“Holy Mother! Will you go up to see the prisoners? Let us help you, if you will.”

A brawny and gratifyingly polite young soldier lent her a steadying hand. It was not as easy as it had once been to climb stairs that were almost as steep as a ladder, but she got to the second floor without incident. In this chamber Lord Berthold and his attendant slept on decent beds, and therefore good tapestries were hung from the walls and two braziers, now cold, hung from tripods. Carved benches flanked a good table. There was even a chair set beside an open window.

He sat there, staring out over Novomo with an expression on his face that made her shiver because it was so inhuman in its lack of emotion.

“Brother Heribert,” she said, that thrill of rage and helpless expectation flooding her weary bones. Ought not a child to love its parent? Didn’t the Holy Book enjoin obedience? He did not turn or even acknowledge that she had spoken. She might as well have been invisible, and mute.

“Heribert!”

He roused, startled, and looked at her, but did not rise to greet her, as any natural child would have. He should love her and be grateful to her. He had been a great burden to her, after all, since it was expected she would be celibate. That his father had seduced her—well, that was the work of the Enemy, and no doubt those seeds sown had sprouted and corrupted Heribert in a most improper way to make him so rebellious and ungrateful.

Before she could speak to tell him so, Captain Falco spoke, his voice heard through the open trap cut into the ceiling. “I will ask you again, where have you come from? Who is this young woman who accompanies you?”

He got no answer.

She walked to stand under the trap. The stone staircase here had also been blocked off, and the ladder that offered access to the third floor rested against one of the benches.

“Can I help you with that, Holy Mother?” asked the guard, who had followed her up. “Can you climb the ladder?”

“I can,” she said grimly.

The man set the ladder up through the trap. Heribert rose. From the chamber below, she heard voices.

“Let me up, I pray you!”

“My lord, you weren’t to have gone out! The queen was very angry. We told her you were ill with a terrible flux. Lord Jonas threw a hood over his head to pretend he was you and let Paulinus and Tedwin escort him out to the pits. He rowled like a cat hung out on a hook.”

Berthold’s laugh rang merrily. ‘After all those pastries, I may yet wish I were that cat—”

Above, the queen said, “Hit him. Make him talk.”

A slap fell hard on flesh.

“Stop it! Stop it, you bitch!”

“Shit!” swore Berthold, from below. “Who is that?”

“The other prisoner, my lord. Dark as honey, that one, and I’m sure she tastes as sweet. I didn’t know Wendish women came so dark, like Jinna. But she carries herself like a duchess and she’s Wendish, all right, the bitch.”