He did not mean her to reply; he only meant to remind her of his power, as if she had ever forgotten it.
Theophanu rose from her seat to the left of her father. A servingwoman hurried forward, and the princess whispered in her ear before turning back to the king. “Your Majesty, I have reason to be beholden to this woman. Let me clothe her in a fitting manner.”
The blow came from an unexpected source. Henry hesitated, but that hesitation gave Theophanu time to gesture peremptorily. Liath slipped out from the circle of Sapientia’s retainers and into the cool but not unfriendly clime of Theophanu’s followers.
They led her away to a room tucked under the eaves in the hall, and here the first servingwoman arrived out of breath with her arms draped with cloth. She shook out the bundle to display a fine linen undertunic and an indigo silk overdress embroidered with tiny gold eight-pointed stars. The cloth rippled like a glimpse of the night sky, pure and mysterious.
“I’ve never worn anything so fine!” Liath whispered in awe, but they dressed her ruthlessly, measured her frame—as tall as the princess but more slender—and belted the overdress with a simple chain of gold links. They announced themselves satisfied with the condition of her hair but wove a golden net of delicate knotwork studded with pearls around the crown of her head as ornament.
“Lord have mercy,” they murmured, surveying her. “It’s no wonder the prince took a fancy to this one.”
They led her back out into the hall. If she had thought herself fallen into the pit of misery before, it was nothing to what happened now: Even Henry, caught in mid-sentence as he addressed Sapientia, fell silent when he saw her. They all fell silent, every soul in the hall. A moment later when Theophanu rose to relinquish her own seat beside the king, they all broke into voice at once.
“No dogs set over her to guard her?” Conrad’s battle-trained voice carried easily over the throng. “I’d not leave such a precious treasure unattended.”
She felt a blush flow like fire through her cheeks and down all her limbs, then furiously wished it cool for fear of causing an untimely and horrible conflagration. The king had a very odd look in his eye, and he offered her his own cup to drink from. She dared not refuse. The wine hit her throat with a rich bouquet and glowed in her stomach. She had to share the king’s platter—an honor of such distinction that it branded her forever among the folk present here tonight. She would never be anonymous again, not on the king’s progress. And the worst of it was that his fingers kept touching and tangling with hers in the dish so that despite the wonderful aroma and flavor of the food, she could scarcely get it down her throat which stayed parched no matter how much wine she drank.
Hathui slipped into the hall and stood in disapproving attendance behind the king’s chair. Hanna, trapped in Sapientia’s service, could only throw her despairing glances, helpless to help her. All other faces blurred together.
Young men wrestled before the king and threw her tokens in competition for her favor, and she had to give a kiss to the winner—a brawny lad whose breath smelled of onions. Jugglers and tumblers entertained, and she had to shower them with silver sceattas brought to her by the stewards. She had to pass judgment on the poets who came forward in the hope of gaining the fancy—and the favor—of the king, and the king demurred on all counts to her judgment. He sat with heavy-lidded eyes and watched her when he was not watching his court. His limbs brushed hers at intervals, but surely that was accident because they sat so close together. The sick feeling that afflicted her heart would not go away.
“How can you honor her, Your Majesty,” said Judith finally, pushed to the edge of her patience, “when my son lies in a fever in his chamber, sweating away the pollution she brought onto him?”
Henry turned in his chair to regard the margrave. “I will act as is fitting, considering the accusations brought before me this day. I have already convened a council of biscops, to be held at Matthiasmass in Autun. There your son and this woman will be brought before those most fit to judge in such matters.” His gaze lit on Liath again, and he toasted her with wine. “Yet as my dear cousin Conrad has so wisely warned me, I dare not let such a treasure go unguarded. She will remain by my side until then—”
“By your side, cousin?” shouted Conrad, then roared with laughter. “Will that be after the prince tires of her, or before? But I am much struck by her beauty, too. I am not ashamed to state here in front of witnesses that no matter how many royal beds she graces, I will gladly take her off your hands when you are through.”
When Henry laughed, other noblemen took up the jest, took up wagers: How many months until Sanglant tired of her—or the king—or then Conrad? Who would have her next?
Ai, God. She was desperately ashamed to be made mock of in this fashion. Better to be spinning above the Abyss waiting for God to blow her into the pit than suffer this any longer!
To her left, Princess Theophanu sat as still as stone. Beyond Theophanu, Helmut Villam frowned at the assembly and did not join in the jesting. But Henry had a grim smile of perverse satisfaction on his face even as he watched her with that terrible glint of wine-inflamed desire on his face. She recognized it now. Hugh had looked at her so on certain winter nights in Heart’s Rest; what always followed was never pleasant, at least not for her.
“You see by this spectacle, my friends,” said Judith in a voice that carried to the four corners of the hall, “that she has now bewitched even our good king. What more proof do you need that she has stained her hands with malevolent sorcery?”
Ai, Lady! At long last he appeared at the door with twilight at his back, alone, without retinue, although thank God he had taken pains to make his clothing look neat. Perhaps the soldiers had done it for him. Master Hosel’s belt looked perfectly in place with his rich tunic and hose. The salamanders worked into the leather almost seemed to slide and shine in the torchlight.
He strode forward down the ranks of tables and without a word or any least gesture of acknowledgment halted with arrogant grace before the king’s table. There, he held out his hand. She staggered to her feet, but the king caught her by the wrist.
“My bed, or his,” the king murmured.
Sanglant’s nostrils flared in anger. But he did not move.
Henry’s hand tightened on her arm. A whippet growled softly and was hushed. Even the jugglers and tumblers peeked out from where they sat tucked under the king’s table. Everyone watched.
The king’s bed.
She stood stunned for a good long time. Henry was about the age Da would have been, had he survived, but Henry wore his years with vigor and he had the fine, handsome, noble appearance that God of necessity grant to a regnant.
The king’s protection.
Hugh would never dare touch her. Even the biscops, called to council, would surely be lenient with the king’s mistress.
Sanglant waited with the dead calm of a man who knows the death blow is moments away.
“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty,” she said. “But I swore an oath before God long ago.”
He let her go. She cared for nothing now except getting out fast; ducking under the table, she crawled over fresh rushes, chicken bones, and the dregs of wine cups, and when she emerged on the other side Sanglant was there to hoist her up, assisted, unexpectedly, by one of the jugglers giving a hearty shove to her backside.
Everyone began talking at once.
She saw the door so far in the distance that she was sure they would never make it there, and then it gaped open before her and they stepped out under the night sky. She would have run, out he made her walk so that they would not look undignified.
He said nothing. When they got back to his chamber, he dug into her saddlebag without asking her leave and pulled out the gold torque. She began to shake. He caught her hands and still without a word twisted the torque around her neck—and stared at her, in her fine gown ornamented with the night sky.
The torque weighed heavily, a slave collar indeed.
“Take it off, I beg you.” The words choked her. “It’s wrong for me to wear it.”
“Nay, it’s meant for you.” He passed a hand over his eyes as at a vision he dared not dream of seeing. “Had it been Taillefer’s court, you still would have outshone them all.”
She slid her fingers under the curve of gold braid, twisted it off, and set it down hard on the table as if the touch of it burned her skin to ice. “There must have been three hundred people in there, and all of them staring at me!”
“You’ll get used to it.”
‘I’ll never get used to it! I don’t want to get used to it!”
“Hush, Liath.” He tried to kiss her, to calm her, but she was too agitated to be calmed. She went to the window and leaned out. Many figures moved beyond the corner of the residence: and by their voices, and coarse jesting, and the tidal flow of the crowd, she knew the feast had ended with her departure. “He meant to shame you,” said Sanglant as he came up beside her. He was careful not to touch her.
“Ai, God.”
“Did you bewitch him?” he asked casually, flicking a finger along her cheek.
“I did nothing!”
“You did nothing, and yet he offered you his bed and his protection. My father is well known for his piety and his continence. In all my years at his side, I have never seen a display such as he gave us this night.”
“I did nothing!” she repeated, furious now because the humiliation was still so raw. She remembered his own words of yesterday. “I will not have this conversation over and over if you in your heart doubt my intention!”
He laughed, relaxing suddenly. “No, I think you are the on who is witched somehow. Any man in that hall tonight would have taken you to his bed and given you half his estates and a third of his mother’s treasure in return for your favor. The Lord and Lady know that you are beautiful, Liath.” He leaned so close that his breath stirred her hair. “But not even the fair Baldwin makes all the ladies of the court go mad with desire for him. And I think God have molded him more like to the angels even than you.”
“Who is the fair Baldwin?” she asked indignantly.
He bent away from her, shut his eyes as he stood silent, listening to the distant chatter of the assembly as it broke into groups and eddied away. She heard only a meaningless murmur, but she knew he could hear far more. “Nay,” he said finally, “there is something else at work here, some spell laid on you.”
“Is that the only reason you asked me to marry you, then,” she asked harshly, “because of a spell? And if the biscops so choose, can they can condemn me for something I had no part in?”
He shook his head, having come to a decision. “You will not appear before the biscops. We will ride out with Conrad.”
“Conrad was the worst of them!”
“We can’t stay at court! Not after the king—my own holy father—tried to take you away from me!” Then he paused, made certain hesitant gestures as a prelude to speaking so that she knew what was coming next. “Were you tempted?”
Because he asked so timidly, the question made her laugh. “Of course I was tempted. The king’s bed. The king’s protection! I’d be a fool to cast that aside, wouldn’t I? But I swore before God that I would never love any man but you.”
“Ai, Lady, Liath.” He embraced her, although he was unsteady. “We will make many strong children together, each one a blessing on our house.” He pulled her gently toward the bed, but she slid out of his arms.
“Let me just stand here for a while,” she said, going back to the window. “I’m dizzy.” She had drunk so much wine that her head still spun with it. He only smiled and went to sit on the bed, content to watch her.
She leaned out for a draught of air. She could see stars now in the vault of heaven: the Queen’s Sword stood at zenith, but from this angle she could not see it. The River of Heaven poured westward, and the Guivre rose from its waters with stars streaming off its back. Like Judith’s eye, turned on her with malice. So many stars, a thousand at least, as numerous as the courtiers and servants and hangers-on who followed the king.
“Da and I were always alone. Even at the court in Qurtubah where everything was rich and crowded, we stayed hidden on the fringe, mostly. We were always alone.”
“Qurtubah,” murmured Sanglant from the bed, a soft echo. “I saw a sword from Qurtubah once, light but strong. It had a curve to it.”
Directly north she saw Kokab, the north star, and below it the Ladle, forever poised to catch the heavenly waters and bring them to the mouths of the gods should the gods thirst for such nectar. That was the story the old Dariyans told, but it was not the explanation which the Jinna astronomers, beholden to the great Gyptian philosopher Ptolomaia, set down in their books.
“‘The highest sphere encompasses all existing things,’” she said softly. The Book of Secrets lay so close behind her that she could feel its quiescent presence; she did not need to open its pages to quote from the text of the Jinna scholar al-Haytham whom she and Da had once met. “‘It surrounds the sphere of the fixed stars and touches it. It moves with a swift motion from east to west on two fixed poles and makes one revolution in every day and night. All the orbs which it surrounds move with its motion.’”
“Does this mean something I ought to understand?” Lounging on the bed, he yawned.
“We call Kokab the north star because it marks the north pole. There must be a south pole, too, which I haven’t seen.”
“Has someone seen it?”
“I don’t know if any of the Jinna astronomers traveled so far. I don’t know if there’s any land in the south. They say it’s all a desert, baked to sand under the sun’s heat.” Out among the palace buildings, people filtered away in ripples made of laughter and song and movement as hall and courtyard emptied. “Al Haytham says that day and night increase the closer you are to the place where you would stand under the pole. It would be a zenith—”
He yawned the question more than spoke it.
She pointed, realized it had grown too dark for him to see her. “Zenith is straight above us. At that place, where you would stand right under the pole, the axis of the world is perpendicular. And the horizon then must coincide exactly with the circle of the celestial equator.” The misery of the evening slid off of her as she stared at the stars. Their mysteries never failed to catch hold in her spirit and set her free to wonder. “But then daylight would be almost six months long. Well, as long as the sun remains in the northern signs. Because the sun would always be above the horizon. And night would be almost six months long when the sun was in the southern signs, because the sun would always be below the horizon. So it must also be true at the southern pole, only day and night would be the opposite of that which held at the northern pole. Isn’t that elegant?” Now she yawned, the spell of the night wearing even on her. “Sanglant?”
He had fallen asleep.
All at once she realized how an unnatural quiet had spread like a cloud creeping out from the horizon to blanket the sky. She yawned again, shook it off.
“Sanglant?”
He grunted softly, but only to turn over. He was still fully clothed.
She leaned farther out the window, but only wind crackled in the branches. No sign of life stirred, not hounds sniffing after scraps, not an owl spying for mice, not even servants or rats picking clean platters left half full by drunken nobles. It was as if everyone had fallen abruptly into a profound sleep. The stars shimmered under a veil of haze, sundered from her who was trapped here in the mortal plane.
“Da?” If his soul streamed above her in the River of Heaven, pouring toward the Chamber of Light with the thousands of others released from the flesh, she could not see it.
Nervous, she crossed to the door and peeked out. Four Lions lay slumped, asleep, by the threshold. In the great courtyard, no living thing moved; dust swirled around abandoned tables.
The terror hit so hard that she could barely get the door closed, she began to shake so violently; she coul
d barely hoist the bar and wedge it down in its place, barring them in. She turned to go to the window, but it was too late.
A shadow moved at the open window. A leg thrown over. The glint of gold hair by candlelight. His face, bruised but still beautiful. He set the candle down on the table. The Eika dog whined a warning and he kicked it as he strode past, crossing the chamber to her. He slapped her, hard, before she could even think to defend herself, then shoved her up against the door. With his body pressed against her she could feel his arousal, and, God help her, for an instant a spike of lust coursed through her only because her body was so alive to desire, made so by Sanglant’s presence.
Then he hit her again.
She fought back, but he was in a frenzy; he was too far gone even to speak in that eloquent, beautiful voice. He grabbed her by the shoulders and wrestled her to the bed, flung her down beside Sanglant. Who did not wake. Who breathed most gently, eyes closed, face peaceful and yet, even in repose, proud and strong.
“Now you will give me what you give him!”
“Won’t!” The word was forced out of her by his weight as he dropped down on top of her, knee pressed against her chest and a hand on either shoulder. His face was bruised and his front teeth chipped; his beauty spoiled.
He let go of one shoulder to grope for his knife. “Or I’ll kill him. I’ll slit his throat while he sleeps here helplessly, and if you burn down this room around us, he’ll be the first to die!”
It was only a bad dream, wasn’t it? She would wake up in an instant and everything would be fine.
The Eika dog whined, claws scrabbling weakly at the floor. Ai, God! Let her keep her wits about her even while terror drowned her. It was so hard not simply to slide away into the frozen tower where she had hidden all those months in Heart’s Rest. But she could not. She must not.
“How can I know you won’t kill him anyway, after you’re done?” she asked hoarsely.