“I am not trying to be shrewd,” Illarion said, “only to—”
“The wretched people of Kiev, living below in the ruins, are inclined to view it as a miracle, and we see no advantage in telling them otherwise,” Vera said, cutting him off. “As you rightly ken, we could not have withstood the Mongols, even had we all fought to the death. Instead we fought them enough to slow their advance and to become an irritant. They had already taken Kiev, and when their strategy is calling them on at a gallop over the sea of grass, it is not their practice to spend months staying in one place to root out every last pocket of resistance. This place looks like a church; they don’t like to destroy churches. It is defended by women; in maintaining a long siege, they saw little honor and less glory—as well as danger that they might suffer mockery and humiliation if they were unable to defeat us quickly.”
“And so they passed you by,” Illarion said, nodding.
Strength was returning to Raphael’s body as he ate the bread and honey, and close on its heels came the sorts of feelings that had long been suppressed by cold, dirt, hardship, and the company of men. He began to look at Vera in the timeless manner of men looking at women and saw that smallpox had left a trail of shallow craters in the hollows of her cheeks and extending down the sides of her neck, without really disfiguring her. And it had spared the eyes. Seeming to feel his gaze on her, she turned her head quite deliberately and looked him straight in the eye. It was not a demure look, of course. He’d not have expected any such thing from a Shield-Maiden. Neither was she telling him to drop dead. She was just letting him know that if he looked at her, she would look back. He did the only polite thing, which was to avert his gaze and concede the point with a smile.
“So we were not extirpated,” Vera concluded, gesturing at the bread and honey, “and so we have continued to survive. But of communication with the rest of Christendom there has been almost none. Rumors only of great battles, won by the Mongols. What news from your Order? Does Petraathen still stand? Or are you wandering strays, like these others?”
These others. She was talking about the Livonian Knights.
Raphael’s mind went back again to Jerusalem. A formation of Teutonic Knights had entered the city just behind the much smaller Shield-Brethren contingent. They were a younger order, but they had fared better in recent decades, being based out of Acre—a city still under Christian dominance—rather than Jerusalem, which had fallen to Saladin forty-two years earlier. They had put on a better show in the parade, making a much stronger impression on the locals than the Shield-Brethren. Their presence in the Holy Land had dwindled soon thereafter as they had moved north to pursue crusades along the eastern border of Europe, where Christianized kingdoms abutted pagan-held lands.
A few years ago, the Teutonic Knights had assimilated the remnants of another crusading order—the Livonian Brothers of the Sword. The Livonians had been scattered by a pagan army, their grandmaster and most of their knights slain. The surviving Livonians had accepted the authority of the Teutonic Knights’ grandmaster and discarded their traditional heraldry—a red cross and sword—for the black cross of the Teutonics.
“These strays…” Percival said, leaning forward to grab another slice of the thick bread. “It was our understanding that the Livonian Order was no more. Had we known…”
“You would have ridden to rescue us?”
“Of course not.” Percival shook his head, deftly avoiding the trap that lay before him. “We would have sent word.”
“If they had been more adroit, we might have let them in the gates and ended up wishing that such a warning had reached us,” Vera countered. “As it was, word of their arrogance and vainglory preceded them by several days, and so we knew what to expect. When Kristaps, their leader, presented himself at our doorstep, he spoke true to form. He offered to relieve us of the burden of defending this place and proposed to supply us with duties more befitting the weaker sex.”
“I’m sure that went over well,” Raphael snorted. Illarion, Roger, and even Percival were barely hiding their amusement.
“From the tone in which he tendered the offer,” Vera said, and here she was unable to prevent the corners of her mouth from twitching back, “it was clear he considered the terms to be astoundingly generous. He stood there awaiting our thanks and our admiration. He received neither. When he returned, he spoke less politely, enabling us to see his true nature, as if this were not already obvious.”
“Would he be the fellow with the arrow in his eye socket?” Raphael asked hopefully.