Child of Flame (Crown of Stars #4)

“His mercenaries?”

“Loyal by reason of the gold he paid them, not to his person. You will find, Your Majesty, my lady queen, that few will mourn Ironhead’s passing.”

“Yet such a large army of paid soldiers is doubly dangerous when left to its own devices. We’ll have to negotiate carefully so as not to have a battle on our hands or a countryside laid to waste by marauders.”

Standing under the sun’s full glare, Hugh did not wilt; it seemed his natural element, as though the sun had been created expressly to illuminate his features. “You’ll find their captains amenable to peace, Your Majesty. They’ll not trouble your army.”

“An ignoble fate for a warrior,” mused Henry as the basket was carried away. “How did it happen?”

Hugh shrugged. “As you sow, so shall you reap. He had a violent nature, my lord king, and I believe that he was murdered while sleeping by one of the girls he had raped.”

“So be it,” said Adelheid. “God favors the virtuous.”

“Is there aught else?” Henry glanced around his court, made quiet by the gruesome sight now mercifully concealed. He looked toward Hathui and, last, at Rosvita. Hugh also regarded her, one handsome eyebrow lifted as though in a question. Words stuck in her throat. The sunlight flared as the wind whipped banners into a frenzy, dazzling her. Mute, she could only shake her head. Servants hurried forward to divest Henry of his robes and crown.

“Come, Lord Hugh,” said the king as his horse was brought forward. “Ride beside me.”

4

IN his youth, Helmut Villam had built a strong fort at the confluence of the Oder and Floyer Rivers. In the forty years since its founding, Walburg had grown into a substantial town ringed by two walls and further protected by the Oder River on one side and a steep chalk bluff on the other. The Villams had enriched themselves on the spoils won in their wars against the heathen Rederii and Polenie tribes, and in addition to founding two convents and a monastery, Villam had commissioned a cathedral.

Despite the drizzle, Zacharias could see its square tower from their fortified camp set up around a ruined watchtower that overlooked the steep river valley.

He could also see a Quman army encamped on the river plain outside Walburg’s palisade and double ditch.

If they captured him, he’d go for the quick death. Fear warred with hatred; neither could win. All that mattered right now was that he didn’t see the mark of the Pechanek clan displayed from any of the tent poles. As long as Bulkezu was far away, he could survive the morning with a stalwart heart.

“My lord prince.” Captain Fulk came in with the evening’s report. “Everwin and Wracwulf killed another Quman scout and brought in his wings.”

Under the shelter of an awning strung between the walls of the ancient round tower, Prince Sanglant lounged at his ease on a pillow while he rolled dice with his daughter and her nursemaid. Soldiers sat around them sharpening swords, polishing helmets, and repairing harness. A handful of young lords sat uncomfortably in this rustic camp, used, perhaps, to more luxurious campaigns, but Sanglant rode without the extravagance of camp followers, concubines, and an extensive baggage train. Unlike most nobles, he shared the conditions of his soldiers. It was one of the reasons they loved him.

Several braziers had been set out, over which strips of meat roasted; smoke stung Zacharias’ eyes as he ducked in from the back.

“This is the fifth group we’ve encountered and certainly the largest. Have we an estimate of their numbers yet?”

“Not more than two hundred, Your Highness.”

Blessing jumped to her feet and dashed over to present Fulk, one of her favorites, with two of the dice. “You roll ’em,” she said enthusiastically, as pure a command as Zacharias had ever heard. “You roll ’em, Cappen Fulk.”

He grinned. Like the rest of the company, he would have walked through fire for his little empress, as they called her. “I’ll roll them, Your Highness, but I’ve got to make this report to my lord prince first.”

She glanced at her father, stamped her foot impatiently, but quailed at once when Sanglant frowned at her. With a fierce expression of disgust, she crossed her arms on her chest and glowered.

“I pray you, Your Highness, come sit beside me while you wait.” The nursemaid’s hoarse little voice was like a soft echo of the prince. “We haven’t done carding that wool.”

“Don’t want to.”

“But you shall,” said Sanglant.

“Shall not!”

“Than I shall do it myself,” said the nursemaid tartly, sitting back and beginning to card wool over the comb. “Because I like to do it and I don’t want to share doing it with you.”