Eifelheim - Michael Flynn [178]
The Herr heard this report in his high seat and fingered an old scar on the back of his right hand. Dietrich studied the councilors, who sat along the black oak table in the manor hall. Eugen, pale and wide-eyed on his right; Thierry, who had ridden from Hinterwaldkopf on another matter and who sat now grim-visaged by his liege’s left; Everard, cheeks flushed and eyes dully glazed; Klaus, anxious and unable to hold himself still; Richart, his law books useless in this matter, casting his attention here and there as others spoke. Dietrich and Father Rudolf represented the ghostly arm, and Hans spoke for the eight Krenken.
“Wiped out?” Manfred said at last. “Half my living gone, and we heard nought until now?”
Everard spoke low, though not so low as to go unheard. “When a man’s family dies, your living seem less weighty.” A rebuke from one so obsequious as Everard drew startled glances. The steward gave off a sharp, pungeant odor that Dietrich could not name. Drunk, Dietrich decided from the reddened cheeks, the slurred voice, the glazed look.
“Heloïse saw a body on the trail.” Max continued his report. “Perhaps they sent a man to notify you but he died on the way.”
“As well he did not succeed,” said Thierry, whose fists were stones on the table.
“Praying mine Herr’s grace,” Klaus said, “but my wife’s father says it was no more than three days from the first death to his flight.”
Manfred frowned. “I have not forgotten, maier, that you broke my curfew.”
“My wife bid him welcome …” He straightened. “Would you turn away your own father?”
Manfred leaned forward over the table, and spoke in measured tones, “In. An. Eyeblink.”
“But … He was amongst us before anyone knew he had come.”
“Beside which,” the schultheiss said, glad for something covered by law and custom, “those of each village have the right to visit the other.”
Manfred gave his lawman an astonished look. “There stands a time for rights,” he said, “and a time for what is needful. I gave orders that no one might enter this village.”
Richart was scandalized; Klaus genuinely puzzled. “But … But, this was only Odo!”
Manfred rubbed his face. “No one, maier. He may have brought with him the pest.”
“Mine Herr,” said Hans, “I am no scholar of these things, but the speed of the pest argues that the small-lives quickly devour their … We would say ‘host,’ though the guest is unwelcomed. These small-lives act so quickly that, did Odo carry them, he must show already the signs; and he does not.”
Manfred grunted and his bearing was yet skeptical.
Everard giggled and spoke to Klaus. “You are a fool, miller, and your wife rides you. And anyone else she can mount.”
Klaus darkened and rose from his seat, but Eugen raised a hand. “Not at mine Herr’s table!”
Manfred, for his part, snapped, “Steward, remove yourself!” When the man did not move, he cried, “Now!” and Thierry rose with a hand on his sword-hilt.
But Father Rudolf spoke in a querulous voice, “No, no, this will not do. This will not do. We mustn’t fight one another. We are not the enemy.” And he took Everard by the elbow and helped him to his feet. Everard squinted at the assembly as if only now seeing them. Rudolf guided him toward the door and he staggered out, blundering first into the doorpost. Max closed the door behind him. “He stinks,” the sergeant said.
“He is afraid,” Dietrich answered, “and drunk because he is afraid.”
Manfred’s eye was hard. “I will brook no excuses! Max?”
“There were fresh graves in the churchyard down there,” the sergeant continued, “but also bodies lying about—in the green, in the fields, one man dead even at the plough.”
“Unburied, you say?” Dietrich cried. Had it come upon them that suddenly?
A finger jutted from Manfred’s fist. “No, pastor! You will not go down there.”
“To bury the dead is one of the