“Are you a dog unwilling to fight? I call that submitting.”
“These are cheap tricks meant to goad me. I’ll fight if I must, but not if the odds are against us.”
“Shall we just hand Varre over,” she asked sweetly, “and pray for our Wendish cousins to place their feet atop our backs while we wallow in the dirt? We might have everything, Conrad. Everything!”
He laughed curtly. “Then you lead the charge! If you’re so eager.”
“Do not speak disrespectfully to me!”
He glowered. He was flushed, hot, irritated. The clerics drew in breath and began a new psalm.
“I praise God, and God have answered me.
God’s love is steadfast.
God’s faithfulness is eternal.”
Rage whined, ears flattening, and swung her head around to stare at the door.
“You’re right to be cautious,” said Sabella, “nor do I mean to mock you, Conrad. But I believe that my aunt is sincere in her communication with us. If we are bold, and clever, then we will rule Varre and Wendar. Just as I ought to have done all along, since I am eldest child of Arnulf.”
Conrad’s companions had settled themselves wherever they could find room, blocking many of the lines of sight beneath the vaults, although Alain could still see Sabella, Conrad, and Taillefer’s carved visage. Conrad was a good-looking man, powerfully built, tall, broad, muscular. He had a dark face and a trim black beard and mustache around mobile lips.
“What’s this?” He looked toward the doors. “Good God!”
His expression darkened. He rose, hands set on hips as he frowned.
The commotion spilled into the gathered worshipers as wind disturbs an autumn meadow, turning leaves and scattering branches. Folk exclaimed. One, unseen, cried out in fear. There came stewards in bold red tabards pushing open a path and behind them a litter borne by four servingmen. Behind these staggered a weeping nurse with a bundle swaddled in white linen nestled in her arms.
“Tallia!” said Conrad.
“What are you doing?” Sabella extended a hand, and two of her companions leaped forward to help her stand.
Yet, after all, to see her pained him. It was not an agony, only a pinprick, like a point of pressure that bit until, just piercing the skin, it drew a bead of blood. He had forgiven her. He had grown beyond her and had loved and been loved by a woman worthy of all these things. But the innocent love he had once offered Tallia was still a part of him, and that part, betrayed, could not help but remember.
Tallia reclined on the litter, propped up on pillows. She was pale, as if she had lost a great deal of blood, but her skin had a shining gleam, still swollen taut with pregnancy’s aftermath. She moaned, shifting uncomfortably. By the curve of her limbs traced by the drape of the fabric pulled tight, he saw that all trace of her ascetic’s starvation had been obliterated. Someone had made her eat, and eat well. Her beautiful wheat-colored hair was slick with sweat, all in a tangle across her torso. She lifted her head.
“Pray!” she said in a low, tortured voice. “Pray for the child. Ai! It is too late.”
Conrad struck the heel of his hand to his chest once, twice, and three times. “Ai, God! So I feared!” He wept, as a bereaved father should, and his companions wept with him.
“Bring it here!” ordered Sabella.
The nurse came hesitantly, but when she offered the child to Sabella, the noblewoman waved her away. “I can see! No need to touch it! Where is the midwife?”
No one knew.
“Hunt her down.” Sabella snapped fingers, looked around, and caught sight of Captain Lukas at the back of the crowd. His height made him easy to mark among the mob. “Your hunt, Captain. See that you find her.”
“Stay here,” he said to Alain. He gathered his men and hurried out, leaving two men, one on either side of Alain. The hounds whined, forced up against the back wall by the press of more folk crowding in to see what was going on. Tallia’s procession had attracted notice outside. Everyone was whispering.
Her shriek cut through the rumbling. “Ai! Ai! God save us!”
Lady Sabella turned to stare at her daughter. Conrad lifted his head in surprise. Tallia had pushed herself up on one elbow. With her other hand she pointed, forefinger extended, arm trembling. Her face was white, and her eyes flared in horror.
“A ghost!” she cried hoarsely. “A spirit, sent by the Enemy to haunt me!” She pointed at Alain, where he stood in the crowd. “Begone! Begone! You have no power over me!”
Conrad wiped away tears with the back of a hand. “What are you babbling about?”
