“I need nothing, Your Majesty. Only to be left in peace. I like my service here well enough and the company of the other women who are my companions. It is only men who trouble me.” A tremor afflicted her voice, and he knew he was partly the cause of it but that she could never say so.

“Are you content?”

She did not answer, but he heard her begin to weep.

“If there is anything, apply to one of my stewards.”

Her voice was hoarse and barely audible. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Weary, he returned to his chamber, where Hathui had kept them waiting, just as he’d ordered.

“Is all well, Your Majesty?” she asked him as he entered. She had a way of squinting as she examined his face that made him feel quite naked, not in body but in soul.

“Only reflecting on my sins. Let us go to the chapel for the morning service. Then we’ll make ready.”

She nodded. It was impossible to know how much anyone had heard, but he understood well enough that there was little secrecy and less privacy on the king’s progress. He had known that all his life. This was the first time it chafed him.

2

ON the first day of the new year, 736, King Sanglant of Wendar and Varre, son of Henry, approached the cathedral on horseback with his magnificent entourage behind him, each one splendid and terrible in rich robes and gold or silver coronets, depending on their rank. Behind them rode the twoscore soldiers out of his personal guard who had survived the cataclysm in Aosta as well as another score newly brought into his service. Down the widest avenue in Gent they rode four abreast. There was just room on either side for folk to press back against buildings, to stare and call out and sing praises and weep as he rode past. When they came into the square, he saw that the entire expanse was filled with a multitude, the people who lived in Gent and those who had walked a day or even three days to the city in order to witness the anointing and crowning of the new king and to receive the bread that would be distributed in the wake of the ceremony.

The steps rose before him. He halted his horse at their foot and handed the reins to Wichman, who as his cousin had the right to the office of king’s groom and insisted on taking his place at Sanglant’s right hand. Sibold eased forward along the side. He would hold Fest during the actual ceremony.

Sanglant dismounted. How strange to set his foot on these cold stairs where he had died—only of course he could not die. Here Adela and Sturm had fallen. Here the last of his faithful, bold Dragons had met their deaths. Up by the doors the brave Eagle, Manfred, had been cut down. This much he owed them: that where they had died he could honor them by his own triumph, if there was honor in surviving when all those around him perished.