She’d left her robe behind.
Her new green robe was still in the woods. She’d used it to cover Hod while he slept; she desperately wished she had it to cover herself now.
The king called a halt and the party pulled up, shading their eyes and staring down at her with scowls and wary disbelief.
Lothgar of Leok was the first to spur his mount forward.
“Are you all right, Daughter?” he asked, his dread evident.
“Yes. I am quite . . . well,” she said.
She had not thought what she would say. Mayhaps she should say nothing at all. It had worked for her more times than not.
“There is blood on your skirts, Liis of Leok, and blood on your face,” Lothgar said gently.
She stared numbly down at her ruined gown and tightened her hand at her bodice.
“Even so . . . I am fine. ’Tis but a scratch from a tree branch.”
“Fine?” the king snapped, reining his horse to a stop beside her.
“Yes.”
“Where . . . have . . . you . . . been?” he asked, enunciating each word like he pounded a spike into the ground.
“I took a walk in the Temple Wood. It was quiet. Peaceful. And I was weary, Majesty. I do not sleep well . . . and I have no one to sing to me.”
Banruud glowered and Lothgar laughed, his perennial good nature lightening the mood. The chieftains had all heard of the king’s reliance on her songs. A few of the other warriors snorted but swallowed their mirth when Banruud raised his hand, demanding silence.
“You fell asleep in the forest,” he stated, unconvinced.
“Yes, King Banruud. But I heard the bells and the trumpets, and I knew you were . . . looking for me.”
“The whole bloody mount is looking for you, Daughter,” Lothgar interjected. “A thousand citizens—contestants, chieftains, and clansmen—were awakened by alarm bells and the news that a daughter was missing.”
“I regret that,” she said quietly.
“You regret that?” Benjie of Berne jeered. His braid was unkempt and bits of food were caught in his beard. He looked as though he’d been dragged from his bed or his table. They all did.
“You are not to leave the mount, Daughter,” Lothgar interrupted. “You are fortunate to have only tangled with a branch.”
“She should be lashed,” Benjie of Berne grumbled. “She should be tied to the whipping post and lashed. Publicly. She’ll not run away again.”
“You’ll not lash a daughter of Leok, Benjie of Berne,” Lothgar shouted.
“Someone should,” Benjie snapped.
No one disagreed.
“You will ride with me, Liis of Leok,” Banruud demanded. “Punishments—whatever they may be—will be meted out later.”
“I will walk,” she argued. “If I ride, the people will think me injured or weak. I am neither. So I will walk, Majesty.”
She could not go around him. There was nowhere to go. The chieftains made a wall in front of her. The king bent and swooped her up, tossing her across his saddle, her belly to the horse, her head and shoulders hanging off one side, her legs off the other. She flailed and her bodice slipped, and she was certain more than one warrior caught a glimpse of her naked breasts. She clutched at her dress and pushed herself up with one hand, trying to sit, and almost toppled over the other side. Banruud put a hand on her back, pressing her back down.
“Banruud,” Lothgar warned, but the king ignored the chieftain from Leok.
“A good shaming is what she needs, Lothgar,” Benjie said. She loathed him almost as much as she loathed Banruud. For a moment she thought about screaming, the way she’d done in the cellar and the square, when Bilge had raised his hand to her. But the horses would likely bolt, and she was in no position to withstand that.
“If she can sleep in the woods, she can ride like this,” Banruud replied, and Lothgar held his peace.
She was made to ride thus to the top of the hill, her head and feet bouncing with every step. The motion and the press of the saddle against her stomach made her ill, but she kept her eyes shut and her teeth clenched. She would not be sick. She would not be “shamed” in that way.
Trumpets heralded her triumphant return, and Lothgar demanded she be let up before they passed through the gates.
“She is a daughter of the temple,” he boomed. “That is enough!”
Banruud wrapped his hand in the cloth at the back of her dress and yanked her upright in front of him. She kept her eyes forward even as her stomach rolled and her bodice gaped, but she managed to keep her seat and to keep her breasts covered.
“You smell like you slept with a man, daughter of the temple,” Banruud growled into her ear.
She flinched and recoiled but said nothing. He smelled like he slept with the dogs.
“You are a liar, little girl.”
She kept her eyes aimed above the people in the square. She cared little what any of them thought and even less what any of them said, but the keepers stood in their purple robes against the backdrop of the temple, Master Ivo a black crow perched among them. Her sisters were there too, their pretty new robes little spots of color in the purple sea. She would have to get a new robe . . . or mayhaps Hod would find a way to return it to her.
She felt her control crack, just the tiniest bit, at the thought of him, and her eyes jumped to the place where she’d seen him standing the first day of the tournament, three days—and a lifetime—ago.
A gray robe, a tall staff, and a shorn pate made her look twice.
It was not Hod, but Arwin. For a moment, their eyes locked and his back stiffened. Then he began to run toward the king’s party, twirling his staff round his head like he was scattering sheep . . . or running off the wolves.
“She’s a witch, Majesty. A witch!” Arwin screeched.
Ghisla shrank back against the king and immediately bristled and arched away.
“What have you done to my boy, witch?” Arwin cried, his eyes wild. “What have you done with Hod?”
Arwin was talking to her.
“What have you done to him, girl?” Arwin ran in front of the king’s horse, his palms up, entreating him to stop.
“Get out of the way, Keeper,” Banruud shouted. His horse pranced and the old man ducked, his braided beard dancing, but he did not retreat.
“I am not a keeper. There are no keepers anymore.” Arwin spat on the cobblestones like the term offended him.
“Go away, old man,” Benjie demanded, halting his horse. He slid from the saddle and dug at the seat of his pants, shaking one leg like his breeches had climbed too high. The other warriors began to dismount as well, but Arwin continued, outraged.
“There are no temple keepers. There are only temple daughters.” Arwin said temple daughters with dripping disdain and spat again, and Benjie stopped, sensing a compatriot in the old man.
“They are more trouble than they are worth,” Benjie said. “I will not argue that, Keeper. And this one should be pilloried.” Benjie pointed at Ghisla.
“There are no keepers!” Arwin repeated. “There are no supplicants, no study of the runes. We have a bloody plague, and instead of dedicating our most powerful keepers to solving this problem—to beseeching the gods—we house daughters in the temple and turn away supplicants.”