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“The old poet. But I oughtn’t to complain of him, I suppose. It’s a miracle and a mercy he survived Gent.”
The niece eyed the young Eagle with regret and hesitation before, at last, she spoke. “You were there at the end.”
The Eagle got a still, sudden look on her face, like the Eika statues, like the niece when she had been handed to Wichman as his prize. “So I was, alas. The prince died bravely.”
“Of course,” replied the niece. She bit at her lip, then reached out to touch the delicate embroidery that trimmed the cloak.
“It’s excellent work,” said the Eagle. “Things have changed, here at Steleshame.”
“So they have.” The niece looked first one way, then the other and, seeing only the three children within earshot, leaned forward. “Ai, Lady. If you know of a way that I can attach myself to the army and march with them, out of here—” She broke off, leaving the rest of the question unasked.
The Eagle raised an eyebrow, astonished at this request. “Count Lavastine has allowed no camp followers, no stragglers, nothing that could impede the progress of the march or that might make him vulnerable when we come to meet the Eika on the field.”
“I can shoot a bow, wash clothes, cook for twenty men, repair torn cloth—”
“What is it?”
The blunt question shocked the niece into silence. Then tears flooded her eyes and coursed down her cheeks. “My aunt has given me to Lord Wichman, to do with as he wills,” she said on a hoarse whisper. “Eagle, I beg you, free me from this if you can!”
The Eagle stood as if she had been struck dumb, but in a moment she shook herself free of her paralysis.
“I will see you free of him before we leave on the morrow.”
The niece sagged forward, resting a hand on her abdomen. “Ai, Lord, I carry his child. What will become of it?”
“Fear not,” said the Eagle sternly. She set a hand over the other woman’s, her fingers clasped over the niece’s faded skirts. “I will speak with Lord Alain. If you wish, the child will be promised to the church. I am sure Lord Wichman’s mother will give a dowry for it, knowing it is of her son’s begetting.”
“It would be a great honor,” murmured the niece, but her shoulders remained bowed although she untangled her hand from that of the Eagle. “And a better future for the child than what I can give it or can expect for myself. Ai, Lady. What’s to become of me?”
“He made no gift to you?”
“A morning gift, do you mean. If we are not to be wed, then why would he gift me with anything?”
“A noble lord or lady might well gift a concubine with some mark of their favor, isn’t that so?”
“Their attentions are not mark enough?” The niece laughed harshly, bending as at a sudden pain in her side. “Nay, friend Eagle, I was the gift—to him. A nobleman of his kind would only gift his bride in that way, celebrating the consummation of the marriage. Not even the prince made such a gift to me—” Here she faltered and could not for a moment go on.
The Eagle shut her eyes.
“But kindness and a sweet temper are their own gifts,” finished the niece softly. Then Mistress Gisela’s voice could be heard, shouting her niece’s name from the crowded hall. “I thank you,” she added, her voice heavy with tears. She hastened back into the hall.
The Eagle leaned back against the wall, eyes still shut. Dusk had fallen and, seeing her half caught in that attitude, a shape pressed against the wall that was more shadow than woman, Anna could imagine the Eagle as much a part of the wall as the wood itself. Then, suddenly, the young woman stirred, came to life, and pushed away. She squared her shoulders under the cloak, took in a breath, and pressed back into the crowd, who parted to let her through into the packed hall.
At first she thought they were alone in the pavilion, and in that instant a sudden wave compounded more of adrenaline than fear washed through her. What did he want of her? It was very late. The feast had just ended.
The hounds ranged around his chair growled and slunk back to keep their distance from her, and she saw how he raised his eyebrows, surprised at their behavior. Then his captain stepped out from the shadows to attend his lord.
“My lord count,” she said. “I have come, as your steward directed me.” Still rumpled from being woken out of sleep! She did not add that thought, knowing he would judge it as impertinence. He did not tolerate impertinence.
“Sit, Terror,” he said. The old hound, a handsome creature despite its fearsome size and disposition, sat obediently. He called the others to order as well, firmly but without cruelty or roughness. From his tone she could tell he regarded them not with the loving care one bestows on a beloved child but with the absolute unthinking consideration one has for one’s own limbs.
Two lanterns illuminated the tent, just enough for her to see a wide pallet in one corner of the tent, draped with a gauzy veil, a camp table with pitcher and basin atop it, and his mail shirt glittering faintly where it draped from a wooden post and cross post in another corner. A servant hustled in through the entryway, bearing a candle that flashed and flamed in her eyes. The count lifted a hand and at once the servant licked two fingers and pressed them to the wick, dousing the flame. The servant took up the pitcher and retreated outside.
The count looked up at her then. His expression disconcerted her. She had come to recognize that look in a man’s eyes, the one that betrayed his interest in her as a woman, but it flashed and faded as quickly as the candle had been extinguished. This was not a man who acted upon impulse, or who let his desires or obsessions get the better of him. She had never met anyone quite like him. Had Da had such qualities, perhaps they could have stayed in Qurtubah instead of being forced to flee because of his folly; perhaps his temper would not have gotten them into so much trouble in Autun that they had been driven out; perhaps he could have covered his tracks better, seen the assassin coming, and saved himself—and her—in Heart’s Rest.
At once she felt miserable for thinking such traitorous thoughts toward Da. Da was who he was. He had done the best he could. He had protected her for as long as he was able.
And if all had not happened as Lord Fate and Lady Fortune and God Themselves willed, then she would never have met Prince Sanglant—however brief that time had been.
