“Is that all you have thought of?” he asked.
She remained mutely silent.
“Have I made any attempt to harm you, Liath?” he asked gently, if a little accusingly. “To bring you to harm?”
“You brought me to Gent!” But she said it with a wry smile, hoping to distract him.
They came though the wooden gateway into the courtyard of the mayor’s palace. The stone-paved courtyard was awash in torchlight, smoke and flames setting a yellow haze over the people gathered like so many bees swarming. This was a new crowd, smaller than the one this morning, and agitated in a completely different way.
“Alas that I did,” he murmured. Then he grabbed her by an elbow and with a grim expression pulled her through the crowd, shoving Dragons and rich merchants and the mayor’s retainers ruthlessly aside so that he and Liath could get to the center.
There, they found the mayor, Manfred, and Prince Sanglant—and an Eagle, battered beyond belief, his cloak torn, his head wrapped in a bloody, dirty cloth, one arm hanging useless at his side, and his horse dying at his feet.
He looked up, saw Wolfhere emerge out of the crowd, and tried to get to his feet, but staggered. Manfred steadied him.
“Find a healer,” Prince Sanglant ordered, signing to his Dragons. “Bring a stretcher, and wine.” His closest attendants, the scarred-face woman and the man with the limp, hurried off.
Mayor Werner’s complexion had a ghastly white cast under torchlight. But it was not only the light but also his expression. He looked like a man who had seen his own grave.
“Lie down, my son.” Wolfhere knelt beside the Eagle and lowered him onto Manfred’s bundled cloak. “What is your news?”
Liath crept closer. Blood soaked the Eagle’s tunic, and he breathed in ragged bursts. The broken end of an arrow protruded from his chest. She caught in a gasp and took an involuntary step closer. The next instant, a hand caught her by the shoulder.
She knew before she looked, felt in her whole being, that she had come up beside the prince and that it was he who had stopped her from going forward. His hand seemed to burn her shoulder even through the cloth, though she knew it was only the shame of her desire that made her feel his presence so keenly. She risked looking up at him because it would be cowardly to do otherwise. But when their eyes met, he was the one who looked away. He let go of her and even took a half step away. She had a sudden uncomfortable notion that her presence troubled him.
The Eagle coughed, spitting blood. Ai, Lord, the arrow had caught him in the lung. It was only a matter of time.
“Bad news.” His breath came in bursts now. His skin flushed a deep red as he struggled to speak. “Count Hildegard. Riding to Gent. Many troops. We were ambushed. I escaped to—”
“He came to the east gate less than an hour ago,” said Sanglant. “These folk brought him here.” He gestured toward the crowd, which by dint of glares and simple force from the prince’s everpresent escort of Dragons, had finally moved back, giving the rest of them air. “Though he would have gotten through the streets more quickly had they stayed in their beds and not swarmed out into the streets to get in his way.”
“What of Count Hildegard?” Wolfhere asked.
The man coughed again, this time clots of blood, and when he spoke, Liath had to bend forward to hear him. “I don’t know. Perhaps she won free. Our Lord—”
He went into convulsions. Liath threw herself forward and helped hold his shoulder down, Manfred opposite site her, while Wolfhere leaned on a leg and Sanglant grasped the other. As if from a distance she heard Mayor Werner wailing and the cries and sobbing of the crowd.
The Eagle went lax. Liath sat back, looked up to find Sanglant staring at her, his hands resting on the man’s left leg. The prince stayed there, poised like that, for a long breath. Wolfhere muttered a curse and hunched over, ear to the injured man’s chest.
“No need,” said Sanglant, not taking his gaze off Liath. “He’s stopped breathing. There is no pulse of blood. He’s dead.” That strange hoarse scrape in his voice lent a verisimilitude of grief to his words that she did not see in his expression; not that he was pleased, either, just that death no longer grieved or surprised him.
She looked away in time to see Manfred cover his eyes with a hand. Wolfhere remained bent over the body for a long while, his face hidden. Finally, he straightened.
“He is dead.” He sat on his heels while beyond Mayor Werner wept copious tears, although not, Liath suspected for the dead man but rather for the loss of hope.