“It is true, then. The servants must all sleep outside. I heard that in Arethousa the emperor dines in solitude at the high table, not sharing his platter or his conversation with his companions. It must be an eastern custom.”
“Margrave Waltharia.” She rose. “Pray, be seated.”
“Thank you.” She sat on the bench next to Liath, very close, and Liath had to sit down right next to her or risk insulting her offer of intimacy. She was dressed in skirts cut for riding, and she smelled of horses. “So, it transpires that you are not the great granddaughter of Emperor Taillefer.”
“I was misled,” said Liath cautiously, “by the woman who claimed to be my mother.”
“You could have lied. No one would know differently, since according to all reports it is certain that the Holy Mother Anne—who claimed to be your mother—is now dead.”
“It isn’t the truth, so it would be wrong to say it was. Anyway, I never desired to be born to such a position.”
“Yet you carry yourself as if it is already understood.” The words were said without rancor. Waltharia was not angry or suspicious, only blunt. “You are a puzzle. And you do gleam a little, in this dim light.”
“Do I?” she asked, genuinely surprised. She looked at her hands but could see nothing unusual.
“Did you not before?”
“I don’t know. No one ever said anything.” No one but Hugh, but that was too intimate a confession to make to a woman she did not know, and one who had been, in times past, her husband’s most famous lover. “Would you marry him, if you could?” Liath asked. “Mother Scholastica suggested it.”
Waltharia shook her head without any sign that the question irritated her. “She’s a canny tactician. She was only saying that to draw out a reaction from the others. She’d no more wish me wed to Sanglant than Gerberga or Theophanu would.”
“But would you?”
She smiled. She was not a beautiful woman, the kind who turns heads, but she was attractive, and strong, and healthy, and her gaze was clean and clear. She had power and knew how to wield it. “No, I would not, although you are right to wonder, because I am powerfully attracted to him. I might have when I was young and my dear father was still alive—years ago—but what I wish for has changed. I am margrave of the Villam lands. There is much to be gained for a family who can hold on in the marchlands. I take the long view. Marriage to Sanglant would not substantially aid my house in any way that my loyalty to the Wendish throne does not already do. And it would restrict my power. No, I have in mind to marry Lord Wichman.”
“Wichman! You can’t be serious! He’s a beast …”
Waltharia was already chuckling.
Liath smiled awkwardly. “Ah. You were only joking.”
“It would be more tempting if he were not quite so coarse. To marry a son of the royal house would bring an important alliance to my family. Still, I have in mind some lord out of Varre, one who will be grateful for a measure of distance between him and his older siblings. Sanglant promises to bring one back for me when the progress returns from Varre.”
“Will he know what you would like?” Liath felt herself bit as she said it, wondering how Sanglant might understand a woman like Waltharia so well that she would trust him to find her a husband.
Waltharia’s mood turned somber with startling ease. Her face remained calm, but her hands twisted up the fabric of her riding skirt. “Druthmar was a good man. My father chose him for me. I mourn him. You know, they never found his body. I must believe he is dead, but it is hard not to hope and pray that he is still alive and may somehow find his way back to me.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
Waltharia looked at her for a long moment, then smiled softly and sadly. “So you are. I thank you for it.”
Liath traced one end of the book compulsively, not knowing what to say next. The situation seemed so odd to her. At last, she blurted out, “I don’t know why you’re here. What do you want?”
“Your measure. You are a puzzle, and in a way you are an obstacle. I believe that Sanglant will be a better regnant for Wendar than any of his legitimate siblings. Wendar needs a strong regnant in these dark days.”
“That’s true. I know why you think I am an obstacle.”
“Do you? Sanglant is so companionable and amiable and competent that it is easy to forget he is also like a dog in refusing to give up the things he craves. His father spoiled him. Even Queen Sophia—a very fine and strong-minded woman who was particular about her prerogatives—let the boy run wild in her chambers. He means to become regnant, despite being a bastard. He means to have you as his queen, despite the objections of most of the noble lords and clerics in this realm, who quite rightly object to your lack of rank, your suspicious heritage, and the evident fact that you know sorcery. That’s leaving aside the charge of heresy, and the excommunication. How these two desires can be reconciled is the question. I admit he has wrung victory out of defeat in terrible situations, but this battlefield is not the one he is accustomed to. Do you aspire to be queen, to rule beside him?”
