In the inner chamber, Antonia found herself alone with Adelheid and Alexandros. A barred window looked over a garden of cypress hedges and sleepy lavender. Alexandros stood in profile, staring into the deepening twilight as Adelheid paced. He seemed preoccupied; indeed, he did not even acknowledge Antonia’s entrance.
“You are come, Holy Mother,” the queen said, her voice dull.
“Has the messenger returned?” Antonia asked. “What news of our offer for parley?”
Adelheid glanced at Alexandros, but his gaze did not shift from whatever he was staring at out in that garden. A faint whiff of burning incense caught at her before trailing away, lost in a sharper scent of anxiety and fear.
“Refused,” she said in a low voice. “They sent the man back with an arrow in his heart, dumped him outside our gates. They will not negotiate.”
“They are shrewd, these Ashioi.” Alexandros spoke without looking toward either woman. He mused in the manner of a man speaking to himself, hoping that a passing angel might overhear him and stop to give him advice. “They know the woods and the land. I believe that the messengers we sent out at dawn may not have made it past their guard. We cannot expect relief to come quickly, if at all.”
“They haven’t the strength to sustain an attack on us, surely,” said Antonia. “I saw no siege engines. We are well set up with provisions and water.”
“It remains in our interest to end this with parley, not blows.” His fingers were hooked into his belt, perfectly still, all of him still.
Only Adelheid paced, and her restlessness began to irritate Antonia, who walked over to the side table and picked up an apple, the last one resting in a polished bowl. The fruit was withered, out of last harvest’s store, but when she bit into it, the flavor remained sweet.
“Their demands are unconscionable in the eyes of God. What do you suggest, Alexandros? Since they will not negotiate?”
Five paces brought him to the side table, next to her. She had forgotten how fast a determined man moved. She did not like that bulky presence next to her, so she slid around the corner of the narrow table and shielded herself with her back to the wall.
“It is only a matter of time,” he said, following her.
His right hand snapped forward, and his fingers closed around her throat. “Understand this, Holy Mother. I trust swords, and I have good reason not to trust the women who bind sorcery. I will not allow my life to hang from this thread of your goodwill. You may take my life with any change of the wind.”
His fingers tightened. She released the apple, and heard its soft flesh splatter on the floor. With her left hand she grasped his forearm and pushed her nails into his flesh, but his grip did not waver. With her right, she groped for her eating knife and wiggled it out of its sheath, and struck for his side.
He twisted, caught her hand, and bent it back until the bones cracked in her wrist. The knife fell, ringing like a high bell where it hit cold floor. The pain blinded her, white hot and as sharp as steel, and at first she could not react, but she could hear with uncanny keenness as Adelheid began to murmur a prayer under her breath.
“God, make us strong.
God, be a swift sword.
Let justice fall heavily upon the wicked.”
He let her wrist fall and she heard the hiss of steel leaving its scabbard. Her sight flashed back. His long hunting dagger poised above her. Lamplight burnished its dark blade.
“In God’s name, I command you—!” she gasped. “I am Holy Mother. This is—!”
“This is prudence,” he remarked.
The dagger fell. It punctured the flesh between her breasts and rasped along bone until the point scraped against the stone wall behind her. Blood spilled along her skin. So much pain! She tried to tighten her grip on his arm, but it was too much effort. She was so weary, and wished only to lie down.
Adelheid’s pretty voice caressed her with prayers.
“We will not turn away from You.
Grant us Your help. Preserve our life.”
How had Alexandros corrupted her?
In the same manner the other men had, first Henry, then Hugh, and now this one-eyed, goat-footed, bristly monstrosity who called himself a lord although he was no more than a peasant’s brat who had pulled himself to the top of a heap of dead men.
Brave words and brilliant eyes cozen a weak-willed woman. Adelheid had always been susceptible!
A pounding at the door shattered the prayer into a thousand shards. A voice shouted, loud enough to be heard through the thick door. “Your Majesty! My lord general! They attack!”
