In the Ruins

Berthold’s laugh rang merrily. “After all those pastries, I may yet wish I were that cat—”

Above, the queen said, “Hit him. Make him talk.”

A slap fell hard on flesh.

“Stop it! Stop it, you bitch!”

“Shit!” swore Berthold, from below. “Who is that?”

“The other prisoner, my lord. Dark as honey, that one, and I’m sure she tastes as sweet. I didn’t know Wendish women came so dark, like Jinna. But she carries herself like a duchess and she’s Wendish, all right, the bitch.”

A second slap cracked, from above. From below, feet scrambled on the steps. Heribert’s brow furrowed as he considered Antonia’s face, or the bright tapestry depicting a hunting scene, or the air itself, perhaps, where the sunlight caught the drifting of dust motes. His gaze was focused on no single thing.

She set foot on the lowest rung as Berthold’s head appeared in the open trap.

Above, a scuffle broke out. There came another slap, a muffled shriek, and a woman’s sharp curse. Blessing screamed.

“Sit down!” roared Captain Falco.

“You’ll not treat me in this manner! Get your hands off me, you pig!”

“I pray you, child,” said a new voice, a man’s voice. “Sit down.”

Antonia recognized that voice. She climbed as Berthold dashed across the floor and, seeing her on the ladder, hopped from one foot to the other because he was too well bred to demand she hurry up.

She had trouble clambering out onto the floor above. By the time she got to her feet, Berthold had swarmed up the ladder behind her, and he stood there, skin flushed, eyes wide, and mouth open as he stared.

The queen was furious; spots of color burned in her cheeks. This kind of unrestrained anger never made her prettier.

The servant girl, Anna, had Blessing clasped in a tight embrace. The princess looked ready to kick, but did not.

A white-haired man was bound to a chair. Two guards stood behind him. Captain Falco, looking as angry as Antonia had ever seen him and bearing a fresh scratch on his face, had his big hands clamped around the wrists of a dusky young woman who appeared to be about the same age as Berthold.

“Elene!” young Villam cried, in the Wendish manner, dragging out each syllable: Ehl-leh-ney. “Elene of Wayland!”

Captain Falco released her. The newcomer turned to look at the elderly man, who nodded at her before looking toward Berthold.

“You look like Berthold, Villam’s youngest son,” said the one called Elene. “I remember you from the king’s schola, where I was held hostage.”

“You remember me?” said Berthold in the tone of a man who has just fallen heels over head in love.

“Of course. The others weren’t kind to me, not as you were. They called me names. They were jealous of my father, of course.”

“Elene of Wayland,” said Adelheid. She folded her hands and tucked them close against her belly as might a child who has been warned not to snatch at a piece of sweet cake it particularly wants. “Are you Conrad’s daughter?”

The girl looked at her, just that, then turned her back most insultingly and crossed to kneel beside the elderly man. “Have they hurt you, Wolfhere?”

“Hush!” hissed Anna in a too-loud voice as Blessing squirmed in her arms. “Hush, my lady!”

“I want to go to Berthold!”

Anna let her go, and Blessing bolted across the room and flung herself so hard against Berthold that he staggered and almost plunged down through the trap.

“Brat! Hold, there! I can’t breathe.”

But he didn’t look at her. He had not once taken his gaze from Duke Conrad’s beautiful daughter, who had, against all expectation, turned up in Aosta under the protection of Brother Lupus, known as Wolfhere, the last of Anne’s cabal.

How very interesting.

“Enough!” Adelheid tugged pointlessly at her sleeves as she struggled to recover her composure. “Let the Eagle stew in the hole until he is willing to tell us why he travels north through Aosta without a retinue and with a duke’s heir in his talons. Conrad’s daughter may remain with her royal cousin for now.”

“I don’t want her!” retorted Blessing, who was still clinging to Berthold. “I don’t like her.”

“I’ll show you, you little beast!” said Elene, with a spark of gleeful spite as she spun to face Blessing. “You think I don’t know how to discipline nasty little sisters?”

“Hush, Blessing!” scolded Berthold. “Duke Conrad is your father’s cousin. You’ll treat Lady Elene with respect.”