Chapter XVII Rimmed in Red #2
“And those men will continue to swear for the House of Berengar. Rabanus, Master of Hearts, and Amycus, Master of Bones—their loyalty is unshakable. I have seen it affirmed myself. Vauquelin’s lands are too distant for anyone to know his mind, but his influence is as paltry as the crop yield at Pelekys.
Hartwig is vain enough that flattery will sway him to a new cause each moment.
But the House of Eyes and the House of Blood?
Their faith has been lost. It has been trampled upon. Its throat has been savagely cut.”
All this and still Pliny would not speak plainly of Liuprand’s crime.
Perhaps he meant for her mind to conjure its own monsters.
But in the silence, behind her eyes, Waltrude saw only Philomel’s broken body in the sheets.
She blinked and saw the princess, her daughter, clutching her skirts. She blinked once more and saw—
Lady Agnes. She pushed open the door and led Tisander by his hand into the chamber.
The boy ran first to her, throwing his arms around her waist, and then to Pliny, clambering into the old leech’s lap. Impressively, Pliny seemed to shed his gloom at once, and he smiled at Tisander without inhibition.
“Lady,” he said, rising to his feet, the child propped on his hip. “I was to meet you in the library.”
“No,” Agnes said, “it is best that Tisander have his lessons here today.”
Waltrude’s head snapped up in shock. Her voice—a low, rattling wheeze, like the wind through a hollow reed.
She was further shocked to see that the lady wore a high-necked gown of gray, its lace collar buttoned primly to her chin, her hair held high on her head with a pearl clasp.
An old gown, it must have been, for the healthy swell of her breasts and hips made the fabric strain at its seams. Waltrude had not seen her dress in this manner for years.
She had not seen the lady’s hair bound in at least as much time.
“I did tell you, lady,” Pliny said softly, “that you should try not to speak.”
“It cannot be helped,” Agnes rasped. “There is much to communicate, and writing will not suffice.”
Waltrude, who had forgotten a moment her courtesy, rose to her feet and greeted the lady with an unacknowledged nod. Her face was the color of cold porridge, and her eyes were rimmed in red. It was a ghoulish sight that made Waltrude’s stomach queasy.
“Very well,” said Pliny. “I will give the princeling his lesson in his chambers. And—should you like it—I have another poultice for your throat.”
Agnes fell to silence for a moment. Her lashes fluttered over her bloodshot eyes, and she looked very weary.
“Not yet,” she croaked. “I must have words with you first. I am in need of your counsel.”
At last, her gaze slid to Waltrude. Other than tiredness, the wet nurse could discern no emotion from her visage. The lady swallowed, winced, and then said, “Occupy Tisander for the moment. Pliny and I will speak in my chambers.”
“Yes, my lady,” Waltrude replied. Turning to Tisander, she held out her arms. “Come here, my sweet dove.”
Pliny transferred the child to her, but Tisander whined and squirmed, and in another moment won his release. His legs carried him unsteadily across the room to where Agnes stood, and he fell against her, burying his face lovingly in her skirts. His tiny fists gripped the gray silk.
“No,” he whined, “I don’t want you to go.”
Agnes knelt down and brushed a golden curl from his forehead. “I will return soon, my dearest love, and I am not going far. Perhaps you can practice your numbers in the meantime. Count as high as you can, and I will be back before you reach the limits of your knowledge. Yes?”
Tisander’s lip stuck out and trembled. He looked into Agnes’s eyes, even raised a hand to touch each of her cheeks. Then at last, he mumbled, “I can count very high.”
“Of course you can. You are the cleverest boy. Now go to Waltrude.”
Reluctantly, Tisander turned and went to Waltrude’s side. He leaned into her, and Waltrude patted the crown of his head. “We will be fine here, lady,” she said. “Go to your business.”
Agnes nodded, wincing once more. Waltrude could not tell precisely what was causing this pain in her; perhaps it was nothing that could be perceived by the naked eye. Perhaps a knife had been turned inside her. Perhaps the blade had been stuck so deep between her ribs that it had vanished.
Without another word, she turned, gray skirts swishing over the floor. Pliny, however, cast one last glance back at Waltrude. There was a weariness, too, on his face, making the wrinkles seem more apparent than ever. Whatever he had seen had aged him.
As Waltrude led Tisander over to the table, she found that she did not feel weary herself.
There was a tension in her old muscles, a stiffening in her ancient bones, and a cold rush in her veins.
She was no prophet, no wise woman such as lived in the Outer Wall; she could only look backward, sifting through the sand of nearly a century of memories.
She had seen such things before. Injustice, dishonor, secrets kept at greatest cost. And so she knew—even without a seer’s power—that the order of the world could not be resettled without sacrifice.