Roman by Heather Grothaus Page A

strangers, no soldiers, no walking through the night in a land populated by people who stared and frowned suspiciously at her shadowed self. She was alone with him now and he had a plan. The relief of it caused her to drop into a defensive slumber almost instantly.
    She had no idea how far or for how long they had traveled when she woke, only that the sun outside made bright lines above her head where the canvas met the seat and over her feet at the rear of the cart. Her throat was dry and a bit sore and the bones in her spine felt bruised now where they pressed into the hard bed through the gauzy linen.
    She waited what seemed like an hour to see if Roman Berg would make any attempt at conversation. He did not. Perhaps he had guessed that she’d fallen asleep. Should she call out to him? What was the risk of her speaking if they were traveling through a village or passing other pilgrims on the road? Would they hear her and grow suspicious? Was she expected to remain still and silent the entire day, only to emerge at night?
    Perhaps she should have been more inquisitive with the English lady. Isra could withstand whatever hardships this part of the journey necessitated; Mary had said they should be in Venice within a week, depending on the rains, and then the cart would be sold for passage on one of the trading ships bound for Alexandria. It was only so close to Melk they must be cautious, and Isra had faced much worse conditions than being borne along a road in a cart, after all, especially since the redheaded Maisie Lindsey had slipped a blade under Isra’s hip as she’d made a show of squeezing her wrist. Roman had yet to return her mother’s dagger, but thanks to Maisie Lindsey, she was once again armed, and with no mere eating utensil.
    She felt the cart begin to slow then, the bumps and ruts raising the bed in a slow, exaggerated fashion as it rolled to a halt. Isra closed her eyes and blew a long breath between her lips. She raised up on her elbows and turned her face toward the bright line of sunlight above. She drew in a breath and opened her mouth, readying to call out to Roman.
    â€œHa—”
    Her words were cut off as Roman Berg’s voice sounded over them in the same instant she had started to speak.
    â€œGood day, gentlemen,” he said. He hadn’t stopped for a rest; he was being stopped. “God’s blessing upon the three of you.”
    By three men.
    Isra lay back down as slowly and quietly as she could, her breath frozen in her chest, as if the strangers beyond the canvas could detect the slightest motion of her inhalations. She raised her hand to pull up over her face the linen cowled around her neck and then lifted her right hip to slide the dagger from its sheath. She pushed the case farther beneath her buttocks and lowered her hip over the blade, her fingers gripping the handle beneath the long, draping sleeve of gauze covering her hand. In no more time than it took her to blink, she was still again, her body rigid as she concentrated on the voices beyond the canvas.
    â€œGood day, friar,” a man said. “What brings you to our humble burg?”
    â€œOnly passing through,” Roman replied.
    â€œPassing through to where?” another voice demanded, and Isra could hear the clop of a horse’s hooves growing louder, as if whomever spoke was drawing their mount nearer the cart bed.
    â€œRome.” Isra noted that Roman volunteered no information.
    â€œTaking the church’s spoils to your leader, eh?”
    A third man’s voice joined the conversation, meeker, younger than the other two. “I don’t think that’s what he carries.”
    â€œDid you not hear the bell?” Roman asked, and then Isra nearly jumped out of her skin as the thing clanged.
    â€œAye, we heard it,” the first man said. “But you don’t look like any priest I’ve ever seen.”
    â€œI’m not a priest,” Roman said.