In the Ruins

by Kate Elliott

  “I can’t argue with you!”

  “Not in these matters.”

  He paced, but his protests and his discomfort did nothing to alter the pace of her preparations. She would go, as she had at Quedlinhame, much to the surprise of Mother Scholastica. In truth, he had to admire it as a good tactic, unexpected and effective as a counterblow.

  “How long will this go on?” he asked. “Will we ride the breadth of Wendar and Varre with you kneeling on the church steps at every stop?”

  “If I must. Until the excommunication is lifted.”

  His own splendid clothing had not yet been unpacked from its chest. He would not approach Gent’s cathedral until after midday. It took time to ready his retinue.

  “You’ll continue to ride with me on my progress! You’ll not go into hiding! Or into a convent!”

  Though somber, she smiled. “Be assured that every soul in this army is aware that you bed me every night without the sanction of the church. That you married me despite your father forbidding the match.”

  “That you use your sorcery to seduce me and keep me as your prisoner. I know. I know.”

  “I do not fear what others may say of me or think of me. They can’t harm me. Let me do this without having to struggle against you as well, Sanglant.”

  She did not wait for his answer. After she left the chamber, he surveyed the room. In this same chamber he had resided for many weeks when he had last bided in Gent about two years ago. It was hard to keep track of the time, although he recalled that it had been a cold winter when he and his retinue had arrived. The tapestries on the wall depicting a hunt, a feast, and an assembly of dour clerics and biscops were the same ones he had gazed on before. The handsome Arethousan carpet that covered the floor had the same bright red-and-yellow flowers and green vines as the one he remembered. No reason for the mayor to have changed it, since Arethousan carpets were treasured for their rarity and quality. A copper basin and pitcher rested on a side table. Whatever chests had rested against the wall had been replaced by those he traveled with. Years ago, Liath had appeared to him in this very chamber through an aetherical gate, and she had stolen Jerna, and vanished.

  God, he had been so angry. He began, again, to pace.

  The latch jiggled. The door opened a handspan.

  “Your Majesty?”

  “Come in, Hathui.”

  She entered, followed by his crowd of intimate attendants. Captain Fulk and Captain Istvan the Ungrian represented his guard. To create ties of kinship between the great lords of the realm and his personal guard he had taken in a quintet of young lords, one each from the retinues of Liutgard, Burchard, Gerberga, Waltharia, and a cousin related by marriage to the deceased Duchess Rotrudis. A trio of clerics from his schola were led by Sister Elsebet, and she had with her a young monk named Brother Ernoul whom Mother Scholastica had attached to his household so that Sanglant might offer the worthy, clever, and affable youth advancement in the world. He had also acquired four honest servingmen, sons of stewards, chatelaines, or castellans, each one a relative of one of his soldiers who had died. Den’s younger brother swept dust from around the braziers and refilled them with hot coals, while Malbert’s cousin and Johannes’ uncle laid out his robes and finery on the bed so that the seamstresses could repair any last moment’s snags or frays. Chustaffus’ older brother brought a covered pitcher of hot water which he placed beside the basin, waiting until his services were needed.

  “Your Majesty,” said Hathui, “there is a cousin of Lord Hrodik whom Biscop Suplicia wishes you to interview. She believes that this lady, a widow without surviving children, would serve you well as chatelaine of your progress.”

  “The biscop comes out of that same lineage, does she not?”

  “So I hear, Your Majesty.”

  “She is putting forward her own kinswoman in hope of gaining influence.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty. Yet you must have a chatelaine and stewards in the same way an army needs soldiers and captains. Duchess Liutgard will leave you in Fesse. Duke Burchard is already gone. Their capable servants cannot serve you forever.”

  “Let me interview her, then. But I pray you, Hathui, continue asking among the other noble lords for worthy candidates. Alas that so many of Henry’s court died in Aosta.”

  Prayers were murmured among the assembled. In their wake, he heard a slight noise from outside the chamber whose direction he could not fix.

  “Where is Lord Wichman?” he asked.

  They looked around. Hathui answered. “He was with us a moment before, Your Majesty.”

  He went to the door, which Fulk opened. “Don’t follow me.”

  The palace at Gent was famous for its circuitous corridors, made more confusing by layers of rebuilding over the last hundred years. The most recent spate of building had occurred after King Henry’s defeat of Bloodheart’s army, and, except for the unseasonably cool and cloudy weather, it was clear Gent had suffered less than most parts of the country over the last few years. No children begged on the streets. The outlying countryside was well populated and adequately housed, and the road through Steleshame and down into the river valley was particularly well kept.

  Many alcoves offered a place to sit beside an open shutter. Here and there a burned-out corridor had simply been closed off with bricks or boards to become a blind alley. What couldn’t be seen by the casual passerby might be heard to one seeking the sound of a struggle.

  “No … uh … my lord … I pray you, let me go! I’ll scream!”

  “I think not, you little bitch! Now, just….”

  “Wichman.”

  Halting at the mouth of one of these dark corners, he saw two shapes caught in an intimate embrace, one pressing hard against the other, trapping her against a boarded-off back wall.

  “Oh, Lord, Sanglant! Can’t you let me be?”

  “Let the woman say she prefers to remain of her own free will, and I’ll walk on.”

  She was breathless, straining against groping hands, and desperate. “I pray you, Your Majesty. Grant me your protection. He’s trying to rape me.”

  Wichman slapped her.

  Sanglant grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back. The other man, turning, came at him with a punch that landed on Sanglant’s chin and slammed him into the other wall. Wichman was in a rage, and pushed in cursing and pummeling fists against his body. God, Wichman was strong. Each slug staggered Sanglant. Most he caught on his arms, but one got under his guard and punched up right under his ribs, making him grunt.

  Sanglant hooked a leg around Wichman’s, shoved against him with his hip, and upended him, then came down with both knees on his chest.

  Wichman coughed and swore. “One isn’t enough for you? You have to have all of them?”

  Three servants and two guards appeared, looking anxious.

  “Go on,” said Sanglant, and they looked at his expression and scurried away.

  “Perhaps you have to force women to get them in bed with you, Wichman, and perhaps you mind not that they hate and fear you for it, or perhaps you even enjoy it, but I won’t tolerate it.”

  “What will you do to me, Your Majesty?” he said with a sneer. “What can you do?”

  Sanglant wiped a bit of blood from his lip. It would swell later. “Marry you to Bertha of Austra.”

  “She’s dead! Your wife lost her!”

  “She may not be dead. If she lives, she’ll find her way back to Wendar. What would you think of that?”

  “You don’t scare me, Cousin. I’ll take the puling maiden that’s Bertha’s little sister. I hear she’s comely enough. And Westfall in the bargain. Or make me duke of Saony. That will make my sisters croak and bark! Too late for that, isn’t it! You gave Saony to your sister like a bone to a bitch, for she’ll never have the throne. What’s left for me, eh? I found me a tight sheath for my sword, as my consolation, so leave me be, you damned prick!”

  He was wild, and aroused, no better than a dog that has scented a bitch in heat
. Impossible to reason with.

  “Do not touch this woman again.” Sanglant stood, and he braced himself as Wichman rose, brushed off his clothing, and laughed.

  “Saving her for yourself? She’s handsome enough, if not as bright a jewel as your soulless wife.”

  Sanglant punched him hard, and Wichman went down again, and this time rose afterward with more caution, rubbing his chin.

  “I’m not angry, Wichman. Nothing you say about my wife can harm her, but it’s necessary for you to understand that on my progress you must curb your tongue.”

  “I meant to curb my tongue in this warm creature’s lips. Why are you so stingy?” He took a half step toward Sanglant, but thought better of it. “Kings ought to be generous, not close-fisted, hoarding all the gold for themselves.” He walked away.

  “My lord,” she said from the darkness where she hid. “Your Majesty. I thank you.”

  He knew who it was. He’d known all along. “Have you any boon to ask of me, Frederun?” he asked her.

  “Nothing you can grant me, Your Majesty.” She moved forward enough that he could see her shadowed face and the curve of her breasts and hip beneath her linen gown but not so close that he could touch her without taking a step toward her to claim her. “What I most desire I can never have.”

  “Have you any need of a dowry to make your way? For a marriage, perhaps? To be released from your service in the palace?”

  “I need nothing, Your Majesty. Only to be left in peace. I like my service here well enough and the company of the other women who are my companions. It is only men who trouble me.” A tremor afflicted her voice, and he knew he was partly the cause of it but that she could never say so.

  “Are you content?”

  She did not answer, but he heard her begin to weep.

  “If there is anything, apply to one of my stewards.”

  Her voice was hoarse and barely audible. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Weary, he returned to his chamber, where Hathui had kept them waiting, just as he’d ordered.

  “Is all well, Your Majesty?” she asked him as he entered. She had a way of squinting as she examined his face that made him feel quite naked, not in body but in soul.

  “Only reflecting on my sins. Let us go to the chapel for the morning service. Then we’ll make ready.”

  She nodded. It was impossible to know how much anyone had heard, but he understood well enough that there was little secrecy and less privacy on the king’s progress. He had known that all his life. This was the first time it chafed him.

  2

  ON the first day of the new year, 736, King Sanglant of Wendar and Varre, son of Henry, approached the cathedral on horseback with his magnificent entourage behind him, each one splendid and terrible in rich robes and gold or silver coronets, depending on their rank. Behind them rode the twoscore soldiers out of his personal guard who had survived the cataclysm in Aosta as well as another score newly brought into his service. Down the widest avenue in Gent they rode four abreast. There was just room on either side for folk to press back against buildings, to stare and call out and sing praises and weep as he rode past. When they came into the square, he saw that the entire expanse was filled with a multitude, the people who lived in Gent and those who had walked a day or even three days to the city in order to witness the anointing and crowning of the new king and to receive the bread that would be distributed in the wake of the ceremony.

  The steps rose before him. He halted his horse at their foot and handed the reins to Wichman, who as his cousin had the right to the office of king’s groom and insisted on taking his place at Sanglant’s right hand. Sibold eased forward along the side. He would hold Fest during the actual ceremony.

  Sanglant dismounted. How strange to set his foot on these cold stairs where he had died—only of course he could not die. Here Adela and Sturm had fallen. Here the last of his faithful, bold Dragons had met their deaths. Up by the doors the brave Eagle, Manfred, had been cut down. This much he owed them: that where they had died he could honor them by his own triumph, if there was honor in surviving when all those around him perished.

  He ought to have died, too, but he had no power over the geas laid on him at birth.

  A crowd of beggars knelt on the first few steps; they would feast at a special table tonight. Above them waited the great princes of the realm in their finest clothing, his peers, who had acquiesced to his elevation because there was no one stronger and more fit to reign after Henry. He noted them: Theophanu and Ekkehard, Duchess Liutgard, Rotrudis’ sullen daughters, the powerful margraves, and a handful of important counts and nobles. Beside them stood an intimidation of biscops, abbesses, abbots, presbyters, and noble clerics. All these would witness.

  All these, but there was one more who amazingly had space to herself halfway up the steps.

  Liath knelt with head bowed. Her golden-dark hair, uncovered and unbound, spilled gloriously down to her rump. It curled wildly, dampened by an earlier misting rain that had ceased at midday. She had, apparently, brushed ashes over it, although only a few traces remained. Bouquets of flowers—violets, white heal-all, late primroses, and an abundance of starry woodruff—lay at her bare feet, gifts from unknown hands. There were even two wreaths woven of pale green bracken. No one looked at her, but everyone knew she was there. He moved sideways and, without speaking to her, picked up one of the frail bouquets of woodruff and carried it with him the rest of the way up the steps. Behind, the crowd quieted.

  Mother Scholastica came forward to meet him and, together with the most noble biscops, escorted him into the cathedral.

  In the years since the defeat of Bloodheart, Gent had prospered. The stone cathedral had survived better than many of the wooden buildings. All the broken windows had been repaired and the interior restored, repainted, and refurnished with holy vessels on the Hearth. Only the stone pillars still bore the scars of the Eika occupation. Stone angels lacked a wing; gargoyles leered out of a single eye; beakless eagles flew silently. He paused in front of the altar beside the chain fixed into the stone with an iron spike. Here, in this spot, he had been chained. As the company gathered about him, he stared at those heavy links, but they no longer had power to disturb him. He placed the fragile bouquet on the chain to remind him of Count Lavastine, who had freed him from his prison, and the nameless Eika prince who had let them go without a fight.

  When everyone was in place and as much quiet as could be expected in such an assembly was gathered, he knelt. The rush of their kneeling was like the thunder of wings, echoing up into the vault.

  Mother Scholastica produced from her sleeve an ivory comb studded with gold and gems. With this, she combed out his newly cut hair. The biscop of Gent brought forward a vial of holy oil. His aunt anointed him with a touch: on the right ear, from forehead to left ear, and on the crown of his head. The oil’s scent swamped him. The humble oil of olives had been liberally mixed with frankincense and myrrh to produce a profound aroma.

  “May Our Lord and Lady crown you with the crown of glory,” his aunt intoned, “may They anoint you with the oil of Their favor.”

  Theophanu and Ekkehard draped a cloak trimmed with ermine over his shoulders. The dragon of Saony, the eagle of Fesse, and the lion of Avaria graced its expanse, embroidered in gold thread. This cloak had been worn by the first Henry and put aside into storage by Arnulf when he took Varre’s royal family into his own house. It still reeked of cloves, having been stored with great care for all these years. Henry’s royal cloak had vanished in the south.

  “The borders of this cloak trailing on the ground shall remind you that you are to be zealous in the faith and to keep peace. Let it remind you of the royal lineage out of which you spring.”

  She gave into his hands Henry’s battered and scarred scepter. “Receive this staff of virtue. May you rule wisely and well. Crown him, God, with justice, glory, honor, and strong deeds.”

  As a wind sweeps across a forest as with a voice, a murmur greeted t
his pronouncement. Out of the assembly, all the way back by the doors, a man’s voice rose.

  “May the King live forever!”

  A shiver of foreboding made tears rise in Sanglant’s eyes, but the crowd had already raised its voice to acclaim him, and those in the square and streets beyond shouted and sang as well, heard as a distant echo.

  Right behind him someone coughed.

  Ekkehard muttered, “My feet hurt. I’ve been standing for hours.”

  Psalms must be sung. Each biscop and prince and noble must come before him to kiss his ring and make known that they, each one, accepted his authority to rule. So it would go in every important town his progress stopped at as they rode west into Varre. So it would go for the rest of his life. Time, at least, was neither male or female. He did not desire death. He could wait, truly, for a good long time before he must embrace it, as every mortal creature must. But he hoped that Time would not abandon him. Yet if it was the Lord and Lady’s will that each soul spin out a certain length of thread upon Earth, had his mother’s curse then shielded him from Their touch? Surely not. His mother was not as powerful as God’s will, even if she did not believe in Them.

  That thought struck him all at once as he spoke words and greeted and nodded and looked each person in the eye to mark the honesty of their gaze. What did his mother believe in? How did the Ashioi explain the existence of the world? What did they worship?

  Surely Liath knew.

  “Your Majesty.” Waltharia knelt before him, her expression solemn. She nodded to show her approval. The gesture reminded him uncannily of her father, who had a habit of nodding in just such a way, with a slight twist to the chin.

  Shouts and frantic cries drifted in from outside. They lifted into screams, a chaos of fear that rolled into the church.

  “Your Majesty! Come quickly!”

  “Save us, Your Majesty!”

  He leaped up. Wearing robe and crown and still carrying the staff, he strode down the nave. The train of the robe swept the floor behind him. The crowd parted to let him through, although there was a bottleneck at the doors where terrified people from outside tried to press into the sanctuary.