“Did you mean to leave us?” called Laurent cheerfully. “Can’t get rid of us so easily!”
No one moved, only watched them stride closer, as if they might be possessed by ghouls.
“What happened to you?” demanded the sergeant.
“We got lost, turned around entirely. Figured it was too dangerous to try to get back at night. Likely break a leg! So we bedded down in the woods. Whew! Had one damp spell when the rains came over, and fool Tom got a nettle sting on his left hand, but otherwise we survived without being eaten by wolves or swallowed up by …”
Laurent was a dark-haired lad with a round, rosy face unaltered by their travails. He was younger than Hanna and pleased at having played a practical joke even if he hadn’t meant to, but as he looked around at their faces, his own expression shifted, darkened, and fell, and he shut up.
Tomas saw a corpse. Whitening, he nudged Laurent and pointed. His left hand was, indeed, blistered with the fading red rash of a nettle sting.
“Ai, God!” Laurent exclaimed. “What’s wrong? What have we missed?”
“Move along,” said the sergeant, not answering him. “Move along.”
III
OLD FRIENDS
1
THE king’s progress came after many days to the Oder River and rode south to Walburg, reaching the fortress of the Villams in time to celebrate the Translatus at the holy cathedral begun by Helmut Villam and not yet complete. Here, in the east, his aunt, Biscop Alberada, left him to return to Handelburg in the easternmost marchlands. Here, three days later, Margrave Gerberga declared that it was her intention to take her leave of the progress and, together with her royal husband, ride southeast to her lands of Austra and Olsatia.
“There is trouble abroad,” she said in her matter-of-fact way as Sanglant’s intimate companions reclined at their ease in a large chamber set aside for their use by Margrave Waltharia. “I dare not remain away longer. I fear raids out of the wilderness. Anything might happen.”
The shutters stood open, admitting a cold breeze. By morning, every puddle in the forecourt would be iced over, but within the tower chamber the heat of so many bodies kept them cozy. A carpet insulated them from hard planks. Besides the fire, a half dozen braziers stood on tripods around the room, radiating warmth. Sanglant sat in the chair that had belonged to his father, the regent’s seat with its back carved to resemble a span of wings, its feet ending in a lion’s solid paws, and its dragon-faced arms. It had survived the tempest and firestorm on the shore of the Middle Sea. Each night his servants set it up and each morning, when they set out to ride, took it apart again. It was cunningly made, easy to handle, and impressive to see. But it was uncomfortable to sit in, even with a cushion placed on the seat. He often wondered if Henry had wanted it that way, to remind him of the dangers and difficulties of ruling should he ever begin to relax too much.
The nobles of the realm rested more easily on couches and well-cushioned chairs or on sturdy benches padded with feather pillows. Sitting cross-legged on the carpet, Prince Ekkehard played chess by the fire with Gerberga’s young sister, Theucinda. She was a pleasant enough girl, old enough to marry but young enough to giggle, as she did now when Ekkehard moved his Biscop to a vulnerable position and, too late, realized his mistake.
Theophanu was also playing chess. She sat at the table across from one of the clerics from the schola, but hers was a serious game, all maneuvering done in silence. Her gaze did not once leave the board as her opponent assessed the placement of red and white. Theophanu had left one of her Castles in jeopardy, but Sister Elsebet had lost one of her Eagles and looked ready to lose the second. Neither had the advantage, but either could win in five moves.
Duchess Liutgard was writing a letter with her own hand, supervised by a cleric of her household. Now and again she addressed a comment to Waltharia, who was seated beside her. Waltharia worked steadily with her needle as she embroidered the sleeve of a fine midnight-blue tunic sized, Sanglant noted, to fit a man. Obviously Waltharia was preparing to welcome the husband she expected to replace Lord Druthmar, the one she had asked Sanglant to find for her.
He sighed.
“I did not drop it.”
“You did!”
“No, you misplaced it. It wasn’t my fault, it was yours.”
“You’re always blaming me!”
This from the corner, where Rotrudis’ daughters, Sophie and Imma, sat and whispered. Despite hating each other, they were rarely apart. Their brother Wichman snored on a couch, an empty cup just about to slide out of his right hand.
