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The Eagle was Hathui, the young woman Henry had honored by taking her into his personal retinue. She handed off her horse to a groom and walked forward to kneel before Theophanu.
“Your Highness, Princess Theophanu,” she said, lifting her eyes to look upon Theophanu’s face. She had the rare ability to be proud without being impudent. “King Henry sends word that his sister Sabella refuses any terms of parley, and that battle will be joined.”
“What of the course of that battle?” asked Theophanu.
“I do not know. I rode quickly, and without looking back, as is my duty.”
“Bring her mead,” said Theophanu. She stared off across the town. Kassel was laid out as a square with two broad avenues set perpendicular to each other, dividing it into four even quarters. An old wall surrounded it, the last obvious remains besides the baths that this had once been a Dariyan town in the days of the old empire. The town had probably been larger then, and certainly more densely populated. There was room now within the old walls for a few fields—mostly vegetables and one impressive stand of fruit trees as well as some common pasture for cows—between the last line of houses and the town gates. Outside the wall lay fields, rye and barley because of the soil of this country, the red clay of the highlands.
Where had all those people gone, and what had become of their descendants? Had they fled back to Aosta, to the city of Darre out of which the empire had grown? Had they died in the wars and plagues and famines that had devastated and ultimately destroyed the old empire? Had they simply vanished and never returned, like poor Berthold?
Rosvita could not help but wonder. “Knowledge tempted me too much,” Brother Fidelis had said. At times like this, she knew she also was too curious. Henry might be dead and all he had worked for overthrown. Or he might have committed the terrible crime of slaying his own kin, the very crime that—some chroniclers wrote—had brought about the fall of the Dariyan Empire. And here she stood, wondering about the history of the town of Kassel when the peace and stability of the kingdom was at stake!
“Come,” she said to Theophanu, “let us sit down again and wait.”
Theophanu, barely, shook her head. “It is time to saddle our horses,” she said quietly. “And to gather together healers. Either we will ride to the battle to give aid to the wounded, or we will ride away.”
“Away?”
Theophanu turned now, her dark lashes framing eyes as startlingly large as those of queens in ancient mosaics. She looked entirely too composed. “If Sabella wins, then Ekkehard and I must remain out of her hands at any cost. We must be prepared to ride to my Aunt Scholastica at Quedlinhame.”
Rosvita placed a hand on her chest and bowed slightly, showing her respect for the young princess. Of course Theophanu was right. She had learned politics at her mother’s knee, and her mother Sophia had learned politics in the court of Arethousa, where intrigue ran in webs as convoluted and dangerous as those in any court in the world of humankind.
This, then, was the choice Henry had to make, because it was long past time for him to send one of his daughters on her heir’s progress. He had to choose between Sapientia, the daughter who was bold and open and yet too often did not show good judgment, and the cool, inscrutable Theophanu, who had fine political instincts but none of that vital charismatic charm that marked a sovereign as the chosen of God. One was too trusting; the other, no one trusted. No wonder Henry dreamed of placing his bastard son Sanglant on the throne.
2
FROM frater to deacon.
“Get me a horse!”
The woman who made this demand of Hanna had the imperious tone of a noblewoman though she wore simple deacon’s robes and her braided hair had not even a shawl to cover it. But there was nothing Hanna could do. She had no horse, having lost it to the desperate frater.
“Begging your pardon, Deacon,” she said, hefting her spear just in case the woman meant to attempt an escape while Princess Sapientia’s soldiers fought off the new attack, “but all who are in this train are now in the custody of King Henry.”
To her surprise, the deacon laughed. “Of course, child. Do you not know me?”
Hanna could only shake her head while she stared into the woods, hoping to catch sight of the princess’ troops. A few soldiers lingered. Most of the people in the supply train were down, wounded or dead, or else they milled around aimlessly with that lost look on their faces of men and women totally out of their element. Some ten paces behind the deacon lay two guards in Sabella’s colors; both were dead. About five wagons beyond their bodies, Hanna suddenly saw a woman in biscop’s vestments being helped onto a wagon.
“Ai, Lady!” she breathed. “That is Biscop Antonia.” “She must not escape,” said the deacon in a hard voice. “Find me a horse, or find my niece and bring her back from the woods.”
My niece. Hanna had a horrible thought. She risked a close look at the woman’s face and decided it could be true, that the resemblance could be marked in the cast of the woman’s features, in her nose and jawline and piercing gaze.
She bent to one knee, swiftly, and bowed her head. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” she said quickly.
“Never mind that!” snapped the woman. “I do not want Antonia to get away. And I have no weapon that can stop her.”
Hanna obeyed her. She ran toward the woods, sure that she would get run through at any moment. But Sapientia’s troops came riding back, flanked by the red dragon soldiers of Saony. The other troop of soldiers, Lavastine’s skirmishers, had evidently retreated. Hanna hailed her, and the princess pulled up at once.
“Your aunt, Biscop Constance, waits for your protection,” Hanna cried, grabbing hold of the reins as Sapientia’s horse shied away. Hanna knew horses well enough to see that this one had, besides a nervous disposition, a heavy-handed rider, and far too much excitement to cope with. “She begs of you to stop Biscop Antonia from making her escape.”
Sapientia’s expressive face lit up. “Captain!” she cried, “you must find and protect Constance. Follow, you who are with me!” She urged her mount forward so quickly she tore the reins out of Hanna’s hands. Perhaps thirty of her troops went with her; the rest hung back, confused or waiting for confirmation of this order from the old captain. He muttered something under his breath, then raised his voice so all the soldiers could hear him.
“You ten, you return to the wagons and protect Biscop Constance. We have more than enough soldiers here. The rest, and you soldiers from Saony, will return with me to the field where Henry fights.” They began to form up. He looked down at Hanna. “Eagle! You remain with Biscop Constance.”
She nodded, happy at this moment to be subject to an authority that knew what it was doing. They rode back toward the battle, whose outcome none of them knew.
So it was that, despite everything and despite several flurries of disorder caused by Sapientia’s enthusiasm, Biscop Antonia was taken prisoner together with her host of clerics. Duke Berengar was found, huddling underneath a wagon with only one loyal servingman at his side; he was so frightened he had pissed in his leggings. Hanna actually felt sorry for him when he was brought before a stern Biscop Constance, who, having taken command of Sapientia’s forty soldiers, now controlled the supply train. But Constance showed him— not pity, but indifference. Hanna quickly understood why: she had seen that slack-jawed gaping and sudden bursts of inappropriate laughter before. Berengar was a simpleton, and therefore a simple pawn—a mere Lion in the game of chess. He did not matter.
