They all snickered and guffawed, but some watched her and Theophanu closely. Rosvita could not hide her scorn, but Theophanu had the Arethousan gift of showing no emotion; her expression remained guileless and haughty.
“There is much sickness in the town.” Rosvita had brought silver with her, but she wondered now if a bribe would seem too suspicious. “Both my young Sister and I are healers, and God have spoken to us and told us to come minister as we can among the sick and the sinful. And we shall wait here, praying, in this camp and tell each of our sisters in sin that they must turn aside from the path of folly and uncleanliness, for every day and every week as long as you are here, my brothers, until we are allowed to go inside to help those who are in need.”
As a threat, it worked well enough. None of the guards wanted holy sisters praying publicly and attracting attention to the illicit activity taking place under the shadow of the siege.
“Go on! Follow the whores! You’ll get less pleasure from them than we did, I’d wager!”
With laughter and mocking calls at their backs, they crossed the no-man’s-land, the empty stretch of ground that marked out a bow’s shot from the walls, and came to the postern gate.
The city guards were thinner, and less cheerful, and didn’t want to let them in in case they were spies sent by Ironhead. Rosvita had to bribe one with silver to get through the gate, but after he’d palmed the slender bars, he took her despite that to the guardhouse. The stone barracks built up against the wall stank of filth and excrement, and most of the soldiers lounging on the cots or on the floor were sick with colds or open, raw sores. But they did not look dispirited. The stone walls wept moisture; it stank of mold and unwashed sweat. Rosvita sneezed, and their escort murmured reflexively: “Health to you, Sister. May the Enemy’s creatures all flee your body and leave you whole.”
The captain had his own windowless room at the base of the guardhouse. There was no door, only a ragged cloth hung across the threshold. A rash covered one side of the captain’s face, and his nose wept mucus. The soldier set the silver bribe down on the table before him while he sipped at a cup of wine and eyed them with the resignation of a man who has heard it all.
“I tolerate the whores and the peddlers because every scrap of bread they bring in gives us a brief reprieve on our stores of grain. And because they bring us news. But I have no patience for spies, even ones robed as clerics.”
“And I have no patience with fools,” said Theophanu, coming to life at last. She had remained silent for a long time. “I am Theophanu, daughter of King Henry of Wendar.” As if she knew he might doubt her claim, she pulled her robe away from her neck to reveal her gold torque.
That was all it took.
The captain jumped to his feet. “Your Highness! I’d heard that a force had come from the north, but I thought it was just a rumor. People will say anything to get a scrap of bread, and Ironhead’s men aren’t idiots. They know to feed us lies. If this is true—”
“If it is true,” Theophanu pointed out coolly, “then you had better escort us to Queen Adelheid at once.”
Their escort led them through winding streets to the heart of Vennaci: a huge open square fronted on four sides by the cathedral, the town hall, the marketplace, and the palacio. There they were handed over to the care of a steward. The servants who haunted the palacio corridors, like the soldiers, looked thin, but nowhere in the streets or among the soldiery or the citizens of Vennaci did Rosvita see panic or the flush of desperation which precedes defeat. There was enough water, and obviously someone was doing a good job of administering the food supply.
But the grain stores couldn’t hold out forever.
A steward dressed in a rich indigo tunic led them to the courtyard that lay at the center of the stately palacio, the heart of hearts, the pulse of the city. Flowering vines made the arcades a riot of purple flowers. Bees hummed. Noblewomen sat on ornate benches, petting monkeys and little dogs who wore gold chains as leashes. Servants swept clean brick pathways shaded by plum trees. A gardener watered a bed in lavender, lilacs, and brilliant peonies with a ceramic pitcher so finely made that a noble lady would not have felt disgraced to use it for refreshment in her chamber. A hedge of bay lay soberly along the south prospect. There the courtyard, enclosed on three sides by the palacio, gave way to a vista of the plain below. Ironhead’s army lay encamped on that plain, tents and banners seen from here in distant, muted colors like a fresco laid on against the sky.
There was no throne, no central seat, only benches laid out at tasteful intervals among the planting beds: rosemary, rue, sage, and roses. But among the many souls populating the garden, Rosvita recognized the queen at once, although she had never seen her before. She sat on a bench like any other of the noblewomen, and was dressed no more richly than they without the crown of regnancy or the gold torque of royal kinship common in the north. Draped at her feet lay, not a little pug dog or a chittering monkey, but a spotted leopard, lithe and handsome, with lazy eyes and a tense curve to its shoulders. It purred, more of a rumble, as she rubbed it with one slippered foot as casually as if she did not realize it could take off that delicate foot at the ankle with a single bite.
