Blessed be God,
who together have made heaven and Earth.”
Too soon, he had to leave. He kissed her hands as servant to master, wept again, and promised to return in one week. It was hard to see him, and the light, go. It was agony to hear the door scrape shut, the bar thud into place, and the sound of their footsteps fade. Fortunatus might return in a week, as he had promised, or he might never return. She might languish here for a month, or for ten years. She might die here, of hunger, of lung fever, or of despair, eaten by rats. It was hard to remain hopeful in the blackness where Hugh had cast her.
But she had heard the promise implicit in Fortunatus’ choice of prayer:
Like a bird, we have escaped from the fowler’s snare.
The King’s Eagle, Hathui, had escaped and flown north to seek justice.
PART ONE
EAGLE’S SIGHT
I
THE STRIKE OF AN AX
1
THE air smelled of rain, heavy and unseasonably warm, and the wind blowing in from the east brought with it the smells of the village: woodsmoke, ripe privies, and the stink of offal from the afternoon’s slaughter of five pigs. Just yesterday Hanna and the cohort of Lions and sundry milites who were her escort had journeyed through snow flurries. Now it was temperate enough to tuck away gloves and set aside cloaks as they ate a supper of freshly roasted pig as well as cold porridge and a bitter ale commandeered from the village larder. Yet neither the food nor the familiar smells of the Wendish countryside brought her comfort. East lay the object of her hatred, still living, still eating. Her choked fury was like a scab ripped open every single day.
“Come now, Hanna,” said Ingo. “You’re not eating enough. If this cut of roast won’t tempt you, I can surely dig up some worms.”
She ate obediently, knowing how her mother would have scolded her for the unthinkable sin of refusing to eat meat when it was available, but her heart was numb. Hate had congealed in her gut, and she could not shake it loose.
“Ai, Lady,” said Folquin. “You’ve got that look on your face again. I told you I would kill him for you. I’d have snuck right into his tent when he was asleep and stabbed him through the heart.”
For months, as a prisoner of the Quman, she had shed no tears. Now every little thing, a stubbed toe, a child’s giggle, a friend’s helpless grimace, made her cry. “I can’t believe Prince Sanglant let him live,” she said hoarsely. “He should have hanged him!”
“So said Princess Sapientia,” commented Leo, “and so she’s no doubt continuing to say, I suppose, for all the good it will do her.”
“Anything could have happened since we left the army,” suggested Stephen quietly. “Prince Sanglant could have changed his mind about killing him. Once the army reaches Handelburg, then the holy biscop might agree with Princess Sapientia and demand his execution. Princess Sapientia is the rightful heir, after all, isn’t she? Prince Sanglant is only a bastard, so even though he’s the elder, doesn’t he have to do what she says?”
Ingo glanced around to make sure none but the five of them were close enough to hear. Other campfires sparked and smoked in the meadow, each with its complement of soldiers eating and chatting in the gray autumn twilight, but certainly far fewer Lions were marching west back into Wendar than had marched east over a year ago.
“You don’t understand the way of the world yet, lad. Princess Sapientia can’t rule if there’s none who will follow her.”
“What about God’s law?” asked Stephen.
Ingo had a world-weary smirk that he dragged out when dealing with the youngest and most naive members of the Lions. “The one who rules the army rules.”
“Hush,” said Leo.
Captain Thiadbold walked toward them through the overgrazed meadow, withered grass snapping under his feet. Trees rose behind the clearing, the vanguard of the Thurin Forest.
Ingo rose when Thiadbold halted by the fire’s light. “Captain. Is all quiet?”
“As quiet as it can be. I thought those villagers would never stop squealing. You’d think they were the pigs being led to the slaughter. They’ve forgotten that if they want the protection of the king, then they have to feed his army.” Thiadbold brushed back his red hair as he looked at Hanna. “I’ve had a talk with the elders, now that they’ve calmed down. It seems an Eagle rode through just yesterday. Princess Theophanu’s not at Quedlinhame any longer. She’s ridden north with her retinue to Gent.”
Sometimes it was difficult to remember that the world kept on although she’d been frozen in place.
When she did not speak, Ingo answered. “Will we be turning north to Gent?”
“Quedlinhame is closer,” objected Hanna wearily. “We’ll be another ten days or more on the road if we turn north to Gent.”
Thiadbold frowned, still watching her. “Prince Sanglant charged us to deliver his message, and the king’s Lions, to his sister and none other. We must follow Princess Theophanu.”