“They have acclaimed as regnant a man who killed his own father,” said Adelheid. “Is that not a terrible thing? Does it not go against God’s own Word? If we on Earth do not love, respect, and obey our own mother and father, how can we then love, respect, and obey the Mother and Father of Life?”
“I see,” murmured Antonia, and she did see. “There is merit in this plan. If they send word that a more worthy contender has been raised to the throne, then I will consider lifting the ban. If they persist in giving their loyalty to a half-breed bastard who murdered his own father, then I cannot.”
“You see,” added Adelheid triumphantly. “There might be more than one reason why Lord Hugh murdered Lady Elene. She is Conrad’s daughter. She had a claim to the throne, just as her father does. One that would have superseded any claim Lord Hugh might have hoped to put forward for Princess Blessing.”
Alexandros listened but said nothing.
“Let us go one step farther,” Antonia added. “All except the Duchy of Wayland will fall under the ban. Conrad may be persuaded to ally with us. He is ambitious. He has other children.”
“Sons?” asked Adelheid, then caught herself and glanced at the general. How fickle she was! She had pledged Mathilda on the one hand yet was already plotting a new alliance on the other.
The general seemed not to hear, or to understand, or else he chose to ignore the question.
Antonia could not. Did Conrad have sons? Might young Mathilda marry into the Wendish royal house, or were she and Conrad’s children too closely related? There was also Berthold, Villam’s child, who might yet serve them. Indeed, now that she thought on it, he and Wolfhere were exactly the right people to serve her in this.
Hugh of Austra was a fool, and a dead fool, just as he deserved, his bones tumbled in the woodland. Never kill the children of noble houses. They were always more use alive than dead.
“So be it,” she said, raising her staff so that the assembly would listen and would hear. There is more than one way to fight a war. There is more than one way to win a battle.
4
TO haul stone you must walk to the quarry, hoping it is close by, and load what weight you can carry into a sling woven of tough fiber, whose burden rests on the band that crosses your forehead. Men wearing nothing except a kirtle that barely covers their loins work at the rock face with pickaxes, wedges, and sledgehammers. The air is heavy with the dust of stone. Everyone is sweating even though the sun remains hidden behind a high veil of clouds.
Secha paused to take a sip of cleansing water and then stacked three stones in her sling, hoisted it, balanced it across her forehead and back, and trudged away on the path that snaked down a hillside to the White Road. Here, she turned west along the broad path, returning to the watchtower. She had one baby caught close to her chest; the other was with Rain, who had set up a temporary workshop with the building crew who were shaping stone for the repair and reconstruction of this watchtower.
All along the White Road, folk were building and repairing the fallen watchtowers. She had been at this work for five days now. It gave her something to do as she adjusted to her new life.
She passed an older man who was returning with an empty sling. He acknowledged her without quite looking her in the eye. Like all of those who had walked in the shadows, he was eager to move on, to stay away from her.
They feared her, because she had worn the feathered cloak. They feared standing close beside her, because she had won the enmity of the blood knives.
There came another thin, old man down the path toward her, and she brightened, seeing him and the pair of young mask warriors who walked a few steps behind him.
“Here you are,” said Eldest Uncle as he turned and fell in beside her, matching her pace. He carried nothing except a skin bloated with liquid.
She greeted the young ones with a nod, and they fell back to let their elders speak privately.
“That’s a new mantle,” she observed.
“A fine gift from my daughter, so I am meant to understand.” He folded back the corners of his hip-length mantle so she could admire the short kirtle tied around his hips.
“New cloth, and new sandals, as well.”
“I am well taken care of,” he said with a chuckle. “It’s like feeding a dog so it doesn’t bark untimely.”
She laughed. The baby stirred, and she halted to let him lift the infant out of the sling and fix it to his own scrawny hip. The baby was awake, eager to look at faces and trees, although the wasteland to the north was too jumbled a sight to interest her infant gaze.
They set out again, settling into a swinging pace.