“I heard it was bandits.”
She laughed dryly. “Quman weren’t the only ones who have tried to kill me. The bandits you speak of soon learned their mistake. Lady Waltharia strung them up for their trouble in Cathedral Square. They hung there until the crows and ravens ate them down to the bone.” She dug in one of her dangling sleeves and after a moment fished out a string of finger bones. “This is all that remains of them.”
“A handsome trophy,” observed Wolfhere.
“I keep it with me to remind me of what befalls those who make me angry.”
He laughed, but Anna could see by the flush in his cheeks and the way he squinted his eyes all tight and shifty-like that he loved Mistress Hedwig no better than the elderly woman loved him. Anna scooted over to Blessing and made the child graciously accept the old Eagle’s homage.
“So this is the child.” They examined each other, the crippled old woman and the young princess. Blessing’s hair had escaped its braid, and wisps curled around her sharp little face.
“I will sit,” Blessing announced. She sat on the center of the carpet and gestured imperiously toward the bench, where Zacharias hastily moved aside to make room. “You will sit.”
“I thank you, Your Highness, but if I sit it will be a day and half before I can get my old bones to lift me up again. I am bid by Lady Waltharia to bring you down to the feast. She means to serve you and your father most handsomely, as befits a margrave hosting a royal prince.”
“I thought Helmut Villam was margrave here,” muttered Zacharias.
The comment earned him a cutting look from old Hedwig.
Wolfhere hastened to explain. “Lady Waltharia is margrave in all but name.”
“Her father isn’t dead yet! He looked damned lively to me when I had the misfortune to be brought to his attention!”
Heribert shrugged. “The secrets of King Henry’s inner court are hidden to me. I am only a lowly cleric from the schola at Mainni.”
Wolfhere grunted, half amused by the elegant cleric’s protestation. “Why do you think old Villam rides in attendance to the king? He and his daughter respect each other, but they don’t get along. She’s competent to rule the marchlands, and he can’t live forever. He stays out of her way. It’s a form of retirement, since he hasn’t the temperament to abide the monastery. And better—” He glanced at Hedwig. When their gazes met, it was like blows being exchanged. “Better for all concerned than rebellion. It’s been known before for a restless adult to rebel against a parent when no independence is forthcoming. Villam is a wise man, and he did better than most to raise an heir as wise as he.”
“That you respect her as she deserves is the only good thing I have to say about you,” observed Hedwig.
“So be it.” Wolfhere raised a hand, as if in submission. “Let us not scrape old wounds raw, I beg you.”
“Don’t fight!” commanded Blessing, fists set on hips as she glared at them. She had such a fierce way of screwing up her face that it was—almost—impossible to laugh at her. In another year, it wouldn’t be funny anymore.
“As you wish, Your Highness,” said Hedwig without expression. “If you will allow me to escort you.”
Anna admired Hedwig for the steady way she took the stairs, even though every step seemed to hurt her. The stairway twisted down, curving to match the tower. She’d never seen a tower so big built all of stone before except for the cathedral tower in Gent, and it had been square. This one was cold and dreary and dark, but once they reached the base they passed through an archway girded with a double set of doors, each one reinforced by an iron bar, and out into a sizable courtyard where soldiers swarmed. Anna smelled blood and excitement like perfume, the heady scent of a victory won. A great pile of wooden wings lay in a heap to one side. Feathers drifted in the air like a fine chaff of snow. Prince Sanglant stood by one of the troughs. He’d stripped down to almost nothing and now sluiced water over his bare chest and arms, washing away blood.
Blessing drew in air for a shriek of delight, glanced at Hedwig, and abruptly thought better of it. Instead, she yanked and yanked at Anna to get her to move faster as she trotted through the crowd. Soldiers gave way before her, calling out her name, as she made straight for her father.
As they came up behind him, he spoke without turning around. “Nay, little one, I’m in no mood for sport.”
Sometimes, like now, the prince seemed consumed by a passion for washing that put Heribert’s fussy ways to shame. Anna had never seen a person scrub as hard as he might do when he got in one of those moods. But she remembered the way he’d looked when he’d been chained in Gent’s cathedral, two years ago. Maybe he could never scrape all that grime and filth away, or at least not in his heart.