Child of Flame - Page 38/400

A path opened through the throng, blocked only by the jugglers, who remained intent on the balls tossed between them. Sanglant ducked under the flying path of one shiny ball, caught another in his right hand, and was through their net just as Fulk swore under his breath. A ball hit the captain on the shoulder, fell, and shattered on a circle of ground swept clean of rushes that the jugglers had marked out for their tricks. The pony, hauled in this far and perhaps lulled by the stink and the carpet of rushes and tansy laid down on the floor into thinking it had come into a stable, chose this moment to urinate, loud and long.

Henry rose with easy grace. At that moment, as Henry looked him over, Sanglant realized that his father had noticed him as soon as he had entered the hall. As might a captain laying a counter ambush against bandits hiding in the forest, the king had simply chosen to pretend otherwise.

“Prince Sanglant,” he said with a cool formality that tore at Sanglant’s heart. “You have not yet met my wife, Queen Adelheid.”

Obviously, Henry was still furious at his disobedient son, since this was the very woman whom his father had so desperately wanted him to marry. She was pretty, certainly, but more importantly she had that energy about her that is common to women who find pleasure in the bed. No doubt that, together with the Aostan crown she wore, accounted for the becoming blush in his father’s cheeks and the smile that hovered on his lips as he regarded his disgraced son, come limping back scarcely better than a beggar.

Who was laying an ambush for whom?

Adelheid had the audacity, and the rank, to look him over as she would a stallion. “Handsome enough,” she said clearly, as if he had caught them in the middle of a conversation, “but I have no reason to regret my choice. You’ve proved your fitness as regnant many times over, Henry.”

Henry laughed. Made bold by the king’s reaction, some among the audience felt free to chuckle nervously or snicker in response, by which time certain men had made their way through the crowd to throw themselves at Sanglant’s feet.

“Your Highness!”

“Prince Sanglant!”

He recognized Fulk’s men, who had evidently been serving at table or standing guard throughout the hall. Heribert arrived, pressing through the knot of petitioners who were crowded closest to the king’s table, and knelt before him, grasping Sanglant’s hand and kissing it.

“Sanglant!” he said triumphantly, as out of breath as if he’d been running. “My lord prince! I feared—”

“Nay, friend,” said Sanglant, “never fear. I pray you, rise and stand beside me.”

“So I will,” said the young cleric, though he wobbled a little as he got to his feet.

“Who are these, who have come forward?” asked Henry. “Does Brother Heribert not serve Theophanu?”

Theophanu still clutched her cup. Old Helmut Villam, seated beside her, leaned to whisper to her, but she was obviously not listening to him. She merely nodded, once, curtly, to Sanglant, before setting down the wine cup.

“This is my retinue, Your Majesty,” said Sanglant at last. “These are men who have pledged loyalty to me.”

“Don’t I feed them?” asked Henry sweetly. “I didn’t know you had the lands and wherewithal to maintain a retinue, Son. Certainly you scorned those that I meant to honor you with. I don’t even see a gold torque at your throat to mark you as my son.”

But Sanglant had his own weapons, and he knew how to counterattack. He stepped aside to reveal his mother.

She stood in a spray of light cast from the high windows. The light made bronze of her hair, burnished and finely-woven into a tight braid as thick as her wrist. She had rolled down the sleeves of Liath’s tunic and belted it in the usual manner around her hips, although even with a length of material caught up under the belt the embroidered hem still lapped her ankles. Yet despite the unexceptionable appearance of the clothing, she blazed with strangeness as alien as a sleek leopard glimpsed running with thundering aurochs.

She said nothing. She didn’t have to.

“Alia!” Henry paled noticeably, but he had been king for too many years not to know when to retreat. The mask of stone crashed down over his expression, freezing the merriment in the hall as thoroughly as any magic could have. The goat baaed, followed by complete silence. No one seemed to notice the flutter of wind moving through the robes and cloaks of the seated nobles as Jerna explored the hall.

Finally, Alia spoke. “I come back, Henri,” she said, pronouncing his name in the Salian way, “but I am not believing that you cared for the child as you promised to me you would.”