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DUCHESS Rotrudis was dying. The cloying smell of her sickness made her bedchamber almost unbearable. Sanglant stood as close as possible to the window although, even so, no freshening breeze stirred the air inside the room. Even with torches burning to give light and with incense set in three burners around the chamber, it stank.
Her dutiful daughters argued by her bedside, ignoring the half-conscious woman moaning faintly on the bed.
“Nay, I was born first. Deacon Rowena will confirm it!”
“Only because you’ve offered her the biscopry once Mother is dead! Everyone knows that because I have the birthmark on my chest, it means I’m firstborn.”
The two young women looked ready to come to blows, and their respective attendants resembled half-starved dogs preparing to fight over a juicy bone.
Lord Wichman sprawled on the duchess’ chair, legs stretched out in front of him and arms crossed on his chest, wearing a smirk on his face as he watched his older sisters shriek and quarrel while their mother suffered unregarded beside them. He hadn’t even kissed his mother’s hand when he’d come in the room; he hadn’t looked at her at all except for a single grimace as he took in the shrunken body of the once robust woman.
“I pray you, Cousins,” said Sapientia, attempting to step between them, “this dispute avails you nothing. Surely your mother knows which of you was born first. Surely a midwife attended the birth.”
“The midwife is dead, poisoned by Imma!”
“Liar and whore! We weren’t more than five years of age when the old woman died. I had nothing to do with it. But you’ve never answered how the deacon’s record came to be burned up six years ago.”
“Oh! As if it wasn’t you who had the idea to do it, Sophie!”
Wichman had paid more attention when his brother Zwentibold was brought in on a litter to be placed by the hearth, where he, too, was now dying, from wounds taken on the field. Zwentibold remained silent except, now and again, when a tormented groan escaped him and the pretty young woman who was evidently his current concubine hastened forward to dab his lips with wine. It was easy to let the gaze linger on the curve of her body under her light gown, hiding little, promising much, and easier still to notice that Wichman never took his gaze off her.
“How can it be you don’t know which of you was born first?” demanded Sapientia, looking from one sister to the other. The two looked alike mostly in their broad faces and ruddy complexions, big women with years of good eating behind them. Imma had her mother’s nose, while Sophie bore the red-brown hair that had, evidently, distinguished their dead father. The innocent question unleashed a torrent of abuse and accusations, hurled from one to the other.
“She always favored you!”
“Nay! She only pretended to favor me because she wanted to keep me on a leash like a dog. You’re the one who got all the freedom. You’re the one who gained because everyone thought you must be angling for the title!”
“I pray you, Cousins, this is no way to show respect. Duchess Rotrudis can hear every word—”
“As if she hasn’t enjoyed every word of it, the old bitch!”
“Hah! You licked sweetly enough the honeycomb when it still had honey on it!”
Looking half their size and having none of their shrill stridency, Sapientia was helpless to stop them while, all around, nobles and attendants crowded in, eager or aghast to see such a show. Sanglant watched as Sapientia tried to calm them down, to no avail. She saw what needed doing, but she hadn’t the authority to do it. They saw no reason to listen to her.
Wichman rose and stretched before padding over to Zwentibold’s litter. The pretty attendant shrank away, but there was no way, here at Osterburg, that she could escape the son of the reigning duchess. Zwentibold had taken her, after all, with or without her consent, and Wichman clearly had decided to follow where his brother had first plunged in.
Just as Wichman, smiling with that ugly spark of unrestrained lust that marred his features, slipped a hand up the girl’s rump and tested its roundness, Sanglant strolled forward. He got hold of Wichman’s other arm and jerked him forward to stand beside his sisters. Wichman resisted, pulling away.
“I would not if I were you,” said Sanglant softly. “I claim her, and I’ll cut off your balls if you touch her. You know what my promise is worth, Cousin.”
Fuming, Wichman raked his hair back from his head and shot a leer back at Zwentibold’s concubine. But he stayed where he was, next to Sophie.
Sanglant placed himself between Imma and Sophie. Even Sapientia moved instinctively back to make room for him. This close, the smell from the bed filled his nostrils, and he had to fight not to gag. Duchess Rotrudis’ skin hung on her in folds. Her once ruddy cheeks were sallow, her eyes sunken and dark. Sanglant wasn’t even sure she was aware of what was going on around her.
He remembered her well enough from the days when she had been healthy. He’d never liked her, but no person could ever have said that Rotrudis did not rule the duchy of Saony effectively and with an iron hand.
“I pray you, Cousins,” he said, “answer me truly. Do you hate each other more than you hate your blessed mother? Or the other way around?”
Silence crashed down, broken only by a single gasp of amazement from one of the stewards and a low murmuring whimper from the duchess. Had she heard, or was she merely drowning in the pain of her illness?
“For it seems to me that she must have disliked you mightily if she went to so much trouble to be sure that you would fight to the end of your days, never knowing which was truly the firstborn. She must have known, unless the midwife dropped one of you and picked up the other. If you do not know now who is eldest, then it’s your mother who chose not to tell you, for her own reasons.”
Wichman laughed. “She played you for fools!” he crowed. “All these years, never letting you know which God meant to be heir. She must have known all along, and just wanted to watch you dance, you stupid cows.”
Sophie slapped him. He grunted, grabbed for her, only to be slugged by Imma, coming to her sister’s defense. The concubine began to cry, huddled by Zwentibold’s unconscious figure. Rotrudis stirred, clawing at the bedclothes, and a choked word escaped her, lost beneath the noise of her shouting children and their agitated attendants.
“Silence!” shouted Sanglant.
