“My God. Can this truly be my offspring lying here on the floor like the lowest sniveling beggar? The years have not improved her.” She turned to regard her brother with a sudden half smile. “Well, Henry, I hear my stepmother is dead, and I’m sorry for it, for she never treated me ill even if she did push her own children forward to take what was rightfully mine. You look tired, Brother. I hear we are to feast together tonight.” Tallia had broken out into fresh screams, as if she were being knifed to death. She rolled herself so hard against Henry’s legs that he almost fell over. “Oh, God,” continued Sabella, signing to the nearest of her servants. “Can we not be rid of this wailing?”
The mask of stone had concealed Henry’s true face again. He said nothing, moved not at all, as certain brawny and unexpectedly attractive young men among Sabella’s retinue hurried forward and pried Tallia off her uncle before carrying her, still sobbing and writhing, away.
“Let us pray,” said Henry in the silence that followed, “that my blessed mother may rest in the peace she deserves, and that we may all be reconciled as God—and she—would wish.”
Biscop Constance bowed her head and lifted her hands as in prayer. “For it was sung in the city of Queen Salomae the Wise, ‘let there be peace among sisters and brothers.’” She looked at Henry in a way that suggested to Hanna that she and her brother had had a long conversation about this meeting. “Come.” She opened a hand to indicate that they should move forward. “Let us pray.”
It was Luciasmass, the first day of summer, and therefore a feast was laid out in the biscop’s hall. Hanna had almost become accustomed to the splendor of royal feasts, but even so, Biscop Constance’s table had the grandeur and sumptuousness of a feast set out in heaven. White linens swathed the tables, and at every place lay a folded knee covering—a table napkin embroidered with grapevines in green and purple. No person there did not sit on a cushioned bench, or eat off platters of gold or silver or brass, according to her station, that had been polished to such a high gloss that they could also have served as mirrors. Noble girls poured wine for the king and his royal siblings through delicate sieve spoons. A swan, decorated with its own feathers, was brought forward on a gold plate so heavy that it took two men to carry it. Haunches of beef still steaming from the spit were carried to the lower tables, and outside the hall chicken and pork were served to those who could not enter. On midsummer’s long afternoon they had no need of candles to light their merrymaking, but fully three harpists traded songs or joined together, not that their music could often be heard above the noise of the feasters or the throngs of petitioners who were led forward at intervals to entreat the king.
Hanna waited behind the king’s chair with Hathui and in this way was able to gain a bite of the coveted swan, dark meat swimming in a sauce so pungent that she had to shut her eyes as she savored it. The flavor was so overwhelming that she didn’t hear him come in among the newest crowd of arrivals, only heard the king make a terse comment, and then his familiar, grave voice, a man never afraid to speak before the regnant.
“I left Princess Theophanu in Aosta, Your Majesty. She was then whole and healthy, and she had arrived safely with most of her retinue intact after a tremendously difficult journey through the mountains. But as I reported to her myself, Queen Adelheid at that time lay under siege in the city of Vennaci. An Aostan warlord calling himself Lord John Ironhead has been determined to wed her since the news of her young husband’s death.”
It was indeed Wolfhere, as hale and hearty as ever if that were possible. He saw her standing beside Hathui, and Hanna could have sworn he winked. She was always surprised by how pleased she was to see him.
Henry grunted irritably before he took a sip of wine. “You know nothing more?” He swirled the dregs, staring into the cup like a conjureman of the old religion who could read fortunes from such leavings. “Damned stubborn child,” he muttered so softly that only his attendant Eagles and, perhaps, his sister Constance could hear him. “If he had obeyed me and gone—” But he trailed off, then held out his cup so that it could be refilled.
Sabella, at his left, regarded the Eagle who knelt before Henry with a quizzical eye, rather like a woman who wonders if the dancing bear can also talk. “I’ve heard news of this Ironhead from one of my clerics, who was educated in Aosta,” she said. “It’s rumored he murdered his nobly-born half brother and married the widow. But if he’s pursuing Queen Adelheid, the woman must be dead. Or retired to the convent.”
