Like her mother, she often gave cakes to Werinbert. She liked the way his eyes lit at the mention of the treat. And he was curious, like all children who had seen three winters. Alda loved his curiosity. He wanted to know about everything. “Why sun rise, Auntie?” he asked one morning as they walked to prime Mass. “Because God makes it rise,” Alda answered. “Why He make it rise?” “Because it is His will.” “Why it His will?” Alda laughed and bent to kiss her nephew’s forehead. “Because it is. Come, child,” she said, holding his hand, “let us not tarry and be late for Mass.” Even with Werinbert to distract her, a fear gnawed at a corner of Alda’s mind: Ganelon was coming to Drachenhaus. * * * * * Two weeks after Gundrada had left for Koblenz, Alda heard the call of the horn from the tower and felt a chill run through her body, despite her marten-fur-lined wool cloak. He is here. Ganelon is here. She pulled out her eating knife, sharpened just this morning, and sheathed it again.
