Lord Hrodik was clearly almost beside himself in his desperation to please the prince, and now he noticed Sanglant’s fascination with the dragon embroidery. He leaped forward to take the linen-shrouded object out of the servant’s arms, whipping the cloth off to reveal a stunningly beautiful helmet, glorious iron trimmed with gold to suggest the fierce visage of a dragon.
Prince Sanglant jumped up so fast that his chair fell over backward, hitting the rushes with a resounding thud. He thrust the cloak into Heribert’s arms, had to brace himself against the table as if he feared his legs would give out.
“Where did you get that?”
Hrodik looked startled and not a little scared by the prince’s vehemence. “It came from the crypt, Your Highness. We recovered a great deal of armor there, after the king and Count Lavastine returned Gent to human sovereignty. Lord Wichman had this piece restored and polished, but he allowed no man to wear it. Nor did he take it with him when he rode east to fight the Quman.”
Slowly, Sanglant straightened. “What of the rest of the armor found there?” The casual words could not disguise a blossoming of pain in his voice, although truly his voice always sounded hoarse.
“Wichman’s companions commandeered most of it,” Hrodik said, “and his mother Duchess Rotrudis sent stewards to carry off the rest. Nothing as rich as this piece, of course, but all of it well made and—” He broke off, a look of horror on his face. Stammering nonsense, he set the helmet on the table between a platter of chicken eaten down to the bones and a bowl of fish stewed in broth.
“I pray, grant me your pardon, Your Highness.” His hands were actually shaking. “I mistook myself. I cannot gift this to you, for it was yours once, was it not? When you were captain of the King’s Dragons.”
Sanglant hesitated, then touched the helmet as though it were an adder. After a moment, he slipped his fingers through the eye slots and lifted it to examine it more closely, turning it to study the dragon inlay, the raised wings wrapping around the helmet’s curve, the gleaming face staring down its foe. Zacharias could not interpret the expression on his face, deep emotions surging beneath a taut control. Without a word, he tucked the helmet under his arm in a gesture obviously remembered more by his body than by his mind and strode from the hall without looking at anyone or making any polite excuses. He simply walked out, such a stark look on his face as might be seen on a man who had watched his beloved comrades fall one by one before him, without hope of saving even one.
So he had, hadn’t he? Zacharias had heard the story of Gent from Fulk’s soldiers, but it was a story they only told when out of the prince’s hearing.
Yet wasn’t that why soldiers followed him with their whole hearts? Because he gave his heart to them in turn? Prince Sanglant knew the name and history of every man in his retinue. Not one among them doubted that their prince would lead them bravely, fight with them until the end, grieve over any of the fallen, and pay fair restitution to the families of those who, if God so willed it, did not survive.
“Come with me,” said Heribert in a low voice.
Zacharias didn’t need to be told twice, but at the door he paused to look back just as Lord Hrodik, waking as though from a stupor, spoke in an almost apoplectic voice.
“Go now, Mistress, come with me. We must go to his chambers and discuss what manner of outfitting his soldiers need.”
The weaver had a pleasant voice, low and melodic, although it shook a little. “I beg you, Lord Hrodik, it seems to me that the prince is in no humor to be plagued by a lowly common woman such as myself. I and the other weavers in Gent can provide what you wish, if you will only allow us to—”
“Nay! Nay! I will have him satisfied exactly as he wishes! I am still lord over this town. You will abide by my command!”
“I pray you, Brother.” The whisper came from the corridor. Zacharias turned to see the servingwoman, Frederun, standing in the shadow where door met wall. Heribert had already vanished down the hall. With all the windows along the outside wall of the corridor shuttered, it was too dark for him to make out her face. “Does the prince know that woman? The weaver?”
“I have not been with the prince more than five months. I know little of his past. Yet I must counsel you, sister, do not let lust overmaster you. I do not know what binds you to this place, but surely you realize that the prince will ride on, and you will remain behind.”
“I am bound as a servant here, Brother. Will you counsel me now to accept meekly what God have ordained for such as me? Is all happiness to be denied me?”