Child of Flame (Crown of Stars 4)

No matter what came next, he would find a way back to her.

XVII

POISON

1

AFTER twenty days marching west, the armies moving in parallel columns under separate commanders, they began to get sporadic and possibly exaggerated reports of a large Quman force moving north along the Veser River, closing in on Osterburg. Just as they were. The thought of facing Bulkezu again made Zacharias so sick that he could scarcely bring himself to eat.

Rumors flew violently among the troops, often accompanied by fistfights. Who would command, when the battle came that everyone was hoping for? Henry had said that he meant Princess Sapientia to be his heir, her soldiers argued; but he never anointed her, Sanglant’s loyal followers retorted. They had heard the king offer Aosta and its crown to Sanglant. Didn’t that count for anything? Not if he’d refused it, the answer went. He was still a bastard, after all, even if he was a great fighter and leader.

No one could answer that objection satisfactorily: he was still a bastard, after all.

It was rumored that Princess Sapientia was pregnant. When at last the call came down through the ranks that there would be a trial by combat to determine who had the right to command, everyone knew that she would therefore choose her husband as her champion. The church sometimes used such trials to determine which person God ordained as victor when an irreconcilable dispute was brought before a biscop. Only one could win, and that one would win the right to command the combined armies, now almost three thousand mounted warriors, a huge force with more lordly and monastic retinues joining up every day as they marched west, gathering strength and resolve.

The road in this region of Saony was more a wagon track, but at least the local residents at the villages and estates had heard rumors of the atrocities committed by the Quman army to the south and were, for that reason, only somewhat reluctant to give over stores of their newly harvested grain to the army.

They set camp early that night where three grassy meadows cut a swath of open ground through woodland. Sheep and cattle grazed, watched over by shepherds. The commanders ordered half the beasts taken from the herds to feed the army and sent the rest on their way to discourage hungry soldiers from stealing what they wished under cover of night.

The two armies gathered just before twilight in the central meadow, where a slope ran down to a stream. Grass grew abundantly. The soldiers took their places on the slope while servants set up a pavilion by the stream’s edge for those nobles privileged enough to attend Princess Sapientia: Bayan’s Ungrian retainers, Lord Wichman, the Polenie duke Boleslas, Hrodik and Druthmar, Brigida with her levies from Avaria, a lady from Fesse, and several nobles from the marchlands who had joined to avenge the damage done to their lands by the Quman.

Prince Bayan’s mother had been brought forward in her palanquin, but of course, with all the veils drawn and curtains closed, no one could see her nor ever would. She had a new slave, one of the ones she’d bought at Machteburg: a well-built Quman youth standing beside one of the carrying poles. Like the other three, he watched without expression as the proceedings unfolded, as though he was both deaf and mute. Had the old woman ensorcelled all those who served her? Had she cast a love spell over Sapientia to make the princess besotted with her husband?

“It does seem odd to me,” said Zacharias to Heribert, glancing around to make sure no one was paying attention to them, “that Prince Bayan commands her army in all but name.” They stood behind the chair, placed to the left of Sapientia’s, set aside for Blessing.

“Does it? That’s not what puzzles me. King Henry must have guessed that whatever man married Sapientia would be likely to rule as her equal, not her consort. Bayan’s a good man, but he isn’t Wendish and he’s scarcely a Daisanite. How can Henry think the Wendish nobles, much less a duke as proud as Conrad, would accept a foreign king reigning over them?”

Behind them, Blessing shrieked. She was crouching on the edge of the stream, half lost in the rushes that crowded the shore, tossing stones into the water while Anna, Matto, and Lord Thiemo hovered next to her to make sure she didn’t fall in.

Zacharias smiled derisively. “Do not ask me, Brother. I am only a common-born frater.”

“So you are,” agreed Heribert amiably. “But much cleaner than you were when we first met you. As outside, so inside. I still value your insight.”

“I have nothing insightful to say on this subject. Of the king’s progress and its intrigues I remain ignorant, as befits my station.”

A shout rose from the assembled armies. Blessing leaped up, tottered unbalanced on the edge of the stream, and was caught by Thiemo, who escorted her back to the pavilion. She climbed up to stand on the seat of her chair.

“Here, now, Your Highness,” Heribert said reprovingly as she clung to his shoulders, trying to get a good look out along the meadow. “Remember your dignity.”

“Look!” Lord Thiemo’s words were echoed by those nobles clustered under the shade of the pavilion. “Here they come.” He pointed toward the two riders approaching the pavilion through the grass, one from the north and one from the south. Both horses were being led, giving their approach a dignified pace suitable to the gravity of the occasion.

“Why Wolfhere?” Zacharias demanded, feeling the familiar gnaw of envy at his gut as he watched the old Eagle leading Prince Sanglant’s horse.

Heribert’s answering smile was bittersweet. “This isn’t easy for him, you know. Best to remind everyone from the outset how far outside the king’s approval he stands.”

It took Zacharias a moment to realize that Heribert was not speaking of Wolfhere.

Bayan and Sanglant were both outfitted in their armor, although they weren’t wearing their helmets. Sanglant wore his sword slung over his back, in the manner of a traveler, while Bayan’s swore was belted at his hip. Bayan wore a tabard of snow-white linen with a two-headed eagle embroidered in red, the sigil of Ungria, and dagged ends in alternating red and white that flowed past his knees. Sanglant wore a plain gold tabard, without any identifying sigil, his only ornament the magnificent dragon helm, which he carried under one arm. Sapientia moved forward with a trio of ladies, one holding a tray set with two silver cups and a second carrying a pitcher. The third, a cleric, stood slightly to one side.

“She doesn’t look pregnant,” muttered Lord Thiemo.

“Hush, my lord,” said Anna sharply, the way one would to a wayward brother. “A woman may be waxing without being full. It’s said she hasn’t burned holy rags for three months. If a woman isn’t bleeding, then she must be pregnant. That’s what they always said in Gent.”

“I’ve seen cases where women weren’t bleeding but nevertheless were not—” began Zacharias, but Thiemo cut him off.

“Nay, Anna is right. I was wrong to speak so.” He looked at her, and she at him; an odd alliance, when you thought of it: the young lordling and the nut-brown common girl, almost a woman. Zacharias could not shake the feeling that there was something more to it than their devotion to Blessing. Even Matto, standing behind them, had been drawn in although he had at first been jealous of Thiemo. They formed a tight circle that ringed the little girl.

The two combatants came to a halt about ten paces apart. Sanglant took the reins from Wolfhere and handed the Eagle his helm. Bayan exchanged helm for reins with his Ungrian groom. Then the riders moved around so they sat side by side as though poised for a race. They did not look at each other.