“I don’t know if she survived the earthquake,” said Rufus. “That one that collapsed St. Mark’s. I heard a rumor that she and some of the king’s schola crept away during the tumult. I was gone by then. She had been placed in Presbyter Hugh’s retinue, but Duchess Liutgard was unhappy about it. He never allowed Hanna to make her full report to the king—that is, the emperor.”

She questioned him further, but he hadn’t much more to relate although it all emerged in greatest detail, since Eagles honed their ability to memorize and recollect.

“I pray she still lives,” Rufus finished. “She is a good woman.”

“If any can survive this, Hanna can.”

Behind, a commotion signaled the approach of Sanglant and his entourage: the tread of footsteps, the babble of conversation, a chuckle, a muttered wager. It never let up. Tonight he spoke with his cousin, Liutgard, whom he seemed to trust, while that bastard Wichman trailed behind making crude jokes to the Ungrian captain, Istvan, who bore his witticisms stolidly. A bevy of nobles swarmed around; a steward waited at his right hand; soldiers loitered beyond the firelight, never straying far.

He stood straight and held the centermost place among his retinue, with that astonishing ability to know where each of his attendants were without skipping from place to place like an anxious dog seeking a pat on the head. But she could see in his face and bearing that the journey and the obligations thrust upon him were exhausting him. He was strong, but even the strongest must rest.

Soldiers had already pitched the journeying tent in which they slept. Thank the Lord and Lady that it was too small to admit more than two people.

She caught Captain Fulk’s attention, and he nodded at her and chivvied the king toward his pallet, separating him smoothly away from the others. Liath wasn’t sure if Fulk liked her, or even respected her, but on this account, at least, they understood one another.

She took her leave of the Eagles and, as Sanglant’s attendants made ready to sleep, dispersed to their own encampments, or settled in for guard duty, she crawled into the tent and pulled off her boots.

“You must come with me when I tour the army,” he said impatiently. “You must be seen at my side, as my consort. As co-regnant.”

“I pray you, give me time. I am not yet accustomed to it.”

She doubted she would ever become accustomed to it. She needed peace, and silence, and the company of books, but she dared not tell him that, not now. Not yet.

He seemed about to say something, but did not, and stripped off the rest of his clothing instead. In general, unless attack was imminent, he preferred to sleep naked, and he was warm enough to protect her against the cold, which always debilitated her.

“I will never get used to cold,” she said as she pulled off her shift and, shivering, pressed herself against him skin to skin while pulling furs and cloaks over them.