“I am.”
Sanglant looked at his cousin Liutgard, and for an instant Liath felt insulted in her turn, that Sanglant shouldn’t look to her first, who came first in his heart. Yet Liutgard’s understanding of court politics so far surpassed Liath’s as Liath’s understanding of sorcery exceeded Liutgard’s knowledge of the magical arts. Sanglant, being a good commander, called for spears when he needed spears and swords when he needed swords.
“Where is Mother Scholastica?” Liutgard asked. “I am surprised she has not come to greet the regnant, as is fitting.”
“Has he been anointed and crowned, my lady?” The prior did not appear cowed by the ranks of soldiers. “What of his siblings, Henry’s other children? What transpires on the field of battle—of which we have not yet heard a full accounting—may be reexamined by clearer heads.”
“As if you can possibly comprehend what we faced!” cried Liutgard, half rising in the saddle. Her horse danced sideways in response to her mood.
“We also suffered many losses in the storm. Your own heir—”
It was a cruel blow. Sanglant caught Liutgard’s horse as her hands went slack on the reins. She was felled, speechless, and he must speak for her.
“What of Duchess Liutgard’s heir?”
“Killed in last autumn’s tempest by a falling branch when she was out riding,” the prior said primly, as if some fault accrued to the girl.
fore, it was Sanglant who had to fall.
PART THREE
ADVENTUS
IX
WELL MET
1
THE adventus of Sanglant, son of Henry, into the ancient citadel of Quedlinhame at the head of his victorious army would be commemorated in poetry and song, Liath supposed, but no doubt the poets would sing of fine silken banners rippling in the breeze and gaily caparisoned horses prancing under the rein of their magnificently-garbed riders, a host splendid and brilliant beyond description, shining in the light of the sun. That’s what poets did. This ragged army and dreary day offered no fodder for song, so song would make of them something they were not.
But march they did along the road, silent, weary, hungry, but not beaten. On this gray, late winter day, the view before them was dominated by the hill and its ancient fortress, now the cloister ruled by Sanglant’s aunt, Mother Scholastica. The fields on one side of the road lay in stubble, and on the other a field of winter wheat had sprouted mostly weeds.
Scouts had ridden ahead to inform the abbess of their arrival, and that wise woman had sent her novices and nuns and monks out to line the road as a way of greeting the man who claimed the regnancy and who possessed, more importantly, the corpus of the dead king. Townspeople stood back, staring rather than cheering. They looked thin and pale. Like the wheat, they hadn’t had much to subsist on over the winter. As the army trudged between the rows of robed novices and sturdy monks, Liath peered into those faces, although she knew Ivar was long gone from Quedlinhame.
On that other adventus, so well remembered, Henry’s troops and clerics had sung triumphant hymns as a processional. That so many of Sanglant’s still breathed was a testament to his leadership, but certainly their arrival stirred no festive mood and no songs. Not yet. The songs would be written later.
No one in Wendar had heard Henry, with his dying breath, name Sanglant as his heir. In Wendar, Sanglant would have to fight with intrigue, diplomacy, and force of personality. These weapons, which he liked least, he would of necessity wield most.
It was not going to be easy.
That, certainly, became clear as soon as they saw the welcoming party arrayed in the middle of the road: two men and two women in cleric’s robes and a woman wearing the key and chain of the mayor. Liath sorted faces, and turned her attention inward in order to race through her palace of memory, marking names and features.
Sanglant was ahead of her in thought although he rode at her left hand on his gelding, Fest. She heard him mutter under his breath. The words escaped her, but the tone was sour.
“Ha!” said Duchess Liutgard, who rode to his left and was never shy of speaking her mind. “Now the game starts in earnest, Cousin. Where is your aunt? She has snubbed you by not coming out to greet you herself.”
“Is the insult worse to me, or to my father?” asked Sanglant grimly. “He deserves better state than this trifling welcome.”
A monk whose face seemed familiar to Liath came forward from the group and bowed his head. “Your Highness. You are welcome here to Quedlinhame, ancient home of your father’s grandfather’s maternal lineage. I pray you, Your Highness, let me lead your horse into the town as befits your rank.”
“You are the prior?” asked Sanglant.
“I am.”
Sanglant looked at his cousin Liutgard, and for an instant Liath felt insulted in her turn, that Sanglant shouldn’t look to her first, who came first in his heart. Yet Liutgard’s understanding of court politics so far surpassed Liath’s as Liath’s understanding of sorcery exceeded Liutgard’s knowledge of the magical arts. Sanglant, being a good commander, called for spears when he needed spears and swords when he needed swords.
“Where is Mother Scholastica?” Liutgard asked. “I am surprised she has not come to greet the regnant, as is fitting.”