“Brat! Hold, there! I can’t breathe.”

But he didn’t look at her. He had not once taken his gaze from Duke Conrad’s beautiful daughter, who had, against all expectation, turned up in Aosta under the protection of Brother Lupus, known as Wolfhere, the last of Anne’s cabal.

How very interesting.

“Enough!” Adelheid tugged pointlessly at her sleeves as she struggled to recover her composure. “Let the Eagle stew in the hole until he is willing to tell us why he travels north through Aosta without a retinue and with a duke’s heir in his talons. Conrad’s daughter may remain with her royal cousin for now.”

“I don’t want her!” retorted Blessing, who was still clinging to Berthold. “I don’t like her.”

“I’ll show you, you little beast!” said Elene, with a spark of gleeful spite as she spun to face Blessing. “You think I don’t know how to discipline nasty little sisters?”

“Hush, Blessing!” scolded Berthold. “Duke Conrad is your father’s cousin. You’ll treat Lady Elene with respect.”

“I won’t!”

Wolfhere spoke for the second time. “Princess Blessing. Be good, as your father—and Brother Heribert—would wish you to.”

The words silenced her. She sniveled, but kept her mouth shut.

Elene smiled. She looked at Wolfhere, and he at her, and some message passed between them that Antonia could not read, but she understood its import. Prisoners as they were, fallen into the hands of enemies, they were not scared in the least.

They have a plan already.

“Captain, take him quickly, before I lose my temper,” said Adelheid. She turned toward the trap. “Holy Mother! Why have you come?”

“To see the prisoners, Your Majesty. How are they come here, in these terrible days?”

“They were found walking north. How can a pair of travelers with but one sorry mare between them have survived the journey through southern Aosta? Yet neither deigns to speak. We will have to torture the Eagle to extract a confession. Captain!”

Falco untied Wolfhere from the chair. The old man’s hands were still bound, and he was bundled away down the ladder while Elene stared after him. Adelheid followed.

“Here, now, brat,” said Berthold, “let go.”

“Won’t.”

“How have you come here, Lord Berthold?” asked Elene.

“I pray you, Holy Mother,” said Berthold sweetly. “Will you lead us in prayer?”

The girl started, then lifted her chin to acknowledge the blow. She was not subtle, but it was clear that, like her infamous father, she was stubborn and strong. And hiding something. There was a perfume, if not quite a smell, about her that reminded Antonia of Anne and the tower in Verna: the stink of sorcery, that she knew so well herself.

“You are Meriam’s granddaughter,” Antonia said.

The girl looked at her, surprised. That youthful face had a great deal of pride, but she was also wary, guarded, watchful. She was thinking, plotting, planning.

“Who are you?” she asked imperiously.

“I am the Holy Mother of the faithful, child.”

“You are the skopos? Holy Mother Anne’s successor?” she asked. “Yet you speak Wendish. You’re not Dariyan-born. Did Holy Mother Anne choose you to succeed her?”