“Of course, I am inclined to support you in any case, Sanglant.”
“Are you?” He was either very drunk or very tired.
Her smile hadn’t any answering softness in it. “We live in a time of troubles. Eika raid from the north while Quman strike at us from the east. Machteburg burned to the ground, did you hear that? For two years running there have been poor harvests in the marchlands. A hailstorm flattened a church south of here this spring. A two-headed lamb was born in Duchess Rotrudis’ lands. A child here in Walburg was born with six fingers. Along the north coast a thousand birds washed up on the shore, all of them dead. Half of the fraters wandering in my lands speak heresy instead of truth, and the people listen to them. In a time of troubles, the land must have a strong leader.”
“My father is a strong leader.”
“So he is, but he thinks too much about Aosta and Taillefer’s crown. We need a strong leader here in Wendar and the marchlands. Sapientia is weak, Theophanu is cold, and Ekkehard is young and by all reports foolish, if not already dead. But we march lords have not forgotten that Henry has one other child.”
Sanglant had been resting his head on his hands, but now he pushed himself up. “What intrigue is Villam hatching?”
“My father loves Henry. No man loves the king better. But my father loves Wendar most of all.” She fished into her sleeve and drew out a gold torque, holding it up. Its metal gleamed richly; light winked on the braided surface. “You no longer wear your gold torque, my lord prince. But you should.”
He hissed sharply, taken aback by the precious ornament hanging so casually from her hand.
“I pray you,” she went on, her voice sliding into a sweet languor as she dangled the torque from her fingers, “let me see how it becomes you.”
Anna was old enough to understand what went on between men and women. That Sanglant was aroused was evident enough; he was flushed with more than the wine. Women were subtler but not always more difficult to interpret. Only a fool or a child would not have known what was on Waltharia’s mind at this moment.
Blessing grunted in her sleep, rolled over, and nudged up against Anna, who squeezed her eyes shut and desperately tried to keep still even though Blessing’s elbow was jabbed against her ribs.
“We wintered at Gent.” That hoarse scrape in his voice gave his words a nostalgic tone but in truth, his voice always sounded like that. “There was a woman there, a servant in the palace. Frederun. She wept when I left.”
“Thinking already of the gifts she would no longer get from you.”
“No. She was genuinely sorry to see me go.”
“So will I be, Sanglant.” She spoke the words teasingly, but he did not respond in kind.
“That’s not what I meant. It didn’t seem right somehow, to use her that way. It seemed as though I’d offered her something she desperately wanted and then snatched it out of her hands.”
“I don’t understand you,” said Waltharia impatiently. “I am a woman, just as she is. You know well enough what appeal you have to us, or at least you once knew it well enough to encourage our sighs and offers, and I know you have never suffered a lack of interest on our part. She was lucky you paid her any attention at all.”
“Was she?” he murmured, but Waltharia either did not hear or did not reply. Sanglant sighed sharply. Blessing gave a snorting sigh as if in answer and rolled away, flinging an arm out as she shifted. She had grown into a remarkably unquiet sleeper.
Lying still, Anna risked opening one eye.
Sanglant still sat on the bed, looking intent but rather rumpled, as though he’d already taken a few rolls in the hay. He fingered his hair, playing with the tips, needing something to do with his restless hands.
“Where is my schola?” he asked at last.
“They were given my leave to sleep by the hearth in the hall this night.”
At last he rose, walking to the window, leaning out to stare into the night just as Waltharia had done before him. His embroidered tunic showed off the breadth of his shoulders and the tapering line of his torso and hips. Anna was old enough now to note that men were good-looking. Sometimes she peeked at Matto, watching the changes overcome his youthful body, but she had never precisely thought of the prince himself in those terms. He was too old, and too high above her. The night breeze breathed in his hair, stirring black strands along his neck.
“It would be treason to rise against my father,” he said to the night sky.
“Walburg is a stout fortress, Your Highness. I do not doubt I can bide here safely, despite war and famine. But my people will not do as well, and if they suffer, then what kind of steward am I? Will there be anything left for my children, and my children’s children, to rule? I cannot take that chance.”
