“King Demetrius is without heirs, as you yourself know, my lord king. His heirs and those who contested for his share of the Aostan throne long since wasted themselves in wars in the south or else they were carried off by the pestilence brought by Jinna raiders into the southern ports. But Queen Gertrudis left one child, her daughter Adelheid, who is recently widowed.”
“Widowed,” said Henry. He looked—and everyone turned to look at him—at his son. Sangant stood as quiescent, or as stupefied, as the greyhounds, staring at Liath. “She is the legitimate claimant to the throne of Aosta.”
“So she is, Your Majesty,” said Wolfhere, who alone in the hall did not look at Prince Sanglant. “And but twenty years of age. Rumor has it that her kinfolk are now so denuded by plague and war that she has no male relatives to fight with her for her claim.”
Henry shut his eyes briefly. Opening them, he gestured to the two Eagles to rise. “The Lord and Lady have heard me,” he said in a voice made thick with emotion, “and listened to my prayers.” He spoke softly into the ear of a steward, and as Liath and Wolfhere retreated and were escorted outside, a party of tumblers hurried forward to entertain the court.
So the merriment and feasting resumed.
But Sanglant, moving aside to make room for the tumblers, pressed himself against the wall and instead of returning to his seat made his way to the door and slipped outside. A moment later, Hugh excused himself and left. Ivar made to get up, but Judith’s young husband pulled him back into his chair and whispered urgently into his ear.
When Hanna moved to follow him, Sapientia called to her. “Eagle! Look there! How do you think that girl balances on that rope?”
Given no choice, she had to stay where she was.
III
THE LOCKED CHEST
1
“WHAT means this?” asked Wolfhere harshly as they left the hall.
A servingwoman brought them food and ale and left them to sit on a bench to take their supper in peace. Liath smiled wryly as Wolfhere glared at her. Peace, indeed. The first stars had bloomed in the heavens above—the three jewels of the Queen’s sky promising momentary splendor—but in the west the sky still wore the blush of sunset.
“You are silent,” Wolfhere observed. They hadn’t eaten since taking bread and cider at midday at an isolated farm, but he ignored the platter set on the bench beside him, although a fresh cut of roast pig steamed up most invitingly.
Liath concentrated on the food because she was starving. Wolfhere would get his answer soon enough. She had gulped down most of the food on her half of the platter when she saw him make his way through the crowd of retainers who had flocked around the entrance to watch the entertainment within. Embarrassed to be caught bolting her food, she wiped her mouth with the back of a hand and stood. Wolfhere jumped up as Sanglant eased free of the crowd and walked toward them.
“What means this?” Wolfhere demanded again.
“What matters it to you? What right do you have to interfere?” But she was only angry at him because of the fearful pounding of her own heart as the prince stopped before her. He had filled out in the past twenty days and had his hair trimmed neatly, but the haunted look in his eyes hadn’t dissipated. He wore a rich linen tunic trimmed with silver-and-gold-threaded embroidery, cut to fit his height; with a sword swinging in a magnificent red-leather sheath at his belt and several fine rings on his fingers, he looked very much the royal prince and courtier. Only the rough iron collar bound at his neck spoiled the picture. Perhaps it choked him: He seemed unable to speak, and now that he stood so close she could not think of one single word.
“Do not forget the oath you took as an Eagle,” said Wolfhere suddenly. “Do not forget the news I brought you, Liath!”
“Leave us,” said Sanglant without taking his gaze off Liath.
Not even Wolfhere dared disobey a direct command. He grunted with irritation, spun, and stalked off without taking supper or ale with him.
“I kept the book safe for you, as I promised.” His hoarse voice made the words seem even more fraught with meaning; but his voice always sounded like that. “The question I asked you … have you an answer for me?” Shouts and laughter swelled out from the hall, and he glanced back toward the doors and muttered something under his voice more growl than words.
“You were half mad. How can I be sure you meant what you asked?”
He laughed—the old laugh she recalled from Gent when, under siege, he had lived each day as if he cared not whether another came for him. “Ai, Lady! Say you will marry me, and let us have done with this!”