“Not out here!” A flush suffused him.
“Wise counsel, Your Highness,” said a new voice, flatly calm and wry along with it. “Liath!” Hathui walked toward them out of the gloom. She stopped neatly between them, fittingly so: taller than Liath, she was not of course nearly as tall as Sanglant but substantial nevertheless. “Your Highness.” The bow she gave him was curt but not disrespectful. “The king your father is concerned that you have been absent for so long. He asks that you attend him.”
“No,” said Sanglant.
“I beg you, Your Highness.” She faced him squarely. “My comrade is safe with me. I will keep an eye on her.”
“Liath, you haven’t yet—”
“Nay, she’s right.” It was like struggling to keep your head above water in a strong current. She had to stroke on her own. “Just—now—it would be better.” It had all happened so quickly.
He stilled, took in a shuddering breath. “I have the book.” He strode off.
“He looks like he’s headed down to the river for a long cold swim,” observed Hathui. She made a sign, and half a dozen Lions took off after him, keeping their distance.
Liath nudged the empty cup with her toe and bent to pick it up.
“Rumor flies fast,” added Hathui, taking the cup out of Liath’s hand and spinning it around. It had a coarse wood surface, nothing fine—but sturdy and serviceable. She snorted. “Did you really toss ale in his face?”
“What am I to do?” she wailed.
“Courageously spoken. You, my friend, stick next to me or to Wolfhere. Else I fear you’ll do something very foolish indeed.”
“But Hugh means to protest the debt price. He’ll take the case before the king, and you know how the king hates Wolfhere. What if he gives me back to Hugh?”
“You don’t understand King Henry very well, do you?” said Hathui coolly. “Now come. There’s a place above the stables set aside for Eagles—and well protected by Lions. You’ll be safe to sleep there. Perhaps your head will be clearer in the morning.”
She followed Hathui meekly. “Prince Sanglant has nothing, you know,” said Hathui suddenly. “Nothing but what the king gives him, no arms, no horse, no retinue, no lands, no inheritance from his mother except his blood—and that is distrusted by most of the court.”
“Nothing!” Liath retorted, furious on his behalf that he could be judged and found wanting in such a crass material manner, then faltered. Hathui spoke truth in the only way that mattered outside the spiritual walls of the church. “But I don’t care,” she murmured stubbornly, and in response heard only Hathui’s gusting sigh.
In a way, it was a relief to find the stables tenanted by dozing Lions, a few Eagles, and by Wolfhere sitting outside on a log with a lantern burning at his feet while he ate supper. He looked mightily irritated but mercifully said nothing, only touched Hathui’s shoulder by way of greeting and whispered something into her ear which Liath could not hear. But she didn’t have Sanglant’s unnaturally acute hearing.
“Go to sleep, Liath,” he said stiffly once he deigned to acknowledge her. He was still angry. “We’ll speak in the morning.”
Shouts rang out from the distant hall, followed by laughter and a burst of song.
“They’re carrying bride and groom to their wedding bed,” said Hathui.
“Bride and groom?” asked Liath, startled. “Who is wed this night?” She could have been wed this night, by the law of consent. But it had happened too fast. She had to catch her breath before she took the irrevocable step.
Hathui laughed but Wolfhere only grunted, still annoyed. “I like this not,” he muttered.
“That there’s a wedding?” she asked, still confused.
“That you were blind to it and everything else going on hereabouts,” he retorted. “Go on, Hathui. The king will be looking for you.”
She nodded and left, her proud figure fading into the gloom.
Liath did not like to be alone with Wolfhere. He had a way of looking at her, mild but with a grim glint deep in his eyes, that made her horribly uncomfortable.
“I beg you, Liath,” he said, his voice made harsh by an emotion she could not identify, “don’t be tempted by him.”
Torches flared distantly and pipes skirled as drums took up a brisk four-square rhythm. Dancing had begun out in the yard. No doubt the celebration would last all night. Wolfhere scuffed at the dirt and took a sip of ale, then held out the cup as a peace offering.
“Hugh will ask the king to give me back to him,” she said abruptly.
Wolfhere raised an eyebrow, surprised. “So he will, I suppose. He threatened as much in Heart’s Rest the day I freed you from him.”