Child of Flame

Henry knew well the proper use of ceremony. His stewards dressed him quickly in his robes of state, and Rosvita hastily anointed him with a dab of holy oil on his forehead before placing the crown of Wendar and Varre on his head. In such state, and with his court and all the noble ladies and lords of Aosta assembled around him, he presided over a formidable gathering.

The sun beat down. Wind rippled through the assembled banners and bent the tall grass. The Wendish army, waiting beyond, made a thousand quiet noises, horses whinnying, men calling out, the creak of leather and the snap of cloth as they, too, held ready in case of a trick.

Henry did not rise when Ironhead’s emissaries arrived and were allowed to approach the royal presence. But he looked surprised to see the man who strode at their head, brilliantly arrayed in handsome robes and the distinctive scarlet cloak worn only by presbyters. As beautiful as the sun. It always surprised Rosvita each time she saw him.

Hugh.

Henry had not ruled successfully for twenty years because surprises could overset him. One finger stirred, stroking the carven head of a dragon; otherwise he did not move nor give any further impression of amazement. The standard of the realm of Wendar and Varre stirred, belling out, then sagged back to conceal the bright animals embroidered there, the sigils of his regnancy.

He spoke in the king’s most forbidding tone. “Hugh of Austra, son of Judith. Did I not send you to Aosta to stand trial before the holy skopos, on the grounds that you had soiled your hands with sorcery?”

Hugh bowed with the precisely correct degree of inclination, neither too proud nor too humble. “So you did, Your Majesty. I was judged and found wanting, but the skopos is merciful, may her soul be at rest. She saw fit to take me into her service so that I could serve God and the church in recompense for my sins.”

“Yet who is it you serve,” asked Henry in a dangerously soft voice, “when you walk forward now as an envoy from John Iron-head?”

“I serve God, of course, Your Majesty.”

Henry’s smile was as dangerous as his tone. “Wisely spoken. Yet you still stand there, while my army and my loyal retinue stand behind me.”

Hugh gestured to his servants, who carried forward a basket, which they set in front of him. “No man may serve two earthly masters, Your Majesty. This I know well enough, for I was raised by my mother, who has always supported you faithfully.”

“So she has.”

“I have always been your loyal subject. That is why I made a place for myself at Ironhead’s court.”

Truly it was said that God favored the virtuous, and Hugh appeared so devoutly virtuous—as though butter would not melt in his mouth—that Rosvita shuddered with foreboding and moved forward to stand beside the king, thinking that maybe she could deflect whatever sorcerous spell Hugh meant to cast upon them.

Adelheid put a hand over her mouth and nose, grimacing. “I smell something terrible.”

Rosvita smelled it, too, a sour iron taste like the odor of magic. She touched the king’s arm and bent to whisper in his ear. “Your Majesty, I beg you—”

Hugh was too fast for her.

He signaled. One of his servants whipped aside the cloth that covered the basket. Adelheid cried out, choked, and barely staggered out of her chair before vomiting on the ground while one of her ladies held her.

Henry leaped to his feet.

“I beg your pardon, Queen Adelheid.” Hugh took the cloth from the servant and gently placed it over the grisly thing lying on straw in the basket. “I did not intend to upset anyone.”

But the image of it had seared into Rosvita’s mind. Even if she hadn’t recognized that beak of a nose and those wretched features, frozen in a death grimace, she would have known anywhere the iron crown Lord John had worn to spite his enemies, now tumbled in blood-soaked straw.

Adelheid sipped wine and turned back, her face pale but her expression gloating. “It is what he deserved. Stick it on a lance. John’s head is the banner that will clear our path to Darre.”

The king walked to the basket and drew the cloth aside again. Henry had always been a cautious man, inclined to listen to others but to check for himself. He grabbed the head by its hair and hoisted it. Clotted fluids dripped from the severed neck onto the sodden straw. A spike had been driven through Lord John’s temple.

“Very well,” he said, calling over one of his captains. “Ironhead will precede us to Darre.” He dropped the head back into the basket, which shuddered at the impact. He turned to Hugh. “His body?”

“In camp.”