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Otbert’s lack of interest in him didn’t cause Dieter to take offense. He preferred to be ignored. It gave him a chance to watch the powerful prince-bishop whose heavenward gaze betrayed his disdain for the overdue King of Germany.
“Perhaps we can visit the princess and pay our respects,” Lothair suggested.
“Her Majesty be holding court after the banquet,” Otbert replied off-handedly. “You are, of course, invited but, in the meantime, you must see St. Martin’s.”
The bishop pointed to an ancient church perched atop a steep hill. The cleric’s enthusiastic account of the edifice’s history seemed to indicate a visit there was of greater importance than paying court to a foreign princess.
* * *
Hungry after the long journey, Blythe nevertheless found the food at the banquet overly spicy.
The corpulent Prince-Bishop delivered a lengthy speech. Blythe didn’t understand a word, and there was no possibility Matilda did either. It was likely people in the rear of the massive hall couldn’t hear Otbert’s mumblings. The fidgeting audience lost interest after the first five minutes of the diatribe.
Matilda’s eyelids drooped but, once the feasting was over, the expectation she hold court couldn’t be avoided.
Two hours later, Blythe feared the yawning child might fall asleep after receiving one richly-garbed noble family after another. Sir Montague looked ready to drop. He’d announced each noble family in turn, mangling foreign names and titles if their horrified expressions were anything to judge by. From what little Blythe understood of the proceedings, people had come great distances to witness the historic occasion. To her untrained ear, they weren’t all speaking the same language, though there was a guttural twang to everyone’s speech. It reminded her of her parents’ native tongue. The FitzRams mostly spoke Norman-French at home, though her mother often lapsed into Saxon when she was angry.
Matilda, who only spoke Norman French, made no effort to converse with the visitors, most of whom filed out with puzzled expressions on their faces. To alleviate her boredom, Blythe tried to interpret what the people leaving were saying.
She’s just a child.
Doesn’t even speak German.
Relegated with the other ladies from England to a corner of the immense hall, Blythe swayed on her aching feet, willing the audience to be over. There was no way of telling how many days this farce would go on until Heinrich arrived. The long line-up snaked out of sight beyond the elaborately carved doors.
Her roving gaze snagged abruptly on a tall, dark-haired man dressed entirely in black, apart from the white cape hanging from broad shoulders. Among the gaudy reds, greens and blues, he stood out. Unlike the other men in the gathering, he wore no ostentatious gold chains around his neck. No rings adorned his fingers.
“Dignified,” she whispered to herself, distracted when Sir Montague called her name with some urgency. It appeared the princess had nodded off and almost pitched forward out of her throne.
Rushing with the other ladies to save her mistress from further embarrassment, Blythe stole a glance at the black knight. Winged creatures fluttered in her belly. He was staring at her, an amused smile on his face.
