In the Ruins

“Who are you?” she demanded, planting fists on hips as she jutted out her chin. She looked to be about twelve or thirteen years of age, which was manifestly impossible, but her behavior suggested that of a much younger child. “You’re dirty!”

The empress looked down on the child, not kindly. “I am the one who holds you hostage.”

“You do not!”

The barbarian archer twitched and slid a hand toward his quiver.

“Put it down, Odei,” said young Villam. “Best to see what they want before we get ourselves killed in a hopeless fight.”

The man glanced at Princess Blessing, then nodded. He served the girl, but obeyed the youth, who already possessed his father’s calm habit of command. Yet hadn’t this boy died years ago? She had a vague memory of a tale told of Villam’s youngest son vanishing beneath a stone crown. And hadn’t Sanglant’s and Liath’s baby been born only five years past? This could not be the same infant she remembered.

There was one among the prisoners who could answer her questions. One who watched without expression as the other six looked, each according to her nature, alarmed, angry, rebellious, puzzled, thoughtful, or scared.

“Now we have something Henry’s bastard son wants,” said Adelheid. “If you will, Lavinia, lock them away, but do not neglect them. These are a fine treasure. This will serve us well.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Captain, place guards in the North Tower and install them there.”

“Yes, my lady. At once.”

“Will you ransom us?” asked the youth boldly.

“If it serves my purpose,” replied Adelheid, looking him over. She nodded. “You must be Helmut Villam’s son. The resemblance is remarkable. Are you one of his by-blows? I understood he had no legitimate sons still living.”

The lad smiled, reminding Antonia even more of Villam, who had known how to use his charm to advantage. “That mystery must remain unanswered.” His pause was not quite insolent, not quite proud. “Your Majesty.”

She laughed, amused by him, liking his face and his manners, although he was still a youth and she long since a woman. Still, the gap in years was not that great. Stranger matches had happened. “Take them. I’ll have that bath, Lavinia, with thanks.”

“Go,” said Lavinia to her captain.

Antonia stumbled forward and grabbed the cleric’s sleeve as, in the confusion, he hesitated while the guards pressed the others into the courtyard. He turned and looked at her, not appearing at all surprised to see her. In the solemn morning light, his eyes appeared more blue than hazel. A trio of guards waited to escort him while the rest dispersed. The child had begun to complain again in that irritating voice.

“I don’t want to go to the tower! I want to go to—”

“You deserted me,” Antonia said, keeping her voice low so others would not hear. Long had it festered. Until this moment, she hadn’t realized how angry he had made her. “You disobeyed me! I never gave you permission to leave me.”

“I remember you,” said Heribert in a voice not his own. “He never liked you.”

“What do I care if he liked me or not! He is a bastard, no better than a dog! It is your desertion of the one to whom you owe allegiance that offends God.”

“I acted because of what was in my heart. I loved him, but he is lost to me and I can love no other.”

She slapped him.

His face, so finely bred and once so familiar, seemed that of a stranger as he carefully drew his sleeve out of her grasp and turned to the guards. “I would follow them I know,” he said with his back to her as if she were no better than a servant. No one to whom he owed fealty. No one who mattered one whit to him.

She fell, and fell, into the Pit, into a fit of coughing furious sickening rage, but he was already beyond her and she would not make a scene with servants walking past and Captain Falco watching beside the door with rebuking curiosity.

“Are you well, Your Excellency? I pray you are not ill.”

Falco did not so pray. He distrusted her. Few could love the righteous. They envied and hated them instead.

But her son. Her own son, for whom she had sacrificed so much!

Heribert would be punished, of course. Did it not state in the Holy Verses that children were commanded to respect and honor their mothers and fathers, or else be stoned to death?

Yet Heribert was weak. She knew that because she had raised him to be weak and compliant. It was the bastard, the false one, the enemy—Prince Sanglant—who had corrupted him.