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“I thought Helmut Villam was margrave here,” muttered Zacharias.
The comment earned him a cutting look from old Hedwig.
Wolfhere hastened to explain. “Lady Waltharia is margrave in all but name.”
“Her father isn’t dead yet! He looked damned lively to me when I had the misfortune to be brought to his attention!”
Heribert shrugged. “The secrets of King Henry’s inner court are hidden to me. I am only a lowly cleric from the schola at Mainni.”
Wolfhere grunted, half amused by the elegant cleric’s protestation. “Why do you think old Villam rides in attendance to the king? He and his daughter respect each other, but they don’t get along. She’s competent to rule the marchlands, and he can’t live forever. He stays out of her way. It’s a form of retirement, since he hasn’t the temperament to abide the monastery. And better—” He glanced at Hedwig. When their gazes met, it was like blows being exchanged. “Better for all concerned than rebellion. It’s been known before for a restless adult to rebel against a parent when no independence is forthcoming. Villam is a wise man, and he did better than most to raise an heir as wise as he.”
“That you respect her as she deserves is the only good thing I have to say about you,” observed Hedwig.
“So be it.” Wolfhere raised a hand, as if in submission. “Let us not scrape old wounds raw, I beg you.”
“Don’t fight!” commanded Blessing, fists set on hips as she glared at them. She had such a fierce way of screwing up her face that it was—almost—impossible to laugh at her. In another year, it wouldn’t be funny anymore.
“As you wish, Your Highness,” said Hedwig without expression. “If you will allow me to escort you.”
Anna admired Hedwig for the steady way she took the stairs, even though every step seemed to hurt her. The stairway twisted down, curving to match the tower. She’d never seen a tower so big built all of stone before except for the cathedral tower in Gent, and it had been square. This one was cold and dreary and dark, but once they reached the base they passed through an archway girded with a double set of doors, each one reinforced by an iron bar, and out into a sizable courtyard where soldiers swarmed. Anna smelled blood and excitement like perfume, the heady scent of a victory won. A great pile of wooden wings lay in a heap to one side. Feathers drifted in the air like a fine chaff of snow. Prince Sanglant stood by one of the troughs. He’d stripped down to almost nothing and now sluiced water over his bare chest and arms, washing away blood.
Blessing drew in air for a shriek of delight, glanced at Hedwig, and abruptly thought better of it. Instead, she yanked and yanked at Anna to get her to move faster as she trotted through the crowd. Soldiers gave way before her, calling out her name, as she made straight for her father.
As they came up behind him, he spoke without turning around. “Nay, little one, I’m in no mood for sport.”
Sometimes, like now, the prince seemed consumed by a passion for washing that put Heribert’s fussy ways to shame. Anna had never seen a person scrub as hard as he might do when he got in one of those moods. But she remembered the way he’d looked when he’d been chained in Gent’s cathedral, two years ago. Maybe he could never scrape all that grime and filth away, or at least not in his heart.
Lady Waltharia’s soldiers spoke together in low voices, watching the prince as he bathed.
“Nay, I’d not have believed it. I swear those Quman would have run from him even if he’d been alone.”
“I’ve never seen a man fight so bravely.”
“I heard he went mad when his banner bearer went down.”
Lower still: “Is it true he can never be king?”
A sudden arc of noise ended in silence as Lady Waltharia entered the courtyard with a broad-shouldered lord in attendance. He was still armed, cheeks as flushed as though he’d been running. Drying blood streaked his blond hair, cut short to frame a square face. Waltharia had already shed her mail but the padded coat she wore showed stains of sweat around the collar and under the arms, and tiny discolored rings where her mail had pressed into the cloth.
At once, the soldiers broke into cheers.
She lifted a hand to call for silence. “Let Prince Sanglant be honored. If he had not struck, we would still lie under siege.”
As the soldiers hurrahed and shouted, Matto ran up with Sanglant’s feasting tunic. He pulled it on over his damp hair, a fine wool tunic dyed a mellow orange, embroidered with yellow and white dragons stretching like snakes along the hem and at the sleeves. He did not ask for quiet but got it anyway as he finished belting the tunic at his hips.
“Don’t rejoice too much.” Though he did not seem to shout, his hoarse voice carried easily over the throng. “Drink your fill tonight, but remember that we have more battles to fight. This was only a small portion of the Quman army. Their leader isn’t dead yet, nor are they running east like whipped dogs. As they will.”
The soldiers liked such words. They shouted his name, and then that of their lady and her husband, Lord Druthmar. The celebration carried them into the great hall. Prince Sanglant hoisted his daughter onto his shoulders where she shrieked and shouted with the best of them, her high voice lifting above the clamor. Anna thought she herself would be overwhelmed and trampled, but Matto and Captain Fulk closed in behind her, protecting her in a pocket of space behind the prince so she wouldn’t be crushed. The months hadn’t been as kind to her as they’d been to Matto, who had grown a hand in height and filled out through the chest. Although she never got bitterly hungry, she’d gotten lean. All the fat she’d earned in Mistress Suzanne’s compound had melted away under the rigors of riding to campaign. Caught up in the rush of rough and ready soldiers, she felt like a stick thrown into a stream swollen with the spring flood.
It was hard to hear anything at the feast over the constant singing and toasts, the dull roar of a satisfied and triumphant assembly. Anna stood in attendance on Blessing, as always. At intervals, she nibbled at the delicacies heaped up on Blessing’s platter as course after course rolled through: roasted goose with parsley and bread stuffing; a meat stew strewn with rose petals and sweetened with cherry preserves; oyster loaves; breads sprinkled with caraway and fennel; beef broth cooked with dill and leeks; a potage of ground hazelnuts, flour, and elderflowers; and honey dumplings again.
The victorious soldiers drank heavily. Lady Waltharia herself poured Prince Sanglant’s wine through a gold sieve spoon that she had gotten, so she said, as part of her inheritance from her dead mother, who had been Villam’s third and favorite wife.
Lord Druthmar seemed a steady sort of man, open, honest, good-hearted, and not one bit chafed by his wife’s authority. “We’ve heard reports that Bulkezu has captured Prince Ekkehard.”
“Has Bulkezu asked for ransom?” Sanglant chased off a greyhound that was trying to lick grease off the linen cloth laid over the prince’s knees. “Or do you think he’ll kill him?”
Lady Waltharia sat down between the two men. Anna moved quickly to stop Blessing from feeding a choice morsel of meat to the rejected greyhound.
