Sanglant stepped past the girl and walked to the side table. He poured water from a pitcher into a copper basin, splashed his face until water ran down his chin to drip into the basin, and swiped a hand across his beardless chin. Without thinking, he licked the drops of water off his palm. His back remained stiff with anger, or despair. “Not an hour goes by that I do not think of her,” he said to the basin, “yet does she call for me? Does she seek me? She lives, but she journeys elsewhere. Just like my mother.”
“Have you a nursemaid for the child?” the girl asked in her funny little voice.
“I had one,” he said bitterly, “but my wife took her from me.”
“I can care for children.”
“We are riding east to war, child. There will be no fine carpets and warm feet with my company. I’ve no use for camp followers who slow me down, and who run at each least glimpse of danger.”
She had a hard stare, like a young hawk’s. In a way she reminded Zacharias of Hathui: fearless, sharp, confident, and irritatingly persistent. “I survived a spring and summer in Gent when Bloodheart ruled here. I’m not afraid.”
The prince regarded her with a half-forgotten smile on his face. She stared right back at him. She had her hair pulled back in a braid, and she wore a good wool tunic, neatly woven, with two roses embroidered at the collar for decoration. A wooden Circle of Unity hung at her chest.
At the door, Matto cleared his throat. “My lord prince? Here is the weaver returned to speak to you.”
Mistress Suzanne appeared at the threshold, her face drawn and her hands wringing the fabric of her skirt as she sidled into the chamber. “Your Highness, I—Ach, Anna! There you are! I thought we’d lost you.”
“I’m going east,” said Anna stoutly. “I’m to be the nursemaid for the young princess.”
“But, Anna—!”
“It’s a sign, don’t you see? Why else would God have given me back my voice now?”
“I pray you, Mistress Suzanne,” said Sanglant. “Outfit the girl with what she needs, and return her here in the morning. I’ll see that she is well taken care of.”
Even a prosperous weaver could not argue with a prince. Subdued but obedient, Mistress Suzanne took the girl and left.
“Want down, want down,” insisted Blessing as she squirmed out of Heribert’s arms. She rushed over to her father, seeking solace, and he picked her up.
“I pray you, Matto,” he said, cuddling his daughter against him, “the helmet needs repadding. Have Captain Fulk see to it. We’ll fit it more exactly tomorrow. I’ll want more water for washing.” Matto nodded and quickly fetched pitcher and helmet before leaving the chamber. “Zacharias.”
“Yes, my lord prince.”
“We’ll need a straw pallet for the girl. Sergeant Cobbo can see to it.”
Zacharias glanced at Heribert, but the cleric only gave a puzzled shrug. With a bow, Zacharias left on the errand.
Unaccustomed to palaces, he quickly got lost, but a sympathetic servingman directed him to the servants’ hall. He passed through the mostly deserted hall and found a door that led outside. The hush of early evening hung over the courtyard. Stars glittered overhead. An unrelenting cold seeped through his clothes to chill his bones. His old scars ached, and he suddenly had to pee. Looking for a private place where no one might accidentally see his mutilation, he finally stumbled up to the door of the cookhouse, meaning to ask for directions to the privies.
Smoke and the odor of burned roast drifted out of the cooking house, together with something tangier, so sharp it made his neck prickle. In the Quman camp he had learned to walk quietly, because Prince Bulkezu had liked his slaves to be silent and had once killed a man for sneezing in the middle of a musician’s performance.
Her voice had the breathy quality of air. As he peered into the smoky interior, he saw a woman standing at the big block table, hands hovering over a platter ringed by four candles placed to form a square. An apple fanned into neat slices lay on the wooden platter, so freshly cut that the juice welling up from its moist flesh shone in the candlelight, making his mouth water. No one else was in the cookhouse.
“I adjure you by your name and your powers and the glorious place wherein you dwell, O Prince of Light who drove the Enemy into the Abyss. Let your presence rest upon this apple and let the one who eats of it be filled with desire for me. Let him be seized by a flame of fire as powerful as that fire in which you, Holy One, make your dwelling place. Let him open his door to me, and let him not be content with any thing until he has satisfied me—”
Nay, there Was someone else there, over by the spit. She emerged from the shadows, a woman of middling years. In the half light, Zacharias saw the wicked scar blazed on her right cheek, puffy and white.
“What madness is this, Frederun?”
The pretty servingwoman broke into tears. “I thought he was dead! I was so happy when I was his lover—”
“Hush!” hissed her companion, laying a hand on the young woman’s shoulder. “There’s someone in the doorway.”
Zacharias slipped away into the shadows. The wind shifted, and he smelled the privies, dug over by the stables. It still hurt to urinate, but he was no longer sure if the pain was actually physical or only an artifact lingering in his mind from those first weeks after Prince Bulkezu had mutilated him.
He found Sergeant Cobbo together with a dozen soldiers standing in the aisle between stalls, watching a chess game. Captain Fulk had set up a board and pieces on a barrel and brought two bales of hay to serve as seats. He had the dragon helm on his knee, with a hand curved possessively over its top. As Zacharias approached, the captain used an Eagle to take a Lion.
“My biscop takes your Eagle,” said his opponent, the exiled Eagle known as Wolfhere. He paused, still holding the chess piece, and glanced up past Cobbo and the ring of watchers to catch Zacharias’ eye.