Prince of Dogs

“Let him join my schola instead,” said the king. “Sister Rosvita supervises the young clerics and the business of the court. She would be glad to attend to his education.”

“That would be a great honor,” said the lady without emotion, glancing toward Lady Tallia. She, like everyone else there, understood that her son was now a hostage for her good behavior and continued support.

Hathui cleared her throat, shifting to stretch her back. “Indeed,” she murmured so that only Liath could hear, “the king’s schola has increased vastly in numbers in these last two months, so many young lords and ladies from Varre have come to join us. They almost make up for the lack of Princess Sapientia.”

These sudden and occasional outbursts of sarcasm from Hathui never failed to surprise Liath. But since Hathui always grinned after speaking them, Liath could not be sure whether she disliked the nobles or merely found them amusing.

Liath followed the movements of young Constantine as he was brought before the king to kneel and be presented to Henry. He was even allowed to kiss the king’s hand. Would she have wished for such a life? To be given into the king’s schola, where she might study, write, and read all she wished—and be praised for it? If Da hadn’t died—

But Da had died. Da had been murdered.

She touched her left shoulder, where, when she wasn’t riding, she usually draped her saddlebag. She felt light, almost naked, without it, but she had to leave her gear wrapped in her cloak in the fortress stables. She hated to leave the bag anywhere, for fear someone would steal both it and, more importantly, the precious book hidden inside, but she’d had no choice. At least this time one of the Eagles had been left behind to guard all their various possessions while the others came to stand attendance on the king and remind these Varren lords of the king’s magnificence and his far-reaching strength.

Lions stood here, too, ranged along the walls. She caught sight of Thiadbold, by the door that led out of the great hall to the courtyard and kitchens. He was chatting with one of his comrades.

Above the buzz of conversation she heard Margrave Judith address the king. The imposing margrave terrified Liath even though Liath was certain that Judith could not know who Liath was and had no reason to connect an anonymous Eagle with her own son. Hugh was abbot of Firsebarg now, which lay west of here in northern Varingia. He had no reason to attend the king’s progress. At first, she had been afraid that Henry’s progress through Varre might take them that far, but it had not because on this journey, Henry did not need to visit a place loyal to him.

“I will take my party and ride east to my marchlands,” Judith was saying. “I will raise what levies I can, Your Majesty, but with the harvest coming, with winter after and then the spring sowing, it will be next summer before I can march on Gent.”

“What of this marriage I’ve heard you speak of?” asked the king. “Will that delay you?”

She raised her eyebrows. A powerful woman of about the same age as Henry, she had borne five children, of whom three still lived, and had outlived two husbands. Unlike Lady Svanhilde, these travails had not weakened her, and she could still ride to battle, although she had sons and sons-in-law to do that for her now. Despite herself, Liath had to admire Judith’s strength—and be grateful that strength wasn’t turned against her.

“A young husband is always eager to prove himself on the field,” she said. This statement produced guffaws and hearty good wishes, to which she replied, in a stately manner, “I see no reason he can’t fight at Gent, once we reach there. But I must return to Austra to marry, and I promised I would collect my bridegroom this past spring.” Her lips quirked up, and she looked rather more satisfied at the prospect than Liath thought seemly. “The delay brought on by Sabella’s rebellion was unexpected. I hope his kin have not given up on me.”

“It’s hot in here,” muttered Liath.

“And not just because of the conversation,” retorted Hathui with a grin. “Go outside for a bit. You won’t be needed.”

Liath nodded and sidled away from the high table. Pressing back along the wall, she got caught in an eddy of servants bringing the next course, roasted pheasants arranged on platters with their feathers opened like a fan behind them. From this vantage she could hear the conversation at the nearest table, where Sister Rosvita sat with her clerics.

“I hope he’s as handsome as they all say her first husband was,” one woman was saying.

“Her first husband wasn’t handsome, dear Sister Amabilia,” said the plump young man sitting beside her. “He was heir to considerable lands and wealth because his mother outlived her sisters and gave birth to no daughters. It was the margrave’s famous Alban concubine who was so handsome. Isn’t that right, Sister Rosvita? You were with the court then, weren’t you?”