Hanna looked him over, the smooth cheeks and vivid, almond-shaped eyes, the breadth of his shoulders under armor, the lift of his chin to draw attention to his handsome profile. He had tucked his helmet under his arm, a gesture eerily reminiscent of Prince Sanglant, the better, no doubt, to display his wealth of glossy black hair. “How can that be?” she said, having learned something of him in the last weeks. “Is there any man handsomer than you?”
“One,” he admitted. “I saw him in a dream. But he had golden hair, spun from sunlight.” He grinned, on the verge of laughing. “Women love a handsome man. Why, women already married have risked death to creep between my furs. Why are you so hardhearted? I’ll make you chief among my wives.”
“I thought Quman men did not marry outside the tribes.”
“Any man would be a fool not to marry a Kerayit shaman’s luck if she offered herself to him.”
“This one hasn’t offered herself to you.”
He laughed. “Yes, better that you stay out of my bed. I respect you now, but I wouldn’t once I’d conquered your body.”
“Which do you want?” she said, irritated by his games.
“I want victory.”
“Against whom?”
“Against anyone who stands in my way.”
A drum rapped smartly in the distance, answered by a second. He cocked his head to one side, listening to the message they brought. He whistled, turned aside his horse, and his night guard fell in around him. Hanna had no choice but to follow; she couldn’t escape their net. Twilight washed the prisoners to gray, but the darkening light could not hide the smell of despair or the stink of diarrhea and sickness. An infant cried on and on and on. Hanna was suddenly hungry, smelling meat roasting up ahead, brought on the wind, but the appetizing scent curdled in her stomach as they rode alongside the line of prisoners, many of whom would not eat this night and had not eaten last night or the night before.
While she feasted tonight, a child would die of starvation, just as one had last night, and the night before. The Eagle’s burden had never weighed as heavily as it had these last months, since her capture. She had to witness and remember, so that, in time, she could report to the king. Sometimes that was the only thing that kept her going: her determination to report to the king.
Bulkezu moved out to greet the last raiding party, come in to report. Truly, some things would be more difficult to report to King Henry than others.
Prince Ekkehard and his companions had taken to wearing princely Quman armor, cobbled together from armored coats stripped off of dead men, felt coifs, looted Wendish cloaks made rich by fur linings, supple leather gloves, painted shields, everything but the wings, which they had not earned. Everything but the shrunken heads, which not even Ekkehard had the stomach for.
They had brought loot, and news. Lord Boso was called back from the vanguard to translate as Lord Welf delivered the report.
“Lord Hedo’s fort was stripped of soldiers and easy to take. The servants said his son marched west last autumn with fifty men to fight in Saony.”
“Who is fighting in Saony?” asked Hanna.
“Duchess Rotrudis’ children.” With his highborn arrogance, meaty hands, and scarred lip, Welf looked remarkably like a fool to her, especially when he could barely bring himself to answer her just because she was common born. He only spoke to her because Bulkezu had a habit of whipping, and once castrating, men who treated Hanna disrespectfully: not warming the water brought for her bath, not getting out of her way fast enough as she walked through camp, daring to look her in the eye, who bore the luck of a Kerayit shaman.
The loot gained at the fort was a fine haul: gold vessels; silver drinking cups; ivory spoons; and two tapestries.
“His Contemptuousness bids you keep what you have earned,” said Boso, translating for Bulkezu. “For are you not brothers? Are you not honorable, in the way of all noble folk?”
How Bulkezu kept his expression blank Hanna did not understand, considering the insulting way Boso had of speaking. It was another one of his charades, the games he played incessantly with his prisoners, because even Ekkehard, for all that he now rode and fought with the army, was nothing more than a glorified hostage made much of and let range wide on a leash. Ekkehard had women, he had silks, he had meat and wine, and he had his own honor guard, which he evidently chose not to recognize for what it was: his jailers. Let him get dirty enough with raiding under Bulkezu’s banner and it would be too late for him to go back to his father’s hall and authority.
No doubt Bulkezu counted on it. He didn’t care one whit for Ekkehard. He had just found a more amusing way to ruin him.
