“What trouble?” He looked around the circle of villagers gathered and saw that their mood was sour, not welcoming.

When she did not answer, he said, “We can trust this man. I swear to you on my father’s grave.”

She held up a hand and folded down one digit for each offense. “Steward was taken back to Autun with both her son and daughter, as hostage for our good behavior. Bruno and Fritho were whipped for protesting. Your brother and four cousins took to the woods and hide there still, like common bandits, because the lady’s riders said they’d hold them as hostage against your return. Goodwife Margaret’s two grandsons were led off God know where, although they said they meant to make them grooms in the lady’s stables.” The crone bobbed her head vigorously. “How is Margaret to plow her fields now? You best make a good accounting for yourself, Son, for as bad as all that is,” and now she folded in her thumb, and shook a fist at him, “we lost also our entire store of salted venison meant to husband us through to spring. They took it as tax, a fine levied against your desertion. New year is coming. Our stores grow thin. Much of what remains is rotting. What with this cold weather, too much rain all winter, and no sun for these many weeks, I fear more trouble to come. What do you say?”

“He came at my order,” said Ivar, “and in the service of Biscop Constance.”

Folk murmured. Some drew the circle at their breast while others made the sign to avert the evil eye.

“She’s dead, may God have mercy on her,” said Erkanwulf’s mother.

“She’s not dead but living in a monastery they call Queen’s Grave.”

“That’s what they said. That she was interred in Queen’s Grave.”

“It’s a place, not a graveyard,” he said patiently, seeing that the villagers had lost a bit of the suspicion that closed their features. “It’s a convent. She’s alive. Lady Sabella deposed her, although she had no legal right to do so since Biscop Constance was given her place as both biscop and duke by the regnant himself.”

“King Henry is Wendish,” said one of the men who had greeted them so suspiciously by the byre. ‘As is the biscop. At least Lady Sabella is daughter of the old Varren royal family on her mother’s side.”

“She’s a heretic,” said Erkanwulf’s mother. “Our deacon was taken away because she wouldn’t profess.”

“Was she? Has the truth come so far as out here to this place?” demanded Ivar.

“He’s a heretic, too,” observed Erkanwulf dryly, indicating Ivar.

“Hush, you,” said his mother before turning her attention back to Ivar. “It’s true enough, Your Excellency. The lady came riding by on her progress one fine day last spring.”

“It was summer,” interrupted Erkanwulf’s sister. “I recall it because the borage was blooming and it was the same color as his eyes.”

“Tssh! Hush, girl! We heard enough about all that back then. I beg pardon, Your Excellency. My children will rattle on. The lady prayed with us, and said if we professed the Redemption she’d send us salt and spices in the autumn. But none came. Because of your disobedience, Erkanwulf!”