Prince of Dogs

by Kate Elliott

  She shivered again in the wind’s chill and put more sticks on the fire, building it until flame licked and popped up a lattice of branches. Smoke stung her nose and eyes. She chafed her hands to warm them and tugged her cloak more tightly about herself, prepared to wait out the night. The stables were close by, but even there among the horses and servants she could not feel safe. In any enclosed place he might corner her. Only out here, under the winter sky, did she have room to run.

  The debate entertained Rosvita and to some extent surprised her. The subject was well worn, of course: Is it better to be useful or to be good? From his earliest days as sovereign, King Henry had encouraged such debates; his younger sister Constance, now Biscop of Autun, had excelled at them during her time at court.

  No, indeed, this time it was the participants who surprised her. For once, Princess Sapientia showed wisdom and kept her mouth shut, letting others argue while she sat in the chair of honor at her father’s right side and basked in the attention of the courtiers. Her younger sister Theophanu sat beside Rosvita in silence, her expression as smooth as cream; she, too, kept quiet, although she never spoke recklessly under any circumstances. Henry’s youngest child, Ekkehard, actually listened to the debate, mouth half open. Like his elder sister Sapientia, he stared wide-eyed and worshipfully at the younger of the two debaters. Ekkehard had been seized with one of his admirations and this time Rosvita could not deplore his choice.

  Three years ago she would have, had Ekkehard stared in this way at this particular man. But Hugh, abbot of Firsebarg and the bastard son of Margrave Judith, had altered so greatly in the five years he had been absent from the king’s progress that it was only by his lineaments, his actual face and hair, that she knew him.

  “The Rule of Saint Benedicta commands abbot and abbess to do good rather than to govern,” said Hugh in response to Cleric Monica—she had for many years now taught all the young folk in the king’s schola, where he had once been a pupil.

  “But if our stewardship is given us for the profit of many, then must we not learn to govern in order to benefit our subjects most usefully?” A vigorous elderly woman who had disliked Hugh when he was her student, Monica was softening as the debate wore on. Rosvita recognized the gleam in her eye and the quirk of her lips with which she favored only her most exemplary students. Hugh had been brilliant, but he had also known he was brilliant and wished others to acknowledge it, and that sort of arrogance had never been tolerated by a teacher such as Monica.

  Now, however, Hugh smiled gently. “But of course,” he said mildly, “I must bow before the wisdom of my preceptor. Is it not true that the teacher is an artist who molds her students as clay is fashioned into vessels of glory? A good student will imitate his teacher’s example and strive to become her image in excellent and sublime qualities. We learn to govern, and the first person we learn to govern is ourselves. Then virtue without creates virtue within, and thus we become both good and useful.”

  How had Hugh, as brilliant and handsome and arrogant as he had once been, become so gracious, witty, and charming, if no less beautiful in form? His voice was moderate, his gestures composed, his manners amiable and elegant. Only this morning, when the king’s progress had left the manor house at which the king had rested overnight, Hugh had distributed bread with his own hands to a family of beggars standing alongside the road. By no sign did he betray that he had any interest in Princess Sapientia except that of a well-mannered courtier privileged to ride with the king’s progress.

  “‘Virtues alone make one blessed.’” Monica smiled sweetly on him and began to quote at length from the Commentary on the Dream of Cornelia by Eustacia.

  “Good and useful, indeed,” whispered Theophanu suddenly to Rosvita. “I observe that my sister is now pregnant by him, so we must presume he has learned both lessons well enough.”

  “Theophanu!” breathed Rosvita, shocked. Belatedly, she added, “Your Highness.”

  Theophanu said nothing else.

  Monica declaimed at length on the virtues as written in the Commentary. “‘Thus do the virtues come in four types, and these types are distinguished each from the other in regard to the passions. For the passions are these, Fears and Desires, Griefs and Joys, Anger, and Envy. The political virtues of prudence, temperance, courage, and justice mitigate the passions. The cleansing virtues put the passions aside. The purified and serene mind has forgotten the passions, and to the divine Mind whose virtues are exemplary, the passions are anathema.’”

  Torches and candles flickered; the hearth fire burned steadily, stoked by servants. King Henry smiled softly on the two debaters, although these past months at odd moments he could be found staring off into nothing, attention lost to the matters at hand. Now he yawned, finally, and signed to his servants that his bed should be made ready. Rosvita, finishing her wine, toyed with the cup. The others made ready for sleep; Theophanu did not move.

  “You do not like him,” said Rosvita at last.

  “You did not, before he left.”

  “I did not,” agreed Rosvita. “But he is much changed.” She watched as Father Hugh retired discreetly to the back of the hall while Sapientia waited for her camp bed to be set up behind a screen next to her father. Hugh’s movements were decorous and graceful, and if it were true that virtue radiated more brightly in beauty of form, then he was virtuous, indeed. “Ai, Lady,” she murmured to herself, catching herself looking at him. She had thought herself long past such half-formed yearnings, but perhaps her mind was not as serene as she hoped.

  “He’s very handsome,” said Theophanu suddenly, standing. “Does the Psalm not say, ‘The Lady desireth your beauty’?” Then she walked away to her own camp bed, modestly placed behind a curtain away from her sister.

  “This bodes ill, I fear,” said Rosvita to herself as she set down her winecup. She rose. Did clever Theophanu dislike Father Hugh, or was she envious at her sister’s good fortune in finding such a courtier? In finding, to be blunt, such a lover? Indeed, how could Sapientia have resisted him, even though she knew he was a churchman and that it was wrong of her to desire him and wrong of him to accede to such a seduction? She was a royal princess, after all, and it was necessary for her to get with child in order to prove she was worthy of the throne. One might say, as had Theophanu, that he was only doing his duty and being useful.

  One by one, torches were extinguished as nobles and servants found sleeping space in the hall of the hunting lodge where they had arrived this afternoon.

  Tomorrow, the king would ride out after deer.

  Tonight, some slept more restfully than others.

  Liath pulled off her gloves and, her fingers clumsy with cold, found the gold feather in her pouch. Instinct had warned her not to pick up the white feather she had found beside Da’s body the night he was murdered. Now she had seen what manner of creature shed such feathers. But this gold feather, plucked from the ashes of a dying fire through which she had seen a vision of the old Aoi sorcerer, had a different texture, one of promise, not pain or fear.

  Drawing the feather gently through her fingers, she stared into the fire, thinking of Hanna, forming Hanna’s face and expression in her mind’s eye, the curve of her shoulders, the twist of her braided hair, the seal ring of the Eagles on her right middle finger. On one other occasion this past summer she had formed Hanna so in her mind, and within the gateway made by fire she had seen shadows of a narrow pass winding through mountains whipped by storm, of a landslide that had obliterated a road. Was it only her fear, imagining such a scene, or had she truly visioned Hanna in the mountains, threatened by an unseasonable storm?

  Where was Hanna now? As she concentrated, spinning the feather through her fingers, she saw movement within the flames, images seen through a veil of fire.

  A standing stone in the midst of a clearing burns with a fire born of no natural kindling, for it burns without fuel and gives off no heat. No one sits on the flat rock where once the old Aoi sorcerer sat and spoke to her. Si
newy plant stalks lie in a heap at the foot of the rock, awaiting his return. A rope the length of her arm lies draped over the rock. Where did he go? When will he return?

  But the burning stone is itself a window, shutters opening through which she can look onto another place.

  Hanna rides with three ragged Lions at her side across a plain populated more by grass than by trees. The rising sun glints off her brass Eagle’s badge. They are leaving a village, a cluster of sod huts thatched with grass; some of the roofs are scorched. The wooden palisade is also scored with fire and the scars of battle. Fresh graves lie outside the palisade and beyond them stretch empty fields dusted with fresh snow.

  Ice rimes Hanna’s eyebrows. In her gloved left hand she holds a broken arrow tipped with an iron point and fletched with iron-gray feathers that resemble those of no bird Liath has seen or heard tell of. The Lions, grim of face, sing as they walk; Liath cannot hear the words, but it is not a happy song. Villagers cluster at the palisade gate to call out farewells. One lad breaks away, bundle thrown across his back, and hurries after them. His mother weeps, but she lets him go. The Lions make room for him among their number. Hanna stares straight ahead, eyes to the west, where their path leads.

  Why is Wolfhere not with Hanna? The feather brushes Liath’s palm, and fire snaps and wavers. Now she sees a lofty hall illuminated by the winter sky seen through huge glass windows and by what seem a thousand candles burning in imitation of the stars. A man steps humbly forward in the way of a person brought before a regnant, and as he bows before an unseen figure, Liath recognizes him: It is Wolfhere. On the walls behind him she sees bold frescoes depicting the martyrdoms of the seven disciplas: Thecla, Peter, Matthias, Mark, Johanna, Lucia, and Marian. Is this the audience chamber of the skopos in Darre?

  He straightens up, and his eyes lift to take in a dimly-seen person sitting in great state on a gilded chair. His nostrils flare in surprise. He murmurs a name under his breath.

  “Liath.”

  Liath started back, remembering all at once that there was also danger within the vision made by fire. They were looking for her, and they could see her when she wandered in the flames.

  But it was too late.

  Their touch came, fingers laid lightly on her shoulders.

  Ai. Lady. Not their fingers.

  His.

  “Liath, my beauty.” His hand closed over her shoulder and with that grip he forced her to rise and turn away from the fire to face him. The wind was not more cold than his expression. “So at last I find you alone.” He smiled.

  She jerked away, but he held on to her, not letting go. She caught back a whimper. Ai, Lady, she dared not let him know how scared she was. Clutching the feather behind her back, she stared at the fine brocade on his tunic and willed herself to become as hard as stone.

  “You look well, my beauty. And perhaps it is best I have looked but little upon you these past six days since I came to the king’s progress, or I should have been dreadfully tempted.”

  She said nothing, but she knew he was still smiling. She felt, though his left hand did not touch her, that hand close and then open, flexing. His right hand burned her shoulder as if ice pressed against her skin.

  “Do you have nothing to say to me, Liath?”

  She said nothing. She moved not at all. She was stone, heavy, insensible.

  “I am not happy that you left me,” he said in his most gentle voice. “Indeed, I am disappointed. But I forgive you. You didn’t know what you were doing. And it matters not. What happened that day means nothing to us. You are still my precious slave.”

  “No!” She wrenched away from him, almost falling into the fire as her heel scattered coals and burning brands. Heedless, she stooped to grab the end of a burning stick and held it out like a sword. “I am free of you. Wolfhere set me free!”

  He laughed, delighted. “This is the Liath I remember and the one that the court will see beside me, in the fullness of time, when I can display you as you are meant to be displayed. But no one can see us now.” He touched a finger to his lips to enjoin her to silence. His handsome face looked no less beautiful in the firelight, adorned by shifting light and shadow. “Look you, Liath.” He lifted his left hand, two fingers raised, and murmured a word. The burning stick extinguished as if a sudden gust of wind had blown it out.

  Her voice caught in her, and all that came out was a fragile whisper of sound, more breath than word.

  “A child’s trick,” he said modestly, “but we must all begin somewhere.” He carefully drew the stick out of her hand and tossed it away. “Wolfhere did not set you free. He stole you from me. I have not yet laid my grievance against Wolfhere before King Henry, who will pass judgment. Be assured I will—although, alas, I must wait until Sapientia has the child and it lives and is healthy. After that blessed event my position at court will be unassailable. But until then, Liath, do not think you have escaped me. We will ride together and speak together, sing together and feast together, and you shall be near me every hour of every day.”

  “I am not your slave,” she repeated stubbornly, hand smarting from the sting of the brand. “Wolfhere freed me.”

  He shook his head as a wise father considers his child’s foolishness. “Wolfhere? Wolfhere wants you for his own reasons. Don’t think Wolfhere took you except to use you himself.”

  “Not in that way.” Then, horrified she had spoken of such a thing when they were alone, she tried again to bolt.

  He was too fast for her, and his grip was strong as he took hold of her arms and pulled her against him. “In what way, Liath? No, not in that way. He and his kind have other plans for you, no doubt.”

  “What do you know of Wolfhere and his kind?” Ai, Lady, what if Hugh truly knew something and could tell her? How much would she be willing to give him in return?

  But he only sighed deeply and kissed her on the forehead. She shuddered, paralyzed by the sick, helpless fear in her belly. He did not let go of her. “I will be honest with you, Liath, as I have always been honest with you. I only suspect Wolfhere works in league with other unknown people. He was thrown out of court for something, some act, some opinion, and it is well known he has mastered the art of seeing through fire and stone. Surely he must have other skills, or be in league with those who do. I know your father was murdered, and I know he was trying to hide you, his most precious treasure. Therefore, someone else must be looking for you. Does that not follow? If they are willing to murder your father, how can you expect kindness from them? You will wish most devoutly, my beauty, that you were back in my bed if they get hold of you, as they will, if you don’t come back to me. I can protect you.”

  “I don’t want your protection.” Twisting, she tried to spin out of his grasp, but he was too strong. And she was too weak.

  “You are bound to me,” he whispered. “You will always be bound to me. No matter where you run, I will always find you. You will always come back to me.”

  She glimpsed a figure in the gloom, a servingman out in the night, perhaps walking to the privies. “I beg you, friend!” she called out to him, her voice ragged with fear.

  Hugh wrenched her arm tightly up against her back, trapping her. The servingman turned, his face indistinguishable in the darkness—but her position was silhouetted plainly by the fire.

  “How fare you, friend?” the man asked. “Need you help?”

  “Please—” Liath began, but Hugh pressed his free hand to her throat and suddenly she could not speak.

  “Nay, brother,” answered Hugh sternly. “We need no help here. You may move on.”

  Whether because he recognized the voice of a nobleman, the robes of a churchman, or was simply obedient to a tone in Hugh’s voice which he could not resist, the man turned away and vanished on his errand, abandoning her.

  “No,” she whispered, finding her voice again when Hugh lowered his hand.

  “Yes.” Hugh smiled. “You are mine, Liath. You will love me in the end.”

  “I l
ove someone else,” she said hoarsely. The feather, still hidden, burned like a hot coal against her free hand. “I love another man.”

  She only knew how gentle he had been before because he now went white with rage and shook her viciously. “Who? Who is it?”

  Unable to help herself, she began to weep. “Ai, Lady, he’s dead.”

  “Any man you love will die, for I proclaim it so. I will make it so. Love no one, love only me, and you will be safe.”

  “I will never love you. I hate you.”

  “Hate is only the other face of love, my beauty. You cannot hate what you cannot also love. My beautiful Liath. How I love the sound of your name on my lips.”

  She believed him. That was the worst of it. He spoke so persuasively, and his voice was so soft—except she knew what he was, she had seen that glimpse of it when she made him angry.

  “I will always treat you well,” he said as if he had heard her thoughts, “as long as you obey me.”

  She began again to cry. Seeing her reduced to weeping in front of him, her fear and weakness revealed utterly, he let go of her. Like a rabbit miraculously released from the clutches of a hawk, she ran.

  “Where will you go?” he called after her, mocking her as she ran. “You will never escape me, Liath. Never.”

  She ran to the stables where so many animals and stablehands crammed in together that breath and sweat made the air almost warm. But she would never be warm again.

  3

  ANNA shivered as wind wailed through the trees. Snowflakes spun down; a thin dusting made the ground bright, and the wind shuddered branches of trees and shook snow from them in sudden waterfalls of white.

  It was so cold.

  Here in the shelter of a fir tree, she had at least some respite from the constant cut of wind. But there was never any respite from fear or from the pit of hunger that yawned in her belly like the dreaded Abyss. Two horses also sheltered under the cave made by the fir’s branches; with reins wrapped loosely around a crook in one thick branch, they snuffled at the forest litter, trying to graze. “Watch the horses,” two of Lord Wichman’s soldiers had ordered her after finding her foraging in the woods. “Pull the reins free and flee if the Eika approach.”