by Kate Elliott
“What he said himself. Go to the king, as you mean to do in any case.”
“King Henry himself sealed the document that ordered you to be censured and taken before the skopos. Dare you to go before him now, knowing what might await you?”
“I trust you to protect me, Your Highness. Prince Sanglant said you would.”
“Ai!” She sounds pained and amused together. “So I am bound by his word, damn him.” That shadow within the shadow, the slash of her mouth, is a smile. “You would risk this for him?”
“Who would not?” he asks, sounding honestly surprised, and her laughter in answer is sharp. “There is one other thing, Your Highness. I pray you, may I speak to you privately?”
She gestures, but not all the shadows recede. “Trust you this man, Princess?” asks her counselor.
“I trust my brother, Captain Fulk,” she answers, “and so do you.” As flames shift and leap Hanna now sees only two shadows wavering in the fire.
When Heribert speaks again, at first she can scarcely hear him. “He has a child.”
“A child! By the Eagle?”
“What mean you, the Eagle?”
“The woman called Liathano.”
“Yes, by Liath. He believes that Liath, and thus his daughter, is descended from—”
Dirt flew in her face. Wolfhere had leaped to his feet and kicked ashes and earth over the fire, and it guttered as she coughed and spat. But he was already leaving, striding away with his shoulders set so tensely that she almost feared to run after him.
But she had too many questions. She had seen too much to fear him now. And she was still spitting dirt and hot ashes from her lips.
“Wolfhere!” She ran, and although he did not quicken his pace, she was panting hard by the time she caught him. “Why did you do that? Wasn’t that Princess Theophanu? Why is Brother Heribert with her, and why is he speaking of Prince Sanglant as though they were old companions? Did he truly mean that Liath and Sanglant had a child together? Is what I saw true, or only a vision sent from the Enemy?”
“Your time with Liath marked you,” said Wolfhere harshly. And then, with an agony that did not show in his expression: “Have I misjudged her so completely? Has she changed so much?”
“But—”
He turned on her with an expression more fitting for a man who has just seen Death riding down the road in his direction. “Go to Hathui and serve her and the Eagles well. But don’t ask me any more questions, for I cannot and will not answer them. You have a good heart, and I like you. Stay away from that which you can’t comprehend.”
He would say no more, although she followed him like a lost puppy, still asking questions. He did not even acknowledge her, only went to the stables and commandeered a horse although he hadn’t the king’s permission to leave. He would not answer her, he just left, riding out of Autun without looking back.
After the noon meal Henry called Hanna before him in the private garden of the biscop’s palace. “Hathui says that you witnessed the departure of Wolfhere.”
“I did, Your Majesty.”
“He left without permission from me, or orders from any of my stewards or chamberlains.”
She looked first at Hathui, but the other woman only lifted her chin, a signal Hanna could not interpret. After all, she was the King’s Eagle. It was to him she owed her loyalty, wasn’t it? “So he did, Your Majesty. But I know not where he was bound.”
“Hathui?”
“I do not know either, Your Majesty,” Hathui replied with obvious reluctance.
He slapped his leg hard enough that the sound made Hanna jump. “I knew he would betray himself some day.” He seemed exultant. “The faithful Eagle abandons his post. So be it. I place him under the regnant’s ban. If he is seen again by any woman or man loyal to me, let him be taken into custody and brought before me in chains, for desertion.” He turned that pitiless lightning gaze on Hanna. “Know you what brought about his flight? Fear not, Daughter. I can see you are innocent of his treachery.”
She could not lie. She saw in an instant that he comprehended the whole of her guilt.
She bowed her head in a vain attempt to gather her thoughts. Bricks paved the walkway she kneeled on, set in a lozenge pattern that repeated itself on and on and on around the square path that enclosed a central gazebo. When she looked up again, the king had leaned forward from the cushioned bench on which he sat, balancing himself with an elbow on one knee.
“Go on,” he said, although she had not yet said anything.
“You know of that skill called the Eagle’s Sight?” she asked.
No flicker of surprise or distaste marred his expression. He remained masked with dignity. “My father told me certain things known only to the heir. Indeed, it was Wolfhere who brought the trick of the Eagle’s Sight to your company. Did you know that?” She did not, and he must have recognized it from her expression because he went on. “For that and many other things my father honored Wolfhere and made him his boon companion. But I know otherwise. What did you see?”
“This, Your Majesty. First, a woman I believe was Princess Theophanu, interviewing a man who called himself Brother Heribert. That same Heribert, I believe, who was sent to Darre with Biscop Antonia and who vanished with her in the avalanche that I myself witnessed. I was curious what might have become of them—” But she broke off, struggling back to the warp of the tale. The king remained silent, listening. “The princess said that Lord John Ironhead was marching in pursuit of Adelheid, and that he had been crowned king of Aosta.” Henry grunted, like a man kicked in the stomach, but said nothing. “Brother Heribert told the princess that he had shortly before been with Prince Sanglant—” Now she had his attention fully, and she didn’t like it. “But that the prince was somehow prevented from following him. Heribert said that the prince would want him to travel on to you, Your Majesty. He had a child—”
“Brother Heribert had a child?”
“Nay, Your Majesty, forgive me. Brother Heribert said that Prince Sanglant had had a child by Liath.” She clenched her jaw, waiting.
Henry narrowed his eyes to slits and shook his head, as when the child who claims to be too clumsy to hunt comes home with the first boar of the season. “God help me for having sired such a stubborn son. If I could get Adelheid for him, then there would only be Ironhead to drive out, and the child he needs to prove his fitness is already born.” After a moment, he remembered her. It was terrible to be focused under that gaze. She had never realized his eyes were such a complex shade of brown, veined with yellow and an incandescent leaf-green. “What other news can you bring me of my son? Where is he?”
“I do not know, Your Majesty. I saw no landmarks, nor do I know whether they spoke indoors or out. But Heribert said one thing more. He said that Liath, and the child, were descended from—”
A gate opened, and Biscop Constance emerged into the garden, saw her brother, and began to walk toward them.
“Descended from—?” Henry glanced up, saw Constance, and lifted a hand to wave her over. Then he looked back at Hanna.
“That was the end, Your Majesty. I heard nothing more. I am not sure that Wolfhere didn’t kick the fire out to conceal the rest.”
Henry said nothing, only sat back and fingered the gold torque he wore, symbol of his royal kinship and right to rule. Here at his ease in the noonday garden he wore no royal robes; in truth, Hanna had rarely seen him robed and crowned in the regnant’s dignity. He wore the dress common to every Wendish noble, a richly-embroidered tunic, leggings, sandals, and the various handsome rings worn by any great prince of the realm. One of these he drew off now and gave to Hanna.
She gaped at it: an oiled and polished emerald of a pale and almost milky green, set in thick gold band studded with tiny blood-red garnets.
“What news, brother?” asked Biscop Constance, sitting down beside him without asking his leave. “You have that certain smile on your face. I think the cats did not get the cream today.”
“I had thought it might be prudent to travel to Wayland, but instead I have been visited with a blessing in the person of this Eagle. She will ride back to Sapientia with two hundreds of Lions and fifty cavalry to fight in the east. But I will ride south to seek out Theophanu.”
“South to Aosta? Do you think that wise, Brother? You would do better to make your peace with Conrad in Wayland before you begin any grand enterprises.”
But he had put on the mask of stone, and Hanna had never seen anyone—even his powerful sisters—argue with him when he was in this mood. “I believe that many unexpected things will come of this. Indeed, I am sure of it.”
XIII
THE INVISIBLE TIDE
1
PERHAPS it was a blessing, after all, that he be allowed to march away from the memories that afflicted him. Walking for hours a day in the summer had a certain soothing rhythm, balm to the heart, and at night he never had any trouble sleeping once he had gotten camp pitched and pits dug and eaten a meal of flat bread and beans, all made heartier with ale or sweetened vinegar. The king kept his milites strong by feeding them well, and their pace was brisk enough that only the most determined camp followers could straggle along.
Still, it broke his heart to see them: peddlers hawking their wares; beggars holding out gourd cups in hope of a scrap of bread or thin soup; youths hoping to join the famous Lions or just gain a bit of experience fixing wheels or grooming the cart horses; women and boys come to trade favors for food or a trinket. Sometimes a Lion would even shelter a sweetheart on the long march, although that was against the rules. The captains were strict: as long as no one shirked chores or fell behind, they would look the other way.
The cavalry were another story, of course. They moved both faster and more slowly, helped and hindered by their fine horses and their little entourages, a groom, a servant, a concubine, and a camp-boy for the least of them and rather more servants for the greater.
He was digging out the night pits with Folquin when he saw her for the second time, a pale figure in dirty novice’s robes kneeling before a pair of beggars who had swung into the procession three nights before: a brawny man with the face of a frightened child and his companion, a wizened man who had no feet. “Look there.” He nudged Folquin with the butt of his shovel. “Do you see her?” She had poured water into a cup and was offering it to the crippled man.
Folquin had lost his only other tunic at dice last night, and he was in an irritable mood today, jabbing at the dirt with angry grunts. “Huh?” he said, looking up abruptly.
“That woman—” But she was already gone, slipped away into the whores’ makeshift encampment. At this time of the evening, various of the cavalrymen, unencumbered by any work except riding to war, were out strolling in twos or threes, looking for trouble, or a bit of pleasure, or some combination of the two.
“Do you fancy one of them, then?” asked Folquin. “I thought—” Sorrow growled softly, and Folquin struck himself on the head. He was a good soul, if a little reckless, and easy to get along with. “I beg your pardon. It’s nothing to jest about.”
“Nay, don’t mind it.” Alain patted Sorrow on the head reprovingly, and he settled down again beside Rage. “It wasn’t your fault. But I could swear I know her. And if it’s who I think it is, she’s got no business traveling with the army.”
“Who do you think it is?”
“My wi—” He bit off the word, stabbed by the old shame. “Nay, I must be mistaken.”
“Here, I tell you what,” said Folquin hastily. “I’ll take your first hour of watch and you can go looking for her. Then you’ll know whether you’re mistaken.” He got a good spadeful of dirt and tossed it above the ditch. “I always hate it when I can’t stop thinking over something that might be, or might not have been. If only I hadn’t rolled a deuce!”
Alain had to laugh. “If only you hadn’t rolled at all.”
“Nay, leave off, I beg you,” cried Folquin, leaning on his shovel and grinning, “you won’t be lecturing me as Ingo did, will you?”
“Nay, not as Ingo did. In my very own way, I’m sure. Didn’t your own aunt weave that tunic for you?”
Folquin groaned, pounding his head against the shovel’s haft. “Ai, God! Have mercy! Ingo calling me a shameless gambler was bad enough. Now this! My poor aunt. How can I ever face her now? She’ll know how careless I was with the things she gifted me with.”
“And sweated over.”
Alain had discovered that Folquin’s adventurous heart concealed a very real devotion to his distant family, the same ones he’d abandoned for the life of a King’s Lion. He was always collecting pretty ribands and little luxurious household items, like a wooden sieve-spoon that was a copy of the silver and gold ones used by noble ladies in the great halls, for his younger sisters; he had friends enough among the Eagles that on occasion one of them would deliver a package made up of such items to his village, if they happened to pass that way.
Now as a bit of rain spattered over them, warm and refreshing, he saw that Folquin truly looked remorseful. “It’s true, isn’t it? I risked something that I’d no right to wager on, for it was like she gave me a piece of her heart when she gifted me with that tunic.”
“Here, now,” said Alain quickly, “you lost it to Dedi in third cohort, didn’t you? Maybe we can offer to take some of his duties in exchange. I don’t know what Ingo would say, for he’s enough responsibilities, but I wouldn’t mind taking a turn at Dedi’s privy digging for a night. If you and Stephen and Leo did as well, and explained the matter to Dedi, too, then why shouldn’t he be willing to return the tunic?”
Folquin straightened up and stared at him for a moment in the most uncomfortable way. He had curly hair, cropped short. He tugged on it now, a habitual gesture, before turning back to his digging. “I’d be grateful,” he said in a low voice. “And I meant what I said about you looking for that woman tonight, if you’ve a mind to. I’ll take your watch.”
By the time they had eaten their night’s meal, the day had passed into that long hazy twilight that in summer lingers on and on. For some reason it was a loud evening at the whores’ encampment, a straggle of tents, shelters, and awkward lean-tos made of canvas roped to trees that rose and fell each night as the army marched east. Perhaps the cooling rains had given a second wind to the cavalrymen. A bard played while three women danced for an appreciative audience. In the shadows, items changed hands, and hands sought under skirts for that which was hidden. The bounty in breasts was more evident than the bounty in almsgiving, for there were more beggars than usual, too, children with palsied hands, thin women in torn skirts and mended, filthy tunics, withered old men shoved out of the way by robust young lords who were seeking release from that boredom which is the burden of the well-fed. Alain had forgotten to set food aside as he sometimes did, and the sight of so much suffering chafed. But there was always suffering in the world. Rage and Sorrow padded beside him, and he never minded their presence. On a night like this, in such surroundings, it kept the peddlers and the whores away. He really didn’t want to have a woman leaning up against him, offering him the very thing Tallia had denied him for so long. Surely some good must come out of the promise he had kept to her; he had never done violence to the oath she had made, even if he couldn’t help but look on the women now and wonder what it would be like to take that which they offered more freely than Tallia had.
But all things came with a price.
Rage whined, slewing her head round as she caught a sound, or a scent, that he couldn’t yet hear. He didn’t see the one he was looking for. Surely he had only imagined her earlier.
He heard the noises coming from a dense thicket beyond a broad stream. At first he thought that frenzied grunting was a rootling pig. When he heard low, hard male laughter, he realized he was hearing a desperate and one-sided struggle. He didn’t hesitate, thought no more of getting his feet wet than of thrusting aside the leafy branches with his forearms and stumbling into a dome of low-h
anging leaves and branches where two men hunkered over to watch a third wrestle on the ground with a woman in a dirty robe who was trying to scramble away. It was her, grunting hopelessly. It was them, laughing.
A moment later, he realized who she was.
Leaves dragged on his hair as he crashed forward. Under the dome of leaves, it was darker, as if a shroud had been drawn over the sun. Forest litter smothered the footfalls of his boots. The hounds pushed through the thicket behind him. The men turned.
“Ho! Dietrich, we have company!”
“Leave us be!” the one on the ground snarled.
One of his comrades, clearly drunk, giggled. “Nay, let him join in. If she won’t take coin then she’ll take what she gets, eh? More than enough for four.”
He didn’t try to fight them. They were three, and he only one, but he shoved through the dome of vegetation around them, getting his face and hands all scratched up, and grabbed hold of the woman’s wrist. Alain dragged her backward while she fought half against him and half against the man still groping for her thighs, his own tunic hiked up to his hips to expose a vast fleshy expanse. He had wits enough to pull her out into the woodland, not to the stream where her predicament would become a public scene to be laughed over.
The three men followed him, thrashing and swearing, and he shoved the young woman behind him and waited for them. They weren’t all taller than he was, but they had the muscular arms and proud faces of noble sons accustomed to privilege. They rushed him like three bulls, but he stood his ground and raised one hand, pitching his voice to carry. He knew how to do it now, because he had once been a lord mightier than they. And he had Rage and Sorrow at his side.
“How dare you molest this holy woman!”
The words brought them up short, or perhaps the hounds did, standing silent and massive with muzzles pulled back to reveal their teeth and their great bodies poised for attack.