“Has he been anointed and crowned, my lady?” The prior did not appear cowed by the ranks of soldiers. “What of his siblings, Henry’s other children? What transpires on the field of battle—of which we have not yet heard a full accounting—may be reexamined by clearer heads.”

‘As if you can possibly comprehend what we faced!” cried Liutgard, half rising in the saddle. Her horse danced sideways in response to her mood.

“We also suffered many losses in the storm. Your own heir—”

It was a cruel blow. Sanglant caught Liutgard’s horse as her hands went slack on the reins. She was felled, speechless, and he must speak for her.

“What of Duchess Liutgard’s heir?”

“Killed in last autumn’s tempest by a falling branch when she was out riding,” the prior said primly, as if some fault accrued to the girl.

“There is another daughter. Ermengard. Destined for the church, if I recall rightly.”

The prior nodded. “Mother Scholastica did all that was proper. She brought the child to Kassel to take up her sister’s place.”

Liutgard jerked the reins out of Sanglant’s hands and pressed her horse forward until it almost trampled the prior, who took several steps back as his own people crowded forward to protect him. She was hoarse with fury. “Mother Scholastica could bear these tidings to me herself, as would have been proper. Instead she allows me to come to this grief through your careless chatter!”

Sanglant turned to his captain and spoke quietly. “Fulk. We’ll set up camp.”

Fulk gave the order, and one of the sergeants blew the signal that marked the day’s end to the march. Townsfolk scattered out of the way as soldiers rolled out wagons and dismounted from their horses.

A skree reverberated from the heavens as the griffins returned. At first glance, they might appear as eagles. Within moments, however, their true nature became apparent, and the townsfolk who had lingered to chat or trade with the soldiers screamed and ran for the safety of the walls. To his credit, the prior stood his ground as the two griffins landed with a whuff of wings and a resounding thump on the ground. The poor mayor, gone corpse white, knotted her hands and began to weep.

Liutgard reined her horse aside, her face white and her hands shaking.

“Prior Methodius, my tent flies the black dragon.” Sanglant gestured casually toward the griffins. “You will also know where I camp by the presence of my attendants.”

“Have we your permission to retreat, Your Highness?” asked Prior Methodius, voice hoarse with fear.

“You may go.”

They retreated slowly, like honey oozing down a slope. They were afraid to run despite wanting badly to do so. Sanglant dismounted on the road, holding himself under a tighter rein than he did his gelding.

“I wish the griffins had torn them to bits!” cried Liutgard. “She is challenging your authority, and mine! That was a good answer to their impertinence.”

He smiled, although not with any pleasure. “I did not call the griffins. They always return about this time of day.”