She bolted forward, sure that the book would vanish, too, become like mist and evaporate as under the glare of the sun, but when she reached to touch it, it was solid and so very very dear to her. She could still smell Da’s scent on it, even though she knew that fragrance was only a memory in her mind. She grasped it, the heft of it, its weight. Metal clasps held the book together. The leather binding was grayed with age, but it had been oiled and lovingly cared for, and the brass roses adorning the metal clasps had been polished to a fine gleam. She ran her fingers down the spine, reading with her touch the embossed letters: The Book of Secrets.
A masking name, Da had often said, to hide the true name of the book within.
She crushed the book against her chest, and wept.
3
VERY late in the night Ekkehard appeared in the church, looking tousled and sleepy with only a simple linen tunic thrown on over his shift. Yawning, he knelt to Sanglant’s left. A pair of Austran guardsmen loitered a moment at the back, as if checking to make sure he didn’t bolt out a side door, before retreating onto the church porch to pass the time chatting with Sanglant’s soldiers.
“Where did you come from?” asked Theophanu. “Your wife’s bed?”
Ekkehard had a way of hunching his shoulders to express discomfort that had always annoyed Sanglant. He was the kind of rash personality who either leaped before looking or looked away in order to pretend trouble wasn’t there.
“I pray you, Theo,” Sanglant said, “do not tease him. Let us honor our father’s memory in peace.”
“If only Sapientia were here,” added Theophanu, “we might be in harmony again, just as Father always wished.”
The tart comment surprised a laugh out of Sanglant. “I am not accustomed to this much bitterness from you, Theo.”
“Forgive me, Brother. I forget myself.”
“You sold me to the Austrans,” said Ekkehard suddenly. “Like you’d sell a horse.”
“For stud,” commented Theophanu. “About all you’re worth at this point. You betrayed Wendar by aiding the Quman and showed disrespect to our father’s memory by leaving Gent when you were meant to watch over it as a holy steward. Sanglant was merciful. Toward you, at least. Perhaps not so merciful toward Sapientia.”
“Sapientia sent me to my death,” muttered Ekkehard. “I don’t care if she’s dead. Anyway, Gerberga’s not so bad. She’s not like her mother. Better married to her than trapped as abbot in Gent.”
“I am glad you approve of your marriage,” said Sanglant wryly, “since you had no choice in it. Will Gerberga support me?”
“Yes.” Ekkehard scratched the light beard covering his chin, and yawned again. “That’s what she sent me to tell you.”
“At what price?” asked Theophanu.
“Didn’t she tell you already?” Sanglant asked. “You rode with her from Osterburg, did you not?”
“She is closemouthed, like her mother was, but a better companion. I like her well enough. She is a good steward for Austra and Olsatia.”
“Why do neither of you ever listen to me?” said Ekkehard. “I have something to say.”
“Why did Gerberga not approach me herself?” Sanglant asked. “Why send you in the middle of the night?”
“Because we can speak privately, and no one will mark it.”
“Everyone marks it,” said Sanglant. “How else did Gerberga know I was here?”
“Yes, but no one is surprised that the children of Henry should pray through the night to mourn him. He did the same for our grandmother.”
“In truth,” said Theophanu, “I’m surprised you did not come sooner, Ekkehard. It is fitting for a child to mourn his beloved father with a vigil.”
Ekkehard had not once looked toward the coffin. He had shed no tears that Sanglant had seen during the lengthy mass and reading of psalms. “Do you want to hear, or not?”
“Go on. What does Gerberga want?”
“The marchlands of Westfall and Eastfall suffer because their margraves are dead in the wars. You must appoint a new margrave for each one, to bring order. She would prefer that you listen to her desires in this matter, as she has suitable candidates in mind, but she will accept any reasonable lord of good family who will act in concert with her and agree to marry Theucinda.”
“Theucinda must be fifteen or eighteen by now.”
“She is only a little younger than I am. Gerberga says this, also: If Bertha lives, then she might become margrave of Eastfall, and you could let Theucinda marry the new margrave of Westfall.”
