“You will be happy with him,” Liuprand said. And his own smile was fond, too, though it did not touch his limpid blue eyes.
Agnes nodded.
Liuprand drew a breath. A swallow ticked in his throat, that great muscle flexing. And then he rose to his feet, wine cup aloft in his hand. His ascent immediately quieted the table, all heads turning toward their golden prince.
“A toast,” Liuprand said. “To the health and happiness of Lord Fredegar and Lady Agnes. May their lives be long, and their love be eternal.”
XXXV
The Mute Tongue Moves
The torches were burning low by the time the feast was done, when all bellies were filled near to bursting, all cheeks flushed with wine. The fullness in Agnes’s belly made her body feel alien to her, but it was not unpleasant at all; she had merely pared away the aching, banished the vestiges of pain from her mangled hand. What remained was the essence of a real girl, red-blooded, warm-skinned, sated, even happy. A bride. A wife.
As the servants cleared away the plates, Fredegar reached out and took her undamaged hand, lacing their fingers together. She felt no prickle of heat, no shivering of anticipation, but she did feel his softness and steadiness, his uncallused palms. Hand in hand, they rose from the table.
There were no words passed between them as Fredegar began to lead her from the chamber. Agnes had not thought she would look back, but some force deep within her soul compelled her. She glanced briefly over her shoulder, gaze skimming over Waltrude, whose eyes were narrowed with unease, and Pliny, whose face was open, at peace. And then Liuprand.
He watched her, and suddenly Agnes was hurled back into a memory. It was the memory of their first meeting, Adele-Blanche’s body being squelched into the dirt, Marozia smiling hopefully, exuding her charms. He had regarded her quizzically then, already bemused by her silence. Then he had turned to go, leaving Agnes overcome by his obvious beauty, his golden aura, as if she had encountered the sun itself.
This time, it was Agnes who turned away from him. His beautystill burned behind her eyes. But so did his final words, whispering through her mind.
You will be happy with him.
And she knew that she would. She did not look back again as Fredegar guided her into the corridor.
Now that they were alone for the first time, Agnes felt a brisk flush of shyness. They paced on for a few moments in silence before Fredegar halted and turned to her.
“I must thank you, my lady,” he said, “for humoring me by wearing these flowers. They suit you as well as they did Eupraxia.”
Eupraxia, the mistress who had come before. There was a faint tinge of grief in Fredegar’s voice, but it did not shame Agnes, did not make her envious of the dead woman or fear that her husband was overly loyal to a ghost. It only made her feel safe in the knowledge that Lord Fredegar, Master of Blood, was such a man to honor his wives, even when they were gone from the world. Agnes would not be misused.
“She was mute, too, for a long time,” Fredegar said suddenly. “The sickness closed her throat and burned it raw. So for many months she did not speak. But it did not trouble me. I loved her without the ornamentation of words. I must confess I have never been an eloquent man, not like our prince.” He paused and let his gaze rest upon her poignantly. “So your silence will never trouble me, lady. If you wish someday to speak, I would be pleased. But if you do not, it will not gall me. Our union will not be strained or burdened by it.”
A great swell of emotion gathered in Agnes’s throat. There were no words for it, even if she had wished for them. Instead she merely smiled and felt the corners of her eyes grow warm with water.
Fredegar smiled back. Then he raised her hand to his mouth and very gently kissed it.
“Come then,” he said in a low voice. “Let us rejoice privately the joys of the day.”
They walked together down the corridor, their pace unhurried. The walls of stone were solid around them, adorned with little morethan torches and the occasional tapestry, simple yet undeniably lovely. It was warm in those orange pools of torchlight. And as always, it was very, very still.
As they turned a corner, one long shadow stretched across the floor in front of them. A narrow shadow, rheumy at its edges, the shape of a wiry and slender-limbed man. Unruoching.
“My son,” Fredegar said in surprise. “I thought you had retired for the night.”
“I had,” said Unruoching. “Yet as I lay in bed, sleep could not find me. I was plagued by the grimmest of thoughts.”
Fredegar frowned. “What such thoughts?”
Unruoching took a step toward them. Agnes was perturbed by his assurance, his graceful prowl. As he had left the great hall she had seen him too deep into his wine, tired and ungainly. But there was no clumsiness to his stride, no muddled quality to his eyes. They were clear and sharp in their kaleidoscopic color. And when he stood before his father, he did not slouch or quake.
“To speak truthfully,” he murmured, “I have been plagued by these dark thoughts for quite some time. I have seen you grow infirm and less than wise in your age, Father. Yet you persist in ruling this house as you once did. You have even taken an unsuitably young woman to wife. I fear you do not see your own deficiencies. I fear it will be the ruin of the House of Blood.”
Fredegar blinked in bewilderment. “How long have you harbored such concerns? You have not spoken honestly to me; you have shown a false face. Yet I swear I will hear you, at another time. These are matters for the council chamber, not for my wedding night, not in the presence of the lady.”
“Ah,” Unruoching said, with a cluck of his tongue, “but the lady is precisely the audience I desire.”
“Why?” Fredegar stiffened, standing up straight and shifting slightly so that Agnes was now behind him, shielded by his broad body. “Speak plainly now, Unruoching.”
