by Kate Elliott
“So be it,” said Henry, not without relief.
“The sooner this transaction takes place, the better,” added Lavastine. “I must return to my lands before autumn so that I and my son can oversee the autumn sowing. A hard winter awaits us because of the men who died at Gent … those same men who gave up their lives to return Gent—and your son Sanglant—into your hands.”
The door opened and the servingman returned with two young women in tow. One, with a plump and eager face, stared at the king with mouth agape and then recalled herself and knelt obediently. The other, shawl askew to reveal wheat-pale hair, was Tallia.
Alain had to shut his eyes. He was overtaken by such a surge of anticipation and relief and simple, terrible desire that he swayed, trembling all over, until Sorrow nudged up under a hand to give him a foundation to steady himself on.
“Uncle,” said Tallia so softly that the commonplace noises from outside almost drowned out her words “I beg you, Uncle, let me retire in peace to a nun’s cell. I will take vows of silence, if that must be, but do not—”
“Silence! You are not meant for the church, Tallia. In two days’ time you will be wed to Lord Alain. Do not seek to argue with me. My mind is made up.”
Alain looked up to see Tallia kneeling before the king. Her cheeks were scoured to a dreadful pallor, and she was as thin as a beggar in a year of bad harvests, but she was still beautiful to his eyes. It was more than her beauty that affected him; another inexplicable, unnamable force had taken hold of him and he could only stare, stricken dumb with shame for the desire he felt even as she turned a pleading gaze on him and with tears rolling down her cheeks bent her head as in submission to the terrible fate that had overtaken her.
4
FATHER Hugh never argued. He merely smiled when another disagreed with him, then spoke with such gentle persuasion that his disputants rarely recognized that he almost always got his way. But Hanna had learned to read signs of his agitation. Right now he was wringing the finger of one of his gloves, held lightly in his left hand, twisting it round and round as he listened to his mother’s advice to Princess Sapientia.
“Prince Sanglant is a threat to your position only if you let him become one, Your Highness,” Margrave Judith was saying. Hanna stood behind Sapientia’s chair, the margrave sat like an equal beside the princess in a chair almost as elaborate as the regnant’s throne. All of her other attendants—including her new husband and her bastard son—stood while the two noblewomen conversed. “It is true that your father the king has neglected you because of his affection for the prince. I speak bluntly because it is only the common truth.”
She spoke bluntly because she was powerful enough to do so. A sidewise glance brought Hanna a glimpse of Ivar’s bowed head. He had a flush in his cheeks that bothered Hanna, as if a disease had come to roost within him that he was not yet aware of. Yet in such a situation, she could not hope to speak to him.
“What do you advise?” Too restless to sit still for long, Sapientia jumped up and began to pace. “I do not dislike my brother, although I admit since we rescued him from Gent he behaves strangely, more like a dog than a man.”
“His mother was not even human, which no doubt accounts for it.” Judith lifted a hand and Hugh, obedient son, brought her a cup of wine. He moved so gracefully. Hanna could scarcely believe she had seen this elegant courtier strike Liath with cold fury. He was so different, here at court. Indeed, he was so very different in all ways from the men in Heart’s Rest, the village where she had grown up: his elegant manners; his fine clothes; his beautiful voice; his clean hands. “But women were made by God to administer and create and men to fight and toil,” continued Judith. “Cultivate your brother as a wise farming-woman cultivates her fields, and you will gain a rich harvest for your efforts. He is a notable fighter, and he carries the luck of your family with him on the battlefield. Use his good qualities to support your own position as heir to the regnant. Do not be so foolish as to believe the whispers that Henry wishes to make him Heir. The princes of Wendar and Varre will not let themselves be ruled by a bastard, certainly not a male bastard, and one as well who has only half the blood of humankind in him.”
Sapientia paused by the window. Something she saw outside caused her to turn back and regard Margrave Judith with a half smile. “Count Lavastine’s heir was once named a bastard. And now he is legitimate—and marrying my cousin this very night!”
“Tallia is an embarrassment. Henry did well to give her as a gift to Count Lavastine as reward for Lavastine’s service to him at Gent. It rids Henry of Tallia.”
“And gives Lavastine a bride with royal connections for his heir,” said Sapientia thoughtfully. “I think you did not meet Lord Geoffrey, who is Lavastine’s cousin and was his heir before Lord Alain appeared. He is a nobleman in every respect, certainly worthy of the county and title.”
“Lavastine is cunning. Once Lord Alain and Lady Tallia produce an heir, Henry will be forced to support Alain if Lord Geoffrey contests the succession.”
Hugh spoke suddenly. “What if King Henry decides to marry Prince Sanglant in like manner, to give him legitimacy?”
Startled, Judith glanced at him as if she had forgotten he was there. “Do you actually think Henry so far gone in his affection for Sanglant that he would consider such a thing?”
“Yes,” he said curtly.
“No,” retorted Sapientia. “I am Heir. I have Hippolyte to prove my worthiness. It’s just that you hate Sanglant, Hugh. I see how you detest him. You can’t bear that I might like him, even though we grew up together and he always treated me kindly when we were children. But your mother is right.” Judith nodded in acknowledgment, but Hanna noted how hard her gaze was upon her son, as if she sought to plumb his depths and thereby know his mind. “Sanglant is no threat to my position—unless I let him become one. And by seeming to fear him because my father favors him and shows an old fondness for him, it weakens me—not him.” She spun around to look at Hanna. “Is that not so, Eagle? Is that not exactly what you said to me yesterday?”
Ai, Lady! They all looked at her. She wished abruptly that she had never spoken such rash words to Sapientia. But Sapientia, if young and foolish, had promise if only someone bothered to give her practical advice, and Hanna had a store of practical advice harvested from her own mother.
“Wise counsel,” said Margrave Judith with a gleam in her eyes that made Hanna exceedingly nervous. “What do you say, Hugh?”
Hugh had a certain quirk to his lips that betrayed irritation. He smiled to cover it now. His voice remained as smooth as honey, and as sweet. “It is God’s will that sister love brother. For the rest of us, we must treat weak and strong alike with equal compassion.”
“Still,” mused Judith, “I had not considered the possibility of a marriage for Prince Sanglant. I will propose to Henry that he marry Sanglant to my Theucinda.”
“You would marry your own legitimate daughter to my bastard brother?” asked Sapientia, astonished.
In her mind’s ear, Hanna could hear her mother’s voice commenting. She knew exactly what Mistress Birta would say: that Margrave Judith, a wise administrator, was merely gathering the entire flock of chickens into her own henhouse.
“Theucinda is my third daughter, just now of age. Gerberga and Bertha have their duties, their estates, and their husbands and heirs in Austra and Olsatia. Theucinda can serve me in this way, if I think it advantageous.” She drained her cup, still watching her son. “But I do not concern myself as much with Sanglant’s marriage. Do not forget that Henry may marry again.”
“As you did,” said Hugh stiffly, glancing toward Baldwin and as quickly away as if embarrassed to be caught looking.
Judith chuckled. “What is this frown, my pet? I must have my amusements.” By not glancing toward Baldwin she called attention to his presence because everyone else then looked at him. The poor boy was, truthfully, the prettiest creature Hanna had ever seen; as was now commonly said among the servi
ngs folk, he had the face of an angel.
Hugh seemed about to speak. Abruptly he moved forward to take his mother’s empty wine cup and have it refilled. When he returned it to her, she touched his wrist as lightly as a butterfly lights on a flower to sip its nectar, and for a moment Hanna thought that something passed between them, mother and son an unspoken message understood by what could be read in the gaze and in the language of the body. But she did not hold the key to interpret it.
When Judith left, Ivar was hustled away together with Baldwin, and Hanna could only catch his eye as he crossed the threshold. He lifted a hand as if in reply, and then was gone. For the rest of the day, preparations for the wedding feast consumed her attention. Mercifully, Hathui pressed her into service to escort two wagons to an outlying farmstead where stores of honey and beeswax candles had been set aside for the regnant’s use as their yearly rent.
She loitered at the farmstead, talking to the old beekeeper while his adult children and two laborers loaded the two wagons with casks of honey and carefully wrapped bundles of delicate wax. His youngest son eyed her with interest.
“Ach, the king himself!” said the old man, whom Hanna quite liked. “I’ve never seen King Henry. It’s said he’s a handsome man, strong and tall and a fine general.”
“So he is.”
“But I have seen Arnulf the Younger with these own eyes, and that sight I’ll never forget. He came here by this very farm when I was a young man, with his escort all in rich clothes and with such fine horses that it nearly blinded a man to see them. I remember that he had a scar under his left ear, somewhat fresh. He rode with an Eagle at his right side, just like you, a common Eagle! Only it were a man. Strange it were, to see a common man riding next to the king like his best companion. But he died.”
“The Eagle?” asked Hanna, curious now.
“Nay, King Arnulf. Died many a year ago and the son come onto the throne for the elder girl couldn’t bear children and it isn’t any use to have an heir if she can’t bear children in her turn, is it now?” He glanced toward one of the adults, a tired-looking woman who had an angry lift to her mouth. A number of small children helped—or hindered—the labor, but none of them ran to her. “Ach, well, they say Henry has children of his own and a fine son who got him the throne, who’s captain of the Dragons, they say.”
“That would be Prince Sanglant.” They all looked at her so expectantly that she felt obliged to give them a quick tale of the fall of Gent and its retaking.
“Ach, now!” exclaimed the old man when she had finished. “That’s a story!” He gestured to his youngest son, and the lad brought a mug of sweetened vinegar so tart despite the honeyed flavor that Hanna could not keep from puckering her mouth while her hosts laughed good-naturedly.
“Now, then,” said the old beekeeper, gesturing toward the son. “Can you do me a favor, Eagle? If you’d take the lad with you, he could see the king and walk back home after. He’s got a yearning to see the king, and how can I say ‘nay’ to him, who was the last gift my poor dead wife gave me?”
The lad’s name was Arnulf, no doubt in memory of the dead king; he had light hair and a pleasant if undistinguished face except for a pair of stark blue eyes that held such a wealth of wordless pleading in them that Hanna did not have the heart to say no. Arnulf proved to be no trouble, although he asked a hundred questions as he walked alongside the wagons, driven by two skeptical wagoneers in the service of the king’s stewards who had grown so accustomed to the presence of the king on their daily travels that they were amused by the lad’s excitement.
As they passed a stand of woods, a pack of riders swept by to the right. Hanna recognized them because of the dogs. She called out: “Look there. That is Prince Sanglant.” The lad gaped.
“They say he’s run mad,” said the first wagoneer, to which the second retorted, “He’s never harmed any but the king’s enemies. You won’t find a better captain than Prince Sanglant. I hear such stories….”
Hanna caught sight of Hathui riding down the track, and hailed her.
“I see you have what you came for,” said Hathui, reining in beside Hanna. “Wish me good fortune in my own hunt. I’m to bring him back in time for the feasting tonight.” She lifted a chin to indicate the riders who had just vanished into the copse.
“What’s wrong with him? Many things are whispered, that he’s more dog than man now.”
Hathui shaded a hand to get a better look at the trees. “Chained among the Eika for a year?” She shrugged. “At least those prisoners the Quman take are made slaves and given work to do. It’s a miracle he’s alive at all.” Her gaze had a sharp sympathy. “Don’t forget how he fought outside Gent when he was finally released.”
Hanna smiled. “Nay, I’ve not become Sapientia’s advocate against him. But do you think it’s true, what’s rumored, that Henry has it in mind to name Sanglant as his heir instead of his legitimate daughter?”
Hathui’s frown was all the answer she would give as she nodded at Hanna and rode away.
Hanna left the wagons and wagoneers by the pit-houses that served the kitchens and let Arnulf follow her to the great open yard that fronted chapel, hall, and the royal residence. There, as luck would have it, king and court had gathered outside to cheer on bouts of wrestling. Hanna made her way through the crowd to the side of Princess Sapientia. Catching the princess’ eye, Hanna knelt before her. With a graceless exhalation of surprise, the lad plopped down beside her.
“Your Highness.” Sapientia was in a good mood, all light and charm made bright by that very energy that so often made her look foolish. “Here is Arnulf, the beekeeper’s son. He has escorted us from his father’s farmstead with honey and candle-wax.
Sapientia smiled on the young man, called over the steward who oversaw her treasury, and handed young Arnulf two silver sceattas. “For your dowry,” she said. She hailed her father.
Henry came attended by Villam and Judith. He was laughing, not immoderately but with pure good humor, infectious and yet dignified. But when Sapientia indicated the young man who stared in awe at this apparition, the king’s posture changed.
He sobered; he turned the full force of his gaze on the young man and, with a firm hand, touched him on the head. “My blessing on you and your kin,” he said, then removed his hand. That quickly, he returned to his jest with his companions, and they strolled away while Margrave Judith pointed out the young man-at-arms who was next to challenge the champion.
Hanna led the quaking Arnulf away. “What are these?” he whispered, holding out the sceattas.
“They’re coins. You can exchange them for goods in the marketplace down in the lower enclosure, although you’d best not do so today, for they’ll know you’re not used to bargaining and they’ll cheat you.”
“My dowry,” he murmured. He blinked so many times she thought for a moment he was about to faint. He turned to her. “Will you marry me?” he demanded.
Hanna choked down a laugh and instead smiled kindly. “Go on, lad,” she said, feeling immeasurably older although she guessed they were of an age. “Take the coins and your blessing home to your kinfolk.” She led him to the gate and watched him walk away, still unsteady on his feet.
On her way back to Sapientia, she saw Ivar standing in the doorway to the residence where Margrave Judith had taken up quarters. He saw her, beckoned, and ducked inside. She followed him over the threshold. “Ivar?”
“Hush!” He drew her into a small storeroom where servants’ pallets lined one wall. The closed shutters made the room dim and stuffy. He embraced her. “Oh, Hanna! I thought I would never see you again! I’m not allowed to speak to women.”
She kissed him on either cheek, the kinswoman’s greeting. “I’m not just any woman!” she said unsteadily. “I nursed at the same breast. Surely we can speak together without fear of punishment.”
“Nay,” he whispered, opening the door a crack to see out into the corridor, then returning to her. “Rosvita wanted to see me,
but it was forbidden, though she’s a cleric, and my sister. But she would only have scolded me anyway, so I’m glad I didn’t see her!”
Hanna sighed. He was as passionately thoughtless as ever. “Well, you’ve certainly filled out through the shoulders, Ivar. You look more like your father than ever. But are you well? Why aren’t you at Quedlinhame?”
He still shook his head the same way, red curls all unruly, face gone stubborn. He always jumped before he measured the ground. “Is it true? That the king means Lady Tallia to marry? They mustn’t despoil her! She must remain the pure vessel of God’s truth.” He wrenched away from her again, clapping his hands to his forehead in an attitude of despair and frustration. “They’ll do to her what they did to Baldwin! They care nothing for vows sworn honestly to the church!”
“Hush, Ivar. Hush, now.” She drew his hands down from his head and pressed a palm against his forehead, but he wasn’t hot. His voice had the fever in it, not his skin. “Why aren’t you at Quedlinhame? Did your father send for you?”
He made a strange gesture, left index finger drawn down his chest over his breastbone. “If you’d seen—”
“Seen what?”
“The miracle of the rose. The marks of flaying on her palms. You’d believe in the sacrifice and redemption. You’d know the truth which has been concealed.”
Nervous, she pulled away from him and bumped up against the wall. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ivar. Is this some madness that’s gotten into you?”
“No madness.” He groped for her hand, found it, and tugged her against the wall. Her boot wrinkled the edge of a neatly-folded wool blanket, uncovering a posy of pressed flowers beneath, a love token. “The Translatus is a lie, Hanna. The blessed Daisan didn’t pray for seven days, as they wrote in the Holy Verses. He wasn’t lifted bodily into the Chamber of Light. It’s all a lie.”
“You’re scaring me. Isn’t that a heresy?” Surely the minions of the Enemy had burrowed inside him and now spoke through his lips. She tried to edge away, but his grip was strong.