“I stand as surety for my brother Ekkehard. What he did was wrong, but he’s young and may be forgiven once for being misled.”
“Brother!” Ekkehard threw himself against Sanglant. He still had a youth’s slenderness, no doubt because he was scarcely more than sixteen, but when he wrapped his arms around Sanglant, he held tight enough that Sanglant wheezed before pulling him off.
Bertha smiled. She had the look of her mother, cunning, sharp, and strong, and none of Hugh’s fabled beauty.
“You and your legion fought well in the battle,” added Sanglant.
“And lost a fair number of my good marchlanders,” she replied tartly. “I promised my elder sister Gerberga I’d bring her a reward for the sacrifice we Austrans and our cousins from Olsatia have made to rid Wendar of the Quman scourge. She lost her husband to a Quman raid last winter. And surely you know that Bulkezu himself is rumored to have killed our mother.”
Even a man as unused to intrigue as Sanglant could see where this was leading. “She wants a royal prince as recompense.”
“He’s young,” observed Bertha, looking Ekkehard over with the same cold regard she might reserve for choosing a new horse. “Not to my taste, but I’m sure that Gerberga will feel her loyalty to King Henry has been amply rewarded if she is given his youngest child as her new husband.”
“A rich prize, indeed. Unfortunately, Ekkehard is abbot at St. Perpetua’s in Gent.”
Bertha laughed. “And my bastard brother Hugh is, so they say, a presbyter in Darre, confidant of the Holy Mother. Vows to God may be conveniently put aside if earthly cares demand it. Your sister Sapientia wants to hang the boy for a traitor because she wants to avenge herself on him for Prince Bayan’s death.” A hard woman, she softened for one instant, touching her cheek as though a fly had tickled her. “He was a good man. If you’re a wise one, Prince Sanglant, you’ll convince your sister otherwise. Wendar will suffer if kin kill kin, as this boy should have known. I think my suggestion would serve us all best.”
“We shall speak of this later. Ekkehard will be sent to Quedlinhame meanwhile, to the care of our aunt, Mother Scholastica. I’ll be leading the army out at dawn, to pursue what remains of the Quman.”
Bertha didn’t waste words or energy. She understood the uses of fast action on campaign. “We’ll speak of this later,” she agreed. With a final glance at Ekkehard, she left with her men.
“I-I don’t want to be hanged,” whispered Ekkehard, still clinging to Sanglant’s arm.
“You should have thought of that before you went over to the Quman.”
“But surely you’d not allow them to kill me in such a dishonorable way. I didn’t have any choice once Bulkezu had captured me—”
“Spare me your excuses, Ekkehard. You’ve been a fool, and now you’ll suffer the consequences.” He glanced over toward the bed where that shrouded figure lay. “Ai, God, what was his name, the one I killed?”
“Welf.” Ekkehard had obviously been crying, and he began weeping again. “He threw himself in front of me. He saved my life.”
“I think he wanted to get himself killed,” muttered one of his companions.
“He managed it well enough,” observed Sanglant. “Isn’t that the way of war? I’ve a piece of news for you, Ekkehard. One of your comrades, Thiemo, still lives—”
“Thiemo is alive! Where is he?”
“He serves another prince now. I’ll let him know you’re alive, but he’s no longer yours to command. These other three—” They stammered out their names: Benedict, Frithuric, and Manegold. “You may return to the monastery or choose to suffer whatever fate Prince Ekkehard suffers. Which will it be?”
For all their youth, for all their foolishness, for all their crimes against Henry and Wendar, they knelt most graciously and proclaimed their undying loyalty to Ekkehard. They would walk with him wherever it led, even unto death.
“So be it.” Sanglant was glad to see that they had that much honor. He left them to stew, and to worry, and returned to the chamber allotted to him.
The bells rang for Vigils.
Blessing, Anna, and Zacharias slept, while Matto and Chustaffus stood guard and Thiemo played dice with Sibold, waiting up for their prince. The chamber was spacious enough to boast two tables and three beds. Wolfhere had pulled his camp chair over to the cold hearth. There he sat, staring into the ashes as though the dead fire still spoke to him.
He glanced up as Sanglant crossed to stand beside him. A few charred sticks lay in a heap to one side where they’d tumbled as they’d burned.