by Kate Elliott
Woke to a shriek.
“Dada! Dada! See me up here!”
“Lord save us, Your Highness!” That was Heribert, frantic. “You’ll fall to your death!”
Hiding from the Eika, Anna had learned to wake quickly and with all her wits intact. She leaped up in time to see Wolfhere grab Blessing bodily and sweep her down from the window ledge. The girl shrieked louder, if that was possible, twisted in Wolfhere’s grasp, and bit his wrist, hard.
He yelped and dropped her.
“Now there’s a child whose taste I admire.” An elderly woman wearing the badge of an Eagle moved in through the door, leaning heavily on a cane. She measured each person in the chamber with a keen gaze more likely to chill than to warm. Even Blessing, drawing breath for a good, loud, outraged scream, deflated abruptly, staring at the new arrival with puzzlement. “So, Wolfhere, I had prayed I might never have the pleasure of seeing you again.”
“I beg your pardon, Hedwig,” he said. “Out of respect, I’ll offer no ‘hail, fellow, and well met.’”
“I expected you’d be dead by now.”
“I heard you were.”
She snorted. “It will take more than five Quman arrows to kill me.”
“I heard it was bandits.”
She laughed dryly. “Quman weren’t the only ones who have tried to kill me. The bandits you speak of soon learned their mistake. Lady Waltharia strung them up for their trouble in Cathedral Square. They hung there until the crows and ravens ate them down to the bone.” She dug in one of her dangling sleeves and after a moment fished out a string of finger bones. “This is all that remains of them.”
“A handsome trophy,” observed Wolfhere.
“I keep it with me to remind me of what befalls those who make me angry.”
He laughed, but Anna could see by the flush in his cheeks and the way he squinted his eyes all tight and shifty-like that he loved Mistress Hedwig no better than the elderly woman loved him. Anna scooted over to Blessing and made the child graciously accept the old Eagle’s homage.
“So this is the child.” They examined each other, the crippled old woman and the young princess. Blessing’s hair had escaped its braid, and wisps curled around her sharp little face.
“I will sit,” Blessing announced. She sat on the center of the carpet and gestured imperiously toward the bench, where Zacharias hastily moved aside to make room. “You will sit.”
“I thank you, Your Highness, but if I sit it will be a day and half before I can get my old bones to lift me up again. I am bid by Lady Waltharia to bring you down to the feast. She means to serve you and your father most handsomely, as befits a margrave hosting a royal prince.”
“I thought Helmut Villam was margrave here,” muttered Zacharias.
The comment earned him a cutting look from old Hedwig.
Wolfhere hastened to explain. “Lady Waltharia is margrave in all but name.”
“Her father isn’t dead yet! He looked damned lively to me when I had the misfortune to be brought to his attention!”
Heribert shrugged. “The secrets of King Henry’s inner court are hidden to me. I am only a lowly cleric from the schola at Mainni.”
Wolfhere grunted, half amused by the elegant cleric’s protestation. “Why do you think old Villam rides in attendance to the king? He and his daughter respect each other, but they don’t get along. She’s competent to rule the marchlands, and he can’t live forever. He stays out of her way. It’s a form of retirement, since he hasn’t the temperament to abide the monastery. And better—” He glanced at Hedwig. When their gazes met, it was like blows being exchanged. “Better for all concerned than rebellion. It’s been known before for a restless adult to rebel against a parent when no independence is forthcoming. Villam is a wise man, and he did better than most to raise an heir as wise as he.”
“That you respect her as she deserves is the only good thing I have to say about you,” observed Hedwig.
“So be it.” Wolfhere raised a hand, as if in submission. “Let us not scrape old wounds raw, I beg you.”
“Don’t fight!” commanded Blessing, fists set on hips as she glared at them. She had such a fierce way of screwing up her face that it was—almost—impossible to laugh at her. In another year, it wouldn’t be funny anymore.
“As you wish, Your Highness,” said Hedwig without expression. “If you will allow me to escort you.”
Anna admired Hedwig for the steady way she took the stairs, even though every step seemed to hurt her. The stairway twisted down, curving to match the tower. She’d never seen a tower so big built all of stone before except for the cathedral tower in Gent, and it had been square. This one was cold and dreary and dark, but once they reached the base they passed through an archway girded with a double set of doors, each one reinforced by an iron bar, and out into a sizable courtyard where soldiers swarmed. Anna smelled blood and excitement like perfume, the heady scent of a victory won. A great pile of wooden wings lay in a heap to one side. Feathers drifted in the air like a fine chaff of snow. Prince Sanglant stood by one of the troughs. He’d stripped down to almost nothing and now sluiced water over his bare chest and arms, washing away blood.
Blessing drew in air for a shriek of delight, glanced at Hedwig, and abruptly thought better of it. Instead, she yanked and yanked at Anna to get her to move faster as she trotted through the crowd. Soldiers gave way before her, calling out her name, as she made straight for her father.
As they came up behind him, he spoke without turning around. “Nay, little one, I’m in no mood for sport.”
Sometimes, like now, the prince seemed consumed by a passion for washing that put Heribert’s fussy ways to shame. Anna had never seen a person scrub as hard as he might do when he got in one of those moods. But she remembered the way he’d looked when he’d been chained in Gent’s cathedral, two years ago. Maybe he could never scrape all that grime and filth away, or at least not in his heart.
Lady Waltharia’s soldiers spoke together in low voices, watching the prince as he bathed.
“Nay, I’d not have believed it. I swear those Quman would have run from him even if he’d been alone.”
“I’ve never seen a man fight so bravely.”
“I heard he went mad when his banner bearer went down.”
Lower still: “Is it true he can never be king?”
A sudden arc of noise ended in silence as Lady Waltharia entered the courtyard with a broad-shouldered lord in attendance. He was still armed, cheeks as flushed as though he’d been running. Drying blood streaked his blond hair, cut short to frame a square face. Waltharia had already shed her mail but the padded coat she wore showed stains of sweat around the collar and under the arms, and tiny discolored rings where her mail had pressed into the cloth.
At once, the soldiers broke into cheers.
She lifted a hand to call for silence. “Let Prince Sanglant be honored. If he had not struck, we would still lie under siege.”
As the soldiers hurrahed and shouted, Matto ran up with Sanglant’s feasting tunic. He pulled it on over his damp hair, a fine wool tunic dyed a mellow orange, embroidered with yellow and white dragons stretching like snakes along the hem and at the sleeves. He did not ask for quiet but got it anyway as he finished belting the tunic at his hips.
“Don’t rejoice too much.” Though he did not seem to shout, his hoarse voice carried easily over the throng. “Drink your fill tonight, but remember that we have more battles to fight. This was only a small portion of the Quman army. Their leader isn’t dead yet, nor are they running east like whipped dogs. As they will.”
The soldiers liked such words. They shouted his name, and then that of their lady and her husband, Lord Druthmar. The celebration carried them into the great hall. Prince Sanglant hoisted his daughter onto his shoulders where she shrieked and shouted with the best of them, her high voice lifting above the clamor. Anna thought she herself would be overwhelmed and trampled, but Matto and Captain Fulk closed in behind her
, protecting her in a pocket of space behind the prince so she wouldn’t be crushed. The months hadn’t been as kind to her as they’d been to Matto, who had grown a hand in height and filled out through the chest. Although she never got bitterly hungry, she’d gotten lean. All the fat she’d earned in Mistress Suzanne’s compound had melted away under the rigors of riding to campaign. Caught up in the rush of rough and ready soldiers, she felt like a stick thrown into a stream swollen with the spring flood.
It was hard to hear anything at the feast over the constant singing and toasts, the dull roar of a satisfied and triumphant assembly. Anna stood in attendance on Blessing, as always. At intervals, she nibbled at the delicacies heaped up on Blessing’s platter as course after course rolled through: roasted goose with parsley and bread stuffing; a meat stew strewn with rose petals and sweetened with cherry preserves; oyster loaves; breads sprinkled with caraway and fennel; beef broth cooked with dill and leeks; a potage of ground hazelnuts, flour, and elderflowers; and honey dumplings again.
The victorious soldiers drank heavily. Lady Waltharia herself poured Prince Sanglant’s wine through a gold sieve spoon that she had gotten, so she said, as part of her inheritance from her dead mother, who had been Villam’s third and favorite wife.
Lord Druthmar seemed a steady sort of man, open, honest, good-hearted, and not one bit chafed by his wife’s authority. “We’ve heard reports that Bulkezu has captured Prince Ekkehard.”
“Has Bulkezu asked for ransom?” Sanglant chased off a greyhound that was trying to lick grease off the linen cloth laid over the prince’s knees. “Or do you think he’ll kill him?”
Lady Waltharia sat down between the two men. Anna moved quickly to stop Blessing from feeding a choice morsel of meat to the rejected greyhound.
“It’s only a rumor that the Quman captured Ekkehard,” said Waltharia. “Prince Bayan and Princess Sapientia wintered in Handelburg. We heard that Prince Ekkehard was imprisoned there, but he escaped the biscop’s custody and fled the town. The roads are cold and difficult in the wintertime, when he was last seen. I think he must be dead.”
Sanglant sipped thoughtfully at his wine. “It’s an implausible story. You know Bayan as well as I do. How could a youth like Ekkehard escape not just Bayan’s but also Biscop Alberada’s watch?” He shook his head. “For what offense is it said he was imprisoned?”
Blessing dropped her spoon. Anna crouched just in time to see the recalcitrant greyhound nosing the ivory spoon, licking off the remains of broth. She hissed, and the dog scrabbled away, kicking rushes up in her face. Half under the table, hands covered in rushes and a discarded bone digging into her knee, she heard Lady Waltharia’s quiet reply.
“Heresy.”
Did the hall quiet, or was it only the thick table and the heavy embroidered tablecloth hanging down to brush the floor that muffled the noise of the feasting multitude? Lord Druthmar began laughing at a joke told to him by the lord sitting at his right hand. Lady Waltharia had the prince’s attention all to herself.
“It’s been said that these heretics use evil magic to gain followers. It’s also been said that God aided Ekkehard. Take your pick.”
“I let the church folk quarrel about religion.”
She chuckled and called for more wine. Anna felt it safe to emerge from under the table, wriggling back under the bench. Standing, she wiped off the spoon on her tunic so that it was clean enough to give back to Blessing.
Petitioners came forward to beg Lady Waltharia to allow them to return to their farms now that the Quman menace had fled. A poet begged leave to entertain them with the song that he had composed this very night in honor of their victory. Blessing’s head drooped, her eyes fluttered, she yawned, and tried to climb into her father’s lap to sleep.
“I’ll take her to her bed.” Sanglant rose, cradling Blessing in his arms. A great shout rose from the assembled soldiers, cheering him, and for the first time since returning from battle he smiled, acknowledging their tribute. He raised a hand for silence, and the crowd quieted, waiting for him to speak.
“Drink well this night,” he called. “Tomorrow we hunt Quman.”
With the soldiers’ cheers still echoing, Anna followed him out by dark passages that led them not immediately to the tower but rather to the barracks, a long attic room built over the stables. Pallets of hemp and straw made lumpy beds, but they were a softer mattress than the plank floor. She could smell the horses below and even catch glimpses of them through warped floorboards. It was quiet in the barracks; most of the men still feasted in the great hall. Those who had been wounded in today’s engagement had been carried up here to recover, or die.
With Blessing asleep on his shoulder, the prince visited each of the injured men, traded jokes, checked poultices, or quizzed them closely about what they had seen and done in the battle. A few were too injured even to speak, although one of these could at least grasp the prince’s hand. One man had a gray face, as though the life drained quickly out of him. Anna knew all their names, Chustaffus, Fremen, Liutbald, and even reckless Sibold, who had taken a grim wound to his chest but joked in a lively enough manner when he saw his prince before him. Maybe he wouldn’t die.
There were, of a miracle, only three corpses, hauled back from the battle and now covered with shrouds, but one was faithful Wracwulf, who had been given the honor this day of carrying the prince’s golden banner. Sanglant knelt beside his body for a long time while Blessing snored quietly in his arms. After a while, Captain Fulk appeared to take his place with the dead. Only then did Sanglant take his sleeping daughter to the tower chamber where her bed waited. Anna carried a lamp to light their way. Once inside the room, she hung it from an iron hook set into the wall, then helped the prince wash Blessing’s hands, sticky with grease and honey, strip her down to her under-tunic, and tuck her into the trundle bed. He stood over the child, watching her slide into a deeper sleep as intently as he had studied his wounded soldiers.
“You’re a good girl, Anna,” he said suddenly. With a poker, he stirred the coals in the brazier closest to Blessing. “What do you think? Should I leave her here at Walburg under Waltharia’s protection while I ride east? Yet who can I truly trust? Can I trust anyone?”
“You can trust me, my lord prince.”
He looked at her finally and grinned a crooked grin, a charming grin. She would have jumped out the window right then and there, if he’d asked her to; he had that kind of shining honor to him, so bright that sometimes she thought she could actually see it like a nimbus around him even though she knew it was only her heart that loved him, just as his soldiers loved him.
“So I can,” he agreed, and her heart leaped with joy, knowing she’d won his trust in return.
He had remained still for a long time. Now he began to pace, working the length of the chamber, cutting it into patterns, squares and stars and circles, until she got dizzy watching him. She took off her shoes and lay down beside Blessing on the trundle bed. The feathers were so soft that she thought she might sink forever. She was tired, and she hadn’t slept in such a comfortable bed since she’d left Mistress Suzanne’s. But she cracked an eye open to see what he was doing. He had stopped by the door and stood there listening, hand poised a finger’s breadth away from the latch. The latch creaked, shifted, and turned. He jumped back so that, as the door opened, it hid him.
Lady Waltharia entered the chamber alone. She halted a few steps in, surveying with an ironic smile the empty bed, the silent pallets, the table laid with a pitcher of cider and three silver cups, and the sleeping child. The door closed sharply behind her and she jumped, startled, and whirled around to see Sanglant laughing silently behind her.
She chuckled, sweeping her hair back over her shoulders. Somehow, between the hall and this chamber, her braid had come undone to reveal waist-length hair, still crinkled from its recent confinement in the braid.
“You haven’t changed,” she said as she crossed to sit on the edge of the bed, tying back the hanging
s so they didn’t get in her way.
“Haven’t I?” he asked, not moving from- his place beside the door.
“You once told me you would never marry.”
“Only because my father forbade it. I was captain of the King’s Dragons. It was not my right to marry. Then.”
“Maybe I’m wrong,” she observed, rising to go to the unshuttered window. “You are not what you were.” She leaned out on the ledge, hands braced on the wooden frame set into the stone opening. From the trundle bed Anna could not see what Waltharia was looking at, if indeed she was looking at anything except the sky and the stars. It was probably warmer outside than in. The stone walls had a way of holding damp and chill jealously inside them.
“What is she like? Your wife, I mean.”
“Do you envy her?”
She turned. “I suppose I would have, once. But you would have been too much trouble, even if I could have had you. My father was right about that. I needed a more compliant husband.” Because he remained silent, she grinned delightfully and sat on the ledge. Wind stirred her hair. “He’s a good man, Druthmar. Good enough.”
“He acquitted himself ably today.”
“So he did. But he isn’t you. You’re the best stallion in the king’s stable. I can’t help but admire so much handsome flesh. Especially when I discover it standing half naked at my trough.”
He laughed. “I needed a wash.”
“You can wash here. I can have water brought up.”
“You’re the one who hasn’t changed.”
“Perhaps not. In the old days before the church of the Unities saved my ancestors from the Abyss, it was said that certain priestesses of my people mated with stallions in order to bring good luck to the tribe. I must be descended from one of them.”
He came forward finally and threw himself down on the bed, lounging on his back with casual grace as he watched her. From her place in the trundle bed, Anna saw him outlined in lamp glow. The mellow light gave his tousled black hair a silky sheen.
