The Burning Stone
Sapientia choked on her laughter and turned red. “I am sure, Prince Bayan, that it is only the words your interpreter gives to those you crafted in your own language—”
“No, no!” he cried cheerfully. “Always I make these poems that others say is no good, not like the true poets. But I do not mind their laughter. These words is from my heart.”
“Ai, God,” said Alberada under her breath. “A bad poet. It is as well he is a good fighter, Your Highness.”
But Sapientia was glowing. “You crafted that poem yourself, for me? Let us hear it again!”
He was happy to oblige, and this time was not interrupted by the princess’ laughter. The poem had some kind of refrain, and each time it came around, the Ungrians would all jump to their feet, cry out a phrase with one voice, and drain their wine cups. While this went on interminably, Hanna ate the scraps off Sapientia’s platter, shoved forgotten to one side. She was terribly hungry, although now and again Sapientia would offer her own cup to drink from. The hall stank of wine, and urine.
She leaned down to speak into Sapientia’s ear. “I wonder if you ought to offer to share food with Prince Bayan’s mother, Your Highness. I haven’t seen a single platter taken to her.”
Sapientia seemed startled by this oversight. “Will your mother not take supper with us, Prince Bayan?”
“But you and I are to be wed! That makes me kin to her.”
She flushed. “That is the custom in my land, yes.”
“Has your mother accepted the Holy Word and the Circle of Unity?” asked the biscop tartly.
He blinked, surprised. “She a good Kerayit princess. Her gods will take her power if she do not to them give the sacrifice. That is why she cannot be seen in this company.”
“A heathen,” muttered Alberada. “But you worship at the altar of God, Prince Bayan.”
As if these words gave a signal, men lit torches and set them into sconces along the walls. The biscop rose with regal grace; although not tall, she had a queenly breadth of figure. Like her illegitimate nephew, Sanglant, she wore the gold torque that marked her royal kinship, although, like him, she could not aspire to the throne—unless the rumor was true that Henry himself conspired to place his illegitimate son on the throne after him. Hanna was not a fool: she listened, and she observed. Why would Henry marry his daughter to a man who, although renowned as a strong fighter, was unlikely to command respect and loyalty in Wendar itself? Only Sapientia seemed unaware of the implications of her father’s choice for her marriage partner. Face bright and eyes glittering, she rose to stand beside Alberada as the biscop called the company to order.
“As night falls over this hall, let God’s will be worked in this matter.”
There were the usual pledges, an exchange of marriage portions: a disputed-border region made over to Prince Bayan, a tribe whose tribute would henceforth grace Wendish coffers instead of going to the Ungrian king, many precious vessels from King Henry of Salian and Aostan manufacture, and from the east two wagons heaped with gold that Bayan’s men pulled into the hall. Hanna had never seen such an astounding display of pure gold, not even on Henry’s progress. It gleamed with a muted, almost ominous presence, heaped up like so much casually discarded debris.