“That is for Our Lord and Lady to judge,” said Mother Scholastica sternly, “not for us to trouble ourselves over. Many books were written by the ancients on this question—whether the Lost Ones had souls—but this is not the time or place to debate that issue. Come, Henry. You are tiring our mother.”
“No,” said the old queen. “I am not tired. If you speak to me of your grief, Henry, perhaps that will ease it.” She looked up, her gaze sharper than Liath had expected from a bedridden woman. “Villam is here.”
It struck Liath suddenly that Helmut Villam was as old as Queen Mathilda. Despite his crippling injury, he had far more vigor, the energy of a much younger person. The margrave came forward, kissed her hand, then retired to the door. The queen acknowledged Rosvita next, clasped the cleric’s hands in her own in the sign of fealty. “My History?” she asked with a gentle smile. “How does it progress?”
The cleric’s smile in answer was brief but sweet. “I hope to complete the First Book this year, Your Majesty, so that you may have it read to you and learn of the illustrious deeds of the first Henry and his son, the elder Arnulf.”
“Do not tarry too long, my sister, for your words interest me greatly, and I fear I have not too many more days upon this earth.”
Rosvita bowed her head, touching her forehead to the old queen’s wrinkled hands. Then she stood and retreated.
“Who are these?” the old woman asked, looking at the two Eagles.
Henry glanced back. At first he appeared surprised. Then he registered Hathui. “My faithful Eagle,” he said wryly. He looked beyond Hathui—Liath flinched when his powerful gaze focused on her. For an instant it was like Hugh’s gaze, penetrating, absolute; like the strike of lightning, it could obliterate her. But Henry only marked her and looked away without further interest. “This other Eagle was at Gent. Together with Wolfhere she witnessed the destruction of the Dragons and the death of—” His voice broke, unable to speak the name of his dead son.
“Together with Wolfhere,” said the queen thoughtfully, as if the name meant something to her. Liath stared at the gray stone, at its uneven surface and rough grade. No polished marble or fine granite blocks graced this common nun’s cell. “Come forward, child.”
One did not disobey a queen, even one who now professed to be a nun, not when she used that tone of voice. Liath hooked a foot under her body, stood, took seven small steps forward, and knelt again. Only then did she look up.
Gray eyes as cool as winter storm clouds and yet with a deep calm beneath them met Liath’s gaze. “You are some relation to Conrad the Black, perhaps?” Queen Mathilda asked. “I have seen such coloring nowhere else, except perhaps in—” She made a tiny gesture with one hand, a scissoring of fingers quickly made and quickly vanished. Mother Scholastica rose and left the cell. Henry still gripped his mother’s other hand, the one that lay so still upon the rough wool blanket. Mathilda had the most delicate wrists Liath had ever seen on an adult. Her small hands were weathered with work, for Queen Mathilda was famous for serving in common with the other nuns, such was her humility. “You are no relation?”
Liath shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.
“You were in Gent?”
Liath nodded. Lady Above, please let her be satisfied with this knowledge; please let her not demand that Liath tell the entire awful heart-wrenching tale again, so that she had to live through it again: that last vision seen through fire, Sanglant struck down by an Eika ax and Bloodheart gloating above his fallen body, holding aloft in his bare bloody hand the golden neck torque that signified the prince’s royal kinship.
At that moment Liath realized Queen Mathilda did not wear the golden torque, though her son and daughter did. But she was not born of the royal lineages of Wendar and Varre. She had only married into the family. At this moment, under that calm gray but utterly penetrating gaze, Liath could not remember where Mathilda came from, of what kin, of what country—only that she had ruled as queen beside Arnulf the Younger, his second wife, and that she now examined Liath with keen interest and not a little understanding.
“You knew Sanglant,” she said.
Liath nodded, dared say nothing in answer. I loved Sanglant. But the prince was not for her; even Wolfhere had warned him away from her. “Down that road I dare not walk,” Sanglant had said to her, for was he not an obedient son? “Be bound, as I am, by the fate others have determined for you. That way you will remain safe.”
But the fate that had bound Sanglant, captain of the King’s Dragons and bastard son of a king, was nothing like the fate she struggled against, whose bonds she could not even recognize. Just as well, she thought bitterly, that he was killed. It was only safe to love someone who was already dead.