The empress laughed. Her nearest courtiers, seeing and hearing the words not spoken, set hands to faces, or hid their eyes, or chortled, or exclaimed, each according to their nature.
Antonia fumed. She must remain silent or lose all. She saw her own power eroding so quickly that she knew she must cling to the shoreline before the entire sandy cliff collapsed beneath her. It was no good to protest that the queen must not trust Arethousans or that her beloved Aostans would never trust her again should she marry one, because she had already considered and approved the idea of marrying her young daughter to one of them. To a foreigner! A heretic!
Here he sat as if he already ruled by Adelheid’s side.
“Betroth your daughter to the young emperor if need be,” he went on. “This is also good. But the power of yours and of mine—the power to keep our empires alive—must be joined. Otherwise we will die and our empires will die. Do you want this, Your Majesty?”
Antonia seethed with a rage she could never express.
“No,” said the empress. “I do not want my empire to die. Yet if I make an Arethousan king beside me, my people may turn their backs on me.”
“‘King’ is only a title. I will be your consort, a simple lord. Call me what you will. What you must. But only you and only I, joined together, can save our empires.”
She took hold of his callused hand, hers so slight and his so large but surprisingly gentle as he touched her small fingers and smiled. By this simple means, they were betrothed in the sight of humankind.
But not of God.
He rose, and Adelheid rose with him. None spoke. The court was too stunned to speak, seeing what no one had ever expected: the empress of Aosta binding herself to a crafty Arethousan who by guile and wit and no doubt worse means had raised himself to become general and lord among that heretical people.
“Holy Mother,” he said, “I pray you, we throw ourselves on your mercy. Without your blessing, we are done. Without your blessing, the empires will fall, these two, who hold the ancient and true ways up as a light for all humankind.”
She was silent and stubborn. She could wait him out.
He had not done yet.
“Yours is the most power of all, Holy Mother. Yours, the right to strike first.”
Still raging, while displaying a calm face, she succumbed to curiosity. “What do you mean?”
“We are vulnerable to those who live in the north, if they choose to invade us while we are weak. You can weaken them. You alone have that power.”
A clever man, but naturally, he must be, because all Arethousans were clever, lying, unscrupulous creatures who drank bathwater and ate too much garlic and onions and dressed improperly, men like women and women like men, and pretended a false humility that was in truth nothing but pride. Yet she could not help herself. He had piqued her interest.
“What do you mean?”
“You are the Holy Mother. She commands the obedience of all children of God. Is that not so?”
“That is so. I am delighted that you, a heretic, can recognize my authority.”
He nodded, not quite bowing his head. He was a dangerous man as he had himself confessed. He did not truly believe; to him, the church was merely a tool.
A weapon.
“Those who are disobedient, what comes of them?”
“They are censured. They must do penance.”
“And after this? If they still disobey? I think you have the power to place them under a ban.”
“Ah!” breathed Adelheid, cheeks flushed and eyes bright as she understood him.
As Antonia did. “I could place them under anathema, if they deserved such an excommunication, but how does this help Aosta? How does this help Arethousa? How does it help the holy church, which must be my sole concern?”
Because he was a dangerous man, he smiled. He shrugged. “One time, when I am young, I stand on duty at night. I hear a noise in the bush. It might be anything, but I thrust with my spear. I stab a man in the leg. So we discover this one I catch is a spy. He tells us where the enemy camps and what they intend. So we take the enemy by surprise. This is my first victory. It comes sometimes that a man must thrust his spear into the dark where there may be nothing but a rat. In this way, we strike even if we do not know what we will hit. It is better than nothing. It is better to do something than to stand and wait.”
“I am tired of being helpless,” said Adelheid. “I am tired of standing and waiting while others take action.”
“You believe I should place all of Wendar and Varre under anathema. If I do so, none may be blessed at birth or marriage. None may receive last rites. The deacons may not lead mass, and the biscops may not ordain deacons. This is a terrible thing, General.”
