by Kate Elliott
“Perhaps when Lord Amalfred returns to Salia, he will take the concubine with him and spare poor Villam the pain of her duplicity,” said Sister Amabilia.
“Ah, well, Villam no doubt has his eye on more succulent prey. I swear I saw him eyeing the young Eagle.”
“Our friend the hawk?” asked quiet Sister Odila, astonished.
“Of course not! The dark one. But you know how Eagles are and the code they swear to. Eagles don’t indulge themselves in such a way, except among their own number. But I have observed some new developments in other places—hands meeting and petting in the bowl at table, if you take my meaning.
Sister Amabilia sighed profoundly, and Brother Fortunatus looked downcast that his hint provoked no greater reaction than this. “Even so,” Amabilia said in a weary voice, “it isn’t half as interesting now as when Prince Sanglant was alive.”
“I beg you,” said Rosvita sternly. “Do not speak disrespectfully of the dead.”
Brother Constantine looked up from his muller where he ground vermilion to form the base of red ink. “I never saw Prince Sanglant. He was gone before I arrived here.”
“Ai, well,” said Sister Amabilia. “Court was much livelier when Prince Sanglant graced it.”
“I will thank you,” said Rosvita, setting down her quill pen, “not to mention his name within the king’s hearing.” She tested the point of the pen on her finger, sighed, and picked up her penknife to recut the tip of the quill.
“But he was only a fighter,” said Brother Constantine. “Surely he could not have cut such a fine figure, so elegant and charming in manners, so affable and benevolent, so even-tempered, so learned, as Father Hugh.”
Amabilia sniffed. “Father Hugh ought to be tending to his monastery rather than playing the courtier. But I have been with the king’s progress for eight years, Constantine—”
“As you are ever reminding me,” muttered the young cleric.
“—and I recall Frater Hugh when he was at the schola here. A bird’s feathers may change in color, but it’s the same duck inside!”
“And you will be at your task another eight years, Sister,” Rosvita said gently, “if you do not set yourself to work.”
For all of Amabilia’s tart character, she had a remarkably sweet smile, which she used now to good effect. She had also the finest hand Rosvita had ever seen, master of the Litteras Gallica and Tulay-tilah as well as knowing the antique Scripta Actuaria. For this reason, though she was not of the highest nobility, she had become a fixture in the king’s chapel; she also taught writing to the most promising students in the king’s schola. “I beg your pardon, Sister Rosvita. You are right to reproach me for my unseemly attachment to the amusements the world affords.”
“To the amusements people afford,” said Constantine reprovingly. He really was too serious given how very young he was, not above fifteen.
“God gave us eyes so that we could observe and a tongue with which to speak our minds!”
“And humility teaches us to cast our eyes to the ground and to keep silence!”
“My children,” said Rosvita without raising her voice. “Attend to your tasks.”
Constantine flushed and bent back to the muller, now mixing white of egg and a bit of gum arabic into the vermilion powder. Amabilia did not look chastened; for all that she had a wicked eye for human foibles, she was at peace with herself. She sharpened her quill and returned to her work: making a copy of the precious Vita of Saint Radegundis for the library at Quedlinhame. The other clerics, some listening, some not, worked on in pleasant silence. Rosvita bent back to her History.
She read over what she had most recently accomplished: the crowning of the first Henry, Duke of Saony, as King of Wendar and of his wife, Lucienna, Count of Attomar, as queen; his speech before the nobles and their acclamation of his rule; certain small rebellions and battles as well as armed struggle with the Varren queen, Gisela. With red ink she wrote in the initial line to a new chapter, then changed to black.
“To Henry and his most renowned wife Lucienna were born these children, the first called Arnulf, beloved by all the world, the second, brave and industrious, called Otto, while the third, Kunigunde, Mother of Quedlinhame Convent, was a woman of singular wisdom and authority. Henry had also another daughter, named Haduidis, who married Immed, Margrave of Eastfall. Lucienna had another child, a son named Reginbern. This son rode as captain of the Dragons. He fought against the Eika who were at the time laying waste to Saony, and so ruthlessly waged war against them that they were driven away and feared even to sail within sight of the Wendish coast for many years.
“When all these wars ceased, there came into the east country of Saony an army of Quman horsemen, burning cities and towns and monasteries. They worked such slaughter that it is better to pass over this destruction in silence rather than set it all down again in words. However, it happened that one of the Quman princes was captured. Margrave Immed brought him to the king, but he was so esteemed by his kin that the Quman offered to King Henry as much gold and silver as ten wagons could carry for the prince’s ransom. But the king despised their gold and demanded peace, which they gave him in return for the prisoner and certain other gifts.”
From outside she heard the return of the hunters and the clamor of horses, hounds, and voices in the forecourt. She rose, needing an excuse to stretch her back, and crossed to the door. In the yard beyond, King Henry laughed at a comment by his trusted companion, Margrave Helmut Villam, while Father Hugh dismounted and turned to help Princess Sapientia dismount. Behind, courtiers crowded around; farther back, servants carried in a number of deer, several brace of partridge, an aurochs, and a boar.
Sapientia hurried away toward the necessarium and, as smoothly as a silk robe slips down over a body, Hugh turned to assist Princess Theophanu in dismounting—though, as good a horseman as she was and with a servant already prepared to take her foot in his hands, she scarcely needed such aid. But Hugh offered kindnesses to every person, regardless of rank. Did Theophanu’s hand linger longer in his than was necessary? Was that blush in her cheeks from the wind, or his touch? Turning away from the door, moving back to make room for the king’s entrance, Rosvita wondered what Brother Fortunatus might say had he witnessed that little scene and was then irritated with herself for even thinking such a thing.
The courtfolk flooded into the hall, brash with their success at the hunt. Ekkehard followed at Hugh’s heels like a love-smitten puppy. King Henry seated himself in his chair. Servants brought water and linen and wiped his hands clean of dirt and blood. Luckily, this hall—the third at which they had stopped—was the largest of the royal hunting lodges in Thurin Forest; though the crowd of people entering was large, it did not overwhelm the gabled hall. Sapientia entered and shed her cloak, then seated herself in the place of honor beside her father. Now poor folk who had walked a half day from the forest’s edge were let in to receive alms from the king. As they left through a side door, Hugh assisted Ekkehard in dispensing bread to them while Sapientia, from across the hall, watched with greedy eyes.
Theophanu came, as she always did, to sit beside Rosvita. Her cheeks were still flushed.
“I hope you have not taken a fever,” said Rosvita, setting aside her work.
Theophanu flashed her a startled glance, then, as quickly, composed herself. “I trust I have caught no fever from which I cannot recover.” She played with the fabric of her riding tunic, rolling the cloth up between thumb and forefinger.
Amabilia looked up from her copying on the other side of the long table but, mercifully, did not speak.
“Where is my most valued cleric?” asked the king after all the alms seekers had been led back outside. “Rosvita.” She rose obediently. “Read to us, I pray you. Something eloquent and pleasant to the ear that may yet educate us.”
Rosvita signed to Amabilia and the younger woman set aside her pen so that Rosvita could take up the Vita. “Shall I continue to read from the Life of Saint Radegundi
s, Your Majesty?” she asked.
He nodded.
Ekkehard, settling himself at his father’s feet, piped up. “Let Father Hugh read. He has such a fine voice. I am sure I learn more than I might otherwise just from listening to his cadences as he reads.”
Theophanu’s cheeks burned. The king looked startled. Sapientia gloated.
Hugh stood over by the door next to the young Eagle, Liath; he was wiping crumbs from his hands but he looked up and smiled gently, giving the cloth into the care of a servant before walking forward. “Your notice would flatter any man, Your Highness,” he said to Ekkehard, “but I am unworthy of such praise. Our esteemed Sister Rosvita has by so far outshone me in every branch of knowledge and in good manners that I know only too well how poorly I compare to her. ‘To one desiring to know by what path blessedness is reached, the reply is, “Know thyself.”’” He bowed respectfully toward Cleric Monica, who was seated on a bench near a shuttered window, close by the hearth and yet out of the worst of the smoke. But Rosvita thought for one instant that his gaze skipped to and halted on the figure of the young Eagle, Liath, hovering by the door as if she wanted to escape outside.
Interestingly, the Eagle’s expression seemed composed of equal parts loathing, fear, and humiliation, though she struggled to maintain a blank facade. No one else was looking at her, and by now Hugh’s gaze had traveled on. Only Rosvita kept half an eye on her, still curious about that book—Had she stolen it?—and her ability to read.
“Your humility is a good example for the others, Father Hugh,” said Cleric Monica.
“Do please read to us,” said Ekkehard.
Rosvita was too wise to protest. She presented the book to Hugh. “I, too, hope that you will read to us, Father Hugh.”
“You are too generous,” he said, but he took the book.
“Indeed,” muttered Sister Amabilia.
Rosvita sat down again. Theophanu, restless, was still playing with her gown, her gaze fixed on her elder sister’s face.
Henry gestured to the seat beside him, opposite Sapientia. If he was taken aback at this change, he showed no sign on his face; he seemed as pleased by Hugh’s presence as he would have been at Rosvita’s—which unpleasant thought she berated herself for immediately.
Hugh opened the book, cleared his throat softly, and began to read.
“Here begins the Life. The most blessed Radegundis was born into a family of the highest earthly rank. She came of the royal bloodline in the barbarian nation of the Athamanni, youngest daughter of King Bassir and niece of Queen Hermingard, for it was the custom of that country to set brother and sister to rule together. But the Enemy works as cunningly as any burglar who wishes to divine the treasures most worth stealing out of a house, yet work in utter darkness. This the burglar accomplishes by tossing a fine sand into each corner of the room so that she may deduce the value of the object by the sound the sand makes when it strikes that object. So, too, do the creatures of the Enemy toss a fine sand of evil suggestion among the treasures of the human heart and by this means divine what they may steal.
“In this way Queen Hermingard suddenly lost her natural feeling of kinship for her brother. Inviting him and his guests to a banquet, she had them all murdered. It happened that among his guests were several Salian lords, and when news of this treachery got back to Salia, their kin were so outraged that they gathered together a host and descended upon the Athamanni and wiped them out. Only some few of the children survived, among them the saintly Radegundis. It was her lot to be quarreled over by certain lords as part of the plunder, each of them desiring her to come into his grasp. When news of her terrible plight reached the great emperor Taillefer, he had her removed from their keeping and placed under the care of guardians at his royal villa in Baralcha.
“Here she was taught her letters and became familiar with the treatises on agriculture by Palladius and Columellina, and learned to maintain inventories, and other things suitable to a lady who will manage an estate. She would often converse with other children being raised at the villa about her desire to become a martyr. She herself brought the scraps left from table to the poor assembled outside, and with her own hands she washed the head and hands of each poor beggar child. Often she would polish the pavement by the Hearth with her own dress, and the dust that drifts around the altar she would collect in a napkin and place reverently outside the door rather than sweep it away.”
Abruptly Sapientia choked down a giggle, then blurted out, “God help us. She sounds much like Lady Tallia. Do you suppose Radegundis is Tallia’s great-great-grandmother?”
Henry, frowning, turned to his daughter. “Do not speak so lightly of a blessed saint, Sapientia. No child came of the marriage between her and the emperor, and after his death she cloistered herself in the convent for full fifty years. It is unseemly to suggest she might have lapsed from her vows.”
There was a sudden profound silence while everyone in the hall attempted not to look at Father Hugh, whose lapse so prominently showed in the swell of Sapientia’s belly. Brother Fortunatus squeaked and snorted, stifling a laugh.
Theophanu stood up and went forward. “I will read now, if you will,” she said, and for this rescue was rewarded with a charming smile from Hugh.
“Showing off your accomplishments?” said Sapientia.
The book had not yet touched Theophanu’s hand, but her cheeks flushed as if her sister had slapped her. “At least I have some!”
“Children,” said Henry sharply. He took the book from Hugh, closed it with gentle care for the binding, and beckoned to Rosvita. “If you will, Sister, read to us.”
“I don’t want to hear any more of that story.” Sapientia smoothed a hand over her abdomen, then rose restlessly and wandered over to the fire. Lords and ladies parted to let her through; a few of the wiser souls had slipped out the door, escaping the heat, but most remained. A public quarrel between the royal sisters would enliven any long winter’s evening.
A plague on all of them, thought Rosvita grimly as she went forward to take the book, and then berated herself for her ill temper. But as winter chilled the air outside, so did it chill the mind and heart, and quarrels always surfaced under the winter sky that had been lulled to sleep by summer’s warmth and cheer. Yet, in almost nineteen years Rosvita had never seen Theophanu lose her temper, not even as a small child. What had caused her to do so now, and at such small provocation?
“I have nothing to do here,” said Sapientia, striding back to her father’s chair. “If you made me Margrave of Eastfall, as you promised, then I would have lands of my own to administer until—” She broke off, had the grace to flush.
“Sit,” said Henry. He did not glance at his courtiers, but he knew they were all listening. “I do not wish you to leave my side until you are safely brought to childbed.”
Sapientia fidgeted, glanced toward the other end of the hall where servants prepared tables for the night’s feast, and set her mouth in a sulky frown.
“I will ask our clerics,” said Henry, setting a hand on her arm placatingly, “what copies we have of these agricultural treatises, perhaps even the ones mentioned in the Life of Saint Radegundis. You may have them read to you.”
Sapientia considered this. She sighed. “It’s a fair idea, Father. But I want an Eagle or two for myself as well, so that I may have people to send at my own beck and call. It is only what is due my new consequence, isn’t it?”
“It would be fitting,” he agreed, aware, as he always was, that every soul in the hall waited on his judgment. He glanced toward Hathui, newly returned from her errand to Quedlinhame, then around the room. Four Eagles were in attendance on him right now, many more out on some errand or another, such as Wolfhere and his young companion who had journeyed south to Aosta with the renegade biscop, Antonia.
Theophanu had retreated in silence and during the exchange had gotten all the way to the door unremarked. Now, looking about, Henry saw her just as she stepped outside into a soft rain. Lia
th still stood, obedient, beside the door.
“There is one I would be willing to part with,” said Henry. Hathui looked up sharply. Hugh did not look at all. “She is young and strong, and she has proved herself at Gent. I have also heard it said that she is very accomplished for a common Eagle. My clerics say she can read.”
Sapientia grimaced. “I don’t want one who can read so that everyone will remember that I can’t and Theophanu can. And anyway, she’s too pretty. I don’t like her. What about this one, Father?” She gestured toward Hathui.
Reading the simple upward quirk of an eyebrow, Rosvita deduced that Henry had had enough—either of Sapientia betraying her lack of wisdom and patience before the assembled court or of himself for allowing it to go on. “You may take the one offered you, daughter—or none at all.”
“Princess Sapientia,” interposed Hugh gently, “is it not true that one Eagle is as like to another as are the field mice to our eyes?”
“But she’s educated. They all say so. It was all the clerics were talking about when we arrived. Don’t you remember?”
“Do they really speak so much about a common Eagle?” he asked, and his tone was the very model of a reproof disguised as quiet amazement.
She shrugged, recalling her dignity and position.
“Let me discover if it is true that she is educated,” said Hugh. “I will question her.” He inclined his head toward the king. “With your permission, Your Majesty.”
Henry signed, and the young Eagle came and knelt before him. She looked to Rosvita rather like a field mouse forced into the clutches of an owl. The prospect of such entertainment excited the interest of the court almost as much as did the quarrel—now denied them—between the royal sisters. Those who had slipped away to warm themselves by the other hearth or to try to claim beds for the night in one of the sidechambers now returned.