Anything might be possible.
From outside, the roar of acclamation rose to a high pitch as some notable—perhaps Henry and Adelheid themselves—approached down the thoroughfare.
“No Eagle came to Theophanu while I was with Her Highness, but I met one of my comrades north of the mountains who had come from Aosta. She rode one way, and I another. Where she is now I do not know.” The memory of Hathui’s expression, at the end of their conversation so many months ago, made her throat tighten. Yet for all the bitterness that curdled in her when she thought of Sanglant and Bulkezu, she could not wish Hathui ill. “I pray she is well.”
The cheering swelled at the porch of the church.
“Beware—” Fortunatus broke off as Rufus called to her and the people gathered at the doors cried out in thanksgiving as they knelt with heads bowed. A tall, elegant figure moved forward through the glow of lamplight like an angel advancing out of the darkness to lead the benighted to salvation.
Only this was not an angel.
She knew him even before she saw him clearly. No person who had seen him could ever forget him and especially not when he was burnished, as now, by the light of a dozen lamps and the heartfelt acclaim of people who had been rescued from certain death by his timely arrival. A fire burned in her heart, and she took a few steps forward before she remembered what he had done to Liath. She scarcely heard the whispers and footfalls behind her as Hugh entered the church.
Presbyter Hugh, they called him here. Everyone talked about him, but it was easy to ignore talk. Talk did not have golden hair, a handsome face, and a graceful form.
“Is this where it happened?” he asked with outraged concern. He caught sight of Rufus. “An Eagle! I thank God you survived. Lady have mercy! Look how they tried to chop their way in through the door.”
It was impossible not to be moved by that beautiful voice, both resonant and soothing. Impossible not to be lulled, until the moment when he looked up, directly at her.
She stood frozen halfway down the nave, forgetting how she had walked so far, drawn as though by a tether line being reeled in.
He saw her.
He knew her.
“He always knows.” Liath had cried, long ago in Heart’s Rest. And he had known that day. He had returned to stop Hanna from speaking with her friend. He wanted no comfort given to the one he had made his slave.
Just like Bulkezu.
Such a shudder of misgiving passed through Hanna’s body that the lamp trembled in her hand. He smiled gently, and she remembered the way he had looked at her that day in Heart’s Rest in the gloom of the chapel: as if he were measuring her to decide if she posed a threat to him.
He had dismissed her then. She was only a common girl. He might recognize her face, because of her link to Liath, but she doubted he remembered anything else about her.
It was better when they didn’t know your name.
“We heard news of an Eagle come from Princess Theophanu,” he said, walking forward. She remembered to kneel; she found another bruise that way, on her right knee, that she’d gotten without knowing. He paused beside her without looking at her, because he was examining the choir with a mild expression of surprise. “Are you the last one here?”
Rufus stood behind him, looking puzzled as he, too, stared at the choir and the writhing tapestries. She turned her head. The four clerics were gone.
“The other clerics—” Rufus began.
“—fled with the rest, in fear of their lives,” she interrupted. “We are all that is left. Your Excellency, if I may rise, there is an injured deacon and the two criminals who assaulted her. She is gravely injured.”
Hugh knelt beside the deacon, lifting the bloodstained pad of cloth from the wound. He frowned and set fingers carefully along the curve of her throat, and shook his head. “She is dead. May God have mercy on her soul.” After murmuring a blessing, he looked up. “Do you know her name?”
“I do not, Your Excellency,” she lied. “My comrade and I came here to St. Asella’s today because we were told we might hear the lesson delivered in Wendish, which our souls craved to hear after so many months in a foreign land.”
“Ah.” He dabbed a smear of blood off his forefinger onto the deacon’s robe and rose. “Eagle.” He indicated Rufus. “Certain of the king’s soldiers wait outside. See that these criminals are taken away to the regnant’s dungeon. I will send clerics from the queen’s schola to take away this poor deacon’s body and prepare it for burial.”
At the Hearth he studied the holy lamp set on the bare stone floor, the scattered vessels, and the altar cloth spilled carelessly over them. “A grave crime,” he said as he picked up the altar cloth and the vessels and set all to rights, smoothing the gold-trimmed cloth down over the Hearth and placing holy lamp and precious vessels in the precise arrangement on its surface, reflecting the glory of the Chamber of Light, which awaits all faithful souls.
