Liuprand flinched, though only Agnes was near enough to see it. “It is not the most hospitable structure, I grant. But the House of Berengar is glad of your visit.”
“Let us not lose more time to pleasantries. This is no convivial appointment, and I do not wish to remain overlong.” Thrasamund’s words rolled like boulders down a mountain. “You pleaded your apology by ink and paper. I should like to hear it from your mouth as well.”
Liuprand exchanged one last look with Agnes—his gaze was soft, as it always was when he laid it upon her, though now there was the wavering of guilt within it, regret dancing like moonlight on the water. His chest swelled; he drew himself up to his full height. And then, clearing his throat, he said to his men, “Part.”
With the clanking of armor, they did, forming but the smallest gap for Liuprand to step through. He had not been anticipating Thrasamund’s visit and wore his rather quotidian doublet of navy with braids of gold, though it was better this way, Agnes thought; she would notwant Thrasamund to believe that Liuprand was swanning his house’s superiority or the wealth of the Crown. Yet still he was the most majestic creature, closer to a hero in a storybook than to a mortal man. His beauty was almost beyond description. The warm aura of light that pulsed from him made one feel blessed merely to be in his presence. And now, as he bowed his great head, it seemed an aberrance of nature, like a lion cringing before a sheep. Surely his remorse could not be doubted.
“Lord Thrasamund,” he said, “I offer my most sincere and heavyhearted condolences. I acted rashly and brutishly; there is no excuse to be made. I have long strived to promote goodwill between the great houses of Drepane and the royal line of Berengar. To think that I have brought all my work to ruin with a single act of impulse and barbarity brings me untold shame—yet I know it is still a mere shade of the anguish you must feel, to have lost a son. It is a grief I cannot begin to fathom. I pray you can forgive this lapse of mine, and I pray still more that you can find some manner of peace, even as you mourn Lord Childeric.”
At the conclusion of Liuprand’s speech, silence fell upon the great hall, a very heavy silence. Agnes began to pick at the white skin around her fingernail before she could stop herself. Her mind formed no thoughts other than a single word, repeated over and over in a steady, grueling rhythm:Please. Please, please, please.
And then, extraordinarily, from behind the row of his men, there came Thrasamund’s low and throaty laugh.
“You are as eloquent as your father is fat, Prince of Drepane,” he said. “I dearly hope that you do not take offense to that and rob me of yet another child. I do not have any more to spare.”
Agnes saw Liuprand’s fists clench at his sides. “No, my lord. Not again. Never again.”
Thrasamund chuckled blackly. “Well, you speak with resolve; that much I cannot doubt. But mine is a more twisted grief, a perverse mourning for the living. Should you like to see the fruits of your effort, my prince?”
Liuprand glanced at Agnes, brow furrowing. Her heart winced, to see his bewilderment—she had kept this hidden from him, too, else he would never have consented to such a meeting. Agnes did not know if she would ever forgive herself for her deception.
When there came no reply, Thrasamund laughed again, the same brusque, humorless sound.
“Part,” he said to his men.
Greaves and gauntlets clattered as they stepped to the side, arranging themselves into a half circle that revealed, at last, the Master of Eyes in his entirety. A distinguished lord in all respects, of towering height, even if he was still a head and a half shorter than Liuprand, and robed in a doublet of deep green.
But Agnes did not waste more than a moment’s attention on Thrasamund. She was looking at the figure to his left. She had been told, in letters and in vagaries, of his condition, yet even now she struggled to recognize him—so diminished he was in his form. He sat, not stood, in a large and cumbersome wheelchair, a blanket draped across his lap. One arm hung down limply, fingertips nearly brushing the floor, while the other was thrown over his chest in an awkward, strained angle that made Agnes’s skin rise with horror. And his face—his jaw was slack, spittle forming in the corners of his mouth. A woman, small and hunched, at least half as old as Waltrude, leaned over and dabbed at it with a handkerchief before it could drip.
Yet for all this Lord Childeric’s eyes were gleaming and sharp. They cast about the chamber, nothing muddled in his stare, nothing unfixed or unaware. He saw all and understood. His gaze landed on Agnes, and then on Liuprand, and he remembered.
She would have preferred there to be malice in this stare. It would have been well earned. But instead there was only the flashing of fear.
XXI
Progeny
Silence reigned again in the great hall of Castle Crudele. Ordinarily Agnes had an exceptional tolerance for it; she could endure lengths of unimpeded silence that others cringed and stammered to fill. Yet now she found herself struck mute and dumb, and each moment dragged out endlessly, agonizingly. Her mind produced only wordless sounds—a rushing, a churning, as if she had been thrust underwater during a sea squall.
“So you see,” Thrasamund said, “my son lives, as I have reported in my correspondence—if one can call such a wretched statelife.He cannot speak or move his muscles of his own accord, but his wits are intact. I suppose I should thank you, for at least leaving him with that.” His gaze cut to Liuprand. “The Just, indeed.”
“I am most deeply sorry,” Liuprand said, though his voice was weak. “If I can offer anything that might ease this burden, my lord, please tell me and it will be yours.”
Thrasamund smiled thinly. “Were there anything that could change his circumstance now, I certainly would ask it of you—yet the Most Esteemed Surgeon himself cannot heal such wounds.”
Liuprand swallowed. His throat pulsed; Agnes read his anguish plainly. “Let me send more gold, at least. And I can furnish you with the most adept and experienced leeches; they will ensure he is always kept comfortable, within the limits of his condition.”
“I have leeches of my own, and you have sent gold enough already.”
Agnes had waited all this time; now was her chance to speak. She took one uncertain step forward, and then another, until she stoodright beside Liuprand. She cleared her throat. With a tremulous breath, she said, “My lord, I have another remedy to propose.”
Thrasamund’s brow arched. “Lady, you have done enough. Your honor has been defended; my son has more than paid the price for his folly. What could you offer me now?”
“I offer just what your son asked for.” Agnes inclined her chin. “I will wed Lord Childeric. I will be his wife.”
There was no opportunity for silence to follow, no deadened air, for Liuprand let out a stammering noise of shock. Agnes kept her gaze straight ahead; she knew that if she glanced at him, she would lose all nerve and fall to weeping. She met Thrasamund’s eyes steadily.
He regarded her in turn with suspicion. “Forgive me if I am reticent to believe you make this offer in good faith and candor. You refused my son’s proposal once. Why would you accept now, when he is but a shell of himself?”
