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“Nor your own damned Ungrian conceit.”
“Henry accepted Ungria’s offer, not Salia’s. Thus did he choose a consort for to marry his eldest legitimate child.”
The night air had finally cleared the cobwebs from his mind. He halted, tipping back his head to watch as clouds swirled over the face of the moon, hiding it again. “I never had a child before,” he said softly.
“Now do you understand me?” Bayan stood beside him, also watching the moon as it slipped free of the cloud cover, a trembling light drifting hazily behind misty streamers of night haze. “A child of my blood will ascend to the throne of Wendar and Varre. Beware what words you teach your small daughter, Prince Sanglant. The great Emperor Taillefer has been dead for a long time. His power fled with him to the grave. But few, I think, forget the noble feast he presided over. Be cautious, I pray you, in parading a child who has learned to say those sweet-smelling words, ‘I am the heir of Emperor Taillefer.’ The wolves are always hungry.”
3
POOR Lord Manegold, vain and shallow, had to carry Bulkezu’s standard when they rode down from their position on the ridgetop to the parley. He looked like he’d rather be dead, no matter how many encouraging words Ekkehard muttered privately to him before the prince was escorted away to wait nervously with an honor guard close around him, just to make sure he didn’t attempt to escape.
The negotiations for the parley had taken an excruciating day conducted first through scouts, then through emissaries sent from camp to fort and back again with various demands, offers, and compromises.
Bulkezu went in full battle array, wings gleaming in the steady summer sunlight. He descended from the ridge with one hundred picked riders at his back, Lord Manegold at the front holding up his standard, and Hanna beside him, her hands bound to make it clear she was his prisoner. Boso had dressed himself in the richest clothing he could scavenge, and he looked as ridiculous as a dog fitted out in a lord’s cloak and jewels, trotting along at his master’s heels.
Midway between the ridgeline and the outer palisade of the fort stood a large pavilion, sides raised up like wings to let the breeze through, the neutral ground on which both parties would meet. A force of one hundred mounted men waited beyond the pavilion.
Princess Theophanu had already arrived. Her face was as expressive as the blank mask-visor on Bulkezu’s helmet. Only the crease of her mouth held a gleam of emotion, difficult to interpret, as they approached over the grass and crossed into the shade afforded by the raised wings of the tent.
The princess had Henry’s cunning. Seated in a chair almost as elaborately carved as her father’s traveling throne, she allowed Bulkezu to come before her as though he were a supplicant. Duke Conrad the Black fidgeted at her back with the same kind of restless energy Prince Sanglant had, a man who would rather be fighting than standing. There were, besides them, two noble companions in attendance, a richly-dressed girl of ten or twelve years of age who stood behind an empty chair placed next to Theophanu’s, and three stewards ready to serve goblets of wine.
Bulkezu’s riders halted the precise distance back from the pavilion as Theophanu’s cavalry waited in the other direction. He rode forward with Hanna and Boso to his left, three of his captains to his right, and Cherbu at his back. The wind moaned through the wings of his riders. Light rippled along iron coverts as the breeze coursed through his griffin wings, lifting a seductive melody into the air. He surveyed the positions of his troops, and of hers, the placement of her chair and of the one set ten paces away, facing her, that remained empty for him. With his helmet on, it was impossible to see his face. He looked back toward Cherbu, and the shaman made a sign with his hand, briefly noted. Satisfied, Bulkezu pulled off his helmet and tossed it to one of his captains, who caught it neatly and tucked it under his arm.
Theophanu remained silent. Conrad watched, shifting restlessly as Bulkezu dismounted and indicated that Hanna and Boso should dismount as well. The second captain took their horses’ reins and led them to one side, out of the way.
Hanna met Conrad’s gaze briefly; the power of his physical body was mirrored in the keen strength of his gaze. He had very dark eyes, almost black, the legacy of his Jinna mother’s ancestry. The girl rested a hand on the back of the chair while she examined Bulkezu with a scornful expression similar to that of the duke. By coloring and features, it was obvious that she was his daughter.
Boso stepped forward. “His Magnificence Prince Bulkezu hears your pleas with interest and a kind heart, and by reason of his generosity and liberality has chosen to hear you out rather than attack and destroy your army outright.”
“He wants gold,” muttered Conrad darkly.
Theophanu’s expression did not change. “I pray you, Prince Bulkezu, please be seated and let my stewards serve you wine.”
Boso translated while Bulkezu kept his gaze fixed on a point midway between Conrad and Theophanu, that remarkably believable look of blank incomprehension on his face. Once Boso had finished, Bulkezu gestured, and Boso hurried to fetch a folding stool. Saved from the abbot’s chamber out of a burning monastery, the wooden stool had caught Bulkezu’s fancy because of the griffin heads carved into either end of the side rails, each one plated with gold. On this seat, Bulkezu deigned to sit. His wings rustled as he settled into place, refusing with a raised hand the silver goblet of wine brought forward by a stone-faced servant. Boso took it instead, draining it too quickly.
Conrad, at last, dropped down into the chair placed next to Theophanu. The three regarded each other in silence. Bulkezu had a slight smirk on his face.
At last, Theophanu spoke. “Tell your master that I prefer to negotiate bluntly. We will offer him two thousand pounds of silver to leave Wendar and Varre.”
By now, Hanna recognized a few of the words as Boso translated, but only a few; Bulkezu made no effort to teach his prisoners his language, thereby allowing Boso more authority over the slaves because he was the only go-between. Once Boso had finished, Bulkezu lifted a hand. His third captain hurried forward to offer him a gold cup filled to the brim with fermented mare’s milk, which he sipped at thoughtfully before he replied.
Boso translated. “His Fearsomeness, Prince Bulkezu, wishes you to understand that your noble brother, Prince Ekkehard, is even at this moment a prisoner with his army. Here is his ring and his banner.”
The ring was displayed, the banner unfurled, and then put away.
Duke Conrad muttered something under his breath, and his daughter patted her father on the shoulder and bent to whisper in his ear, an intimate gesture so endearing that Hanna was stricken by a sudden longing for her own father.
Theophanu’s expression did not alter. “A ring and a banner can be taken off a dead body.”
Boso was allowed a short whip, which he used on his whores and on recalcitrant slaves. It was his only weapon. He prodded Hanna with the butt of the whip now. This was why she had been brought.
She took a step forward. “I am known to you, I believe, my lord princess. I was taken captive west of Handelburg together with Prince Ekkehard and four of his companions. One of his retinue rides there.” She had to gesture toward Manegold with her chin because her hands were tied. “I swear to you on my honor as a King’s Eagle that Prince Ekkehard is alive and in Prince Bulkezu’s hands.”
Theophanu spoke softly to her stewards and they hurried forward to offer more wine, but Bulkezu again refused, and Boso again drained his cup. “Three thousand pounds of silver and one hundred gold nomias in exchange for your departure, and the return of Ekkehard and his companions.” For the first time Theophanu acknowledged her presence, a glance, no more, that touched and fled, light as a feather. “And the Eagle.”
Boso spoke. Bulkezu replied. “His Gloriousness will not ransom the Eagle. Five thousand pounds of silver and an equal measure of gold for the prince. And Duke Conrad’s daughter, for his bed.”
Conrad’s head snapped around as his daughter stiffened, looking indignant and frightened. Abruptly, the interpreter gave a grunting moan, grasped his belly, and without a word or excuse to anyone bolted onto the grass. He hadn’t gotten more than one hundred paces before he doubled over and began to retch. Bulkezu sipped at his mare’s milk. By the way his dimple flashed in and out on his cheek, Hanna could tell he was working very hard not to laugh.
