Ekkehard, who allowed Ermanrich to kiss his hand and then dismissed him. He was of no further interest.

  “Come, Baldwin,” said the prince. “I got you what you wanted. Now we’ll go hunt.”

  “I’ll stay behind and make sure he’s tended to,” said Ivar quickly, and Baldwin gave him a quick look, a silent gesture of approval.

  Permission was granted. In truth, the young prince cared not one whit whether Ivar stayed or followed. Horses were brought; the prince and his followers mounted and rode away all in good cheer.

  Ivar led Ermanrich to the infirmary, empty at this hour except for the infirmarian. That good man regarded Ivar suspiciously and signed Ermanrich to lay down on a cot. He rubbed Ermanrich’s feet with
lavender oil, then clipped and combed his tangled hair. After that he left, no doubt to inform Brother Humilicus of this new arrival. Ivar regarded Ermanrich’s feet with awe: the skin on the soles was cracked and dry, as thick and tough as horn. “Did you walk the whole way? Barefoot? In this cold?”

  “It took me two months!” cried Ermanrich cheerfully. “And what a fine road it was!” He rolled onto his stomach and tugged up his robe to display his backside. A mass of old welts and stripes marked his rump and back. “The prior at Firsebarg himself whipped me every day because I wouldn’t recant! But I knew God would hear my call.” He let his tattered robe drop and heaved a sigh of relief. “Then Lord Reginar came from Firsebarg and released me to come here, to Gent. I knew God had called me!” Ivar handed him ale and bread, and as he bolted his bread between sloppy swallows of ale, the chanting of monks in the church serenaded them. Ermanrich broke the silence finally. “Do you chant mass at all hours here? They only did that at feast days at Firsebarg.”

  “Nay. You heard that Queen Mathilda died?”

  “So we did, may she rest in peace. We prayed for a whole week. Then Lord Reginar let me go.”

  “The queen bequeathed her computarium to Prince Ekkehard. So the monks here pray for the souls of the dead written into that book—all her dead kinfolk and, oh, as many other people as gave fine gifts to Quedlinhame or did some other service. All those prayers take up most of the day.”

  “But I saw Prince Ekkehard ride out to hunt. Isn’t he father here, over the monks? He should be praying, not hunting. The queen’s own computarium! How can he treat it so lightly? Isn’t it his duty to pray for the souls of his dead kinfolk, as she did, so that his prayers here will help lift their souls to the Chamber of Light?”

  “I see Brother Ivar has chosen to hold firm to his vows this fine morning and stay here to pray.” The door darkened as Brother Humilicus entered, followed by the infirmarian, who wrung his hands. Humilicus’ dry words always made Ivar wince. “What is this? Another stray taken in by our holy father? But he speaks with good sense. Do you seek to serve God, Brother?” he asked Ermanrich.

  Ermanrich jumped to his feet and bowed respectfully. “So I do, Brother. I greet you in the name of God, Our Mother, She who delivered Herself of a child born of mortal parents who yet partook of no stain of the Enemy. This child She named Her Son, and through His suffering and redemption we ourselves can be saved.” Then he squared his shoulders stoutly, waiting for the rod of martyrdom, or at least a switch across the buttocks.

  “A heretic,” said Brother Humilicus mildly. “I should have known. But, alas, we have fallen so far that I find I prefer a heretic who serves God with devotion than an abbot who mouths the truth but serves only himself. What is your name?”

  “I am called Ermanrich, Brother.” He made the sign of respect to Humilicus, and knelt obediently. “I see you are engaged in God’s work, even if you are misguided. If you do not yet believe in the truth, then I will pray that God will lead you to the truth in time.”

  Brother Humilicus merely glanced at the infirmarian, who busied himself brewing some kind of drink over by the cupboard where he kept his herbs and simples. “These are the days when all things are turned asunder. Abbots use the cloister as a whorehouse, and novices lecture their elders. Still, it is an odd coincidence. Biscop Suplicia came to me only yesterday to complain of certain paintings fashioned by the Enemy, telling the tale of this heresy, that have appeared here and there on walls in the city. It’s a foul hand that appears fair to the eye but conceals beneath its skin only maggots and worms.”

  They endured a lecture from Brother Humilicus on the evils of heresy and disobedience, but Ermanrich’s presence had bolstered Ivar’s heart. For the first time in weeks, he felt hope stir. Perhaps all was not lost. Perhaps life was not a meaningless round of eating and shitting and whoring and vomiting after all.

  Who was painting pictures in Gent?

  In time, even Brother Humilicus had to leave off. He grudgingly allowed Ivar and Ermanrich into the church to pray at the service of Terce. But Humilicus had a monastery to supervise which he ran on a tight rein in Ekkehard’s absence. He did not like Ekkehard’s boys, as he called them when the prince wasn’t around, and he made no effort to include them in the daily round of monastic life. It was easy enough to slip out the servants’ gate and trudge alongside fields of winter wheat and rye, then cross the stone bridge into Gent. Because they were still novices, their hair hadn’t yet been cut in a monk’s tonsure, so they could pass for young fraters. Fraters passed aplenty through Gent on their way east to convert the heathens or to preach among the newly-converted tribes, the Rederii, the Salavii, the Polenie and the horse-sacrificing Ungrians, the red-haired Starvikii and the warrior clans who called themselves Rossi. Some of these fraters stayed a night at the guesthouse in the monastery, and sometimes Ivar would sneak away from the feasts in the dormitory hall to listen to them converse with Brother Humilicus about their adventures among the flat-faced Bodinavas who ate, peed, fought, fornicated, and gave birth all in the saddle, the dreadful Quman who took human heads and wore wings on their bodies, the Sazdakh warrior women who killed any man who set foot in their territory, or the mysterious Kerayit whose witch women were so ugly that one glance from their eyes would turn you to stone. They all knew tales of other fraters, their brothers in the church, who had been granted glorious martyrdoms among the savages, and they spoke of these blessed events in marvelous, gory detail.

  “Look!” murmured Ermanrich, shaking Ivar and pointing to a whitewashed wall. Color crept out over the long white wall, an unfolding tale told with pictures: God reigns in heaven upon her high seat, holding the entire universe in Her hand; into the body of the blessed St. Edessia She miraculously places a holy child who partakes both of human nature and of God’s nature; he grows to be a man, and receives in a dream the Holy Word; he preaches, and followers come to him, chief among them Thecla, Matthias, Mark, Lucia, Johanna, Marian, and Peter; he is arrested on charges of sedition by the officers of the Dariyan Empire; he appears before the Empress Thaisannia, and when he refuses to honor her with sacrifices, she condemns him to a criminal’s death; he is flayed alive and his heart is torn out of his body, but where his blood falls on the earth, roses bloom.

  They stared, and as they stared, Ivar became aware that townsfolk passed by the wall to point and whisper. Someone had placed a withered garland of autumn flowers below the painting that depicted Daisan’s suffering at the hands of the empress’ executioners.

  He moved forward to cautiously touch the painting. The colors already cracked and peeled; a few storms would erase it, as though it had never been. But the images would remain in people’s hearts.

  Who had done this?

  “Stop, friends!” Ermanrich was saying behind him. “Gather ’round! I can tell you of this mystery, which has been hidden from you. Here is the truth! Listen!”

  Ivar began to turn round, to silence him—and bumped into a girl of perhaps twelve years of age. She was stout, well-formed, with the golden-blonde hair common to these parts and a peculiar cast of skin, a kind of reddish, nutty brown. She grabbed his elbow and looked him right in the eye, as if trying to see into his heart. Dirt smeared her chin but she was otherwise clean. A well-polished wooden Circle of Unity hung at her chest.

  “What is it, child?” he asked, in the way of fraters. She tugged on his elbow, then signed, “Come,” in the sign language used by churchfolk. Ermanrich was well launched into a sermon, and townspeople gathered to listen, some with interest, some with scorn, some no doubt because they had nothing better to do.

  The girl pulled at him again, and signed again.

  “What do you want?” he demanded.

  She didn’t reply, but she pointed at the pictures and made stroking movements, as with a brush. Abandoning Ermanrich, he followed her.

  She walked quickly, ducking into an alley. A stray dog nosed through trash. A broken pot had been abandoned in a shadowed corner u
nder overhanging eaves. They emerged onto a street and walked alongside the wall of the palace compound from whence Lord Wichman lorded it over the town; he had topped the walls with bright banners, red and gold, black and silver, that fluttered in a wind off the river. The girl tugged on Ivar’s hand, and they cut through a courtyard where a dye-pot bubbled over an open fire and a delicately-formed girl-child of some four years played with a doll sewn out of scraps of cloth. She looked up and babbled meaningless syllables at them, but Ivar’s companion only made the sign of “silence” toward the girl before pulling him on. Beyond well and cistern stood a small door; Ivar had to duck his head to avoid hitting it. They came into an alley made dark by houses built out over the narrow lane until they almost touched walls above. Rounding a corner, he blinked away the sunlight.

  There, alongside a freshly plastered compound wall, a crowd of about fifteen people had assembled to stare. The girl tugged him forward, and when the townsfolk saw that she came attended by a frater, they stood aside to let Ivar through.

  Beyond them, working feverishly, a slight, robed figure drew figures on the wall and filled them in with dyes: pollen gold, willow purple, cornflower blue, juniper brown. The blessed Daisan, released from the mortal clothing of his skin, rises to the Chamber of Light to rejoin his Holy Mother. His disciplas, below, weep tears of joy—

  The painter turned to dab at a pot of ink, and Ivar saw his face.

  “Sigfrid!”

  He jerked up, spilling the pot, turned full to face his accuser. His thin face looked sweetly familiar, but there was something wrong with the set of his jaw.