“So has the church taught falsely for years. The blessed Daisan was flayed alive by the order of the Empress Thaisannia. His heart was cut out of him, but his heart’s blood bloomed on the Earth as a red rose. He suffered, and he died. But he lived again and ascended to the Chamber of Light and through his suffering cleansed us of our sin.”
“Ivar!” Perhaps the curtness of her voice shocked him into silence. “Let me go!”
He dropped her hand. “You’ll do as Liath did. Abandon me. Only Lady Tallia wasn’t afraid to walk where the rest of us were imprisoned. Only she brought us hope.”
“Lady Tallia is spreading these lies?”
“It’s the truth! Hanna—”
“Nay, Ivar. I won’t speak of such things with you. Now hush and listen to me, and please answer me this time, I beg you. Why aren’t you at Quedlinhame?”
“I’m being taken to the monastery founded in the memory of St. Walaricus the Martyr. In Eastfall.”
“That’s a fair long way. Did you ask to be sent there?”
“Nay. They separated the four of us—that is, me, and Baldwin, and Ermanrich, and Sigfrid—because we listened to Lady Tallia’s preaching. Because we saw the miracle of the rose, and they don’t want anyone to know. That’s why they cast Lady Tallia out of the convent.”
“Oh, Ivar.” Despite the fever that had overtaken him, she could only see him as the overeager boy she had grown up with. “You must pray to God to bring peace to your spirit.”
“How can I have peace?” Suddenly he began to cry. His voice got hoarse. “Have you seen Liath? Is she here? Why haven’t I seen her?”
“Ivar!” She felt obliged to scold him despite what he’d said about Rosvita. “Listen to the words of a sister, for I can call myself that. Liath isn’t meant for you. She rides as an Eagle now.”
“She abandoned me at Quedlinhame! I said I would marry her, I said we would ride away together—”
“After you’d sworn vows as a novice?”
“Against my will! She said she’d marry me, but then she just rode away when the king left!”
“That isn’t fair! She told me of your meeting. God Above! What was she to do? You’d already sworn vows. You had no prospects, no support—and she has no kinfolk—”
“She said she loved someone else, another man,” said Ivar stubbornly. “I think she abandoned me to be with him. I think she still loves Hugh.”
“She never loved Hugh! You know what he did to her!”
“Then what man did she mean?”
She knew then, at once, whom Liath had meant, and a sick foreboding filled her heart. “That doesn’t matter,” she said hastily. “She’s an Eagle. And you’re traveling east. Ai, God, Ivar! I might never see you again.”
He gripped her elbows. “Can’t you help me escape?” Letting her go, he answered himself. “But I can’t abandoned Baldwin. He needs me. Ai, Lady. If only Liath had married me, if only we had run away, then none of this would have happened.”
They heard voices at the door, and she hid under a cot as several of Judith’s stewards came in. “Ah, there he is! Lord Baldwin is asking for you, boy. Go attend him now.”
Ivar had no choice but to leave. They rummaged around on other errands that at length took them into other chambers, and she slipped out, unseen. But Ivar’s words troubled her into the evening, when at last king and court gathered for the wedding feast. The bridal couple were led forward wearing their best clothes. A cleric read out loud the details of the dower, what each party would bring to the marriage. Lord Alain spoke his consent in a clear, if unsteady, voice, but when it came Tallia’s turn, King Henry spoke for her. Was she being forced into the marriage against her will, as Ivar claimed? Yet who would quarrel with the regnant’s decision? The children of the nobility married to give advantage to their families; they had no say in the matter. Tallia was Henry’s to dispose of, now that he had defeated her parents in battle.
The local biscop had been brought in from the nearby town of Fuldas to speak a blessing over the young couple, who knelt before her to receive it. Lord Alain looked nervous and flushed and agitated. Lady Tallia looked so pale and thin that Hanna wondered if she would faint. But she did not. With hands clasped tightly before her, she merely kept her head bowed and looked at no one or no thing, not even her bridegroom.
The long summer twilight stretched before them as they crowded into the hall. Fresh rushes had been strewn over the floor. Servants scurried in and out with trays of steaming meat or pitchers of wine and mead. Slender greyhounds slunk away under tables, waiting for scraps. Sapientia allowed Hanna to stand behind her chair and occasionally offered her morsels from her platter, a marked sign of favor which Father Hugh noted with a surprised glance and then ignored as he directed Sapientia’s attention to the poet who came forward to sing.
The poem was delivered in Dariyan, but Hugh murmured a translation to Sapientia.
“She said: Come now, you who are my own love. Come forward.
You are the light which flames in my heart.
Where once were only thorns there now blooms a lily.
He replied: I walked alone in the wood.
The solitude eased my heart.
But now the ice melts. The flowers bloom.
She bids him: Come! I cannot live without you.
Roses and lilies I will strew before you.
Let there be no delay.”
Hanna flushed although she knew well enough that the words were not directed at her, but surely no man had a more beautiful voice than Hugh, and when he spoke such phrases so sweetly and with so much music in the words, even a practical young woman might feel faint with desire.
Quickly enough she steadied herself. Lady Above! No need to be foolish. No need to let Ivar’s madness infect her. There was plenty else to distract her, here at the feast. At the heart of the king’s progress, she could never be bored.
Her faithful companions from the long journey out of the Alfar Mountains, the Lions Ingo, Folquin, Leo and young Stephen, stood guard at the door. Catching her eye, Ingo nodded at her. Perhaps he winked.
At the king’s table, Margrave Judith shared a platter with Helmut Villam. Heads together, they talked with great seriousness. Baldwin sat a table down from them; despite his status as Judith’s new consort and his breathtaking beauty, he did not warrant a seat at the king’s table. And there sat Ivar, beside Baldwin, but he ate nothing except a few crusts of bread and a sip of wine.
The royal clerics ate and talked with gusto, but now and again Sister Rosvita would pause and stare at her young brother with a troubled gaze.
The bridal pair sat on the other side of the king, so Hanna couldn’t get a good look at them. But in any case the tableau that interested Hanna most was that of Hathui and Prince Sanglant. Hathui hovered behind Sanglant’s chair and certain small communications seemed to pass between the Eagle and the king at intervals, unspoken but understood. The prince sat with the awkward stillness of an active man forced to stay in one place when he would rather be moving. With fists on the table, he stared at the opposite wall—that is, at nothing. On occasion Hathui would jostle him and he would recall himself and bolt down a scrap of cut meat, then hesitate, shake himself, and eat like a man—only to sink again into a stupor. Of the feasting and merriment around him he seemed unaware.
After a suitable interval of singing, King Henry called Sister Rosvita forward. Candles were set out but not yet lit since, with all the doors flung open and the shutters taken down, the evening still bled light into the hall. The gathered folk quieted expectantly as Sister Rosvita opened a book and began to read out loud in a clear voice.
“‘Many tales of the young Radegundis’ holy deeds came to the ears of His Gracious Majesty, the illustrious Taillefer, and he had her brought to his court at Autun. The emperor could not but be swayed by her great holiness, and he determined at once to make her his queen. He entreated her to pray with him and by diverse almsgiving and acts of mercy to beggars broug
ht her into charity with him. As her morning gift he gave her not just lands but every manner of fine gifts that she could distribute to the poor, and he pledged to feed the paupers at Baralcha every Hefensday.’
“‘In this way the saintly young woman, so determined in her vow to remain a chaste vessel so that she could embrace God with a pure heart, was overcome by the nobility of the emperor Taillefer. Wooing her in this fashion, he overcame her reluctance. Her love for his great virtues and imperial honor softened her heart, and they were married.’
“‘It is only possible to write here of a few of the many good works she accomplished in this period of her life. Early glory did not dim her ardor for God, nor did she take upon herself the trappings of royalty only to forget that the garments of the poor conceal the limbs of God.’
“‘Whenever she received part of the tribute brought before the emperor, she gave away fully half of it as her tithe to God before any was put in her own treasury. To the needy she gave clothes, and to the hungry, feasts. She built a house for poor women at Athies, and bathed the hair and sores of paupers with her own hands. To convents and monasteries she gave princely gifts. No hermit was safe from her generosity.’
“‘When his last illness laid low the emperor, she could not be torn from his side although she was great with child. She knelt beside him with such devotion that her attendants feared for her health, but she could not be shaken from her prayers and at last his passing, made gentle by her efforts, came about, and his soul was lifted to the Chamber of Light.’
“‘At that time many powerful princes flocked like carrion crows to the side of the illustrious emperor, desirous of obtaining by guile or force what he would leave behind him. Not least among these treasures stood the blessed Radegundis, a jewel among women. But she had no kin to protect her from their greed.’
“‘Still heavy with child, Radegundis clothed herself and her closest companion, a woman named Clothilde, in the garb of poor women. She chose exile over the torments of power, and she swore to marry no earthly prince but from this time on to bind herself over into God’s service alone. In this way, they escaped in the night and fled to the convent of Poiterri, where they took refuge—’”
A crash and a startled scream shuddered through the hall. Sanglant had leaped to his feet in such a state of wild excitement that he had overturned the table at which he and several others sat. A stunned silence held the feasting crowd, like a deeply indrawn breath before a shout, while he stood with head thrown back, like a beast listening for the snap of a twig in the forest.
Then he sprang over the overturned table and bolted toward the doors, heedless of food and platters scattered under his feet, of wine splashed everywhere and now soaking into the rushes. Whippets scurried forward to snap at the spilled trays while servants scrambled to save what they could.
“Sanglant!” cried the king, coming to his feet, and the young man jerked to a halt as if brought up short by a chain. Perhaps only that voice could have stopped him. He did not turn to face his father. His hands shook noticeably, and he stared at the main doors so fixedly that Hanna expected a brace of Eika to come clamoring in, axes raised for a fight.
But no one entered. All was still except for the scuff and tap of servants cleaning up and the groan and heavy thunk of the table being tipped back onto its feet by the combined efforts of three men.
“As I was telling you, Your Highness,” remarked Hugh to Sapientia in a pleasant voice that carried easily in the hush that now pervaded the hall, “when Queen Athelthyri of Alba was angry with certain of her subjects for fomenting rebellion against her, she set her dog Contumelus over them as their count. And quite a fine count he was, this dog, for it is said that besides wearing a neckband and a gold chain as a mark of his rank, he had a certain gift, that after he barked twice he could speak every third word.”
Half the assembly tittered. Henry did not laugh, and an instant later a rash of barking came from out of doors, hounds singing a warning.
“Make way!” a man shouted outside. Hanna heard horses, the buzz of voices, and caught a glimpse of movement in the twilight beyond the threshold.
Two Eagles came into the hall.
“Liath!” Hugh stood up so quickly that his chair tipped over behind him.
On the other side of the hall, Ivar had to be restrained from bolting forward by Baldwin.
Sanglant took a step forward and then froze. A thin flush of red stained his cheeks. Liath marked him; Hanna saw it by the way her step faltered, and she supposed everyone else saw it, too. He stared at her, his body turned as a flower turns with the sun so he could follow her with his gaze as she strode forward with Wolfhere to the king.
Hugh muttered words under his breath, Hanna could not make them out.
The two Eagles knelt before the king’s table.
“Wolfhere,” said Henry with such dislike that the old Eagle actually winced. The king gestured. A servingman hastened around the table to give a cup of wine to Liath; she took a draught, then gave the cup to Wolfhere, who drained it.
“Your Majesty,” he began with cup still in hand.
The king indicated that Liath should relay her messages first, but he caught her in the act of glancing over her shoulder toward Sanglant, and she stuttered out something meaningless as many among the assembly giggled, or coughed.
“I come from Weraushausen, Your Majesty,” she said, recovering quickly. “I bring this message from Cleric Monica: She will join you with the schola. I bring also capitularies needing your seal, and a letter for Sister Rosvita from Mother Rothgard of St. Valeria Convent.”
“I pray it brings news of Theophanu.” At last Henry deigned to look upon Wolfhere, who had waited patiently under the king’s censure.
“Your Majesty,” Wolfhere said briskly. “I bring news from the south. Duke Conrad sends this message: That he will wait upon Your Majesty before Matthiasmass.”
“Why has it taken him so long to come before me after the insult he gave my Eagle?”
“His wife, Lady Eadgifu, died in childbed, Your Majesty.”
A murmur rolled through the hall, and several women wailed out loud. The king drew the Circle at his breast. “May God have mercy upon her.” He leaned forward to rest a fist on the table. “What of the message you took to the skopos? Is it true that you believe Biscop Antonia did not die in this avalanche we have been told of?”
“She did not die, Your Majesty.”
“You have seen her alive?”
“I do not need to see her to know she still lives—although I do not know how she escaped or where she is now.”
“I see. Go on.”
“Her Holiness Clementia, skopos and Mother to us all, has passed this judgment on Antonia of Karrone, once biscop of Mainni: that she be excommunicated for indulging in the arts of the malefici. ‘Let neither woman nor man who stand within the Light of the Circle of Unity give her shelter. Let no deacon or frater take her confession or give her blessing until she bring herself before the throne of the skopos and repent of her deeds. She may no longer enter into a church and take mass. Any who consort with her or give her shelter will also be excommunicate.’ These were the words of the skopos.”
“A harsh judgment,” said Henry, musing, then smiled grimly. “But a just one.”
“That is not all the news I bring,” continued Wolfhere, and the king looked at him expectantly, inclined, perhaps, to look kindly on him for bringing news so favorable to Henry’s interests. He gestured for Wolfhere to go on. “Queen Gertrudis of Aosta is dead, Your Majesty, and in Ventuno King Demetrius lies on his deathbed and has received last rites.”
A profound stillness, coming over the face of the king, spread quickly until the hush that pervaded the hall caused even the greyhounds to sink down and lay their heads on their paws.
“King Demetrius is without heirs, as you yourself know, my lord king. His heirs and those who contested for his share of the Aostan throne long since wasted themselves in wars in the sou
th or else they were carried off by the pestilence brought by Jinna raiders into the southern ports. But Queen Gertrudis left one child, her daughter Adelheid, who is recently widowed.”
“Widowed,” said Henry. He looked—and everyone turned to look at him—at his son. Sangant stood as quiescent, or as stupefied, as the greyhounds, staring at Liath. “She is the legitimate claimant to the throne of Aosta.”
“So she is, Your Majesty,” said Wolfhere, who alone in the hall did not look at Prince Sanglant. “And but twenty years of age. Rumor has it that her kinfolk are now so denuded by plague and war that she has no male relatives to fight with her for her claim.”
Henry shut his eyes briefly. Opening them, he gestured to the two Eagles to rise. “The Lord and Lady have heard me,” he said in a voice made thick with emotion, “and listened to my prayers.” He spoke softly into the ear of a steward, and as Liath and Wolfhere retreated and were escorted outside, a party of tumblers hurried forward to entertain the court.
So the merriment and feasting resumed.
But Sanglant, moving aside to make room for the tumblers, pressed himself against the wall and instead of returning to his seat made his way to the door and slipped outside. A moment later, Hugh excused himself and left. Ivar made to get up, but Judith’s young husband pulled him back into his chair and whispered urgently into his ear.
When Hanna moved to follow him, Sapientia called to her. “Eagle! Look there! How do you think that girl balances on that rope?”
Given no choice, she had to stay where she was.
III
THE LOCKED CHEST
1
“WHAT means this?” asked Wolfhere harshly as they left the hall.
A servingwoman brought them food and ale and left them to sit on a bench to take their supper in peace. Liath smiled wryly as Wolfhere glared at her. Peace, indeed. The first stars had bloomed in the heavens above—the three jewels of the Queen’s sky promising momentary splendor—but in the west the sky still wore the blush of sunset.