“He is the fount of grace and honor. His achievements have made him famous throughout the four quarters of the earth.”

The Aoi woman did not invite conversation. Young Lord Fride-braht, seated to her right, was certainly too much in dread of her strange appearance and fierce gaze to speak one single word to her. Even old Villam, who had known Alia those many years ago in her brief time at court and who certainly had never before lacked the spirit or courage to flatter an attractive woman, attempted only a few comments before, in the face of her disinterest, he gave up. Alia watched the king, the court, and occasionally her son. She ate and drank sparingly. In this way, the feast continued without further incident.

The poet finished his panegyric at last, and a cleric came forward to give a pleasing rendition of “The Best of Songs,” the wedding song taken from the ancient Essit holy book.

“My beloved is mine, and I am his.

Let me be a seal upon your heart,

like the seal upon your hand.”

The king’s favored Eagle, Hathui, beckoned to Rosvita. “His Majesty will take his leave of the hall now.”

“What make you of this turn of events?” asked Rosvita. Although Hathui was only a common-born woman, she had a keen eye and the king’s confidence.

“It is unexpected.” Hathui laughed at the absurdity of her own statement. Henry had gotten the baby settled on his knee and was now feeding her the choicest bits, mashed into a porridgelike consistency, from the platter he shared with his queen. “I believe the king would be better served if he sorts it out in the king’s chambers, in some manner of privacy, away from the assembly.”

Almost as if he had overheard the Eagle’s statement, Sanglant rose to toast the newly married couple. Despite his common clothing, he had the carriage of a prince and the proud face of a man who expects loyalty and obedience in those who follow him. He knew how to pitch his voice to carry over the buzzing throng.

“Let many blessings attend this union,” he said to cheers. When the hurrahs tailed off, he went on. “But let me call before you one blessing, in particular, that is held by our blessed regnant and my beloved father, King Henry.”

The hall quieted. The guards at the doors strained forward to hear. Even the servants paused in their tasks.

At the sound of her father’s voice, the baby stood up in Henry’s lap and sang out, “Da! Da!” in a voice surely meant someday to ring out above the clash of battle. Henry laughed as many in the assembly chuckled appreciatively or murmured to each other, wondering what the prince was about. Bastards siring children was nothing unknown, alas, but it wasn’t customary to bring such a left-handed lineage to the attention of the entire court.

A fly buzzed annoyingly by Rosvita’s ear. As she slapped it away, Sanglant continued.

“King Henry holds in his arms my daughter, whom I have named Blessing, as was my right as her father.”

“And a blessing she truly is, Son,” replied Henry. Despite the shock of Sanglant’s and Alia’s arrival, Henry had mellowed under the influence of the child. Or so it seemed. He was a subtle campaigner, and in such circumstances it was easy to forget that his wrath, once kindled, was slow to burn out. “In your place, with such responsibilities, it is wise for you to come seeking forgiveness of me. You cannot hope to feed and clothe a retinue in this guise you have taken, garbed something like a common soldier and without even the gold badge of your royal lineage about your neck. Surely your daughter deserves more than this journeyer’s life.”

Adelheid’s smile sharpened as she looked at Sanglant to see how he would respond to this thrust.

The prince downed his cup of wine in a single gulp and, with a flush staining his bronze-dark cheeks, replied with an edge in his voice. “I ask for nothing for myself, Your Majesty. I thought I made that plain when I returned to you the belt of honor which you yourself fastened on me when I was fifteen. What I wear now I have earned through my own efforts. Nay, I return to court not for my own benefit.”

They were like two dogs, growling before they bit.

“If you do not come seeking my forgiveness, then why are you here?” demanded Henry.

“I come on behalf of my daughter, Blessing. I ask only for what is due her as the last legitimate descendant of the Emperor Taillefer.”

Taillefer. Dead these hundred years and his lineage died with him, for no child sired by his loins had reigned after him and his empire had fallen apart soon after his death.

Rosvita understood, then, everything that hadn’t been plain to her before: the puzzle of the pregnant Queen Radegundis, who had fled to the convent after her husband Taillefer’s death; the mystery of Mother Obligatia and the cryptic words of Brother Fidelis; and most of all, the inexplicable luster that made Liath appear to be far more than the simple king’s messenger she supposedly was.