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Liath turned to look at them. He could only see her shape, but he knew that her vision, in such darkness, was much keener than his. What she saw, seeking in their expressions, he did not know. “The phoenix flies, like the eagle. It is born out of fire, out of passion, and renews itself. Would the phoenix not be a fine beast for scholars?”
Sometimes she was so naive!
“I pray you, Liath,” he said, then faltered, hearing how annoyed he sounded and knowing it was not her but his memories of Blessing that hurt him.
Hathui stepped forward. “Perhaps you are not aware that the phoenix has become spoken of in the same breath as the heresy, the Redemptio. A story circulated—”
“If Wichman can be believed, it was true enough,” said Sanglant, “since he was among those who slaughtered the beast.”
“Slaughtered a phoenix?” Liath breathed, horrified.
“The townsfolk said it preyed on their cattle. But there was talk of a miracle, a mute man healed, and so on, and now—nay, Liath, no nests of phoenixes for you unless you are determined to turn heretic yourself.”
“I am not,” she said thoughtfully, “but it interests me to hear this tale. I must speak to Wichman.”
“When I am present!”
“If you wish. I do not fear him.”
“Prince Ekkehard witnessed the whole as well,” pointed out Hathui unhelpfully. “Although I admit most of those who were present in that party are now dead in the wars.”
“Ekkehard and Wichman!” Liath said, in tones of astonishment.
“Not now,” said Sanglant, “I pray you. Morning is soon enough.”
“Soon enough,” said Waltharia, backing him up, as was her duty as margrave. “My hands have turned to ice. Let us go in.”
2
LIATH was up as soon as night grayed with the early twilight.
He groaned and said, closing his eyes, “Neither Wichman nor Ekkehard will have risen yet, my love. Wait but a moment. Come back under the covers with me.”
“I can’t stop thinking about it.”
She dressed without servants to aid her, not calling anyone in, and he heard the door open, felt the draft of frosty air from the stairwell kiss his cheeks—better had she done it!—and the thud of its closing. A decent interval later the door opened and he heard the stealthy footfalls of four servingmen as they entered the chamber and busied themselves as quietly as they could with water, coals, clothing, and the rest of his gear and necessaries. He still thought of them as Den’s brother, Malbert’s cousin, Johannes’ uncle, and Chustaffus’ brother, although in fact their names were Johannes, Robert, Theodulf, and Ambrose. Warm air breathed along his skin as the one of them—that would be Johannes, who had an unevenness in his gait due to a deformity in his right foot—moved a brazier closer to the bed in preparation for his rising.
Outside, he heard voices raised to that pitch of intensity that betokens an upset bubbling into an emergency. He cracked an eye, but it was still dim in the chamber and would be until they had his leave to take down the shutters.
“No,” came Hathui’s voice from outside. “I’ll go in now.”
The door opened. He sighed and sat up, giving in to the inevitable. When he had been captain of the King’s Dragons there had been days when he’d had to move at first light, and swiftly, but there had also been days when he’d had no more pressing engagement at dawn than … well, never mind that now.
“What is it?” he asked.
She gestured toward the door, which meant that trouble was coming. “Margrave Gerberga.”
Robert handed him his under-tunic, and he slipped it on and swung out of bed as Ambrose took down first one shutter, then the next. The chill exhalation of the outdoors sighed in, bringing with it the smell of smoke, dung, and freshly split wood. A carpet insulated him from the plank floor, and it was just as well since he was still barefoot but decently attired when Gerberga stormed in, face red and braided hair pinned back for her night’s rest.
“He’s gone!” she cried. “Vanished!”
Only the peers of the realm or his intimate servants dared storm in without announcing themselves. After Gerberga came Theophanu, expression so blank that he marveled, wondering if she were furious or joyful.
“This is not the first time Ekkehard has acted rashly,” Theo said to Gerberga as if continuing a conversation begun earlier. “Do not forget that he stole Lord Baldwin from your mother.”
“Damn him!”
“And that he then debauched himself in Gent while pretending to be an abbot in a monastery founded by his own father,” added Theophanu with such a look of composure that Sanglant imagined her actually laughing inside—if Theophanu ever laughed. “And after that betrayed his own countryfolk and rode with the Quman monster.”
