“Your Majesty,” said Hathui, “there is a cousin of Lord Hrodik whom Biscop Suplicia wishes you to interview. She believes that this lady, a widow without surviving children, would serve you well as chatelaine of your progress.”

“The biscop comes out of that same lineage, does she not?”

“So I hear, Your Majesty.”

“She is putting forward her own kinswoman in hope of gaining influence.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. Yet you must have a chatelaine and stewards in the same way an army needs soldiers and captains. Duchess Liutgard will leave you in Fesse. Duke Burchard is already gone. Their capable servants cannot serve you forever.”

“Let me interview her, then. But I pray you, Hathui, continue asking among the other noble lords for worthy candidates. Alas that so many of Henry’s court died in Aosta.”

Prayers were murmured among the assembled. In their wake, he heard a slight noise from outside the chamber whose direction he could not fix.

“Where is Lord Wichman?” he asked.

They looked around. Hathui answered. “He was with us a moment before, Your Majesty.”

He went to the door, which Fulk opened. “Don’t follow me.”

The palace at Gent was famous for its circuitous corridors, made more confusing by layers of rebuilding over the last hundred years. The most recent spate of building had occurred after King Henry’s defeat of Bloodheart’s army, and, except for the unseasonably cool and cloudy weather, it was clear Gent had suffered less than most parts of the country over the last few years. No children begged on the streets. The outlying countryside was well populated and adequately housed, and the road through Steleshame and down into the river valley was particularly well kept.

Many alcoves offered a place to sit beside an open shutter. Here and there a burned-out corridor had simply been closed off with bricks or boards to become a blind alley. What couldn’t be seen by the casual passerby might be heard to one seeking the sound of a struggle.

“No … uh … my lord … I pray you, let me go! I’ll scream!”

“I think not, you little bitch! Now, just. …”

“Wichman.”

Halting at the mouth of one of these dark corners, he saw two shapes caught in an intimate embrace, one pressing hard against the other, trapping her against a boarded-off back wall.

“Oh, Lord, Sanglant! Can’t you let me be?”

“Let the woman say she prefers to remain of her own free will, and I’ll walk on.”

She was breathless, straining against groping hands, and desperate. “I pray you, Your Majesty. Grant me your protection. He’s trying to rape me.”

Wichman slapped her.

Sanglant grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back. The other man, turning, came at him with a punch that landed on Sanglant’s chin and slammed him into the other wall. Wichman was in a rage, and pushed in cursing and pummeling fists against his body. God, Wichman was strong. Each slug staggered Sanglant. Most he caught on his arms, but one got under his guard and punched up right under his ribs, making him grunt.