In the Ruins

Instead of answering, she rested her head on clasped hands and murmured a lengthy prayer.

He remained silent, listening for God, but heard nothing except the sigh of wind through the upper arcades that housed the bells. Shadows hid the aisles and the painted ceiling. Even the ornamentation on the pillars was colorless, washed gray by night. Did God exist equally in the shadows and in the light?

“He loved you better,” she said suddenly.

“I know. I am sorry for your sake, Theo. You didn’t deserve to have less of his love.”

She shrugged. “I became accustomed to it.”

She was so frustrating. It was impossible to know what she was thinking. That was why folk didn’t quite trust her. He just didn’t have the patience, not anymore, but he held his tongue, waiting for her to continue.

She wasn’t looking at him. Her gaze was fixed on the coffin that rested before the altar, draped by Wendar’s banner. The mass had been sung. The hymns had gone on for hours. At dawn, Henry’s remains would be laid in the crypt beside those of his beloved mother, Queen Mathilda.

After a while, she moved the candle two finger’s breadths to the right.

“Do not forget me, Sanglant. Our father did, and I was patient. Do not believe that I will be as patient for you.”

Sometimes in battle an opening appears that must be seized in the instant or forever lost. “I have need of you now, where you can serve Wendar most ably.”

“Where is that, Brother?”

“Saony.”

“As regent?”

“No, as Rotrudis’ successor. As duchess in your own right.” There it was, the merest crack seen in the lift of her chin and the crinkling of her eyes: he had amused her.

“It is the obvious choice, Sanglant. Her daughters are fools and her son is a rutting beast. How better to placate me, who might challenge your claim to our father’s throne, than by offering me a duchy?”

“You have administered Saony ably these last few years.”

“So I have,” she agreed coolly. “It is the least I deserve. But, I suppose, the most I can hope for.”

“Is that a warning, or are you accepting the duchy?”

The dim light revealed an unlooked for glimpse of emotion as she glanced at him with eyes wide. Almost he thought she might chuckle, but she did not. “I’m tempted to see it given to Wichman, just to see those two harpies claw themselves to death with jealousy.”

Leoba choked down a laugh.

He snorted. “Wichman isn’t temperate enough to be a good steward. Saony is the heart of Wendar and always will be.”

“What of Sophie and Imma and Wichman? They cannot be so easily dismissed.”

He shrugged. “Wichman will complain, as he has always done, but he will not challenge your right to the ducal seat or mine to place you there. As for the other two—in truth, Theo, what does it matter what they say?”

“They will run to Conrad for his support. They’ve threatened to before.”

“Let them. How can those two help Conrad? Can you imagine him suffering their bickering and whining?”

“If he sees advantage in it, yes.”

“A prince without a retinue is no prince,” he countered. “Sophie and Imma bring him nothing.”

“Except a claim—an excuse—to restore them to the place you have usurped from them. An excuse to march his army into Wendar.”

“Is Conrad so ambitious?”

“Yes. He married Tallia. She has a claim to Wendar as well as to Varre. A claim as strong as yours, now that I think on it. Stronger, many would say.”

“I can fill up an army with weak-minded fools and whining cowards, but that doesn’t mean I can win a battle with them. Let Sophie and Imma run to Conrad if they wish. He is welcome to them. I suppose Wichman is too closely related for the church to approve of a marriage between you and him.”

“Wichman! Spare me that! He’s a beast.”

He was taken aback by her anger, which flooded forth so unexpectedly. “Nay, I meant it only as a jest—”

“I know. But you have spoken a truth despite yourself. The wars have killed all our men, and the rest are married.”

“It’s true the matter of a husband is a difficult one, but there must be a man sufficient to your needs and of suitable birth who can be found.”

“A faint promise,” she observed. “More whisper than shout.”

He shrugged. “A realistic one. Do you accept, Theophanu?”

She fell silent, lips closed, eyes cast down, that veil of secrecy smoothing her features once again. Behind the altar, each set on a tripod, three lamps burned steadily: one in the guise of a lion with flame flaring from its eyes and mane, one in the form of an eagle with fire snapping out of holes opening along the sweep of its wings, and the third in the shape of a dragon with head flung back and fire breathing from its jaws.