PROLOGUE (7 page)

Men stumbled forward through the dawning light, forming a line where once the pickets had stood. New raiders, emboldened by the defensive posture of the king's troops, set to work on the now undefended engines.

"The king!" voices shouted far behind her. "The king rides forth!"

She hunched down behind the line of Lions and men-at-arms, a few of whom held the long ballista bolts inclined forward like spears. While the others braced themselves, spear butts dug into the ground, she sheathed her sword and readied her bow. Her mind had gone still and quiet; empty. She nocked, drew, and shot, but lost sight of the arrow in the gloom. The pounding of hooves drowned her; she could not even hear the Lions next to her speaking. Beyond, the fortress lay still. No footmen or archers had followed the lord's charge out the gates. She nocked another arrow, drew
—

The horsemen were upon them. She had only an instant to register their tabards, sewn with the device of a swan. The lead horseman, made bright by his shining mail and gleaming helm and the white coat of his horse, cleared them with a great leap. His fellows broke through, some of the horses jumping, some simply shattering the line with their weight. Only one horse faltered, screaming in pain as a spear caught it in the chest, and went down. A Lion dragged the rider from his horse.

She followed the charging horsemen with her nocked arrow but could not release it for fear of hitting the king's people. By now, all was chaos in the camp. The lord leading the charge had little interest in the infantry who hurried forward. His
milites
behind him, he headed for the tent that flew the king's banner: a huge red silk pennant marked with an eagle, a dragon, and a lion stitched in gold. His charge carried him through camp, scattering the disorganized troops who lay in his path.

King Henry had not waited for his lords. With a quilted jacket and steel cap he had mounted, taken up St. Perpetua's holy lance, and now, with no more than a dozen mounted riders at his back, he raced toward the fray. The king broke from a cluster of tents into the small parade that separated the high nobility from the rest of the camp. Henry drove his horse into a charge, lance lowered, and galloped forward in a headlong fury. Others, shouting, tried to divert his charge, but the king's horse was evidently possessed by the same fury that, smoldering for so long, had finally burst into full flame. These riders would feel the wrath that Sabella, as his kinswoman, had been spared.

From the opposite end of the parade, the lord and his retinue approached, also at full gallop. As they passed the last tent of the lower camp, the right leg of the lord's mount caught the guy rope, toppling the tent and throwing lord and horse to the ground with terrific force.

"Up, you!" cried Thiadbold, jerking Liath to her feet. A few men lay moaning or quiet on the ground around her. The rider, pulled from his horse, was dead.

She ran up the hill with the others.

Henry barely had time to pull up his charge as the lord's companions scattered in confusion. The king laid his lance against the man's chest. The lord's face was hidden by mail that draped down from the nasal of his gold-trimmed helmet.

"Yield!" cried the king in a voice that carried across the camp and caused a sudden stilling hand to press down on the battle. The man did not stir but, one by one, his companions were slain, disarmed, or forced to surrender.

"Liath! To me!" Liath ran over to Hathui and stood panting beside her. "Eagles don't fight," added Hathui in an undertone. "They witness. But you did well, comrade."

Henry did not move, simply sat his patient horse with the lance point pressed up under the mail, hard into the lord's vulnerable throat.

In this way he waited as his Wendish lords hurried to form up around him, the crippled Villam chief among them. Margrave Judith directed the mopup: prisoners herded into a group, horses tied up, the fires put out
—although two of the ballistae had already collapsed into ashy heaps.

As the sun rose, the gates of the fortress yawned open again. A great lady, mounted on a brown mare whose trappings had as much gold and silver woven into them as a biscop's stole, rode between two deacons dressed in simple white and two holy fraters in drab brown. Her retinue, all unarmed, crowded behind her. Already a wailing had risen from the back of their ranks, keening and mourning.

Henry gestured with his free hand and his men parted to let Lady Svanhilde through his lines. She approached, was helped to dismount by one of her stewards, and knelt before the king.

"I beg you, Your Majesty," she said, her voice shaken with grief. "Let me see if my son yet lives. I beg you, grant us your mercy. This was no plan of mine. He is a rash youth, and has listened too long to the poets singing the music of war."

"You would have been better served to come before me yesterday, when first we arrived," said the.king, but he withdrew his lance from the body.

Lady Svanhilde unbuckled the helm and drew it back. Her sudden gasp made clear what was not yet apparent to all. The young man was dead although no mark of war stained his body. He had died in the fall from his horse. His mother began to weep, but in a dignified way.

"This gives me no pleasure," said the king suddenly in a voice made hoarse by remembered grief. "I, too, have lost a beloved son."

She pressed a hand to her heart and stared down for a long time on the slack face of the young man. She was an old woman, frail, with thin bones. When she stood, she needed help to rise. But pride shone in her face as she regarded the king who sat above her, still mounted, his holy lance given into the care of Helmut Villam. "He followed Lady Sabella, although I counseled against it."

"And your loyalties?" demanded Biscop Constance, who had come forward now that the fighting was over.

"Your Grace." Lady Svanhilde inclined her head, show
‍
ing more respect to the biscop than she had to the king. "We bow to the regnant."

Margrave Judith snorted. "Now that you are compelled to!"

"Necessity breeds hard choices," said the lady without flinching. "I will do what I am commanded, because I must."

"Let her be," said Henry suddenly. "Feed us this night, Lady Svanhilde, give us the tithe I ask for, and we will be on our way in the morning."

"What tithe is that?" Several Wendish lords gasped to hear a defeated noble question terms.

"I need men, horses, and armor to retake the city of Gent, which has fallen to the Eika. This is the tax I set upon you and all the other Varren nobles who followed Sabella. Her fight cost me much of my strength, which you and your countryfolk will return to me."

Lady Svanhilde poured the king's wine and served him with her own hands at the feast. Her children served his children, the two margraves, the biscop, and certain other high nobles whose rank demanded they be served with equal honor to the rest. Liath, standing with Hathui behind the king's chair, tried not to listen to the rumbling of her own stomach. As one of the lucky ones, she would get leftovers from the feast fed to the nobles.

As usual, Lady Tallia had pride of place beside her uncle, King Henry, but the young princess merely picked at her food, contenting herself with so little that Liath wondered how she could keep up her strength.

"As you see," said Henry to Lady Svanhilde, indicating Tallia, "Sabella's only child rides with me." He looked carefully at the three children serving at the feast. One, a girl of about twelve years of age, had a face pale from crying; as her aunt's heir, she served the king's children, Theophanu and Ekkehard. Svanhilde's two sons served the other high nobles. One was a boy of no more than eight, so nervous that a steward hovered at his elbow, helping him to set platters down without breaking them and to pour without spilling. The other was a boy somewhat older than Ekkehard, not yet at his majority. His manners were perfect and his expression grimly serious.

"These are your remaining children?" asked Henry.

Svanhilde gestured to a steward to bring more wine. "I have a son in the monastery my grandmother founded. This boy, Constantine
—" She indicated the elder of the two boys. "—is to join the schola at Mainni next spring, when he turns fifteen."

"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 Ha
‍
thui 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?"