The Silver Wolf (64 page)

She sighed deeply and began laughing. “I almost believe you do not care what form I assume, so long as I am a proper wife to you.”

“I believe you will be,” he said, stroking her hair. “Once I have you in my mountains, in the hall of my fortress, warmed, cossetted, and fed well on our cheeses—you will be filled with delight at their variety and their richness; on our rich dark bread—Matrona has a different loaf for every day of the year; and on our amber beer, you will forget these sick and sorrowful fancies bred by your uncle’s cruelty and neglect.”

“Suppose I don’t?” she asked in a voice choked with tears.

“Well, I have certain rules,” he said. “You may not kill or even frighten our sheep, goats, cattle, or horses. We are dependent on the milk, yes, even from the horses, for cheese-making and the greater part of our wealth. And I will not want a wife who crouches on the hearth rug and cracks marrow bones with her teeth. I do not allow my dogs in my bedroom. I will not tolerate a wife who sheds, either. My rugs are Persian. The sheets are of the finest Egyptian linen. My furniture is crafted by the most skillful mountain carvers. The bed curtains are heavy
brocade, and the goose-down mattress and comforter are like sleeping among clouds. I will allow no fleas.”

Regeane began laughing helplessly. He turned her face up to him and kissed her. Her tears were a salty taste on his lips. “Better?” he asked.

“I’ve done all I could,” she said.

“Yes.” He rose. “Now leave Basil’s champion to me.”

The door opened. Barbara, Antonius, Elfgifa, and Postumous entered. Elfgifa tried to run at Regeane, but Barbara wouldn’t let her. Instead, she made the child walk over to Regeane and give her a decorous kiss, but then Elfgifa lost control and hugged her. Regeane lifted the child onto her lap.

“What’s going to happen?” Elfgifa asked tearfully.

“Nothing,” Regeane replied. She could feel in the child’s desperate clinging to her the little girl’s doubts about the adults’ comforting lies.

Postumous approached her like a grown-up and kissed her outstretched hand. She read the smoldering fear in his eyes.

She pulled Elfgifa away and handed her back to Barbara. The nun’s face was lined with worry. “Get the children out of here, Barbara. Get the children away. Whatever happens, they shouldn’t see this.”

“Don’t worry,” Barbara said. “Emilia is leaving tomorrow for Wessex with both of them. She got a message to Elfgifa’s father. He says he will welcome the little boy and foster him. His mother didn’t want to let him go, but she knows he’ll have a better future there than he does here, especially if the Lombards win. Basil would kill her and the boy the way he’d flick a fly off the rim of his cup, and just as quickly.”

Elfgifa bucked away from Barbara and ran to Regeane again. Regeane caught her by the hands.

“My father says that we shouldn’t desert our friends in time of trouble,” she told Regeane.

Regeane kept the two, small hands in hers to prevent the child from clinging to her. She kissed her on the forehead. “Friends also respect each other’s wishes, and I would be more unhappy than I am now if I knew you remained with me to be injured, or perhaps killed. Go now. Your duty in hospitality requires you to care for Postumous. He accompanies you to
the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms of your father. Postumous doesn’t know the language and has no friends. Even as he helped you in his country, you must care for him in yours.”

Elfgifa stepped back, a look of almost adult sadness in her face. She turned and, taking Postumous by the hand, she and the little boy preceded Barbara through the door.

“Hail and farewell,” Regeane whispered. “May God accompany you and preserve you from every evil forever.”

A roar rose from the crowd outside. Regeane started. They had seen Basil’s champion.

Antonius said, “Now I imagine Maeniel has put in an appearance. Regeane, have you any idea of what kind of miserable cruelty you have brought down on yourself?”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

He extended a piece of cloth to her. It was undyed linen, the coarsest of homespun. She took it from his hands.

“You must stand tied to the stake,” he said, “with the faggots piled around your feet, watching your champion fight the battle. If he loses, yields himself as conquered, or is killed, they light the fire. Now, take off that gold gown and put this on. I’d keep the silk shift. This damned thing is not fit for sacking and without something under it, you will be rubbed raw. I’ll leave while you change.” So saying, he hurried out of the room.

Regeane quickly pulled off the golden dress and threw it on the bench. Then she dropped the penitential shift over her head. It was like a piece of sacking. It covered her from head to toe and trailed a bit on the ground. The sleeves hung to below her elbows.

Wind thundered at the building again. The bronze doors to both the cathedral and the chapel rattled and boomed. Outside, the crowd noise was only a murmur.

Regeane looked up. The three lanceolate windows showed only blue sky flocked with a few small clouds the west wind sent racing by.

She was alone. Where to find courage? She and the wolf met in her soul. The wolf rested, couchant. She looked into Regeane’s eyes as if to say, “You know this isn’t the end.” But Regeane thought,
How will I bear it when they light the fire? And they will
. She was sure this mountain lord Maeniel thought
her mad. Even with the best of intentions, how hard would he fight for a madwoman? No, she was sure she was doomed. She stood for a moment, then gave way to a violent and uncontrolled trembling all over her body. The momentary panic passed, leaving her both lucid and calm.

She straightened her back. She remembered the serpent in the haunted church. She had refused to show fear in front of Silve. In the mob out there were a thousand Silves, brutes ready to be titillated at the sight of a woman being burned alive. And she would not bring shame on the blood royal by showing fear in front of them.

The door opened. Antonius and four members of the papal guard entered. Regeane’s further memories of her journey to the stake were fragmentary. They tried to get her to remove her shoes, saying that a penitent should be barefoot. She responded by stating flatly she was not a penitent. “I have done nothing for which I need do penance.”

They did manage to persuade her to remove the fillet that held her hair back. Antonius took her arm. The papal guard pushed their way through the mob.

The journey wasn’t as bad as she’d supposed it would be when they stepped out of the Lateran. She’d been afraid of stones and curses, but most of those gathered near the church were either indifferent or greatly amused, eyeing her the way they might have gawked at some rare bird or beast, a tiger or monkey being led by for their entertainment.

The stake itself was a stone post, six feet high and roughly a foot wide with an iron ring fixed to it waist high. Four steps led up to it.

Gundabald and Basil waited there. They were mounted on horses and they directed the way she was fastened to the post. Her wrists were lashed to the iron ring. But Basil and Gundabald added a further refinement—a chain leading from the iron ring to a bronze collar around her neck. The executioner twisted her head to one side and held her cheek against the stone post while he hammered it shut. Gundabald and Basil both loomed over her and examined the executioner’s handiwork.

“That cannot be undone with a key,” Gundabald commented. “It will have to be pried off.”

Regeane turned her head so as not to look at them. Antonius stood at the foot of the steps looking up at her. Her mouth was bone dry. “Please,” she asked him, “I’m very thirsty. Give me something to drink.”

Antonius asked and someone produced a clay flagon with a bit of sour wine, mostly lees in the bottom. The taste was ghastly, but she took a mouthful.

Basil and Gundabald were laughing together. “Her mother was a damp rag, always weeping, but that father of hers …” Gundabald turned and glanced down at Regeane. She let the mouthful of wine fly. The stream caught him right in the eyes. The raw wine stung. He screamed and the horse bucked, nearly unseating him.

She shouted hoarsely at Basil and him, “Filth, the names of either of my parents are profaned by your lips.”

The crowd around Gundabald’s horse scattered, cheering Regeane even as they dodged. Basil pulled his horse’s head around viciously and rode toward her, his fist lifted for a really savage blow. Regeane tried to think of a way to duck, but she was pinned by both collar and wrists. Someone rode between them. She recognized Rufus. He roared at Basil, “Away with you, sir. Your cruelty exceeds all measure.”

Gundabald, no horseman, was already halfway across the square. He contented himself with bringing his horse under control. Rufus and his men surrounded the post and pushed the crowd back. They formed a protective half-circle around her, allowing her to view clearly the battleground in front of the Lateran.

Rufus spoke loudly to both Basil and the mob. “The lady will be subjected to no further insults or indignities. Her life is at hazard, that is enough. I will tolerate no further abuse from anyone. I have given fair warning. The next man to violate my orders dies.”

“My lord,” the executioner protested, “I must pile the faggots at her feet. It is the law.”

“To be sure,” Rufus sighed. “Go ahead.”

The executioner, a small gray man with watery eyes, and two boys who were apparently his sons, began to unload a nearby
cart filled with wood. They began dumping bundles of thin sticks on the steps to the post.

Regeane looked down at the stones at her feet. They were granite blocks, but she could see they were scorched, and thick soot was ground into the spaces between them. In fact, she could smell, even with her human senses, charcoal and stale smoke. The wind whipped her hair back. Even the heavy canvas shift fluttered and flapped around her body.

Hadrian and his people took up positions on the high steps to the Lateran church. Regeane realized they meant to be comfortable—folding stools and chairs were being carried from the palace for the assembled notables so they could watch the drama unfold without inconvenience.

Hadrian, alone, stood on the very top step of the church.

“He wanted to bless you,” Rufus told Regeane, “but we refused to permit it. If he clothed you in the majesty conferred by the Vicar of Christ, how could we tell if you were guilty or not?”

Regeane nodded.

“Girl, you have chosen the one form of judgment against which there is no earthly appeal. If the very angels in heaven came to earth bearing proof of your innocence, we would still have to burn you if your champion loses.”

Hadrian looked over at her. He didn’t raise his hand, but he stood a tall, lonely, pale figure against the glowing robes of his flock. Sharing her discomfort, even as she was sure he would share her fate if Maeniel failed.

The crowd gave a murmur of delight, and she saw what she was sure must be Basil’s champion enter the improvised arena in front of the church. He was the biggest man she had ever encountered. So large, he was almost grotesque. Everything about him was gigantic. Legs, arms, hands, feet, chest, and shoulders. He topped Maeniel by at least a foot, and his whole body was bigger by similar proportion than his opponent’s.

Maeniel stood quietly on the Lateran steps. He was armed. Helmet, mail shirt, greaves on his thighs, and shin guards. He was examining several swords being proffered to him by his people.

Then, Matrona arrived with one. The sheath was old, the leather cracked and peeling, but when he drew the sword, it
shimmered with the cool glow of moonlight on still water. When he lifted it into the sun, rainbows played along the glowing metal, sending red, yellow, blue, purple, and green fire dancing along the steel.

Regeane heard Rufus’ indrawn breath. He’d placed his horse close to her. “What is it?” she asked.

“The sword,” he replied. “I had always believed such things were legends.”

Regeane shrugged as well as she could. “It’s pretty, but …”

“Pretty?” he snorted. “But then you’re a woman not a warrior. For the first time today, I begin to believe Basil will not have things all his own way. My lady, I would not have any idea where to find such a weapon, much less have the courage to wield it.”

Basil’s champion stood, his naked blade in his hand. It was, like everything else on him, larger than other men’s, longer than Maeniel’s sword by at least a foot. He studied Maeniel with mild, but brutal amusement in his heavy-lidded eyes.

“What’s his name?” she asked Rufus.

“Scapthar,” Rufus said. “And I might add, he has been Basil’s champion for a long time. He has twenty-seven kills to his credit. He began by challenging poor farmers to fight, forcing them into duels. Then, he killed them, took their lands, and sold them. His career of successful villainy came to Basil’s notice. He hired him. They have been together ever since.”

As Regeane watched, Scapthar shouted something to Maeniel.

Maeniel who was finishing a cup of wine ignored him.

Scapthar walked toward Maeniel, raising his sword. Maeniel watched him over the rim of the cup. Scapthar swung his sword down, but suddenly Maeniel wasn’t there, though Scapthar nearly did kill a few of the innocent spectators to the match. His hard swung sword rang on the stone, sending sparks from the street.

Maeniel, only a few feet away, handed the cup to Gavin and drew his own sword. Scapthar wheeled quickly and drove another blow at Maeniel. He parried and the sword rang like a chime, giving forth a sound eerily like a cry of joy. A few in the crowd gasped, and from the corner of her eye, Regeane saw Rufus cross himself.

Neither combatant carried a shield. Scapthar apparently wanted to swing his sword with both hands. Methodically, he began to hunt Maeniel down. Every time Scapthar struck at Maeniel, Regeane’s heart pounded. Sometimes he came so close, she was sure Maeniel would be bisected or lose an arm or leg to Scapthar’s gigantic sword. But somehow it never happened. Maeniel, it seemed, was blessed with a quickness a viper might envy. But she was to find that, unlike a viper, he could strike while retreating.