Child of Flame

by Kate Elliott

The two armies gathered just before twilight in the central meadow, where a slope ran down to a stream. Grass grew abundantly. The soldiers took their places on the slope while servants set up a pavilion by the stream’s edge for those nobles privileged enough to attend Princess Sapientia: Bayan’s Ungrian retainers, Lord Wichman, the Polenie duke Boleslas, Hrodik and Druthmar, Brigida with her levies from Avaria, a lady from Fesse, and several nobles from the marchlands who had joined to avenge the damage done to their lands by the Quman.

  Prince Bayan’s mother had been brought forward in her palanquin, but of course, with all the veils drawn and curtains closed, no one could see her nor ever would. She had a new slave, one of the ones she’d bought at Machteburg: a well-built Quman youth standing beside one of the carrying poles. Like the other three, he watched without expression as the proceedings unfolded, as though he was both deaf and mute. Had the old woman ensorcelled all those who served her? Had she cast a love spell over Sapientia to make the princess besotted with her husband?

  “It does seem odd to me,” said Zacharias to Heribert, glancing around to make sure no one was paying attention to them, “that Prince Bayan commands her army in all but name.” They stood behind the chair, placed to the left of Sapientia’s, set aside for Blessing.

  “Does it? That’s not what puzzles me. King Henry must have guessed that whatever man married Sapientia would be likely to rule as her equal, not her consort. Bayan’s a good man, but he isn’t Wendish and he’s scarcely a Daisanite. How can Henry think the Wendish nobles, much less a duke as proud as Conrad, would accept a foreign king reigning over them?”

  Behind them, Blessing shrieked. She was crouching on the edge of the stream, half lost in the rushes that crowded the shore, tossing stones into the water while Anna, Matto, and Lord Thiemo hovered next to her to make sure she didn’t fall in.

  Zacharias smiled derisively. “Do not ask me, Brother. I am only a common-born frater.”

  “So you are,” agreed Heribert amiably. “But much cleaner than you were when we first met you. As outside, so inside. I still value your insight.”

  “I have nothing insightful to say on this subject. Of the king’s progress and its intrigues I remain ignorant, as befits my station.”

  A shout rose from the assembled armies. Blessing leaped up, tottered unbalanced on the edge of the stream, and was caught by Thiemo, who escorted her back to the pavilion. She climbed up to stand on the seat of her chair.

  “Here, now, Your Highness,” Heribert said reprovingly as she clung to his shoulders, trying to get a good look out along the meadow. “Remember your dignity.”

  “Look!” Lord Thiemo’s words were echoed by those nobles clustered under the shade of the pavilion. “Here they come.” He pointed toward the two riders approaching the pavilion through the grass, one from the north and one from the south. Both horses were being led, giving their approach a dignified pace suitable to the gravity of the occasion.

  “Why Wolfhere?” Zacharias demanded, feeling the familiar gnaw of envy at his gut as he watched the old Eagle leading Prince Sanglant’s horse.

  Heribert’s answering smile was bittersweet. “This isn’t easy for him, you know. Best to remind everyone from the outset how far outside the king’s approval he stands.”

  It took Zacharias a moment to realize that Heribert was not speaking of Wolfhere.

  Bayan and Sanglant were both outfitted in their armor, although they weren’t wearing their helmets. Sanglant wore his sword slung over his back, in the manner of a traveler, while Bayan’s swore was belted at his hip. Bayan wore a tabard of snow-white linen with a two-headed eagle embroidered in red, the sigil of Ungria, and dagged ends in alternating red and white that flowed past his knees. Sanglant wore a plain gold tabard, without any identifying sigil, his only ornament the magnificent dragon helm, which he carried under one arm. Sapientia moved forward with a trio of ladies, one holding a tray set with two silver cups and a second carrying a pitcher. The third, a cleric, stood slightly to one side.

  “She doesn’t look pregnant,” muttered Lord Thiemo.

  “Hush, my lord,” said Anna sharply, the way one would to a wayward brother. “A woman may be waxing without being full. It’s said she hasn’t burned holy rags for three months. If a woman isn’t bleeding, then she must be pregnant. That’s what they always said in Gent.”

  “I’ve seen cases where women weren’t bleeding but nevertheless were not—” began Zacharias, but Thiemo cut him off.

  “Nay, Anna is right. I was wrong to speak so.” He looked at her, and she at him; an odd alliance, when you thought of it: the young lordling and the nut-brown common girl, almost a woman. Zacharias could not shake the feeling that there was something more to it than their devotion to Blessing. Even Matto, standing behind them, had been drawn in although he had at first been jealous of Thiemo. They formed a tight circle that ringed the little girl.

  The two combatants came to a halt about ten paces apart. Sanglant took the reins from Wolfhere and handed the Eagle his helm. Bayan exchanged helm for reins with his Ungrian groom. Then the riders moved around so they sat side by side as though poised for a race. They did not look at each other.

  The cleric raised her arms. “Let the trial begin.”

  Sapientia poured ale into the two cups. Three noble witnesses from each army examined them and proclaimed themselves satisfied that they held an equal amount. Carefully, the cups were handed up, one to Bayan and one to Sanglant.

  All this time, Blessing clung to Heribert’s shoulders and did not speak one word, only stared, wide-eyed.

  Those on foot stepped back, to leave the field clear for the duelists. Captain Thiadbold of the Lions stepped forward and raised a horn to his lips.

  He blew.

  The two armies erupted in cheers and whistles as the two riders urged their horses forward, each man holding the reins in one hand and the full cup in the other. Neck and neck, they raced across the meadow, reached the woodland fringe, turned their horses neatly and rode back at a canter. They passed the cleric side by side, neck and neck, and pulled up. The crowd fell silent as they handed their cups to the cleric and she compared the level of ale remaining.

  She raised a cup. “Prince Bayan, the winner!”

  Shouting and laughter drowned out everything else as Bayan, laughing, demanded a full cup of ale. Sanglant, too, took a freshly poured cup; he downed it in one gulp and asked for a second. Although he had a smile on his face, his expression was grim.

  Blessing began to cry. “He lost,” she said, and then, in a lower and more furious voice, “he lost on purpose.”

  “Nay, sweetling,” said Heribert sternly, “he didn’t lose. He did what he had to do for the kingdom, and don’t ever think otherwise. Defeating the Quman matters more than anything right now.”

  She was not to be consoled, but she kept her sorrow quiet, as her father had ordered her earlier that day, and buried her head in Heribert’s shoulder. Such a big girl, she was getting to be. So quick to understand the twists and turns of intrigue that plagued the nobly born.

  Zacharias glanced back at Thiemo and Anna, fallen to whispering as the celebration continued on the field beyond and the armies began to disperse back to their tents. He knew they weren’t lovers. Anna was not really old enough, in truth; she couldn’t be more than thirteen or fourteen. Anyway, Prince Sanglant would never have allowed it—a little piece of hypocrisy that rather cheered Zacharias. It was good to know that even the most admirable of men might succumb to weakness now and again. It made Zacharias feel better, since his own weaknesses seemed so bold and starkly drawn in contrast. He had so very many of them.

  Blessing wiped her face on Heribert’s sleeve and wriggled out of his grasp, jumping down to the ground. Heribert was frowning, fingering a leather cord he had recently begun to wear around his neck.

  “You don’t like it,” said Zacharias softly, seeing the other man’s gaze on the mob out in the field, surrounding the two contestants. Sanglant had do
wned his fourth cup of ale.

  “It’s what the captain of the Dragons would have done,” replied Heribert, “but he isn’t captain of the’ King’s Dragons any longer.”

  “Nay, Brother, you know yourself that the greatest threat isn’t even the Quman. Or so you’ve told me.”

  “True enough.” Heribert saw Wolfhere cutting his way through the crowd toward them. “Sister Anne is the greatest threat. So be it.” He moved forward to meet Wolfhere.

  Heribert and Wolfhere had gotten thick as thieves lately, plotting and scheming with Sanglant while, as always, Zacharias was left out in the cold, as ignorant as a beggar’s starving brat. Envy made him dizzy as he watched the two men—elegant cleric and elderly commoner—meet and exchange words. Did they not trust him? Did Wolfhere speak against him? Was Zacharias somehow deemed less loyal than the turncoat Eagle? Little use in continuing his feud with Wolfhere, but he could not help himself; that was yet another of his weaknesses, that he held grudges as tightly as a drowning man clutches a spar and would not let them go even when they no longer did him any good. He wasn’t even as good a man as any one of that ragtag group which had remained behind in the ruined fortress that day months ago outside Walburg. Not one of them had betrayed Zacharias’ shameful behavior to the prince. Not one had mentioned it, even though they had all seen him bolt and run, ready to abandon the child they were fighting for.

  No wonder no one trusted him.

  In his nightmares, and they were plentiful, he still saw those two Quman soldiers pulling around and making ready to shoot him. Sometimes he wished that they had.

  Behind, Blessing grabbed hold of Anna’s hand and led her back to the stream’s edge while she chattered on in her piercing voice. “Tell me again about the phoenix!”

  Wolfhere and Heribert bent heads together, speaking intently as Heribert’s frown deepened. Zacharias crept closer, but their voices were so low that he couldn’t make out more than phrases and words, nothing to make sense of. After a bit, the prince himself strode up, none the worse for his heavy drinking until you saw the way his eyes tightened with anger despite the pleasant expression masking his face. He took hold of Wolfhere by the shoulder.

  “Tell me truly, Wolfhere, is this Eagle’s sight illusion or real?”

  “Alas, my lord prince, it has never lied to me in all my days.”

  “Then your sight is more truthful than your tongue, Eagle. Anne made skopos with my father’s blessing!” He glanced toward Bayan. The Ungrian prince, as jovial as ever, was accepting the congratulations of various nobles from among Sapientia’s train. No one begrudged him his victory; he had proved himself worthy, even if he was a foreigner. “Pray to God, Heribert,” he looked around and saw Zacharias, “and you, too, Zacharias, no matter what you believe now. Pray to God to grant me patience to endure what I must for the sake of the kingdom, and the wits to learn intrigue.” He laughed harshly, drawing his little retinue away from the crowd, seeking his daughter where she splashed merrily in the stream, pretending to be a bird rising from the water. “Bloodheart taught me well, although he never meant to do me any favors. If his dogs couldn’t tear out my throat in Gent, then these dogs surely will not do so now. Ai, God, to think that my father offered me the kingdom and I turned it down!”

  “Your Highness!” said Wolfhere, surprised. “What do you mean?”

  “No matter.” Sanglant lengthened his stride, moving out through the grass away from the rest of them as he called to his daughter. He wore a leather cord around his neck and now, restless, he pulled it out to cup his hand over a round leaf of silver engraved with various signs. “My father would not have named Anne as skopos and fallen victim to her lies if I had been at his side, advising him. She would never have gained such influence if it had been me who had ridden to Aosta with Adelheid as my queen.”

  He stopped dead as his daughter crowed in triumph, having escaped Thiemo’s efforts to catch her, and turned on Wolfhere. “Or you could be telling Anne everything that you’ve learned while riding with me. You could be hiding from me what she tells you.”

  “So I could, Your Highness. And I could kill your daughter while she sleeps. Lord Thiemo is a good boy, but not my match.”

  “The old wolf is wise and subtle. Tell me, Wolfhere, how does one learn intrigue?”

  “What sort of intrigue do you wish to learn?”

  “The intrigue of the king’s court. It’s said that you were my grandfather Arnulf’s favorite. You, a common-born man. Folk must have hated you because he listened to you above all others.”

  “So they did. And your father most of all.”

  “Nay, truly? I thought he hated you because you tried to drown me.”

  “Well, that didn’t help. But Henry hated me long before that. He envied me my place at King Arnulf’s side. Young men are prone to jealousies, my lord prince, and strange fancies. Yet Arnulf always knew Henry’s worth. There was never any doubt in his mind which of his children had been born with the luck of the king.”

  “What of Henry’s children?” Sanglant glanced back toward the crowd of nobles gathered to celebrate Bayan’s victory. Sapientia stood beside her husband, bright and happy, handsome and shining, yet beside the Ungrian prince she looked as light as a feather, ready to float away at the least puff of wind. She hadn’t any weight.

  “Ah.” Wolfhere smiled, baring his teeth as a wolf might when it snarls. “What of Henry’s children? Don’t forget that he has another child now, the infant Mathilda, born to Adelheid. A strong, healthy girl, though she is still a suckling babe.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “That Henry’s children by Sophia aren’t the only ones who can inherit his throne, Your Highness. He has two others. The newborn Mathilda. And you.”

  Sanglant glared at Wolfhere until the old Eagle fidgeted, looking curiously nervous in the face of the prince’s obvious anger and grief. “Find my wife, Eagle. Why has your Eagle’s sight failed you? Has she hidden herself from you? Where has she gone?”

  Wolfhere had no answer for him.

  “I pray you, my lord prince,” said Heribert quietly, “it is like poison to the skin to handle it too much. Nor should you display it openly.”

  Sanglant started, glanced at the silver medallion in his hand, and slipped it back under his tunic.

  Only then, with the three men standing close together, did Zacharias realized that all three—prince, cleric, and Eagle—wore similar amulets concealed under their clothing, a protection against sorcery.

  2

  HOW long ago it seemed that she had had the leisure to sit in the scriptorium and work uninterrupted on her History of the Wendish People! It had been so long that the blessed Queen Matilda, of glorious memory, to whom the work was dedicated, had died without ever seeing a finished work. These days, Rosvita wondered if there ever would be a finished work.

  As she moved through the sunny scriptorium, she noted the scribes busy at their work, clerics from the king’s schola copying out capitularies, deeds, and charters as well as letters pertaining to the king’s business here and in the north. So many rounded shoulders, so many busy hands. Now and again clerics looked up from their work to nod at her or ask for advice. More by accident than design, she was now in charge of Henry’s schola. Queen Adelheid had her own schola, made up of clerics from Aosta and overseen by Hugh, who had been assigned as the Holy Mother’s official emissary to the Queen.

  “Sister Rosvita, ought we to be writing this cartulary to establish the county of Ivria? Shouldn’t that properly be done in the Queen’s schola?”

  “Nay, Brother Eudes, we mean to establish King Henry’s right and obligation to rule in these lands so that none will protest if the skopos agrees to crown him as Emperor. Therefore, any grant must come from Henry and Adelheid together.” She walked on, pausing where light streamed in to paint gold over the parquet floor.

  “Sister, we have heard another report of heresy, this time from Biscop Odila at Mainni. How are we to answ
er?”

  “Patience, Sister Elsebet. The skopos has already indicated that she will hold a council on this matter next year. Write to Biscop Odila that she must confine those who will not recant so that they cannot corrupt the innocent, but by no means to act rashly. Avoid at all costs any public trial, until after the council, because it is in the nature of people to make martyrs where they can. We must beware making martyrs of these heretics. Can you render that in your own words, Sister?”

  Elsebet had been with a schola for ten years, just the kind of cleric who did better if given a little independence to work. She smiled sharply. “Of course, Sister Rosvita. I am glad that the charge of the king’s schola has fallen to you. In truth, the skopos’ clerics and presbyters rule with too heavy a hand for my liking. I daresay the custom is different here in Aosta than it is in the north.”

  Farther on, Ruoda and Heriburg sat side by side, one white-scarfed head and one pale blue one, intent on their copying.

  “How comes the work?” Rosvita asked quietly as she paused beside them.

  They had, open on the lectern above them, the Vita of St. Radegundis. Heriburg was continuing the copy started by Sister Amabilia, and Ruoda had begun a second copy, which Rosvita hoped to send to Korvei for safekeeping.

  “Well enough.” Ruoda had blotted a word and now scraped the offending ink away with her writing knife.

  Heriburg was ruling a blank sheet of parchment. She did not look away from her work as she answered, her voice so low that Rosvita had to bend nearer in order to hear. “We dared not speak to you this morning, Sister, because of the many visitors you had in your chambers. We have more gossip than you could possibly want—”

  “Never underestimate how much gossip can be useful to the king, Heriburg. Go on.”

  Ruoda’s smile flashed, but she looked up only to read the next line from the Vita, above her, and to dip her quill in the inkpot.

  “A Sister Venia came to the palace in the train of the Holy Mother, Anne, when she first appeared here last summer. An elderly woman with white hair and a pleasant, round face, well spoken, well mannered, well educated, and nobly born. She was heard to say only that she came out of the noble lineage of Karrone. Soon after she arrived a presbyter was heard to claim that she was his cousin, a granddaughter of the Karronish princely family who had been made a biscop and then detained for black sorcery, but he died soon after of apoplexy and could not therefore substantiate his claim. No one liked him anyway, so we hear. But in any case, Sister Venia made no enemies while she was here.”