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“Why did Gerberga not approach me herself?” Sanglant asked. “Why send you in the middle of the night?”
“Because we can speak privately, and no one will mark it.”
“Everyone marks it,” said Sanglant. “How else did Gerberga know I was here?”
“Yes, but no one is surprised that the children of Henry should pray through the night to mourn him. He did the same for our grandmother.”
“In truth,” said Theophanu, “I’m surprised you did not come sooner, Ekkehard. It is fitting for a child to mourn his beloved father with a vigil.”
Ekkehard had not once looked toward the coffin. He had shed no tears that Sanglant had seen during the lengthy mass and reading of psalms. “Do you want to hear, or not?”
“Go on. What does Gerberga want?”
“The marchlands of Westfall and Eastfall suffer because their margraves are dead in the wars. You must appoint a new margrave for each one, to bring order. She would prefer that you listen to her desires in this matter, as she has suitable candidates in mind, but she will accept any reasonable lord of good family who will act in concert with her and agree to marry Theucinda.”
“Theucinda must be fifteen or eighteen by now.”
“She is only a little younger than I am. Gerberga says this, also: If Bertha lives, then she might become margrave of Eastfall, and you could let Theucinda marry the new margrave of Westfall.”
“Ooof!” exclaimed Theophanu with an ironic smile. “A great deal of territory falls therefore into Austra’s hands and that of her descendants. I would not recommend it. Make Wichman lord of Eastfall and marry poor Theucinda to him! He’ll fight the barbarians and rape the local girls, and be happy, although his wife might not be.”
“That’s not funny,” said Ekkehard savagely. “Wichman is a beast! Theucinda doesn’t deserve to be forced to marry him!”
Ah. For the first time, there was real passion in Ekkehard’s voice.
“How much older is Gerberga than you?” Sanglant asked. “I trust she never leaves you alone with her younger sister.”
“I would never!” he cried in a tone of voice that betrayed he had thought often of just what it was he would never do. “It’s just she’s a third child, like me. She knows what it’s like …” He bit a lip and glanced sideways at his brother and sister, gauging their reaction. Like all of Henry’s children, he was a good-looking young man, although he would have been more attractive had his features not been marred by a perpetual expression of sullen grievance. “… to be a third child.”
“You are fourth,” said Theophanu.
“Third, if one counts only legitimate children!” he retorted.
Even in the dim light, Sanglant could see how his younger brother’s cheeks were flushed. His eyes had narrowed with anger, or resentment; in Ekkehard, it was hard to tell the difference.
“Do not forget,” Sanglant said in his mildest tone, “that you were shown mercy, Ekkehard. You fought and killed your own countrymen.”
“As did you! You rebelled against our father! Some say you killed him yourself and now pretend otherwise.”
The thrust had no force in it, not for Sanglant, so he wasn’t prepared when Theophanu slapped Ekkehard so hard that the blow brought tears to his eyes as he gasped. Leoba choked down an exclamation.
“I will have no fighting here to demean the memory of our father!” said Sanglant.
“Is this some poison Gerberga has been feeding you?” Theophanu demanded. “Who has said it?”
“No one.” He wiped his eyes, trembling. “No one. Gerberga doesn’t believe it. She told him so. She said only a fool would believe you killed Henry, and anyway, Liutgard and Burchard would never support you if you had, and they were there and they saw it all. It’s true about the daimone, isn’t it? It’s true?”
“It’s true,” he said, glancing toward Hathui, who despite her appearance of contrite prayer was no doubt listening closely. “Being true, as it is, I wonder that the margrave of Austra shelters the man who truly betrayed Henry.”
Ekkehard sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of a hand.
Waiting for his brother to speak, Sanglant realized that he, too, was trembling, that he had in him reserves of hatred he hadn’t known he possessed. Bloodheart was dead, and any power he had left to harm Sanglant resided in Sanglant’s heart and head alone. He had other enemies, of course, some of whom had not yet declared themselves. But he had only one man he truly hated.
“That’s the other thing she wants,” said Ekkehard, his voice shaky. He glared at Theophanu. Her expression was cool and distant, without trace of the anger that had flared.
“That who wants?” asked Sanglant, who had now stuck in his head the image of his enemy, to whom God had given exceptional beauty. Why did the wicked flourish and the innocent suffer? Why did God allow beauty to grow in a vat of poison?
“That Gerberga wants,” said Ekkehard irritably, “in exchange for her support of your claim to the throne and crown of Wendar.”
