Heribert pushed past Zacharias and grabbed the whimpering child out of her father’s arm. As though that movement freed him, Sanglant whirled around, grabbed the chair, and hoisted it.
He smashed it against the floor.
Splintered wood flew everywhere. Mistress Suzanne and her household fled the chamber. Even Lord Hrodik stumbled out in their wake.
Zacharias took a step forward to calm the prince, but Heribert stopped him with a gesture.
“But not for me!” cried Sanglant. “The way is open, but not for me! Do I mean nothing to her that she should call someone else in my place?” He hoisted what remained of the heavy chair in his right hand, making ready to smash it again, when the girl, Anna, stepped right out in front of him. She hadn’t fled with the others, nor did she show any fear.
“Are you truly a daimone from the heavens?” she asked in that scrape of a voice. “Is that why you want to return there?”
The wrath of King Henry was famous throughout the land. Nobles feared the king’s anger for good reason, although Henry was said to use it sparingly. Surely Prince Sanglant was the most easygoing of noblemen, or so Zacharias had come to believe. For the first time, he saw the regnant’s anger full in the prince’s face, forbidding and intimidating, and it made him step back beside Heribert, who spoke soothingly to the sniveling Blessing. She had never seen her father so angry before.
Anna just stood there, waiting.
Sanglant opened his hand and with a shuddering breath let the chair drop. It hit the carpet with a thud, clattering on the shards of its broken legs.
It was suddenly very quiet. The coals in the brazier shifted, ash spilled, and the fire made a wheezing sound, quickly stifled. The torches blazed back up, as if Sanglant had sucked the flame out of them to fuel his anger, but probably it was only the backwash from the aetherical wind that had driven into the chamber and vanished as abruptly. The room looked very ordinary with its two handsomely carved chests, for storage, and the tapestries on the wall depicting the usual noble scenes: a hunt, a feast, an assembly of church women.
Sanglant stepped past the girl and walked to the side table. He poured water from a pitcher into a copper basin, splashed his face until water ran down his chin to drip into the basin, and swiped a hand across his beardless chin. Without thinking, he licked the drops of water off his palm. His back remained stiff with anger, or despair. “Not an hour goes by that I do not think of her,” he said to the basin, “yet does she call for me? Does she seek me? She lives, but she journeys elsewhere. Just like my mother.”
“Have you a nursemaid for the child?” the girl asked in her funny little voice.
“I had one,” he said bitterly, “but my wife took her from me.”
“I can care for children.”
“We are riding east to war, child. There will be no fine carpets and warm feet with my company. I’ve no use for camp followers who slow me down, and who run at each least glimpse of danger.”
She had a hard stare, like a young hawk’s. In a way she reminded Zacharias of Hathui: fearless, sharp, confident, and irritatingly persistent. “I survived a spring and summer in Gent when Bloodheart ruled here. I’m not afraid.”
The prince regarded her with a half-forgotten smile on his face. She stared right back at him. She had her hair pulled back in a braid, and she wore a good wool tunic, neatly woven, with two roses embroidered at the collar for decoration. A wooden Circle of Unity hung at her chest.
At the door, Matto cleared his throat. “My lord prince? Here is the weaver returned to speak to you.”
Mistress Suzanne appeared at the threshold, her face drawn and her hands wringing the fabric of her skirt as she sidled into the chamber. “Your Highness, I—Ach, Anna! There you are! I thought we’d lost you.”
“I’m going east,” said Anna stoutly. “I’m to be the nursemaid for the young princess.”
“But, Anna—!”
“It’s a sign, don’t you see? Why else would God have given me back my voice now?”
“I pray you, Mistress Suzanne,” said Sanglant. “Outfit the girl with what she needs, and return her here in the morning. I’ll see that she is well taken care of.”
Even a prosperous weaver could not argue with a prince. Subdued but obedient, Mistress Suzanne took the girl and left.
“Want down, want down,” insisted Blessing as she squirmed out of Heribert’s arms. She rushed over to her father, seeking solace, and he picked her up.
“I pray you, Matto,” he said, cuddling his daughter against him, “the helmet needs repadding. Have Captain Fulk see to it. We’ll fit it more exactly tomorrow. I’ll want more water for washing.” Matto nodded and quickly fetched pitcher and helmet before leaving the chamber. “Zacharias.”