Nay, Heribert was the cause of it all. He had turned Berthold’s heart, although it wasn’t clear with what inducements. Blessing, too, had a hand in it, however unwitting. Mathilda had many fine qualities, including Henry’s infamous temper and openhanded generosity and Adelheid’s devious mind, but she did not shine, not as Blessing did. The child was without question an abomination, intermingling the blood of three races, but she had power that could be molded and used as a tool, either by the Enemy or by the righteous.
Adelheid knew that. It was the only reason she hadn’t killed Blessing in revenge for Henry’s death.
Antonia sat down on the bench to resume her meditations, but peace had fled. It was dry and cool and the air had a dusty bite to it. No breath of wind rustled leaves. Even the poplars that lined the far wall stood in silence, although normally any least breeze caused them to murmur. There hadn’t been rain for a month although usually the dry season commenced much later in the year. These signs seemed bad omens.
Worse yet to come, as the holy prophets said, although how anything could be worse than what she had seen and the reports that filtered in from the provinces of Adelheid’s blasted realm she could not imagine.
When she rose, her knees popped, and her back hurt. These days she was always out of breath and battling a nagging cough. By the dry fountain, two clerics and one attendant waited for her. Few had survived the destruction in Darre, but that was just as well.
“Your Grace,” said young John.
“Your Holiness,” said elderly Johanna.
The servingwoman, Felicita, took her arm and assisted her up the steps, which had gotten steeper in the last month.
“We will go first to the queen’s chamber and then to my audience hall for the afternoon’s petitioners.”
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
At midday, Adelheid usually sat for an hour beside Berengaria, but she was not in the nursery today. Antonia sank down on the couch beside the bed where the tiny child tossed and turned in fitful sleep. Her face, normally pale, would turn red when she coughed. She had not spoken a word for three weeks now, and it was supposed by everyone except Adelheid that she was dying.
Had Berengaria been innocent, or guilty? It seemed she had been guilty, although it was difficult to know how a child so small could have offended God. Perhaps she was being punished for her mother’s sins, as in the ancient days of the prophets when God smote the unrighteous for their failings, great and small, old and young, female and male, and even the cattle.
So be it.
“Poor thing,” murmured Felicita. Antonia smoothed sweat-soaked hair back from the child’s face as the nurse looked on with resignation.
“Has the queen been in to see her daughter today?” Antonia asked.