The king wore a crested iron helm and mail sleeves, and his chest was protected by a metal breastplate over a mail shirt. He wore also, on his legs, mail to protect his thighs and iron greaves on his calves; indeed, many of the mounted soldiers in his retinue wore such greaves, a sign of their wealth and station. In his left hand the king held a lance, in his right hand nothing, so that he might better grasp his sword when it was needed. The shield hanging from his saddle was of iron, without device or color.
Like the other common soldiers, Alain did not even have a metal helmet much less armor this elaborate. He could only imagine how many sceattas such equipment would cost. Not even Duke Rodulf wore such impressive armor, though certainly he was heavily protected.
It was a formidable army. Only two ducal banners waved in Sabella’s forces: the guivre of Arconia and the stallion of Varingia, but both she and Rodulf had fielded many men, though not as many were mounted or armed as well as Henry’s men.
It seemed a desperate gamble.
“Conrad the Black has not chosen to appear on the field,” said Rodulf to Sabella, squinting at the line of banners and soldiers on the slope above them.
“Conrad plays his own game,” said Sabella. “If he will not support me, then I am just as happy that he chooses not to support Henry either. But don’t you see, Rodulf? Don’t you see what is lacking, there?” She gestured broadly, her arm taking in the entire line of Henry’s army and the banners displayed. “There is no Dragon banner. The red dragon of Saony I see, but there is no black dragon. Henry’s best fighters are not with him on the field!”
Rodulf whistled breath out between his lips. “So are they not. I no longer despair, Sabella.”
“Nor should you ever have despaired. Do you wear your amulet, Rodulf?”
“I do, but—”
“That is all that matters. Return to your men.”
“Where are the Dragons, then? Surely Prince Sanglant has not turned against his father? I never heard before that the boy had the least drop of rebellious blood in him.” He laughed, a little nervous still but obviously resolved to see this fight through to the end. “I often wish my own children were so obedient.”
“Surely you heard me mention that my informants said the Dragons had ridden north, well out of the way, to fight Eika raiders?”
“Ah, of course. Strike at the sheep while the watchdog is out hunting the wolf, eh?” He grimaced, more by way of a grin than a frown. “If the Dragons stood beside Henry on this day, I would judge it wiser to ask forgiveness than to fight. But—”
“But they do not. And now you do not need to make that choice. Go, then.” She made a sign to one of her men-at-arms. He had been expecting the signal, because he turned and rode back toward the train.
Rodulf reined his horse away and with his attendants rode back to his soldiers, who held the right flank opposite the banner of Fesse. Lavastine and a motley assortment of lordlings as well as levies taken from monastery lands made up the left flank, facing the lion of Avaria and the small contingent that had marched long days from Saony—or perhaps, Alain supposed, there had not been time for a contingent to come all the way from Saony. Perhaps the banner of Saony rode over those folk who had been in attendance on Henry already. Perhaps they flew the banner more to show Saony’s loyalty than to boast of their force of numbers.
“They mean to parley,” said Constance suddenly and clearly as several figures carrying a blue banner marked with a silver tree detached themselves from Henry’s retinue and rode into the open space that separated the two armies. “That is Villam’s device.”
“Of course,” said Sabella.
Abruptly, the figure in white and gold rode out under the banner of Fesse to join Villam.
Sabella nodded toward Biscop Antonia. “You know what to say.”
The biscop was already mounted on her white mule. She signed to her clerics and all but Heribert dropped back away from her.
“Tallia,” said Sabella curtly. Her daughter came forward reluctantly. “Attend Biscop Antonia. It is time for you to be seen.” The girl nodded obediently, but she did not look happy; she looked, in truth, more like a mouse caught in the clutches of an owl.
Antonia measured the number in Villam’s party: Villam, Duchess Liutgard, and two others. She considered the company around Sabella, but her gaze fell finally on Alain. “Come, child,” she said. “You will lead my mule.”
Sabella raised an eyebrow. “A kennel boy?”
“Something more than that, I think. These two hounds that accompany the boy are Lavastine’s hounds. Villam will recognize them and by that know Lavastine willingly marches with us.”
Sabella snorted. “So we will send Lavastine’s hounds as proxy? I am amused, although my brother will not be. That serves my purpose also. Go, then.”
Given no choice, Alain took the mule’s reins and led the animal forward, up the slope. Sorrow and Rage padded at his heels. Cleric Heribert followed suit, taking the reins of Tallia’s horse and walking alongside Alain, so the biscop and the girl rode side by side, granting them equal status.
As he walked, he studied the four figures they had been sent to meet. Two were Eagles; he recognized them by their cloaks trimmed with scarlet. Both were women, one of them surely no older than he was himself. It was this younger one who held Villam’s banner in her left hand.
The hale older man had to be Villam. He was armed in a fine mail shirt; over it, he wore a handsome tabard marked with the device of the silver tree.
But Alain’s gaze kept snapping to the fourth member of their party. Duchess Liutgard. This, then, was the woman Agius had refused to marry. She was tall and rather younger than he expected. She had a cleanly arrogant face and a steady gaze, and a hint of temper in her eyes.
She held her own banner, an odd affectation, and rode a beautiful white gelding outfitted with harness worked with gold ornamentation. Her armor was richer than Villam’s, more elaborate even than the king’s. Indeed, it surprised Alain to see a woman of this rank, in the prime of her childbearing years, riding to war and thus putting herself at risk. But her expression, the very set of her jaw, suggested that Duchess Liutgard had a strong will that was not easily overridden.
She noticed his gaze and, curious in her turn, looked him over; much could be said at a parly simply by the choice of people sent forward to conduct it. He could hear Aunt Bel’s voice: “Keep your hair tidy and your hands washed, lad. And meet new folk with a face that is neither too sullen nor too smiling, for they will trust neither one.” He tried to school his face to an expression of indifferent humility.
Now his gaze slid to Tallia. He had never been quite this close to the young princess before. She had fine clean skin, brushed with freckles, and in the sun her wheat-blonde hair had a touch of fire’s gold in it. Her lower lip trembled. He risked a glance back at Antonia, but the biscop wore her usual expression of kindly solicitude.
Villam, with some show of reluctance, dismounted and kissed the biscop’s ringed hand as a mark of respect for her office. After a deliberate pause, and after handing her banner over to the other Eagle, Duchess Liutgard followed suit. The two Eagles were not important enough to be allowed this honor; like Alain and Heribert, they hung back and observed.
“Lady Tallia,” said Villam, nodding toward the girl, “it is a pleasure to see you again.”
She nodded in return but did not speak. At this moment, she looked incapable of speech.
“Is there no one who comes forward with you to parley?” Villam continued. “Duke Rodulf does not grace us with his presence.”
“I think you know his opinions well enough.”
“It is true,” said Villam, not quite hiding a smile, “that Rodulf is refreshingly frank. But I see other banners here which surprise me. Count Lavastine is known to me, and to the king, and yet he does not come forward with you to speak his mind.”
Barely, Antonia’s lips quirked. She gestured toward the hounds. Villam looked that way. His reaction
was twofold, and rather strange. At first he looked annoyed. Antonia was suggesting, of course, that Lavastine was either a dog running at Sabella’s heels or else that the count himself meant to insult the king by sending the two hounds as his representatives. But then Villam registered Alain. He looked at the boy, studied him for one awkward moment; something in his face betrayed him, and he had to look away to hide it—a grief he could not share. Oddly, Duchess Liutgard touched him on the elbow, the way one steadies a man who has stumbled.
“I would have speech,” continued Villam after a moment, “with Sabella.”
“Of course,” said Antonia smoothly, “any words which you speak here will reach her. I am merely the vessel through which they travel. Indeed, Sabella has words for her brother as well.”
“No doubt,” said Villam drily. “But I fear we speak of deeds, not words, now. Why has Sabella marched with this army out of Arconia, the territory she administers for her husband Berengar?”
The mule shifted, and Alain tightened his grip on the reins to still it. Antonia opened one hand and gestured eloquently toward Henry’s red silk banner. “She is grieved by her brother’s usurpation of her rightful place as queen of Wendar.”
Villam shook his head. His eyes were dark and heavy, as if he had recently endured many sleepless nights. “That dispute was settled eight years ago. Sabella vowed on your ring, Biscop Antonia, to hold no more grievance against King Henry and to retire to her own holdings and be a faithful supporter of his rule. Has she broken that vow?”
“She swore that vow under duress, as you yourself witnessed. Only those who have sworn themselves to wear martyr’s garments are expected to choose death over life, no matter what the charge. So does Our Lady forgive us for our attachment to life, as long as our hearts remain pure and our bearing dignified. As long as we do not forsake our duty to God.”
“Is that how you interpret the scripture?” asked Liutgard sharply, suddenly coming to life.
“I do not intend,” replied Antonia with a patient smile, “to debate scripture here, my lady.” She turned back to Villam. He was a tall, broad man, and though she still sat on her mule, she did not loom over him as she would have a smaller man or woman.
“Sabella is a reasonable woman. Henry may keep his title as duke of Saony, giving the county of Attomar to his sister Rotrudis. Sabella will take the crown and throne of Wendar, and Varre will go to Tallia. She will show her favor toward Henry by allowing his young son Ekkehard to marry Tallia and become king of Varre as Tallia’s consort.”
Villam was too old and wily—and too burdened by that other, nameless grief—to get angry. “I would laugh if only the suggestion were not so offensive. As well as ridiculous. To Sabella, King Henry sends these words: She may keep her dukedom if she turns and quits the field now.”
“It is not her dukedom to quit, Villam. Berengar is Duke of Arconia.”
Villam grunted, finally sounding irritated. “Your Grace, please do not treat me as if I were a fool. Berengar is a fine and noble man, I am sure, but he does not—shall we say—carry a full kettle of wits with him. Sabella rules that dukedom as both man and woman.” Then he quickly nodded toward Tallia, who had flushed a bright pink and was staring so hard at her hands that first Alain, and then Heribert, and then the two silent Eagles, and finally the other three—who knew better—also looked at the girl’s hands to see if something was growing there. “Begging your pardon, Lady Tallia.”
She murmured something indistinguishable, but its tone sounded like apology.
Antonia spoke. “If we cannot agree, Lord Villam, there is no point in discussion, is there?”
“You wish to fight?” He looked genuinely puzzled. As well he might: Henry’s force was clearly larger and, more importantly, had more mounted soldiers. Their weight and overbearing force alone assured Henry victory.
“Of course we do not wish to fight,” said Antonia with a heartfelt sigh. “Of course we wish for peace, Lord Villam. Duchess Liutgard. All souls wish for peace, for is that not the devout wish of Our Lord and Lady? But is it right for Sabella to allow Henry to continue on a throne that is rightfully hers?”
“She did not—”
“She has a child. Here is Tallia, before you. Henry has only the word of a heathen woman, if you can even trust the word of an Aoi. Is it not said that elves are children gotten by fallen angels on human woman?”
“In fact,” began Liutgard, breaking in as Antonia took breath, “if one studies the Dialogue on Fate, one reads that the blessed Diasan said that elves were—”
“I do not mean to discuss church matters here.” Antonia made a sharp sign with her right hand, as if she was lopping off her left hand at the wrist. Silence.
Duchess Liutgard whitened; she looked mightily annoyed, and her mouth tightened. Villam made a soft noise, and with an obvious effort the duchess kept silent.
“How can we know Henry earned his heir’s right?” Antonia continued. “How can we know Sanglant is his son at all? Sabella was Arnulf’s first choice as heir. Not Henry. Men may swear all they wish that any child is of their begetting and their blood, but only a woman giving birth before witnesses can prove a child is hers. No man can do that, for even if he locks a woman up, there are creatures not of human blood and earthly make known to have other methods of entry.”
“You are saying,” said Villam quietly but with real growing anger, “that Henry lied about Sanglant and his heir’s progress.”
“I say nothing about Henry. I say Henry can never know, and thus we can never know. Why do you think the church encourages inheritance to pass through the mother’s line, Lord Villam? Duchess Liutgard? The old Dariyans practiced adoption, bringing any kind of person into their houses, but the church outlawed that practice for inheritance purposes over three hundred years ago at the Council of Nisibia. So do some of us work today to ban inheritance through the male line.” Antonia had by now worked up real fervor. Always, she presented a benign facade. Alain had never before seen her so impassioned. “If Henry continues his reign, who will become sovereign after him? The children of Sophia and Arethousa? Will the taint of the East infiltrate our kingdom? Does this new heresy that has spread its tendrils into our fine pure faith not come from the lands ruled by the Arethousan emperors? Will our rulers be Arethousan, and not of Wendish blood?”
“They will be Henry’s children,” said Villam firmly. “And strong rulers, despite what you say, Biscop Antonia.”
“Beware Arethousans bearing gifts,” she replied, darkly. “Had Henry married a good Wendish woman of noble birth, I would not be so adamant in my cause. But he did not. Two women he is known to have consorted with, both of them foreigners and one not even of human blood.” She had finally and entirely lost that placid grandmother’s face. Beneath it, she was hard and cold. “I cannot trust such a man. Nor will I trust his offspring. Sanglant! His pet! A bastard child who isn’t even human and probably isn’t even his, since we have only the mother’s worthless word that she did not act the whore. And Henry makes a fool of himself—everyone knows; it is common knowledge throughout Wendish lands— because he favors such a child! I do not call this a kingly virtue. I do not think this shows strong judgment. Sabella married, as was her duty, a man of her own people. But Henry cannot be content with that, can he? He has his eye on greater things, does he not? He has his eye on the chair of the emperor, in Darre. He wants to follow in the wake of Taillefer. Well! Let Henry nurse his own lands before he sets off to heal others. Let him mate with a woman of his own people before he breeds with the whores of strangers.” Antonia was by now quite red and quite furious. Alain was both impressed and horrified.
Liutgard made as if to stride forward and confront the biscop physically, but Villam stayed her with a gesture. “I have heard enough insults,” he said. “There is no more to be said. Let this battle be on your head, then, Biscop Antonia. Let it be said, from this hour forward in all the chronicles that record this day, that Sabella rejected King Henry’s len
iency when it was offered and chose to face his rage.” He mounted, reined his horse around, and set off up the hill.
Liutgard tossed her head, like a spirited horse, and met Antonia’s gaze with one no less hard. “You are like a sweet water well that has been poisoned by the venom of a guivre.” She turned and followed Villam, the Eagle bearing her banner trailing in her wake.
One of the Eagles hung back. Alain stared at the younger one. She had the palest hair—a coarse white-blonde—he had ever seen, except for the hair of the Eika prince. Her gaze caught his, and, for a moment, they simply looked at each other; she appeared more curious than hostile. And she had astonishingly pale blue eyes.
“Hanna!” said her companion sharply, calling back over her shoulder. The young Eagle wrenched her gaze away from Alain, glanced quickly at the hounds, then followed her companion up the hill after the two nobles.
“Is it true, Your Grace?” asked Tallia.
“Is what true?” Antonia had recovered her outer calm. “Come, child, we must ride back behind the lines. The battle will soon begin.”
“T-those things you said. About Henry.”
“Of course it is true. Why would I say such things if they were not true?”
“Oh,” said Tallia, and that was all.
Meekly, she let Cleric Heribert lead her back to her mother. When they arrived at Sabella’s banner, Willibrod took the mule’s reins away from Alain. Tallia was taken back behind the lines to the safety of the supply train, where the noncombatants awaited the outcome of the battle. One wagon had been brought forward from the train. This was unusual enough but made more so because Alain recognized it as the shrouded cage that concealed the guivre.
“You saw no sign of the Dragons?” Sabella asked.
“None. And I have never heard it said the Dragons hide themselves. Always they ride in the vanguard.”
“Bastard and whore’s child he may be,” said Sabella grudgingly, “but Sanglant is known for being brave. What of the others?”