“Silence!” demanded Mother Scholastica, turning red.
“Who are you?”
“I am Berthold. The son of Helmut Villain, his youngest child.”
“Berthold of Villam is lost. Dead.”
“I am found. Living. And I am not done speaking! This I have also to report. Blessing, the daughter of Sanglant, lives. She lived also as a prisoner in Novomo for many months, as did I and my companions. She was stolen away by Hugh of Austra, who that same day murdered Elene of Wayland.” His voice trembled, but he reined himself in.
“I will not tolerate this disrespect—” began Scholastica.
Conrad rose, and with a curt gesture signaled silence. Although he spoke in a measured tone, his anger had the force of a shout. “Where is the Eagle, Wolfhere? He knows the full tale, and I would like to hear it all now.”
“I don’t know where he is. I lost track of him after the end of the battle. But as for the manner of Elene’s death, there’s nothing he can tell you that I cannot answer, for I was there.” He choked. Brusquely, he wiped away tears. “That is not all, although to my mind it was the worst. There’s this also: Queen Adelheid of Aosta has allied herself with the Arethousan general, Lord Alexandros. He fled a civil war in Arethousa, and now he is married to Aosta’s queen. I heard also tales that the city of Arethousa was entirely destroyed in the tempest last autumn. Just as Darre was.” He paused, so full of adrenaline that he was panting, flushed, and sweating.
“Is that all?” Conrad asked. Then shook his head, with a kind of grunting laugh that a man might make when he is mired in sorrow but caught nevertheless by life’s irony. “To think of Villam’s son making this strange journey. Ai, God, my poor Elene.”
In answer, Berthold sat down and clasped his hands tightly in his lap.
Scholastica nodded at Conrad, and he smiled mockingly at her, but he sat down.
“So are we answered,” she said. “Henry’s obsession has been overthrown. Aosta and Arethousa have suffered God’s wrath. Yet so have we.” She glanced at the Eika lord—the first time by look that she had acknowledged his presence—but did not meet his inquisitive gaze.
The Eika lord listened and watched with a fierce and intelligent concentration that made Rosvita nervous. Despite the trappings—the primitive standard, the gaudy lacework that girdled his hips and thighs, the jewels drilled into his teeth, and the bare chest painted in spirals and cross-hatches—he was not what he seemed. He might appear savage, but far more dangerous currents surged within.
“It is time to acclaim a proper regnant. One who will heal the land, not divide it. So my father Arnulf, of blessed memory, said to me before he died. Better, he said, that if Henry’s obsession overtakes all, and my wishes are not followed, the line of Conrad rule rather than half-breeds.”
“That would be acceptable to me,” said Conrad mildly. “And to my heirs, all descended as I am from the first Henry. The blood of my daughter Berengaria flows also with Arnulf’s blood, through her mother, Tallia of Varre.”
So it came. The mask cracked. Theophanu rose in clear and blushing fury, a fine figure of anger who in that moment resembled her father in his famous wrath.
“It would not be acceptable to me. I love Conrad as my cousin, you may be sure. But in the absence of Sanglant and my elder sister Sapientia, I am Henry’s rightful heir. I have waited too long. I have been shunted aside too many times. I will not sit quietly and see what is rightfully mine pass to my distant kin.”
Such a hush might only be found during the Mass for the remembered dead, when the host of mourners and worshipers reflects upon their own sins. The peace endured a long time, broken at last by Mother Scholastica as she unclenched hands. Rosvita had not seen her curl them into fists, but the rigid line of her figure betrayed the tight control and bitter anger with which she regarded Theophanu.
“Beware Arethousans bearing gifts. You are too much your mother’s daughter. None love you.”
Theophanu lifted her chin to meet the blow. “Maybe so. But her lineage was of the highest order, a daughter of the empire. It was Arnulf himself who brought her to this country to marry his son.”
Wichman stirred, barking out a coarse laugh. “A strange objection, Aunt, since Conrad was also born of a foreign bitch.”
With a roar, Conrad jumped up, oversetting his chair, but when he whirled with an arm raised to clout Wichman, he caught himself.
Wichman chortled, then began again coughing up that pinkish spume.
“Carry him out of here,” said Conrad with disgust. “He’s sorely wounded.”
