“Nay, sister, I am not what you think I am,” he said, stung by her tone. “My kinsfolk walked east to the marchlands rather than suffer under the yoke of servitude to any noble. Yet carnal desire furthers no ends but its own. Truly, you must care for yourself before you surrender to carnal urges. What if you get with child?”
“I was forced to be Lord Wichman’s whore for six months,” she said bitterly, “and yet no child fastened itself to my womb. Ai, God.” Her voice came as a sigh, ragged and desperate. “Did you see the way he looked at her?” Abruptly, she hurried away down the corridor.
With a frown, Zacharias returned to the chambers allotted to the prince, but the sight that greeted him there gave his heart no peace. Prince Sanglant stood in the center of the room, his tall, broad-shouldered form made daunting by the magnificent dragon helmet he now wore. He turned at the sound of Zacharias’ footsteps, pulling the helmet off as though he didn’t want anyone to see him wearing it.
“I fear you are about to be visited by Lord Hrodik, Your Highness,” said Zacharias.
“Lord preserve me,” muttered the prince, cocking his head to one side to listen. He held the helmet, two fingers crooked into the eye slot, as though it were a comfortable weight. “She’s with him.”
“Who is she?” asked Heribert softly from his station beside the table. He watched Sanglant closely, a compassionate half smile on his face.
“Mistress Gisela of Steleshame had a handsome niece, whose name was Suzanne. She was a fine weaver. She wove cloaks for the King’s Eagles, among other things. My Dragons and I spent a week’s worth of nights at Steleshame getting refitted by the Steleshame armorer, when we rode to Gent.” He swore then, half laughing, and tossed the helmet to the boy, Matto, who had been left in the chamber to sit in attendance on the sleeping Blessing, her slack toddler body bundled all cozy in the middle of the big bed where Sanglant took his rest.
Matto caught the helmet, grunting at its weight, and ran his hands over the gold fittings in astonished awe. “Lord bless me. I’ve never seen aught like this in the whole of my days. Not even the king has a helm so grand as this!”
“Hush, Matto,” said Sanglant, not unkindly. “Do not speak disrespectfully of King Henry, to whom God have granted Their favor.”
“No, Your Highness,” said the youth obediently.
By now, they could all hear Lord Hrodik as he approached down the hall, calling orders to one of his stewards in his wheedling, ill-tempered voice. “Go, therefore, and let the prince know we attend him at his pleasure.”
Sanglant sat down in the chamber’s only chair, a richly carved seat set on a thick Arethousan carpet woven with flowers and vines. He gestured to Matto to stand by the door. The youth scarcely had time to position himself there before a flustered steward made a great show of announcing Lord Hrodik.
By sitting down, Sanglant made the gulf between his authority and the authority of the young lord quite plain. He knew how to use his presence and his size to intimidate, and he did so now by leaning forward to brace his hands on his knees. Hrodik simpered and stammered and finally moved aside to let the young weaver step forward. She had such a high blush in her cheeks that she looked feverish. Still she would not meet Prince Sanglant’s gaze.
“Well met,” he said without any seeming irony. “It seems you are a renowned weaver in this town, Mistress.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” Boldly, she lifted her gaze to look at him, before sweeping it around the chamber, marking Heribert, Zacharias, the youth Matto by the door, the three young hounds panting under the table, who had been given to the prince as a gift by the monks of St. Gall, and finally at the bed. Now she was startled, eyes widening as she recoiled slightly. “Is this your child, Your Highness?”
“So it is,” he agreed, still watching her. “That is my daughter, Blessing.”
Mistress Suzanne found the carpet a fascinating sight, compared, at least, to the child on the bed. Such currents ran between the man and the woman that Zacharias thought that probably he could trace them, had he only the ability to see emotion as light. “A handsome and well-grown child, Your Highness. Any child must be accounted a blessing.” She faltered as though brought up short by the snap of a whip. Her flush washed pale, but her voice remained strong. “Yet not every child is conceived in blessed circumstances. Some of us become pawns, Your Highness, to those whose worldly power is greater than their fear of God.” She glanced for the first time back at her little retinue, her eager household, who stood clustered behind her staring at the prince in awe and trepidation. The man standing at the fore nodded reassuringly to her in the way of a good companion tied by bonds of trust and affection. Nothing like as handsome as the prince, he had the broad shoulders and thick forearms of a laborer, and a certain grim fatalism lay on his shoulders as he eyed the prince.
