Child of Flame

by Kate Elliott

It was hard to judge Anne’s age. She might have been about forty years of age, as Rosvita was, or ten years older. Time had not marked her smooth face but neither did she look young; the weight of time, wisdom, and rank cloaked her. She had power, bone-deep and solid, and if she chose to support Henry, then truly there was nothing he could not accomplish. For that, Rosvita was willing to forgive much, if it were true that Anne meant to support Henry rather than merely use him for her own purpose, to thwart the return of the Lost Ones.

  Rosvita knew better than to voice such doubts aloud. There were, after all, so many other questions that could be answered, now that she had the opportunity to ask them. “I am a historian, Holy Mother. The good abbess at Korvei, where I received my education, said I would be both saved and damned by my curiosity. I confess freely that I have read the chronicles, and I do not entirely understand your genealogy. I beg pardon if what I say appears rude. Pray trust that it is only the sin of curiosity that leads me to ask.”

  “You doubt that I am the descendant of Emperor Taillefer?” Was that a flicker of anger, or of amusement? Impossible to tell. The hound growled rather louder than before. Its whipcord tail thumped once against a table leg, almost rocking it.

  “I have in my possession the Vita of St. Radegundis, as you know, Holy Mother.” It wasn’t easy to keep her voice even, not with that huge hound glowering at her.

  “I have seen it.” How coolly she spoke those words, considering that the Vita had been written by her own father, a man she had never met. “When you have finished the copies your clerics are making, I will gladly take such a blessed work into the library here, Sister.”

  Rosvita knew how to swallow regret, although it hurt. “That would be most fitting, Holy Mother. But although I was blessed by God as the vessel through whose hands the Vita would pass on its way to you, I am puzzled by the circumstances surrounding Fidelis’ marriage. That he was hidden in the cloister and raised as a monk, I can understand. That he succumbed in his autumn years to temptation, I can understand and in truth I pity him, for despite his great age and wisdom it seemed to me that he still thought of the woman with affection and regretted to the end of his life any harm that might have come to her because of his weakness.” It was a long speech, and a convoluted argument. She had to choose her words carefully. “But I have never fully understood the identity of your mother, or what happened to her after. How were you then raised, and in what secrecy, with what education, to find you awake to your ancestry, so learned and so wise, and yet unknown to those of us who have studied the chronicles for all of our lives?”

  “I was raised by Sister Clothilde, handmaiden of St. Radegundis and later servant to Biscop Tallia, my aunt. My mother was called Lavrentia. She was the unwanted child of a noble family in Varre. It is common for families to place inconvenient children in the church.”

  Rosvita smiled bitterly, remembering how her brother Ivar had been thrust into the church with no calling and no love for his new position. Count Harl was not a forgiving man, and no doubt rash, impulsive young Ivar had given him trouble one too many times. “So it is, Holy Mother. We can only pray that they all come to serve God with an honest and open heart.”

  The skopos murmured a blessing in response, fluid and almost mindless, a habit to one raised in clerical surroundings. The hound sat. “She died, and in any case she was very young, not more than fifteen years of age. Sister Clothilde knew well what trouble might erupt in Salia should it be known that a legitimate descendant of Taillefer still lived. She knew that the Salians only let women rule as co-regnants, never alone, and she knew that were it known that I lived, some powerful Salian lord would take me hostage, raise me, and marry me to his son so that his son could claim the kingship of Salia through his use of my body.”

  “Truly,” murmured Rosvita, “a barbaric custom.”

  “Not so different than King Henry’s marriage to Queen Adelheid.”

  That stung. “Adelheid fled to Henry and begged for his help, Holy Mother. It is true that theirs is a marriage dictated by politics and expediency, but there is true affection and respect as well.”

  The hound growled, yipping once, threateningly. The skopos mounted the steps and sat, placing her hands on the arms of the chair, which were without any decoration except the polished luster of gold leaf enveloping the wood. She gave a soft command, and the hound at once lay beside her. “Sometimes I wonder, Sister Rosvita. Does God come first in your heart, or does the king?”

  “I serve the regnants of Wendar and Varre, as I was raised to do, Holy Mother.”

  “And I serve humankind, as I was raised to do. Biscop Tallia and Sister Clothilde learned of the threat posed by the Lost Ones, so I was raised to follow in their path, to save humankind by casting the Lost Ones back into the Abyss. Will you aid me, or will you be an obstacle, Sister? The king heeds you. You are well respected, and it is obvious that the king’s schola and much of his court will follow your lead, should you chose to speak in my favor. Or against me.”

  Pray God that her face and voice betrayed nothing. Pray God that no hint of suspicion should fall on her. “Then that is why you were raised in the arts of the mathematici, Holy Mother. That is why your daughter was raised to know those arts as well. Yet such arts still remain condemned by the church you now preside over.”

  “Condemned because of envy, directed at my aunt, Biscop Tallia, the wisest and most selfless of women. Yet I understand your meaning, Sister Rosvita. I must move cautiously so as not to arouse anger and fear. What we fight, we have fought for long years in secrecy, seeming to sleep and yet remaining awake. It has been our fate and our duty to prepare while humankind slept, oblivious to the approaching danger.”

  Curious, but never a liar. Rosvita had prided herself for all these years on her honesty, yet was it not said in the Holy Verses that pride was first to fall? “It is a solemn charge, Holy Mother. Pray do not suspect me of ever placing any obstacles in the path of righteousness.”

  Anne raised a single eyebrow, although it was difficult to tell whether she was surprised, pleased, or skeptical. “As long as we work together as allies, we are therefore in harmony. You may go. Pray be at your leisure to attend me when I next call for you. There is also this matter of reports of heresy in the north to consider. A council must be called, and I am minded to command you to preside over the proceedings.”

  “I am yours to command, Holy Mother.” She was offered the holy ring. With some trepidation, she mounted the dais and kissed it. This time the hound did not even growl, but she could feel the weight of his presence so close beside her. Thanking the Lady for small mercies, and glad to see that she still had all her fingers, she made her own way to the door.

  Hugh waited outside in the anteroom, leaning on a windowsill and examining the courtyard beyond, a small garden yellowed with summer’s heat. A fountain in the shape of a phoenix trickled at the center, with a fruit-bearing tree growing at each corner. Pears, figs, and apples drooped from weighted branches, awaiting harvest. Smiling amiably, he turned to greet her.

  “Sister Rosvita. I was about to walk back to the royal palace. May I escort you?”

  “The honor would be mine.”

  They strolled along shaded arcades. Brother Petrus followed ten steps behind, carrying an unlit lamp.

  “I am sorry you could not attend Her Majesty yesterday. We went outside the city to oversee the grape harvest at one of the royal vineyards.”

  “It is well for Queen Adelheid to get out more,” agreed Rosvita. “I am happy to see that she is recovering her health at last.”

  They spoke for a bit of inconsequential things: Princess Mathilda, Aostan architecture, the rituals of the grape harvest. What game was Hugh playing? Yet at times like this, she wondered if he had truly changed. By all reports, and by her own personal observation, he was pious, discreet, benevolent, eloquent but gentle, grave in his authority and yet as humble as a beggar, affable to every person yet with such an elegance of manners that he never see
med common. Surely if he were irretrievably stained by the evil inclination, then that mark must somehow show in his outward form. But it did not. It had become something of a joke in the schola that when queen and presbyter rode out into the streets of Darre, folk gathered to acclaim her authority and to marvel at his beauty.

  They stepped out from a colonnade to cross a courtyard on a graveled path, white stones crunching under their feet. Afternoon shadows drew long across the neatly raked garden and crisscrossing paths. Above, parapets rose, visible beyond the roofs of the palace.

  “The Holy Mother means to appoint you to oversee a council on this heresy that troubles the north.”

  “So she has given me to understand. I fear I am not qualified to lead such an investigation.”

  “Nay, Sister, do not say so. You are respected by all. It is well known that your judgments are made without any regard to your own personal inclinations. I cannot think of any person in the church who is as widely trusted as you are.” They stepped onto the portico that framed the entrance, three monumental arches, that led from the skopos’ palace into the forecourt of the royal compound. Rosvita had never gotten used to the speed with which the sun set here in the south; no long, lingering twilights common to summer days in the north. Darkness was already falling, drowning them in shadow beneath the heavy arches. She could barely make out the elongated figures of saints carved into the facade, pale forms looming above them, stern but merciful.

  “I am troubled, Sister,” said Hugh softly. Brother Petrus waited obediently behind them, just out of earshot. In the forecourt beyond, torches were being lit, placed in sconces around the court, light flaring and smoke streaming toward the heavens. A dozen grooms hurried out from the open gate that led in to the stable yard. Distantly, from the direction of the road that led down into the city, she heard shouting and cheers.

  She said nothing, only waited, and after a moment Hugh went on. “What would you do if you discovered an ancient text in whose words you read an account of the very heresy that even now pollutes the kingdom?”

  “What do you mean? It’s well known that the Arethousan church remains in error on certain matters of doctrine. At least one of these—these arguments over the nature of the human and divine substance of the blessed Daisan—are part of the heresy as well. Everything I have heard indicates that the heresy comes out of the east.”

  He stood in profile, visible in the twilight only as a shade, like a man caught between the living world and the dead. “I do not know where to go. I believe I have found an account written by St. Thecla herself in which she describes the flaying and redemption of the blessed Daisan, just as it is said to have happened in this poisonous heresy.”

  “A forgery.” But she could barely force the words out. That such a statement should come from Hugh, of all people, set her completely off-balance. She was either a fool, or he was a consummate actor, but he seemed to her eyes, and to her instincts, to be truly distraught.

  “I have labored to prove exactly that, but I fear—”

  “Make way for King Henry!”

  Soldiers raced to stand at attention in the spacious forecourt. Cries of acclaim rose from the city below as the king and his retinue neared the gate.

  “This is unexpected.” She had to yell to be heard over the clamor.

  “Come.” He drew her forward by the arm.

  Queen Adelheid appeared, framed by the huge bronze doors that opened onto the entryway of the great hall, just as the first horsemen rode into the forecourt. They bore the banners of Henry and Adelheid. Behind them came the king himself and his closest companions: Duke Burchard of Avaria, Duchess Liutgard of Fesse, Margrave Villaim, several Aostan nobles, and of course his stalwart Eagle, Hathui. No man there, nor woman either, outshone Henry. He was hale and healthy, not one bit the worse for the wear after a summer campaigning in Aosta’s brutal heat. He dismounted, handed his reins to a groom, and hurried to greet Adelheid. But even as he led his entourage into the hall, he spotted Rosvita.

  “My good counselor!” Thus summoned, she cut a path through the crowd to his side, Hugh trailing modestly behind her. “Come, Sister, you will sit at my left hand while we eat.”

  Supper was laid at the feasting tables, nothing magnificent, but sufficient for soldiers ridden in from the field. Adelheid sat at Henry’s right hand in splendid robes she had somehow contrived to be wearing—as though she had known he was coming. Maybe she had. The king could have sent a courier, but if he had, then why, Rosvita wondered as she took her place at the king’s side, had she and the schola not heard the tidings?

  Had Hugh stopped her on the portico so she could witness the king’s arrival and understand that she had less power than he had, in his graceful speech, claimed for her?

  Nay, she chided herself, you are grown too suspicious.

  A steward brought a basin of water and a cloth so that Henry could wipe the dust of the road off his hands and face. Servants hurried in with a clear broth, followed by roasted game hens basted in mint sauce. When the first bite of hunger had been calmed, Adelheid rose with cup in hand. “Let there be an accounting of the summer’s victories!” she cried, to general acclaim.

  Hathui recited a clear if undramatic account of the army’s successes: three packs of Jinna bandits put to the sword; seven sieges brought to a peaceful conclusion, although Lord Gezo was still holding out in Navlia; emissaries from Arethousan potentates who were not eager to fight the Wendish king’s army despite the fact that they were usurping lands in the south that belonged to the Aostan royal family; feasts and triumphal parades through a host of towns in central Aosta.

  Henry remained somber throughout this recitation, and he left the feast early, taking a small coterie with him as he walked to his private apartments. They stopped to view the sleeping princess. As Henry leaned over Mathilda’s bed, admiring how much she’d grown, Rosvita bent close to speak softly in his ear.

  “I sense that all is not as you wish, Your Majesty. Be sure that I am ready to listen, should you desire a counselor’s ear.”

  He stroked Mathilda’s downy soft brown hair. The baby stirred, slipped her thumb in her mouth, and with a snort fell back to sleep. “Aosta is a thornbush, and the news from Wendar has not cheered my heart. Was I mistaken to leave Theophanu as regent?”

  “You could not have known the Quman would invade, Your Majesty.”

  “Am I chasing a dream, Sister?” His hands, callused from so many years of war, traced the curve of the baby’s ear; he had a delicate touch.

  “Nay, Your Majesty. If the Holy Mother is right, then we must have a strong leader in the years to come. Taillefer’s crown would unite many who might otherwise refuse to march behind the Wendish banner.”

  “If report is true, civil war rages in Salia. If I could only secure Aosta, then I might turn my eyes west to Salia next.”

  The words startled her, and worried her. “You would never be regarded as anything but a usurper in Salia, Your Majesty, if you will forgive me for saying so. I must advise you to strengthen your position in Aosta first—and not to neglect the troubles in the north.”

  His sharp gaze, his thoughtful expression, reminded her of the silent calculation, often unseen by others, at work in his mind. “Ought I to return to Wendar, do you think?”

  “In truth, Your Majesty, I fear you are caught between the lance and the spear. If you leave Aosta now, all that you have accomplished so far may crumble. Yet if you do not return to Wendar, worse may follow.”

  “I had thought to leave a peaceful realm at my back,” he said, not without bitterness, “but I see it is not to be. Yet I thank you, Sister, for your honest words.” He straightened up, smiling as he caught Adelheid’s hand and drew her to him. “Now, my friends, to bed.”

  There was a great deal of merrymaking as they escorted the king and queen to their bed and at length retired to leave them in peace. Courtiers dispersed quickly to their own private revels, but before Rosvita could return to her chambers, sh
e was waylaid by Helmut Villam.

  “I pray you, Sister, a word.”

  She smiled, genuinely happy to see him. “You’re looking well, Margrave. You have weathered the summer’s heat better than I have.”

  “We weren’t cooped up within city walls. And I admit, Sister, that I found the women of Aosta most accommodating.” His smile turned abruptly to a frown as he drew her into an alcove backed by a hideously clever marble fountain carved in the shape of a medusa’s head, every hair a snake and each snake’s mouth trickling water like clear poison. “I am distressed by the reports I hear out of Wendar and the marchlands.”

  “An Eagle came through Darre some weeks ago, sent by Princess Theophanu. Have you heard other news?”

  “A messenger from Geoffrey of Lavas reached us, and it broke my heart to hear the lad speak. ‘By the love you bear me, and by the honor you gave to my daughter by designating her as the rightful Count of Lavas.’ He begged Henry to come home. Troubles. Drought and famine, and bandits come north from Salia to haunt the roads. Even talk of the shades of the Lost Ones, ranging out of the deep forests to plague folk with elfshot.”

  “Ill news, indeed.”

  Villam hadn’t finished. “I had hoped to get a message from my daughter, in Walburg, but I have heard nothing. Tell me, Sister, do you think that Henry ought to remain in Aosta or return to Wendar? It is by no means clear to me that he and Queen Adelheid control enough of Aosta even now that they can expect the imperial crowns to be handed to them without a fight.”

  “Surely they can simply take the crowns. No one else is vying for them.”

  “That is the risk, is it not? If Henry allows himself to be crowned while Aosta remains in turmoil, with Jinna pirates and Arethousan thieves still in control of half the country.…” He trailed off, extending a hand to catch water from one snake’s mouth and wiping his forehead. It was so dark in the alcove that Rosvita could only see the movement, not his expression.

  “Yet if Henry retreats to Wendar, then this foray into Aosta might be seen as a defeat,” she pointed out.