“There is another daughter. Ermengard. Destined for the church, if I recall rightly.”
The prior nodded. “Mother Scholastica did all that was proper. She brought the child to Kassel to take up her sister’s place.”
Liutgard jerked the reins out of Sanglant’s hands and pressed her horse forward until it almost trampled the prior, who took several steps back as his own people crowded forward to protect him. She was hoarse with fury. “Mother Scholastica could bear these tidings to me herself, as would have been proper. Instead she allows me to come to this grief through your careless chatter!”
Sanglant turned to his captain and spoke quietly. “Fulk. We’ll set up camp.”
Fulk gave the order, and one of the sergeants blew the signal that marked the day’s end to the march. Townsfolk scattered out of the way as soldiers rolled out wagons and dismounted from their horses.
A skree reverberated from the heavens as the griffins returned. At first glance, they might appear as eagles. Within moments, however, their true nature became apparent, and the townsfolk who had lingered to chat or trade with the soldiers screamed and ran for the safety of the walls. To his credit, the prior stood his ground as the two griffins landed with a whuff of wings and a resounding thump on the ground. The poor mayor, gone corpse white, knotted her hands and began to weep.
Liutgard reined her horse aside, her face white and her hands shaking.
“Prior Methodius, my tent flies the black dragon.” Sanglant gestured casually toward the griffins. “You will also know where I camp by the presence of my attendants.”
“Have we your permission to retreat, Your Highness?” asked Prior Methodius, voice hoarse with fear.
“You may go.”
They retreated slowly, like honey oozing down a slope. They were afraid to run despite wanting badly to do so. Sanglant dismounted on the road, holding himself under a tighter rein than he did his gelding.
“I wish the griffins had torn them to bits!” cried Liutgard. “She is challenging your authority, and mine! That was a good answer to their impertinence.”
He smiled, although not with any pleasure. “I did not call the griffins. They always return about this time of day.”
“It will be taken as a sign. There is no telling what alliances your aunt has formed in the last few years. King Henry was gone from Wendar for too long. Half of the Wendish folk beg us for aid, and the other half curse at us for abandoning them. We can never trust her now. She scorns us, who served Henry best!”
“What do you say, Burchard?” Sanglant asked, seeing that Liutgard was caught up in a passion.
Duke Burchard rode at Liutgard’s left. His hands shook with a palsy, and he was always exhausted, at the end, so the poets would say, of his rope. He was not a warm man, Liath had discovered, but she respected him.
He turned his weary gaze to Liutgard. The duchess had the stamina to adjust to reversals and hardships. She had lost one husband, and must at this moment be too stunned to really absorb the news the prior had brought her.
“I will see you anointed and recognized, Your Majesty. Then I mean to go home, set my duchy in order, and die. I have seen too much.” One of his stewards helped him down from his horse and led him away to a tent, the first up, where he could lie down.
So they went, some time later, into the royal tent salvaged out of the ruins of Henry’s army. On the center pole, the red silk banner with eagle, dragon, and lion stitched in gold flew above the black dragon.
Inside, Liath sat on a stool as Sanglant paced, while his stewards and captains came and went on errands she could not keep track of. Now and again he glanced at her, as if to mark that she had not escaped him, but he listened, considered, gave orders, and countermanded two of these commands when new information was brought to him. He knew what to do. She was superfluous. Lamps were lit, and when she stepped outside to take in the texture of the chill winter air, she saw that it was almost dark.
On the road, a score of folk carrying torches approached. They halted when Argent coughed a warning cry and raised his crest.
She walked over to him. He bent his head and allowed her to scratch the spot where forearm met shoulder that he had a hard time reaching with beak or claws. His breath was meaty, and his huge eyes blinked once, twice, then cleared as the inner membrane flicked back. She should fear him; she knew that; but since Anne’s death, her reunion with Sanglant, and the departure of the Horse people, nothing seemed to scare her, not even when it should. She watched, and she listened, but she spoke little and offered less advice.
“In some ways,” she said idly to Argent as he rumbled in his throat, “it’s as if all Da’s training to be invisible has flowered. Do beasts know what their purpose is? Or do they simply exist?”