“Who rules in Wendar and Varre?” he asked.

“Sabella’s daughter rules in Varre,” they agreed, “together with her husband, the Wayland duke, the one with burned skin. Conrad the Black.”

“You’d accept the rule of Lady Tallia over that of the rightful regnant, King Henry?”

“What kind of kinship does Henry hold to us? It’s his elder sister Sabella who is born out of the Varren royal house. Not Henry. He was born to a Wendish mother, nothing to do with us. He never came here anyway. Once or twice to Autun. That’s all. It’s nothing to do with us.”

“I don’t like that heresy,” said the chatelaine.

Several others murmured agreement.

“The story of the Redemption sounded fair enough to me,” said Erkanwulf’s sister, then flushed. ‘And not just because of that cleric.”

“This one is a heretic, too, so ‘Wulf says,” replied the crone. “So what’s to choose between them? Is all the royals heretics now?”

“No, not all of them,” said Ivar reluctantly, seeing by their expressions that he could not win this battle using his careful arguments. They were not Wendish. He was. In a way, he had already lost.

“I’d stand up for Duke Conrad,” said the old man. “He’s of good blood even with that foreign creature that gave birth to him, but the old duke, Conrad the Elder, was his father. Nay, I say enough with the Wendish. Let them plough their own fields and leave ours to us who are born out of Varren soil.”

“So be it,” said Ivar. “Come, Erkanwulf. We’d best ride now, while we’ve still light.” He turned his attention to the chatelaine, who made no gesture to encourage them to stay. “I pray you, give us a loaf and cheese. If all goes well, and you aid us by keeping silence, we’ll rid you of the Wendish now biding on Varren earth.”

“What did you mean, back there?” Erkanwulf demanded as they rode out not long after. He was surly, having argued again with his sister and gotten only a perfunctory kiss from his mother. ” ‘Rid Varren soil of those from Wendar.’ I thought we meant to aid Biscop Constance! I can’t help that those fools back there don’t see her for what she is—a finer steward by far than Lady Sabella!”

“No use arguing with them. They can’t help us anyway. In truth, if many of you Varrens feel the same way, then we must act quickly.

I thought there might be many who hated Lady Sabella’s rule. Those villagers by Queen’s Grave were willing enough to help us.”

“They have to feed and house the guards. At least two girls from that village was abused by the guards, if the story I heard is true. The folk there have no reason to love Lady Sabella. But as for others—what is one regnant to them, compared to another? They pay tithes either way, and live at the mercy of the weather and bandits and wolves and what measure of taxes the stewards take on behalf of the nobles each year.”