The Burning Stone

by Kate Elliott

  Lavastine turned back to the Eagle. “Return to the king. Tell Prince Sanglant that I am beholden to him for his warning. I will do what I can should he ever have need of my aid.”

  Geoffrey hissed out a breath. “If the court divides on the issue of succession, then you have as good as declared yourself for the prince.”

  “God enjoin us to honor our debts,” retorted Alain.

  Lavastine nodded. “Eagle, have you understood the whole?”

  The Eagle looked uncomfortable. “Matters are troubled between king and prince,” he said, choosing his words with care. “There was an altercation at court, and when I left Werlida the prince had retired to his rooms in disgrace. His own dogs attacked the king, he struck a holy frater in front of the entire court, and he has gone against the king’s will and claims to have wed a woman of minor family who has in addition had accusations of foul sorcery laid against her.” Then, noticing that his voice had risen, he coughed and finished in a more temperate tone: “But he may be bewitched.”

  “Liath!” breathed Alain. Tallia turned in the saddle to stare at him with a frown.

  “The Eagle,” said Lavastine.

  “An Eagle no longer,” said the Eagle before them. “Stripped of her cloak and badge. She is now the prince’s concubine. Or was, when I left Werlida.”

  “She would have done better to come with us. The displeasure of the king is a hard path to walk.” Lavastine considered the road in silence. His milites were already moving into their new positions around the riders, and two of his clerics had lit censers to purify the road before and behind with incense. “Tell King Henry that if this disgraced woman has no other place to go, the count of Lavas will take her in.”

  “Are you sure that is wise, cousin?” demanded Geoffrey.

  “I am sure it is prudent, and farsighted. I know danger when I see it, and she is no danger to us. There is something there …” He trailed off, drawn away down an unknowable path; a moment later, blinking, he shook himself. “Who holds her holds a strong playing piece.”

  But as the Eagle rode off and their retinue lurched forward again into their new marching order, the words Tallia had spoken on their wedding night rang in Alain’s ears as though she had only spoken them moments before:

  “I am merely a pawn, nothing more than that. As are you, only you do not see it.”

  2

  AT the palace of Werlida, Queen Sophia had commissioned a garden to be built in the Arethousan style. Shaped as an octagon, it had eight walls, eight benches, eight neatly tended garden plots that bloomed with brilliant colors in spring and summer, and eight radial pathways leading in to the center where stood a monumental fountain formed in the shape of a domed tower surrounded by eight tiers of angels, cavorting and blowing trumpets. According to legend, the fountain had ceased flowing on the very day Queen Sophia died.

  In fact, the fountain had ceased flowing years before that because the Arethousan craftsman who had devised the cunning inner workings had died of a lung fever one winter and no one else knew how to repair it.

  But the story persisted, as such stories do.

  Now Rosvita made a leisurely circuit of the fountain together with half a dozen of Theophanu’s young companions, noble girls who had gravitated around the princess as part of her entourage. Theophanu stood on the lowest tier with her feet on the stone wings of one angel and a hand clutching a trumpet on the third tier for balance. Standing thus, she could get a better view over the retaining wall out to where the road branched at the base of the lower enclosure.

  From the garden a magnificent vista opened before them. The land spread out as fields and villages, pastureland and scrub brush and woodland, and finally the distant march of forest. The river wound south, a ribbon vanishing into the haze of trees.

  From the gravel path, Rosvita watched as Duke Conrad’s entourage reached the branching road and his banners turned south. From this distance, she could only guess which figure was his.

  Was Conrad thinking about Theophanu? Did he truly regret that Henry had forbidden the match, or was his anger for the insult implicit in Henry’s refusal?

  Did Theophanu regret the lost chance for a betrothal, or was she relieved? Rosvita could not tell. Another person might rage, or sulk, or weep. Theophanu either did not have the heart for it, or concealed her heart too well.

  “Theophanu!”

  Prince Ekkehard marched down a path at the head of a gaggle of boys. The schola had only arrived in Werlida yesterday.

  “Are you happy to see Conrad go?” demanded Ekkehard as he scrambled onto the stonework beside Theophanu. “I wanted to go with him to Wayland, but Father says I’m to go to Gent and become abbot of the monastery he means to establish there dedicated to St. Perpetua in thanks for Sanglant’s rescue. But I don’t want to go to Gent and certainly not just because Father is so mad that Sanglant ran away with that woman. I don’t know why he’s punishing me for what Sanglant did.” Ekkehard talked more than he thought. But perhaps he had stumbled on the heart of the matter nevertheless: the change in Henry’s behavior that had come about since the morning they had all risen to discover Sanglant and Liath gone.

  Theophanu’s inscrutable smile did not change as she answered. “He isn’t punishing you, Ekkehard. He’s giving you authority of your own. Remember that we are royal children. Father will use us as he sees fit, to strengthen the kingdom.”

  Was there a trace of irony in her voice? Even sarcasm? Rosvita could not be sure.

  The gates into the garden opened again, and their quiet contemplation was completely overset as the king and his courtiers entered in the wake of Ekkehard. The chatter of the mob irritated Rosvita. What had happened to unbalance her equilibrium? Didn’t she always pride herself on her cleric’s amiability and even temper? Hadn’t she gained the love and trust of king and court, not to further her own ambition but because it was her duty as one of God’s servants? She had not felt so much disturbance in her mind for many years. Like Henry, she desperately wanted to know what had happened to Sanglant and Liath, but until Henry mentioned the subject, no one else dared to.

  Courtiers fluttered around the king, chief among them the Salian and Ungrian ambassadors. Sapientia clearly preferred the elegant Salian lord who had journeyed here on behalf of Prince Guillaime, but Henry hid his leanings and let himself be courted. As he reached the fountain, he turned away from the Ungrian ambassador to help Theophanu down from her perch. Ekkehard leaped down after her.

  “Will I get to ride out to hunt with you tomorrow, Father?” he demanded.

  “Of course.” But Henry was distracted by the sight of Conrad’s entourage crossing into the forest. Was he thinking of Sanglant as he watched them go? He drew Theophanu to him, and a moment later he and Villam and several other lords began to discuss the situation in Aosta, leaving Ekkehard to stand helplessly at the edge of their discussion.

  “My lord prince. I hope I don’t intrude.” Judith’s young husband Baldwin slid into the vacant space beside Ekkehard. “Perhaps you’ll recall that we met last night.”

  “You’re Lord Baldwin, Margrave Judith’s husband.”

  “So I am,” agreed Baldwin guilelessly.

  For an instant a smirk hovered on the young prince’s lips, but Ekkehard had learned manners in a hard school, and he recovered himself. “Of course I remember you.”

  “I’ve heard nothing but praise for your singing, my lord prince. Perhaps in the days to come you might honor us with some songs.” Baldwin was, truly, an exceptionally handsome young man, and Rosvita watched with some amusement as Ekkehard melted under the combined flame of prettiness and flattery.

  “I see no reason to wait! We’ll go now. And perhaps you’ll ride out to hunt with me tomorrow.”

  “Of course, my lord prince. I am yours to command.”

  They strolled away together. Was that Ivar in their wake, looking as sullen as a dried-up frog? She had not been allowed to speak to Ivar, who was under a novice’s vows, but perha
ps that was for the best. When Judith and her retinue returned east, he would be safely confined to a monastery, where labor, study, and prayer would circumscribe his day and leave him little time to dwell on that which was forbidden him.

  Rosvita shivered, thinking of the silence of the convent. No, indeed, she had not truly been at peace since the day the Vita of St. Radegundis had come into her hands. The mouse’s hunger gnawed at her, unceasing and implacable. She had so many questions, and too few answers.

  Where had Sanglant gone? What had happened to The Book of Secrets? Had Liath bewitched him with magic, or had the prince overwhelmed the poor young woman with his attentions? Did Henry’s seeming calm only cover a furious heart that would fester and, in time, erupt in some other form?

  “Sister.” Brother Fortunatus had sidled into the garden behind the king’s retinue. She bent close to hear his whisper. “I stood at the lower gate and observed every rider and every wagon. There was no sign of Sister Anne of St. Valeria Convent in Conrad’s retinue.”

  “Sister Amabilia has found no sign of her in the lower enclosure either?”

  “No, Sister.” She had never before seen him so grim. “She has vanished.”

  “It is a mystery,” agreed Rosvita. “Draft a letter, Brother. We must inform Mother Rothgard as soon as possible.”

  He nodded obediently and retreated, and his white-robed figure was soon swallowed in the milling mob of courtiers, who had expanded onto all the paths to exclaim over the beauty of the flowers and the grave little sculptures, mostly saints and angels, that populated the garden or waited with the patience of stone in niches carved into the walls.

  Judith and the Ungrian ambassador had walked over to the outer wall to watch the last of Conrad’s impressive retinue pass from sight. Rosvita moved closer to listen.

  The man spoke with the aid of an interpreter. “This daughter he has taken away, she is the granddaughter of the Alban queen, is she not? How does Duke Conrad gain for his wife a daughter of the Alban queen, when he is no king himself?”

  Judith had a smile that softened her mouth and made her gaze quite hard. “If you wish your suit to succeed, I would not ask that question of the king.”

  “So I did not do so,” he said, laughing. Cousin to the Ungrian king, he had a jovial face, long, dark mustaches that he greased with oil, and a wispy beard no thicker than that of a sixteen-year-old boy although his own hair had white streaking it. “But it is said that men work as slaves in Alba while women rest as queens, and that no daughter of their ruling house before this one left her mother’s side. So I wonder.”

  “Many have wondered,” replied Judith, looking faintly amused. “Duke Conrad traveled to Alba when he was young. Some say he charmed the Alban queen into agreeing to the betrothal. Some say he charmed the daughter and ran off with her when her mother refused his suit.”

  “But he do not run off with the Princess Theophanu, although the king refuse his suit.”

  “Alba is an island. Henry will not need a fleet of ships to pursue Conrad, should Conrad displease him.”

  “Ah, I see much truth in your words.” The Ungrian ambassador wore a fine silk tunic of Arethousan design but spoiled the elegance of his dress by draping a heavy fur cape over his shoulders despite the summer heat. He stank of a sickly sweet perfume that gave Rosvita a headache. “Will the king bless this wedding, or will he prefer the Salian prince?”

  Judith only smiled coolly. “I, too, wish the Quman raids to end. My lands have been hit hard these last two years, as have yours, and if Wendish and Ungrian armies join together, then perhaps we can strike into the heart of Quman lands and put an end to their plundering. But of course there is the problem of worship, my friend. The Arethousan deacons you keep in your retinue do not adhere to the church practices observed by the skopos in Darre. A Wendish princess cannot marry an Ungrian prince who does not worship according to the correct manner. King Geza must recognize the primacy of the skopos in Darre rather than the illegitimate patriarch in Arethousa if he desires this alliance with King Henry.”

  “Henry’s blessed wife was an Arethousan.”

  “Blessed by the skopos in Darre.”

  “As King Geza is willing to be, if Henry offers him this alliance.”

  Judith shrugged to show that she was helpless in this matter. “Then you have done all you can. The king will speak when the king makes up his mind.”

  The king did not speak that day, but the next night at the feast in honor of the birth of Sts. Iskander and Dawud, the holy twins, he rose to toast Sapientia and to announce her betrothal. Rosvita’s fingers were sticky with honey; it was traditional at the feast of the twins to drink honey mead and eat honey cakes because of the famous miracle of the bees. She licked her fingers hastily and grabbed the cup she shared this night with Princess Theophanu. Henry had not asked her advice as he usually did, but since the debacle with Sanglant four days ago Henry had spent his days and evenings carousing with no apparent thought for serious matters.

  There was a pause while the king watched his court hoist their cups in anticipation.

  Brother Fortunatas, behind her, muttered to Amabilia. “Have you laid a wager yet? Which worthy prince will the king choose? The civilized Salian or the half-barbarian Ungrian?”

  “It is sinful to lay wagers,” announced Brother Constantine in a low voice, “and more sinful for clerics to do so than ordinary folk, for God have forbidden us to take on ourselves what only the angels may know.”

  “I say he will favor the Salian prince,” murmured Sister Amabilia, ignoring Constantine as usual. “That will give him an alliance with the Salian king in case the Varren lords rebel again.”

  “With Sabella in prison? Nay, my dear Sister, he will choose the Ungrian, and if I am right, then I think you will give me those last two honey cakes you have on your platter.”

  “Gluttony is a sin,” interposed Constantine primly.

  “You think he will favor the Ungrians? But King Geza didn’t even offer his own son but only his younger brother as bridegroom!”

  “A younger brother who is an experienced war leader, and who has fought the Quman and other barbarian tribes. With success. Whom better to ally with Sapientia, if she becomes Margrave of Eastfall? Someone who understands the situation there.”

  “I accept the wager,” said Amabilia, “but what will you give me if I am right?”

  “I’ve already eaten all my honey cakes. What else could you possibly want?”

  “Your owl quill, Brother. That is the only thing that will content me.”

  Hush, my friends,” said Rosvita, but with a smile. Princess Theophanu’s expression remained as bland as those on the sculptures from the Octagon Garden. Her gaze was fixed on her father, who extended a hand to Sapientia and bid her rise.

  Sapientia was flushed. Somehow she managed to keep silent while her father spoke. His voice carried effortlessly to the four corners of the hall and even outside where servants and hangers-on thronged at the doors to listen.

  “Let the Salian ambassador ride west with one of our Eagles and bring presents to our brother, Lothair, as a sign of our good will and our mutual love. Let the Ungrian ambassador ride east with one of our Eagles, and let him give this message to King Geza: Let your brother, Prince Bayan, meet my daughter at the city of Handelburg not before Matthiasmass and not after the Feast of St. Valentinus. Let them be wed in the presence of Biscop Alberada, who rules over the souls of the marchlanders and those of the pagans who still live in darkness. After a three-day feast in celebration, let them then proceed to the Eastfall, there to protect and defend the people of Eastfall against the depredations of the Quman raiders. Such is my will.”

  Theophanu hissed a word, but it was lost in the hubbub that arose, cups lifted, a shout rising from the lips of every person there. Sapientia was still flushed. She glanced toward the Salian ambassador, then the Ungrian one. She did not look displeased. She looked happy.

  “Betrothed at last,” said Theophan
u, taking the cup from Rosvita and draining it. She called for a servant, who filled it again. “Will you drink to my sister’s good fortune, Sister?”

  “Assuredly.” Rosvita drank gratefully. It was hot and stuffy in the hall, and she wished suddenly to be walking alone in the Octagon Garden, where she could hear herself think. But she had no time to think. Theophanu had not done speaking, her voice pitched so low that only Rosvita could hear.

  “If Henry means her to rule after him, then why did he betroth her to a foreign husband who cannot expect to receive much support from Wendish courtiers? They say the Ungrians still sacrifice horses at the winter solstice, even if they pray to God the rest of the year. Is that the man my father means to be the next king consort?”

  “We know little about Prince Bayan except that he is a renowned fighter who has won many battles,” replied Rosvita reflexively.

  The Ungrian ambassador called for another toast. He had cast aside his fur cloak and now, with his odd mustaches and thin beard, looked incongruous in his elegant yellow silk tunic. The Ungrians had been raiders like the Quman not two generations ago. They had not lost their barbarian look, not quite, even if they mimicked the sophisticated Arethousan way of dressing.

  “They are all blind,” said Theophanu sharply.

  “Who is blind?” asked Rosvita, taken aback by the unusual passion in Theophanu’s voice. “What is it they are not seeing?”

  “It matters not.” She smoothed her expression and took the cup from Rosvita, but she only sipped at it. “Not if you don’t already know.”