“Let us act now,” he said, “and let him see the profit of his dallying. He will not witness it, but he will be racked brutally with the knowledge that he was too late to save her.”
The men converged and set themselves upon her. More than a dozen there were, yet it took only one man to grasp Agnes’s left arm, and another her right. They hauled her forward, around the altar, and pressed her to her knees at Lord Thrasamund’s feet.
The Master of Eyes regarded her with such intensity as befit his house’s name. Her hands were now twisted and pinned behind her back and Agnes’s gown slipped further, exposing her breasts. Her hair, long and loose, tumbled over her shoulders as her head was forced down. She had to crane her neck painfully to see the lord’s face.
“Beautiful, but not nearly so beautiful as your cousin,” he said. “Love is the most mysterious of all humanity’s afflictions. The more I probe it, the less it seems to be governed by wisdom or reason. I can glimpse nothing in you that should cause a man to forfeit his crown.”
Agnes’s breath came now in thin, labored gasps that made her chest heave. A plea formed on her lips, but her bewildered fear kept her muzzled and stifled. Still she could not speak a word aloud.
“Yet,” Lord Thrasamund went on, in a softer tone, “I find myself moved by the very same inscrutable sentiment. How much love for one can inspire hate for another.”
From his belt he seized a dagger, its blade glinting keenly. The men jerked Agnes back so that her throat was bared, a long and supple column of white.
As the blade neared her, at last, atlast,Agnes managed to produce a sound.
“Liuprand!” she cried. “Liuprand! Liuprand—”
“This is for my son,” said Thrasamund, his voice still soft below her screaming, “and for my daughter.”
He drew the blade swiftly across her throat, the flesh opening like the petals of a flower. Red blossomed from its fount and poured forth over her breast. And, with this torrid rush of blood, the lady Agnes was forever silenced.
XXV
Wounded Lion and Trodden Serpent
Two men of the House of Eyes dragged Agnes’s body and set it upon the altar. The pouring of blood slowed to a trickle and then ceased altogether, though it had painted Agnes’s chest in darkest, deepest crimson. They arranged her limbs at her sides, spreading her hair out across the white stone, and as they performed this unholy ritual, the men spoke to one another in whispers.
“Surgeon’s hands, she’s a pretty thing. I’ve never slain a lady before.”
“You did not slay her. Our lord did. And his cause was just. The prince’s pain is the only fair price for his crimes.”
“Her crimes, too. Little better than a common slattern she was, carrying on with her own cousin’s husband. Blood is a fair price for such debauchery as well.”
“Too right. No wounded lion or trodden serpent is more dangerous than a woman scorned.”
“Nay, not a woman scorned—worse. A mother grieved.”
“The princess has very well had her vengeance now.”
The door to the chapel was propped open so that yet more bodies could filter in. Another troupe of men, in the colors of the House of Eyes. Their expressions were both fixed and blank with the purpose that their lord had instilled in them, all of their previous humanity shed. They touched the swords at their belts, reassuring themselves of their resolve and their potency. Their armor and mail shielded them from the dangerous compulsions of compassion or regret.
Along with the men scampered another creature: thin anddiminished in form, yet not remotely in spirit. He galloped like a dog, bare feet scrabbling the floor. His face was so wan, so hollow, that he would have resembled more a corpse than a living thing, if not for the lustful sheen of his gaze, aroused and animated by hunger.
He threw himself on the altar and latched his yellow-toothed mouth around the lady Agnes’s wrist, masticating furiously and letting out a moan of pleasure.
“No!” barked Lord Thrasamund. With a sweep of his arm, he knocked the creature off the altar; it fell, back flat, on the chapel floor. “You dull wretch! We’re saving her for the prince.”
“But they said,” the creature whimpered. “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, they said that I would have the forbidden delicacy. If I told.”
Thrasamund scowled in anger. He snapped his head up and cast his gaze about the room. “You, girl,” he growled. “You said you could keep this vulgar being’s appetite in check. He will have more than enough to feast upon later, when our first task here is done. The bloodshed now is paltry compared with what will come.”
With tremulous steps, the handmaiden slipped from the throng of men. Her mismatched eyes remained on the ground as she mumbled, “Yes, my lord.”
Still whimpering, Offal-Eater righted himself and slunk away. He hid within one of the chapel’s unlit corners, where the darkness was oily and otherwise unpenetrated. Hunched over like a gargoyle, he rubbed his hands briskly up and down his bony arms, as if to banish a chill.
“The rest of my men,” Thrasamund said, “they will arrive soon, yes?”
“Yes,” Ninian whispered back. “My mistress ordered the barbican open herself.”
