The Burning Stone
Page 88
He bowed his head humbly. “I am your obedient servant, my lady mother.”
She looked at Baldwin, and Ivar knew with a nauseating wrench in his gut that this was also a message meant for her young husband: Those who lived within the circle of her power were not allowed to be disobedient.
Baldwin bent his head and abruptly launched into an impassioned prayer. Halfway through, he nudged Ivar with a foot, and Ivar, startled and now seeing Hugh kiss his mother on either cheek and retreat to the room where his bath awaited him, clasped his hands as well and joined the whispered prayer. “Our Mother, Who art in Heaven—”
Seeing them so occupied, Judith left the chamber with her two servants at her heels and a slender whippet slinking behind. No doubt she had decided it was time to venture out onto the field of battle to save her son’s reputation. And what of Liath?
Ai, Lord. Liath.
“You’re not concentrating,” murmured Baldwin, who sounded insulted.
“What will become of her?” Ivar muttered.
This time, Baldwin understood him. “Do you desire her body, Ivar?” He rested a hand on Ivar’s thigh. His sweet breath, like the breath of angels, brushed softly along his neck.
Ivar shivered convulsively. “God help me!” he prayed. It hurt too much to think of her. It was easier to drown himself in thoughts of God. He set to praying with a vengeance and, after a pause, Baldwin joined him.
3
THE king did not summon them to the feast celebrating the return of Theophanu and the arrival of Duke Conrad. No royal steward saw fit to bring them platters of choice tidbits from the feast table. But soldiers brought offerings: bread, baked turnips, roast pork, and greens, such fare as milites could expect and would generously share with a captain they admired and respected and a disgraced Eagle toward whom they had cause to be grateful.
The twilight hours in summer ran long and leisurely and, as Sanglant braided her hair, Liath listened to the sweet singing of the clerics from the hall as they entertained the king with the hymn celebrating St. Casceil’s Ascension, whose feast day they observed.
“The holy St. Casceil made a pilgrimage from her home in rain-drenched Alba to the dry desert shores of Saïs the Younger. There she dwelt in blessed solitude in the east with only a tame lion as companion, and there she knelt to pray day after day under the constant hammer blow of the desert sun while angels fanned her with their wings to cool her brow and body. Yet the heat so burned away her mortal substance, and her holy prayers so inflamed her soul with purity and truth that the wind made by the angels’ wings, which is also the gentle breath of God, lifted her into the heavens. There she found her place among the righteous.”
Braiding the hair he had earlier combed out gave Sanglant something to do with his hands, but he shifted restlessly from one foot to the other, seeming about to start talking but grunting softly instead. She had said everything she knew to say to him. No decision had been reached: Would they ride out with Conrad, or not?
“My lord prince.” Hathui stood at the door. Liath could smell the feast on her. The pungent scent of spices and sauces made Liath’s mouth water.
He nodded, giving her permission to enter. “Do you bring a message from my father?”
“I come on my own, to speak with my old comrade, Liath, if you will.”
“That is for her to choose, not me to choose for her!” he said as he tied off the braid and stepped away from Liath.
Liath started up when Hanna stepped into the room behind Hathui. The badge winking at the throat of her short summer cloak seemed like accusation. Hanna had given up kinfolk, home, and all that was familiar to her to follow Liath, and yet Liath had turned aside from that jointly-sworn oath to bind her life with Sanglant’s. Hanna had been crying, and Hathui looked solemn.
“This is—this is—my comrade—” Liath stuttered, not wanting to ignore Hanna as one would a simple servant, yet not knowing if a prince and a common Eagle could have any ground on which to meet as equals. Ai, Lady! Had she never truly thought of herself as a “common Eagle” but rather as an equal to the great princes in some intangible way she had inherited from Da’s manner and education? Had she never truly treated Hanna as an equal, through those years when Hanna had generously offered friendship to a friendless, foreign-born girl?
She was ashamed.
“This is the Eagle who serves Sapientia,” said Sanglant into the silence made by her stumbling. “She is called Hanna. Did you not know her in Heart’s Rest?” He turned his gaze on Hanna. “You called my wife ‘friend’ there, I believe.”
