by Kate Elliott
He was surrounded by death, although life had sprung from it.
He stepped forward and pressed a palm against the nearest WiseMother. It felt only of stone. No consciousness animated its core. They were absent. Gone.
Dead.
“Can you hear me? Can you answer me?” he called to them, who were the life of their children. They had for so long guided them with the foresight of the ancient, who saw farther than their short-lived children could ever do.
He waited, and he listened.
But all he heard was the wind.
V
OLD GHOSTS
1
AS they rode west along the Osterwaldweg, an Eagle met the king’s progress where dappled shadow met open road at the edge of a wide forest wilderness.
“Rufus,” said Sanglant.
The redhead had been with King Henry in Aosta and lately left behind in Saony together with a few other Eagles when the king had ridden east into the marchlands.
“Your Majesty. I am sent ahead by Mother Scholastica to let you know she intends to meet with you in Osterburg. I did not expect to meet you on the road.”
Once, a well trained Eagle could have looked through fire to discover the king’s whereabouts by means of observing landmarks glimpsed through the flames. No longer.
“We shall meet my aunt in Quedlinhame, before she expects us.” He liked the thought of surprising her, anything to put her at a disadvantage.
“She has already left. I rode ahead to alert the stewards in Osterburg. You’ll meet her on this road, Your Majesty.”
Outflanked. Still, two could play that game. “Take drink and food, Rufus. You’ll get new mounts, and return to her. Tell her to await us at…” He paused, considering the route.
For once, Liath was paying attention. “Goslar has a small palace.”
“At Goslar. Is there more, Eagle? Sent she a message? What does she intend?”
“Nothing more, Your Majesty. Nothing she told to me, anyway.” He was a good rider with an easy seat, but very serious, pacing alongside the king. If he meant his remark wryly, Sanglant saw no sign of it.
Liath fell out of line to ride with the young man back along the cavalcade to the supply wagons. Sanglant listened as they moved away. It was always easy for him to catch her voice out of the multitude.
“When was it again that you first met Hanna? At Darre? Not earlier, then? You never met her before—did you ride east with Princess Sapientia? Oh, I see.”
Her words faded into the creaks and clops and chatter of the procession.
Liutgard, at his right hand, glanced back, and he did as well. Although scouts, and a vanguard, rode in front, most of the progress rode behind him, a line of four riders abreast twisting back into a landscape of woodland, open ground, and the occasional farmstead. Half of these small estates and humble holdings were recently abandoned. One had been burned and looted. He and Liutgard had ridden somewhat forward of his other companions, who were bogged down by the incessant palaver of Sophie and Imma. The Saony twins always rode more slowly when they started in on one of their long harangues. They were, as always, being egged on by their bored brother. Their voices had a shrill tone that carried easily above the clatter of the army.
“Did you see Gerberga’s face when Sanglant brought Ekkehard back to her? She was red. Red! To think of it!”
“How humiliating to find your husband has run off with your sister.”
“At least,” remarked Wichman, “neither of you need worry about that! No man would possibly run to either of you.”
“How dare you! As if you could hope for better—!”
“You’ll be murdered by the brother or husband of some poor woman you’ve raped, Wichman.”
“Before or after I am installed as margrave of Westfall?”
“An insult to us, Sophie!”
“It is! It is! To offer him a margraviate, and us—nothing! Not even respectable husbands but only second and third sons of minor lords!”
“I had hoped,” Sanglant said to Liutgard in a low voice, “that they would run to Conrad, but I fear they mean to stick.” He grinned.
She did not. “I pray you, Cousin, forgive me for speaking bluntly.”
He sighed.
“Henry was right after all. He intended to marry you to Queen Adelheid. That would have been a good match. All this would have been avoided.”
“Not all of it.” He indicated Rotrudis’ squabbling progeny.
“Well.” She smiled crookedly. “Not all of it.”
“What do you mean to say, Liutgard? You have supported me faithfully. I know your worth.”
“You must marry. Soon.”
He waved away her question.
“Nay, do not dismiss me! You know I am right.”
“I will not yield on this matter. I am already married.”
She had endured much and complained not at all. She had not seen her own lands in more than four years. Her daughters grown apace while she was gone, her stewards in charge of Fesse, all this she had left behind because of her loyalty to Henry. She had lost half her men, and she had not complained. She had lost her heir, and she had not complained.
“There is a line even I will not cross, Sanglant. I have suffered too much to allow my lands to be laid under a ban because you have fixed on such a creature as that one.”
“A creature—do not insult her!”
“Do not misunderstand me. I do not dislike her. But they whisper about her. They fear her.”
“In Gent they placed flowers at her feet.”
“So they did,” she admitted. “Let the biscops and abbesses be content with her. Let the excommunication be lifted and the holy women offer their blessing. Then we shall see.”
“Will you support me, in that case? In Autun, when the ban is lifted from her?”
“We shall see.”
It was all she would promise. Her words worried at him as a dog worries at a much chewed bone.
“What have you heard?” he said at last. “What whispers?”
She was a cool one, educated, strong, fertile, and confident, his peer, equal to him in rank. Legitimately born, she needed no justification to hold her position and title as duchess of Fesse, the last descendant of Queen Conradina through the queen’s younger brother Eberhard, who had been Liutgard’s great grandfather.
“Do you listen to what you do not want to hear?” she asked him. “You ought to.”
2
THE palace at Goslar was one hundred years old, built in the days of the last queen regnant, Conradina. It boasted a sturdy hall, a stable, and a motley collection of outbuildings including a kitchen and a smithy. A shoulder-high palisade surrounded the palace. Beyond it lay gardens, orchards, fields, and the estate whose inhabitants tended the grounds year round. Goslar belonged to the Wendish regnant, but, as Liath recalled, the steward who administered it was appointed by the abbess at nearby Quedlinhame.
Thus they arrived to find Mother Scholastica entrenched with her retinue. Although outriders rode ahead to alert her to the king’s arrival, she did not emerge to offer Sanglant greeting but waited inside to receive him.
“She means me to appear as the supplicant,” he said to Theophanu and Liutgard, who rode on either side.
Liath sat, mounted, away from the rest of the noble companions, examining the scene thoughtfully. She appeared more interested in the layout of the buildings than in the architecture of court politics. For some reason she looked particularly beautiful today with her hair drawn back into a braid, her dusky face filled out and healthy, her blue eyes bright; that uncanny way they had of seeming now and again to spark with laughter or anger still startled him. She was no longer too thin, as she had been before: when he first met her; in their days at Verna; when she had returned to him after the cataclysm. Despite their constant travel and the occasional dearth of food on the trip north, she had gained flesh in all the right places. As he knew, and yet wanted to rediscover again and again and again.
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Liutgard tapped his arm. “If you do not stop staring at her like a lackwit, then every soul in this army will continue to believe she has used her sorcerer’s power to bewitch you.”
Her sharp comment caught him off guard. He looked at her, then at Theophanu. Theophanu shrugged.
“Do you believe it?” he demanded.
“I do,” said Liutgard. “It’s said she ensorcelled Henry in the same manner.”
“That wasn’t her fault! Or her intent! She never had any interest in Henry. She’d already chosen me.”
“A wise decision, since Henry would never have married her,” observed Liutgard.
“What do you say, Theophanu?” he said, really irritated now.
She smiled as a cat might be said to smile, having the cream set before it. “I think you are famous for your weakness for women, Brother. It is remarkable that one contents you. Some might call that a form of magic.”
“Do you?”
She raised a tidy eyebrow. “I do not. She is handsome in a way that attracts men. The question might better be, why does she care for you above all other men when, it seems, she might have had any of them?”
Liutgard laughed for the first time in weeks. “Are you become a wit, Theophanu? Look at him! So brawny and handsome as he is. Women fall at his feet, and into his bed.”
“This is not amusing.”
“True enough,” replied Theophanu to Liutgard. “But he is not so beautiful as Hugh of Austra. Hugh never cared one whit for any woman except his mother, or excepting if a woman could give him something he wanted. But he wanted that one.”
“As for what Hugh wanted, I can’t answer, although it’s true enough that Hugh is quite the most beautiful man I have ever seen. May my poor Frederic rest at peace in the Chamber of Light, for I mean no insult to him. Yet if Hugh of Austra wanted her as well, does it not suggest sorcery to you, Theo?”
“Let her be,” said Theophanu abruptly. “Leave her at peace, I pray you, Liutgard.”
“She has certainly found a champion in you! Is there something you know that I ought to know, to put my mind at ease?”
“I pray you, Liutgard, let it rest.” A shadow of anger darkened Theophanu’s placid face, and she gestured toward the palace and its phalanx of milites dressed in the tabard of the ancient Quedlinhame County: crossed swords on a green field. “What will you do, Sanglant? Set up a siege as you did at Quedlinhame when you first returned to Wendar this spring?”
“If you will be patient, I ask you to await me here. I’ll go in alone, as a humble nephew asking for my holy aunt’s blessing. That may content her.”
He gave Fulk the order to set camp. Dismounting, he offered the reins to Sibold, then sought Liath, but she had wandered off. A few moments searching discovered her: she was chatting amiably and easily with a pride of Lions.
“Who is that?” he said to Hathui, who had come up as soon as Fulk departed.
“That is—I think—yes—Captain Thiadbold’s troop.”
“Yes. Yes. I see him now. His helm covers his red hair.” He chewed his lower lip, then said, “She seems to know them well.”
Hathui looked at him strangely. “I can’t say, Your Majesty. An Eagle meets many folk upon the road. Eagles and Lions often depend on each other in a tight spot.”
He frowned, but shook himself. “Attend me, if you will.”
They crossed the grassy forecourt and walked up onto the porch. The guards opened the doors to let them through. Inside, clerics scribbled at tables set up along the length of the hall. Scholastica presided from the dais, although she was not seated in the ducal chair but rather in a handsome seat with a cloth back and pillows. She was making a show of reading, but it was obvious she was expecting him. A nun whispered into her ear. She handed her the book and raised a hand, to give Sanglant permission to come forward.
“I pray you,” he said to Hathui, “hurry to Theophanu and Liutgard and tell them I have mistaken the matter. If they will come at once, I will be grateful for their help. We’ll need my throne as well as their chairs. Make haste.”
She left.
From down the length of the hall, Scholastica regarded him with patience, or interest, or puzzlement. She said nothing. He said nothing. Theirs was a standoff. The guards had closed the doors, but elsewhere all the shutters had been taken down. As he waited, he heard the noise of the army settling down for the day, goats complaining, men laughing, sergeants shouting, a hostler cursing, dogs barking as they would. Quills scratched indoors; outdoors, wind skimmed the branches of Goslar’s orchard.
He heard them approach the porch and walk up the stairs. The door opened, and they entered, just the two of them, with Hathui at their back. Without speaking, he beckoned them forward and with one on either side approached his aunt: She looked stern and unbending, not even amused.
“I come with the Dragon of Saony and the Eagle of Fesse beside me,” he said to her.
“What of Rotrudis’ children?” she asked, dispensing with pleasantries.
Yes, she was annoyed.
Servants came forward to unfold the traveling chairs. Theophanu and Liutgard waited until he sat; then they sat. Now all four made a cozy little group, but three of them were young and one was getting old. She was holding on to the past when, in fact, the past had been demolished in one night last autumn.
“Rotrudis’ children are not capable of ruling, Aunt. Theophanu is, as you know.”
“If Theophanu is capable of ruling, then she should by right be regnant,” said Scholastica. “Yet she is not. I have a proposition for you, Sanglant.”
He nodded, but she was not waiting for his permission, only pausing to collect her thoughts.
“Theophanu is not the only candidate. There are others. If you accept retirement, you can retain your place as captain of the King’s Dragons. The realm will need your strength. You can serve best where you are most suited.”
“I am already crowned and anointed. At your hand. To what purpose do you raise these objections now?”
“I wish to prevent war, Sanglant.”
“How will my stepping down prevent war? Who then would rule as regnant?”
“Conrad and Tallia.”
“No!” cried Theophanu, standing up. She was furious.
“Conrad?” Liutgard’s laugh had a mean heart. “Tallia? Do you mean Sabella’s daughter? That whey-faced creature who wept blood and moaned and cried?”
“She professed a heresy,” said Theophanu. “You yourself threw her out of Quedlinhame, did you not?”
“I did not,” said Scholastica coolly. “Henry took her to marry Lavastine’s heir, the one who was a thief and a liar and a bastard.”
“Conrad?” murmured Sanglant, but as hard as he could think this through, he could not figure how his aunt would be willing to throw the regnancy out of Henry’s line. Her own line.
“Conrad has a claim.” Liutgard was white with anger. “And I have a claim, Mother Scholastica. What of me? I am the last descendant of Queen Conradina. She, after all, did not give the crown to her younger brother but to her rival and ally, the elder Henry, who was then duke of Saony. Her words are famous. In truth, we learn them early in Fesse so as not to forget the stain upon our family’s honor. ‘For it is true, Brother, that our family has everything which the dignity of the regnant demands, except good luck.’ Sanglant has brought us this far out of disaster. Who else could have done so? It was Henry’s last wish that Sanglant become king after him. I witnessed Henry’s last words.”
Sanglant tapped one foot, waiting. The plank flooring of the hall was swept clean. No carpets covered the long boards. The scritching of quills continued unabated. Clerics bent their heads over tables, writing and writing and writing. He wondered that their hands did not begin to ache.
“Then a proper marriage,” Mother Scholastica said.
“We settled this at Gent,” he retorted.
“A subtle player made that move. Her kinfolk out of Bodfeld are not even counts
, nothing more than minor lords. Her father was dedicated to the church and should never have fathered a child. It can’t even be proved that she is legitimate rather than a bastard. It can’t even be proved she has a soul. Without your support, Sanglant, she is nothing more than an excommunicated practitioner of forbidden sorcery. Subject to execution, if the church so desires.”
“With such plain speaking, you can scarcely expect me to withdraw my ‘protection,’” he answered. “I weary of this game.”
“The throne, or the woman.”
“It is a false choice. Why are you so stubborn?”
“Why are you so stubborn?” She was mightily displeased. Her anger made him uneasy, but he would not back down. “You are a fool, Sanglant. It would have been better if Henry had married you to Villam’s heir, as Villam wanted.”
“You were against the match at the time, as I recall.”
“So I was. Then. Villam had already too much power in Henry’s council.”
“Waltharia is unmarried, at this moment. Would you object to her now?”
Scholastica hesitated. Liutgard looked surprised, but Theophanu smiled in that elegant, enigmatic way she had, giving away nothing.
“I would object,” said Liutgard finally.
Scholastica still gave no answer.
“Had you someone in mind?” he asked his aunt.
“An alliance might be sealed,” she said slowly, “with a princess out of Salia or Alba. Even, in these times, with the Polenie, although I account them rather small. A worthy match, bringing with it a worthwhile alliance. Something that will aid us.”
“As Liath did. She saved us. All of us.”
Scholastica’s frown was hard and her tone bitter. “No one knows what she did. Not even you. No one witnessed. She might have done or said anything. You do not know.”
“I know what she told me. I know what happened. I know Anne is dead and her cabal of sorcerers scattered.”
“How do you know that the great tempest was not brought about by that creature’s magic? By her doing? Or with her as accomplice who then murdered her master? You do not know anything, Sanglant. You cannot prove anything. Those who accompanied her are lost. They cannot tell us what they saw. She is a sorcerer. A daimone’s get. Soulless. Dangerous.”