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“Of course!” said Sapientia, always wishing to appear magnanimous, and disposition was made.
“Here, Eagle,” he continued casually, “there is a place here.” Hugh indicated an open space on the floor beside his bed.
She dared not object. She wrapped herself tightly in her cloak and lay down. Soon the torches were extinguished and in blackness she lay, catching now and again the wink of a gold buckle where belts or ornaments had been hung from the bed frames to wait until morning. She could not sleep, not even after the restless settling down of the twelve or fourteen people in the room had ceased and most every breath gentled into soft snoring or the long cadences of sleep. His presence and the faint murmur of his voice in a prayerlike monotone wore on her as painfully as if she lay on a thousand prickling needles. Her chest felt tight, but she could not resist peeking up at him. The shadow that was his form sat upright in bed, curved over his hands—and threads gleamed between his fingers. He seemed to be weaving.
As if he sensed her scrutiny, he moved, hiding his hands. “Your Highness,” he whispered. “You are not yet asleep.”
Sapientia yawned. “There are so many things that trouble my mind, my love. Whom shall I marry? Why can it not be you?”
“You know that is impossible, though it is my fondest wish. Were I not illegitimate—”
“Not in my heart!”
“Hush. Do not wake the others.”
“What do I care if they hear me? They know my heart as well as you do, and so shall all the court, even my husband, whatever poor sorry fool he may be. I love you more than anyone—”
“Your Highness.” He broke in gently. “It is your fate as Heir to marry, and mine as bastard and churchman to remain unwed. What God has granted us, we must endure gladly. You shall find affection and good will toward your husband in time—”
“Never!”
“—for it is the will of Our Lady and Lord that woman cleave to man, and man to woman, all but those who cleave instead to God and turn away from the vanities and temptations and empty pleasures of the world.”
“Is that all I am to you—!”
“Your Highness. I pray you, speak no harsh word to me, for I could not bear it. Now, what else troubles you?”
Liath dared not move, though a stone pinched her thigh. All the others breathed the even breaths of sweet dreaming.
“Theophanu.”
“You need not fear Theophanu.”
“That is all very well for you to say, but—”
“Your Highness. You need not fear Theophanu.”
Something in his tone made Liath shiver, and as if the slight shift of her wool cloak on the hard stone floor alerted the princess, her voice changed.
“Are you sure all of them sleep?” she hissed.
“No one can hear us whom you need fear, Your Highness.” He shifted on the bed, and Liath heard the muffled sighing sound of two people kissing passionately.
“Ah,” gasped Sapientia at last, “how I long for the day when I am rid of this burden—live and healthy, God grant—so that we may again—”
“Hush.” He moved away from her and again, hidden from all but Liath, began to wind the gleaming threads, as faint as spider’s silk, between his fingers. “Sleep now, Your Highness.”
Her breathing gentled and slowed, and she slept. Liath lay as still as stone, but he shifted on the bed, rolling back until he lay above her as a boulder poised on the edge of a cliff shades the delicate plants beneath in its shadow. She held her breath.
“I know you are not asleep, Liath. Have you forgotten that I had many nights to study you, where you lay beside me, to study your face in repose, or when you were only pretending to sleep? I know when you sleep, and when you do not. And you are not sleeping now, my beauty. All the others sleep, but not you. And not me.”
He could only speak in this way if he was sure everyone else slept, and how could he know that? Or perhaps he did not care. Why should he? He was the abbot of a large institution, the son of a powerful margrave, an educated churchman out of the king’s schola. She was nothing compared to that, a King’s Eagle, a kinless fugitive whose parents had both been murdered.
“Tell me, Liath,” he continued in that same soft, persuasive, beautiful voice, “why do you torment me so? It is wrong of you to do so. I cannot understand what power lies in you that eats at me so constantly. You must be doing it on purpose, you must have some scheme, some end, in mind. What is it? Is it this?”
He shifted. She would have screamed, but she could not, she could only lie in mute dread, and then his fingers brushed her cheek, probing for her lips, explored them softly before tracing down over her chin to her vulnerable throat. Bile rose, burning her tongue.
“Come up here,” he whispered, fingers drawing a pattern on her throat.
