But Henry hadn’t let his anger twist him to do what he knew wasn’t right. Perhaps Zwentibold’s concubine was a decent woman doing the only thing she knew to make a place of safety for herself. Perhaps she was simply an opportunist, wanting beautiful clothes and rich food where she could get it. Another man, or woman, might take what he could get when he could get it and carelessly cast it away afterward, without thinking of the consequences. But Sanglant knew now how it felt to be abandoned. He had heard Waltharia mourn the death of the young child they had made together, the child he had never known, had not been permitted to know.
What if Frederun, back in Gent, had gotten with child by him? What would she do with a bastard child and no family to help her? Had he even sent a message to discover what had become of her? He had left her behind with less thought than Liath had left him.
“Nay,” he murmured, knowing these thoughts unfair to Liath. Hadn’t he heard his wife’s voice in Gent? Hadn’t she cried out to him: “Wait for me, I beg you. Help me if you can, for I’m lost here.”
His anger at his mother had deafened him. He had wanted, and had chosen, to believe the worst. Maybe, if he ever found Liath again, he should wait to hear what she had to say.
“But if you will not have me, what am I to do?” pleaded Marcovefa, still pressed against him.
“My lord prince.”
“Thank God.” He turned away from Marcovefa as his good friend hurried up to him, lamp in hand. “Heribert, you are come at just the right time. See that this woman is given sceattas, enough that she might set herself up in some business if she has any craft, or that she might return to Salia, or dower herself into a convent.”
Heribert raised one eyebrow, but his expression remained grave. “As you wish, my lord prince.” Marcovefa had flinched back at Sanglant’s words, but now she slid closer to Heribert, perhaps thinking to work her wiles on him. Sanglant smiled slightly, then frowned as Heribert went on. “You’d best attend to your brother. There’s trouble.”
It was a relief to climb the steps in the stone tower, the oldest part of the ducal palace, where noble prisoners were kept in a drafty chamber behind a stout door ribbed with iron bands. He had set his own men to guard Ekkehard’s door, knowing they would allow no mischief from folk who might otherwise be eager to harm the four men who had branded themselves as traitors.