It was a chilly, nasty, dirty place. She had to lean on the arm of a guardsman to make sure she did not slip on the steps, which had no railing. The large open chamber had been fitted with three smaller cells built with mortared brick. In the darkest of these, Wolfhere sat on straw with his hands in his lap and his manacles resting along his legs. He blinked as the lamp lit him and regarded her with a bored resignation that irritated her. Despite the burns on his face and neck, he had never told her anything secret, only commonplace tales that helped her not at all. In time he would. It was only a matter of patience. Eventually the solitude and the rats would drive him insane, and he would tell her everything in exchange for a glimpse of sky.

“Your Holiness,” he said in that bland way that made her twitch and wish to hit him.

“What did he want?” she demanded.

“He wanted to know who the father of the esteemed cleric Heribert might be.”

She would have burned him then had she any fiery implements on hand, but she had to content herself with a gentle smile. “A strange question to ask of a lowly Eagle.”

He shrugged. His nails had gotten so long they curved, and his beard was matted and filthy. In fact, he reeked. “Perhaps not so strange a question to ask of a man who knows the Wendish court well.”

Almost, she slapped him, but she tweaked the sleeve of her robe instead, smile fixed. “To what purpose do you seek to annoy me? You have not answered my question.”

“He also asked me how I was come here, and where I had been, so I suppose that means he is himself newly come to Novomo.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing more than I have told you, Your Holiness. I think he came more to gloat at my ill fortune. But you may ask him yourself. I am sure he will tell you, as he and I are old enemies.”

‘Are you so, and on what ground?”

His smile was keen, and it reminded her of how tough a man he was to be able to smile with such strength after so long in captivity. “I had twice the great pleasure of rescuing a young woman from his grasp. I suppose he will never forgive me.”

“Liathano. This is an old story.”

“It is a story that will never get old for Hugh of Austra.”

That flash startled her. “Is it possible you are more clever than you seem, Wolfhere?”

“What answer can I give that will satisfy you? God are my witness, that I am only myself, and nothing more.”

“So you say. I am not done with you, Wolfhere.”

He winced, the first sign of weakness she had surprised from him. “I am the obedient servant of God and regnant, Your Holiness.”

“Servant of Anne.”

“Of God and regnant, Your Holiness. Then, now, and always. Nothing more.” He spoke with such finality that, for an instant, she believed him.