“We ought to put up a palisade,” said Artald as he swung along beside Stancy. He steadied her at the elbow as she picked her way over a series of ruts worn into the path. “I’ve been speaking of it for three years now. Past time we started.”

“Have a care,” called Julien from the front. They came up behind a score of ragged folk who, seeing them, shrank back into the trees. A child wailed and was hushed. All of the children had sunken eyes and swollen bellies. The adults, all women except two toothless old men, drew the little ones back and ducked their heads.

“I pray you, good folk,” said one of the women, creeping forward on her knees. “A scrap of bread, if you have it. Pray God.” One of her eyes was crusted shut with dried pus.

Behind her, others coughed, or scratched sores and pustules. One woman had a scaly rash splattered down the right side of her face and ringing her neck like a strangling cord.

Alain stepped forward, still holding Blanche’s hand.

“They’re dirty!” she cried. “I hate them!”

He pulled two loaves of bread from the pouch on his back and gave one to the child. “Here.”

“That’s your waybread, Alain!” objected Aunt Bel. “You’ll go hungry!”

“Pray do not worry on my account, Aunt.” He turned back to Blanche. “This is your offering to make, and you must make it.”

“Can’t! I’m scared!” she whined. “I hate them.”

“Blanche,” he said kindly, looking her in the face.

Weeping, she shuffled forward, shoved the bread into the hands of the creeping woman, then bolted back to the safety of the hounds, pulling on their ears until Rage nipped gently at her to get her to let go.

“Do not fight among yourselves,” said Alain as the other refugees converged on the woman, who clutched the loaf to her chest. He marked among them a girl no more than Agnes’ age whose cheeks were so hollow that you could trace the skull beneath stretched skin. He gave her the other loaf. “Listen! Let all be satisfied that you have each dealt fairly with the others. Otherwise you will never know peace.”

All were silent as they walked on, leaving the beggars behind. At last, as the woodlands were cut with the fields and clearings that signaled the advent of village lands, Agnes spoke.

“How could you understand them, Alain?”

“They were Salians,” said Henri. “I know enough of that language to trade in Medemelacha.” He glanced at the girl, who paled when he said the name, and reached out to squeeze her hand. “There, there, lass. He may yet be alive. That report I heard might have been wrong.”

“It would be easier if I knew,” she murmured as she wiped her eyes.

“True enough,” agreed Henri. “Poor child.”

“God must hate them, too,” said Blanche. “Otherwise why would they be sick? Only bad people suffer. If they did a bad thing, they’ll be punished.”