“She is dead,” said Conrad. “So my mother promised me. Damn her.”
“She is dead,” agreed Wolfhere in a calm voice. He stood in the most relaxed posture imaginable, although Conrad loomed over him. “But not through your mother’s agency. Duchess Meriam sheltered her from the backlash of the great weaving, and sent her home in my company. You may ask Lord Berthold, who will vouch that Elene came safely as far as Novomo, in Aosta. There, it is true, I failed her. It was Hugh of Austra who murdered her, when she was sleeping and helpless, and for no better reason than that he wanted no apprentice of Meriam’s to challenge his knowledge of the magical arts.”
Conrad was silent and still for so long that Ivar began to think he had gone into a trance, lost to the world, as grieving folk sometimes did. One of the dogs whined, tail arching down and ears flat as it caught its master’s mood. Nearby, a man sawed at wood; a hammer pounded. Dirt cast from a shovel spattered on earth. A voice cursed, and a pair of men led a quartet of milk goats past on leashes, serenaded by goatish complaints. On their heels came another group of riders, who gave way as a silver-haired woman dismounted and strode over to Conrad.
“What is this I hear? Prisoners? Who are these?” She saw the old Eagle, recognized him, and laughed. “My father’s faithful wolf, come back to bite—yet who means he to snap at? Is this Villam’s brat? I thought him dead and lost!” She looked at the others, but when she examined Ivar, he saw her frown and, with a shrug, dismiss him. Thank God she hadn’t recognized him!
“Come inside.” Without further speech, Conrad plunged into his tent.
Ivar was herded inside with the others but forced to stand to one side along the canvas wall with a line of armed men so close behind him that the hilt of a sword pressed into one buttock. Conrad’s tent was furnished with a pair of couches—difficult to transport—and a dozen chairs set on the ground scuffed to dirt. A girl sat on the single carpet, and its blue colors were far more brilliant than her scruffy clothing, which looked very like a servant’s calf-length linen smock covered by a milite’s well-worn tabard, belted but nevertheless so big on her that it hung in great awkward folds about her shoulders and hips. Seeing Lady Sabella, she rose and scuttled sideways to the chair where Conrad sat down. He noted her and put out an arm, and she melted into its shelter. From this fatherly refuge she stood as bravely as she could.
“She is a weapon,” said Sabella.
“So have you said a dozen times since she fell into our hands,” said Conrad easily, without shifting.
“Liutgard will want her back. This is now her heir, since it appears that the elder girl really is dead.”
Conrad’s right eye shuttered slightly, his mouth winced, and then he recovered. “I’ll not use Lady Ermengard as a pawn. I’ll assign men to escort her back to Autun for the time being. She can be fostered with Berry.”
“You’re sentimental and a fool, Conrad. Once this girl is dead, Liutgard has no living heirs. Queen Conradina’s line will vanish once and for all time if Liutgard does not hereafter remarry and reproduce. Then Fesse is thrown into disorder.”
That his tone remained calm made the duke seem suddenly quite dangerous. “I won’t allow this girl to be murdered. If I must, I’ll send her to Bederbor.”
“Best not,” said Ivar, prodded by a sudden sympathy for the frightened girl. She could not be more than thirteen or fifteen. “The road west is no longer safe.”
That got their attention, although he hadn’t meant to do so quite so dramatically.
Sabella swung round to glare at him. He squirmed, but he dared not move. “What do you mean?” she demanded. Then she peered at him as if she were shortsighted. “Don’t I know you? You look familiar.”
He saw by her expression that she could not place him. Conrad laughed.
“Don’t you know this rufus bird? He flocked with that prettily plumaged creature you kept in your cage but which escaped you.”
“Have done, Conrad! Do not mock me!”
He grinned.
A horn blared outside, and men shouted. Conrad jumped to his feet and set the girl aside as the entry was swept open and a captain strode in accompanied by a travel-worn scout. The man’s left arm was bandaged, and the bandage stained with dried blood.
“My lord duke. My lady.” The scout knelt. “Riders coming out of the east. They fly the banner of Saony.”
“Rotrudis is dead,” said Sabella.
Conrad nodded. “These must be her daughters, riding in support of Sanglant.”
