“I love him and serve him, Your Highness.”
“Do you love me, Sister?”
“Nay, child, not in the same way. I have known your father for a very long time. He has my heart, but you have my loyalty. I will not abandon you.”
Sapientia slammed fists into the ground and again, and again. “Not like all the others! My father! Bayan! Sanglant! The Pechanek mothers! Geza! Every one of them deserted me!” The storm broke over her. She sobbed in great heaves, trembling all over. Petra stroked her shoulders, murmuring words that made no sense, and after a while the princess calmed.
Wind crackled through limbs. Among the trees a branch snapped and crashed down to the ground. Otherwise it was so quiet. Too quiet. They had seen no birds all day. No telltale rustling marked the comings and goings of the little nocturnal creatures who ought to be scuttling about their nightly rounds.
Sapientia’s reaction was such a brief window, opened to show a light within and perhaps soon to be shut. Rosvita had to ask, although she feared the answer.
“Your Highness. Did you see Hanna? The Eagle who was with us?”
Sapientia did not raise her head. Her voice was hoarse and ugly. “She’s dead.”
“Ai, God,” Rosvita whispered. “You saw her dead? You saw her body?”
Sapientia refused to answer, only stared at the ground.
“What will we do?” they asked, one by one, all but Mother Obligatia.
“I should never have let her go off alone!”
“Nay, Sister,” said Mother Obligatia, scolding her. “The Eagle did what she had to do. That was her duty. She knew it was dangerous.”
Guilt burned. Rosvita thought of Hanna as one of her charges, now that they had traveled so far together. She could not find any ease in her heart by prating about duty. She rose and paced around the fire, examining each one who had followed her so far: Mother Obligatia with her ancient sorrows and dangerous past; the abbess’ three stout attendants in the persons of Diocletia, Hilaria, and the lay sister Teuda; poor Petra, now cooing and stroking the unresponsive Princess Sapientia; Rosvita’s faithful servant Aurea, with her strong arm and steady head; that gaggle of young clerics who admired her far too well, timid Gerwita, stubborn Heriburg, clever Ruoda, and the two young men, Jerome and Jehan, still youths in so many ways. Last of all, she met the gaze of the one who was her secret strength: Brother Fortunatus. He nodded at her. He would never waver.
“We rest as well as we can, for we will need our strength. It seemed to me that the light was better in the east, but that way lies Arethousa. Unless tomorrow brings an unexpected change, we must try our luck to the northwest. We must try to reach Wendar. God help us.”
God help me, she thought, as they made ready to rest on the cold ground, arranging cloaks and canvas and blankets over themselves, a jumble of treasures they had salvaged out of the camp. They had provisions to last for perhaps five days. God help me, I pray you. I do not want to lose another one.
Out in the forest, a twig snapped. All of them looked up, startled and anxious. They waited, but no further noise beyond that of the wind rattling in the boughs disturbed the evening silence.
“What if there are bandits, Sister Rosvita?” asked Gerwita. Her voice was so soft it almost vanished under the sound of the wind. “We have no weapons to defend ourselves. We can’t use those spears.”
o;We are well set for a hike in the woods,” said Fortunatus, attempting levity although there wasn’t much to be had.
Rosvita smiled gratefully at him. They had a single spoon, which they passed around between them to eat out of the kettle. “We have provisions, and freedom. It is more than we had before.”
“Best be grateful for each least blessing God grant us,” agreed Mother Obligatia. She was so tiny and so frail that the power of her voice always amazed Rosvita. She was actually sitting up for the first time in many days, as if the terrible night had strengthened her.
Her words awoke someone else. Sapientia had let the spoon pass by without acknowledging that it, or anything, existed. She had walked in a trance, pressed along by the constant attentions of Sister Petra, whose entire being was focused on her helpless charge. The glow of the fire painted shadows on the princess’ face, making of her a mask whose expression could not be fathomed because it was so empty. But the mask spoke.
“A prince without a retinue is no prince,” she repeated.
Rosvita knelt beside her. “We are your retinue, Your Highness.”
After a long silence, Sapientia turned her head and looked straight at the cleric, although Rosvita at first wasn’t sure the princess knew who she was. Behind her, Jerome slurped at the spoon.
“You love my father, Sister Rosvita,” Sapientia said.
“I love him and serve him, Your Highness.”
“Do you love me, Sister?”
“Nay, child, not in the same way. I have known your father for a very long time. He has my heart, but you have my loyalty. I will not abandon you.”
Sapientia slammed fists into the ground and again, and again. “Not like all the others! My father! Bayan! Sanglant! The Pechanek mothers! Geza! Every one of them deserted me!” The storm broke over her. She sobbed in great heaves, trembling all over. Petra stroked her shoulders, murmuring words that made no sense, and after a while the princess calmed.