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“I pray you, Brother Zacharias,” said the prince, turning to address him across the length of two tables, “if you can recite the hymn to St. Herodia, then do so. You know it perfectly, do you not?”
Zacharias rose, handing the wine cup to Heribert. “I can recite it, Your Highness, if it pleases you.”
“It would please me greatly.” Sanglant left the high table and came to sit beside Heribert, throwing himself into Zacharias’ seat and gulping down what was left of the wine in his cup, leaving only dregs. “Ai, God,” he said in a low voice, “I have no more patience for that pup’s tail wagging nor for that truckler who claims to be a poet.” He looked around desperately, lifting his cup, and the handsome servingwoman rushed forward to fill it, pouring the wine through a silver sieve that filtered out most of the dregs. Sanglant stared at her frankly, and she did not lower her eyes, so that this time it was the prince who looked away first, coloring somewhat, although a blush was hard to see against his bronze complexion. Lord Hrodik called to her sharply, and she hurried away to attend to him.
“Ai, Lord,” muttered the prince. “I am not fit to be a monk.”
“Our lord prince needs distraction,” murmured Heribert to Zacharias.
When young, Zacharias had devised a way of memorizing the hymns and verses he loved so much by thinking of them as beasts tied up in a stable, each one in a separate stall and each stall marked by a bird or plant to remind him of its first unique word or phrase, something to launch him into the words. Walking down that stall in his mind’s eye, he found a figure of a vulture, known as the prophet among birds, carrying a stalk of barley, called hordeum in Dariyan and sharing enough sounds with “Herodia” that it was easy to recall the second out of the first. It took him as much time as it took the prince to drain another cup of wine to gather the first words onto his tongue.
“Let us praise the first prophet, called Herodia,
Who walked among the streets and temples of Jeshuvi
And did not turn her eye away from mortal weakness,
Nor did she fear to speak harshly to those who
transgressed God’s law.”
Once he had begun, the words flowed freely, one linking itself to the next in an unbroken chain. It was the genius, so his grandmother had said, that the gods had granted to him. The frater who had brought the word of the Unities to their frontier village had praised him, telling him that he had been named well, for truly the angel of memory, Zachriel, had visited a holy gift upon him.
“So let the holy St. Herodia speak her blessings upon Us all,
For her word is the word of truth.”
As he finished, he heard the prince mutter an exclamation just as Lord Hrodik jumped to his feet.
“Look here, cousin!” cried the young lord as a dozen townsfolk entered the hall, looking nervously about themselves. Unfortunately, the young woman standing at the head of the party with the scarf signifying her status as a respectable householder tied over her hair was even prettier than the servingwoman. Sanglant rose with cup in hand and his familiar, captivating smile on his face.
“Come, Mistress Suzanne,” exclaimed Hrodik impatiently as she and her kinfolk hesitated. “I have called you to attend me here in order to honor you, not to eat you.” He giggled at his own joke. Certain of his attendants made laughing noises as well, glancing over at the prince to see if he found the comment as funny as Hrodik did. But the prince had not taken his gaze from Mistress Suzanne’s person since she’d entered the hall. Hrodik made a great show of leaving his place at the high table and moving out to the center of the hall, his feet half smothered in rushes, where he must become the center of attention simply by virtue of his position.
“You must not fear to stand before Prince Sanglant, for truly he is a noble prince and no harm will come to you. Come forward, for I mean to show Prince Sanglant what help we can be to him, here in Gent. His soldiers aren’t properly outfitted for this winter weather. I mean to convince him to abide a while here while we provide him with such cloaks and armor as is fitting to his magnificence.” He almost fell over himself with eagerness as he beckoned to the pretty servingwoman, who appeared at a side door. “Come, now, Frederun. Do you now bring forward those gifts which I mean to present to the prince, so that he may later boast of the fine hospitality he met in my hall!”
Sanglant still hadn’t taken his gaze from Mistress Suzanne, but she had not looked at him at all, except for one shuttered glance. The man beside her kept his hand on her arm.
“Well,” Heribert murmured as Zacharias sidled over to stand behind his chair, “there’s one who’s as handsome as Liath.”
Sanglant glanced down at Heribert with a sharp smile composed more of irritation than amusement. “I am not my father, Heribert.”
“Nay,” agreed Heribert companionably, “for King Henry was famous for never walking down the path of debauchery, even after his wife died.”
“How can sinless congress, when a woman and a man of their own free will join together for mutual pleasure, be counted debauchery? The Lord and Lady conceived the Holy Word between them, Brother, is that not so? Is not the universe and Earth their creation, brought about by desire?”
“By joining together in lawful congress.”
Sanglant laughed, and every soul in the hall turned to look at him. “Truly, Heribert, it does me no good to dispute church doctrine with you.” He sat down abruptly and lowered his voice. “But I swear to you, friend, 1 do not think I can remain virtuous much longer.”
Lord Hrodik bustled forward to meet the servant Frederun, who held a fine scarlet cloak in her arms. Behind her, a young servingman carried an object draped with a sheet of linen. Hrodik grabbed the cloak out of her arms and shook it free to well-deserved exclamations of delight and amazement from the feasting crowd. The cloak was masterfully woven out of thread dyed a rich scarlet hue and trimmed by an accomplished hand with an embroidered edge of golden dragons twined each about the next.
“This is the work of Mistress Suzanne, whom I bring to your attention, Your Highness. Let me present it to you as a gift, for truly it is worthy of your eminence.” Hrodik had gotten quite breathless with excitement as he draped the cloak over Sanglant’s arms. His thin, pimply face shone with pride as he beckoned the young weaver forward, although she came reluctantly.
“Fine work, truly,” said the prince in a tone that suggested that he praised the woman as much as the cloak. She still did not look at him.
“How many cloaks do you need for your soldiers?” demanded Hrodik. “Truly, you have full sixty soldiers in your retinue.”
“Seventy-one,” said Sanglant.
