Elliott, Kate - Crown of Stars 3 (21 page)

"You are restless," observed Henry as they strolled down along the river, away from his entourage, which consisted of the six Lions who had guarded Sanglant through the night, four servingmen, Margrave Villam, and Sister Rosvita. "You heard the news brought last night, that both regnants in Aosta are dead. There is a single heir, the Princess Adelheid."

Sanglant shrugged. He had not heard the news; once Liath had entered the hall, everything else had become a roar of meaningless chatter. She had a distinct way of walking, that of a person who has covered many leagues on her feet and found no weariness from walking as would a man or woman used to riding. The quiver rode easily on her back; she was used to its weight, and confident with it. Her braid had a distracting habit of swaying as she walked, drawing the eye down her back to the swell of her hips. She had looked at him over her shoulder. And then, when he had followed her outside, she had kissed him despite his confused confession that would have made another woman scorn him. Surely that kiss—however greatly it had disturbed him bodily—revealed the wish of her heart.

"Sanglant! You are not listening."

It took him a moment to remember where he was. He bent, scooped up a long branch, and commenced snapping it in half, and the halves in half again. It was the only way he could keep his attention from wandering back to her.

"You will lead an army to Aosta. There, you will place Lady Adelheid on the queen regnant's throne, and you will marry her. Once that is accomplished, and with my power behind you, the Aostan princes will not contest your election as king regnant. You will reign beside Adelheid, as her equal. No one can doubt your worthiness for the Aostan throne, since it is as often claimed by force as by inheritance. That is what the Aostan princes prefer, to keep their regnants weak and dependent on their power as queenmakers. Once you have established yourself in Aosta, with a royal wife and a child to prove your fertility, then it is only a small step for me to name you as my heir here in Wen-dar and Varre as well. Who will contest us then, if the prize is the restoration of the Holy Dariyan Empire? The Empire lies within our grasp at last. With you on the Aostan throne, I can march south and have myself crowned as emperor and you as my successor and heir."

The branch lay in pieces at his feet. An osprey soared above, heading upriver. The river flowed steadily along behind him; he could almost hear each least grain of dirt being spun off from the shoreline and washed away downstream, caught up in an irresistible current that would drag it all the way to the sea. He was suddenly tired. Henry, like the river, was an unstoppable force.

"Liath," he whispered. It was the only word he knew how to say.

Henry grunted in the way of a man prepared for the blow that strikes him. "As Villam warned me," he muttered. "I swear that Wolfhere sent her to plague me and ruin you."

Henry regarded the river with a frown, and Sanglant watched him, caught up without meaning to be in that strong attraction that a regnant must necessarily wind around himself, like a cloak. A regnant is no regnant without it. Henry had a strong profile, most often stern, with the dignity appropriate to the responsibility God had given him. He had as much silver as brown in his hair now, and a neat beard laced with white. Sanglant touched his own—beardless—chin, but the movement brought Henry's attention back to him.

"Very well." Henry could not conceal his annoyance, but he attempted to. "Take her as a concubine, if you must. You won't be the first man—or woman—to keep a concubine. The Emperor Taillefer was known to keep concubines while between wives. But—"

"I don't want to marry Princess Adelheid. I intend to marry Liath."

Henry laughed as if Sanglant had made a jest. "A common-born woman?"

"Her father's kin have estates at Bodfeld."

"Bodfeld?" Henry had a capacious memory; he exercised it now. "The lady of Bodfeld sends only twenty milites when called to service. Such a family can scarcely expect a match with a man of your position, and it isn't clear if the girl is of legitimate birth."

"All the better," said Sanglant sarcastically, "for one such as me. Why do you refuse to understand? I don't want to be king with princes all biting at my heels and waiting for me to go down so they can rip out my throat. I endured that for a year. I want a grant of land, Liath as my wife, and peace."

"Peace
What man or woman of royal blood can expect peace with the Eika plaguing our northern shores and Quman raids in the east? Since when have the princes of the realm allowed us to luxuriate in peace? Even the lowliest lady with her small estate and dozen servants must contend against bandits and the depredations of her ambitious neighbors. If we live our lives according to the teaching of the blessed Daisan, then we can expect peace when our souls ascend to the Chamber of Light. Not before."

Henry paced to the river's edge, where water swirled over a nest of rocks the size of eggs. Picking one up, he flung it with some impatience into the center of the current. It vanished into the slate-gray waters with a plop. He heaved a sigh; from this angle Sanglant could not see his face, only the tense set of his shoulders. He wore this morning a linen tunic of intense blue, its neck and sleeves and hem embroidered with gold lions curling around eight-pointed purple starbursts, the sigil in needlework of his wedding to quiet, cunning, luxury-loving Sophia, dead these three years.

"You have not yet recovered from your captivity," the king said finally, addressing the streaming waters. "When you do, you will regret these rash words and see the wisdom of my plan. Sapientia is brave and willing, but she was not gifted by God with the mantle of queenship. Theophanu—perhaps—if she lives—" Here he faltered, one hand clenching. "She has a cool nature, not one to inspire soldiers to follow her into the thick of battle. And Ekkehard—" The shake of his shoulders was dismissive. "Too young, untried, and foolish. He belongs in the church so that he can sing praises to God with that beautiful voice. That leaves you." Now he turned. "You wear the mantle, Sanglant. You have always worn it. They follow you into battle. They trust and admire you. You must be king after me."

"I don't want to be king. Or heir. Or emperor. Is there some other way to state it so you understand?"

The red tinge to Henry's cheeks betrayed that one of his famous rages was descending, but Sanglant surveyed the king dispassionately. Rage never frightened him in others, only in himself. Ai, Lady, but the revelation hit hard enough: Henry could do nothing to harm him, nothing worse than what Bloodheart had already done. By making Sanglant his prisoner, Bloodheart had freed him from the chains that bound him to his father's will.

"You will do as I tell you!"

"No."

Now, at last, Henry looked surprised—so surprised, indeed, that for an instant he forgot to be furious. For an instant. A moment later the mask of stone crashed down, freezing his face, and the father intent on his son's rising fortune vanished to be replaced by the visage of the king whose subjects have unexpectedly cried rebellion. "If I disinherit you, you will have nothing, not even the sword you wear. Not even a horse to ride. Not even the clothes on your back."

"Did I have any of those things before? The only thing a man can truly claim as his own is the inheritance he receives from his mother."

"She abandoned you." Henry touched his own chest at the heart. Sanglant knew what lay there, tucked away between tunic and breast: a yellowing scrap of bloodied cloth, the only earthly remains of his mother, who had left him, and Henry, and human lands long ago. "She abandoned you with nothing."

"Except her curse upon me," hissed Sanglant.

"She was not meant to live upon this earth," said Henry, voice ragged with old grief.

They looked at each other, then: the two who had been left behind. Sanglant sank down abruptly to his knees before his father, and Henry came forward to rest a hand—that careless, most affectionate gesture—on his son's black hair.

"Ai, Lady," Sanglant whispered, "I'm tired of fighting. I just want to rest."

Henry said nothing for a while, but his hand stroked Sanglant's hair gently. Wind made ripples in the water, tiny scalloped waves that shivered in the sunlight and vanished. Henry's entourage stood out of human earshot, but in the eddy of silence that lapped around the king's affection and forgiveness, Sanglant could hear them speaking to each other as they watched the scene.

"I still think it unwise." That was Sister Rosvita.

"Perhaps." That was Villam. "But I think it wise to strike for Aosta when they are weakest, and there is no question but that the prince can lead such a campaign. What comes of it in the end once Aosta is in our hands and Henry crowned emperor...well, we cannot see into the future, so we must struggle forward blindly. We must not undercut the support the other princes and nobles will give Sanglant while they do not yet know Henry's full intentions."

"Did you hear about the adder?" This voice belonged to one of Henry's stewards who stood somewhat away from Villam and Rosvita; Sanglant recognized the voice but not the name.

"Nay. An adder? Here?" That was a Lion, the red-haired one.

"Ach, yes. Bit one of Count Lavastine's hounds and then vanished. Stablemaster sent men to beat the bushes all round and smoke out any snake holes, but the local folk say they've not seen vipers 'round here for years and years. Still. It weren't no rat that bit that hound."

A thrill of alarm stung him. He staggered up to his feet, surprising his father. "What is this talk of an adder and Lavastine's hounds?"

Henry recovered his composure quickly, mingled affection, grief, and surprise smoothing back into the mask of stone, an expression that gave away nothing of his inner thoughts: Henry at his most cunning. "Indeed." He related the story, what he knew of it. "It happened at dawn. Men have beaten through the palace grounds. But none have scoured these slopes or this land here along the river." He sighed expansively. "Nay, what use? The creature has long since escaped into earth or brush."

"Not if I hunt it." Sanglant flung back his head and took a draught of air, but he smelled nothing out of the ordinary: sweat-tinged men, an aftertaste of frankincense from the dawn service, a dead fish, the evanescent perfume of lavender and comfrey growing along the far bank, manure and urine from the distant stables, the dense, faint underlay of women's holy bleeding, cook fires from the palace and the searing flesh of pork.

"Go, then," said the king quickly. "Send those Lions back, for they've been at their watch all night, and they'll send others to take their place. Where will you start?"

"Here at the base of the bluff. It may have come down through the brush."

"Take care you're not bitten, Son."

"And if I am?" he retorted bitterly. "Female and male God created them. It can't kill me."

"Search with my blessing, then."

But Sanglant had already begun the hunt, and gave no further thought to his father's swift retreat.

HANNA waited for Liath outside Count Lavastine's chamber. Liath was still stunned from the rain of gifts that had been showered on her inside. Ai, God, had Count Lavastine really given her a
horse?
She clutched Alain's ring in her hand and stared at Hanna, speechless.

"You've been called before the king." Hanna kissed her, they embraced, and then Hanna pushed back to survey Liath critically. "Everything looks in place."

"Called before the king?"

"Liath!" Hanna's tone made her jump. "Run if you want, or face it with courage. How you present yourself to the king will make a difference in whether he rules in your favor—or in Father Hugh's."

It was good advice, of course, but Liath had a claw stuck in her throat and could not get any words out.

As they walked to the great yard, they passed several Lions loitering as if waiting for her, among them her acquaintance Thiadbold. He winked at her and said, "You know where we are if you've need of aught, friend."

Did everyone know or suspect? But it took far more caution than she and Sanglant had shown to keep something secret on the king's progress. That Hugh had hidden his interest in her, until now, only betrayed how cunning he was.

"You've gained their regard," observed Hanna. "But then, you saved the lives of Lions at Augensburg."

Yet killed more than she had saved.

It was midmorning, just after Terce. The king held court out in the yard, his throne set up in the shadow of the great hall. From the kennels she heard barking as huntsmen readied hounds. Hugh and Wolfhere knelt in front of the king, Hugh somewhat closer to Henry than was Wolfhere, as befit his higher rank. Wolfhere marked her briefly; his composure irritated her. Hugh did not look toward her as Hanna walked forward beside her