“I’ll go in and get my sack,” said Hanna. “I hope you will grant me leave to say good-bye to my family.”
“Of course,” said Wolfhere.
There Liath stood, still staring at nothing.
Hanna swallowed, and went on. “My mother would be well pleased if you took formal leave of her as well, sir.”
“Ah,” said Wolfhere, although the soft exclamation betrayed no obvious emotion. He had seen the book, of course—they all had—but none of the Eagles had made any mention of it. Did he suspect it was important and that Liath was hiding it from him? She could not tell. “Take your horse out to Hathui, then. I will go to your mother. Liath must finish saddling, of course. She can meet us outside.”
Hanna let him go out first, as was polite. Liath mouthed the words, “Thank you.” Hanna led her gelding outside.
Outside, the midday sunlight lay softly cool over the distant hills and the closer cropped green of the village common. Hanna’s entire family had gathered in the stable yard. Amazingly, Karl brought her sack forward—a change of clothes, a pot, a spoon, and a handful of other items—and begged to be allowed to tie it onto her saddlebags. His eyes shone as he gazed up at her, and it occurred to her all at once that he admired her, the bright new Eagle, just as she admired Hathui. It almost made her cry.
“You look like neither fish nor fowl,” he said impertinently, spoiling the effect.
But she smiled. She had no fine, practical clothes, no long tunic cut for riding, like the other Eagles wore. She, like Liath, wore a mixture of her old clothes and castoffs from her married brother Thancmar, cut down and patched well enough, and likely to last some time. Birta was never one to stint on cloth, or weaving, or leggings, since she reckoned that if you paid half again as much for cloth that lasted twice as long, then it was a bargain. Hanna felt strange, dressed half as a woman and half as a man, but Liath had herself commented that this was what she had always worn, traveling with her Da.
Birta came up to her and hugged her hard. “Now mind you, Hanna,” she said into her ear, “that you look after yourself, and after Liath, too, for she’s more fragile than I thought and will need some time to heal.”
“I will. I promise it.” Then she hugged her father, who was speechless as always, and Karl again. “And a devil will plague you,” she added, holding onto his tunic, “if you don’t obey Mam and Pap in all things. Do you understand me?”
He gulped out a yes and scurried away to a safe distance. Hanna wiped a tear from her eye with the back of a hand.
Liath came out of the stables, leading her bay mare. If anything new and bulky rested in her saddlebags, anything rectangular, like a book, Hanna could not tell; she must have rearranged and reweighted the bags in order to hide the book. She did not look at Hanna but made her good-byes to Birta and Hansal and Karl. The locals had come out to gawk, but they remained respectfully back.
At last they mounted and followed Wolfhere down the south road. Of the five of them, only Hanna looked back as they passed around the bend and out of sight of the inn and the common. When the trees veiled the last house of the village and they walked their horses along the quiet road edged by broken fields and the steady march of forest, Liath spoke abruptly.
“I will never come here again.”
Hanna shuddered and was suddenly afraid.
“Do you so vow?” asked Wolfhere with a hint of a smile.
Liath started as if she had only now realized she had spoken aloud. “No,” she said. “No. I wouldn’t do anything so rash. It’s just I feel it’s true, somehow.”
“Anne was given to feelings,” said Wolfhere blandly. “Of that sort.”
Anne. Liath’s mother. Who had been a sorcerer. Who had been killed because of it There is much more here than meets the eye. But Hanna was determined to do whatever needed to be done to protect Liath.
“Come now,” said Wolfhere. “We’ve a long road before us.”
So they rode, with little talk and great single-mindedness. Their pace was unslacking—not hard, for the sake of the horses, but constant. By nightfall, Heart’s Rest lay far behind them.
PART TWO
THE DEEDS OF
THE GREAT
PRINCES
VIII
ON THE KING’S
PROGRESS
1
ROSVITA of Korvei, the least of the servants of Our Lady and Our Lord, to her most imperial majesty, Queen Mathilda, sends the most humble protestations of her complete devotion and heartfelt greetings in the Name of Our Lady, Whose renowned wisdom and singular glory illumines you, our gracious queen, mother to our most glorious King Henry, second of that name.
The message from her father lay on top of the next page, covering the words she had written yesterday before being interrupted first by a messenger from the north and then by the news of the argument that had erupted among the king’s counselors. She slipped the parchment into the pocket sewn in her outer tunic. Her fingers slipped down the smooth silk of her gold vestment, worn by all the king’s clerics. It was very fine to the touch. Like all worldly pleasures, she reminded herself wryly. The gold vestment, symbol of the king’s service, covered the coarse cloth she wore underneath, the black robe that marked her as coming, originally, from Our Lady’s Convent of Korvei.
She returned her attention to the book.
At your request I undertake to write of the deeds of the great princes and in addition I have taken pains to write a few words concerning the origin and condition of the Wendish people over whom King Henry, first of that name, was the first to reign, so that in reading of these deeds you may delight your mind, relieve your cares, and relax in pleasant leisure.
Here, yesterday afternoon, she had broken off. It was a relief to return to the quiet of the scriptorium after the uproar last night, which had lasted until King Henry retired from the feast. She consulted her wax tablet, with its worked and reworked sentences, crossed out and scratched over, then set her quill to ink and began writing again.
I confess, however, that I could not encompass all their deeds, but I am writing them briefly and not at length, so that their narration may be clear and not tedious to my readers. Therefore may Your Highness read this little book, being mindful of us and of the piety and devotion with which it was written.
Here ends the Preface to the First Book of the Deeds of the Great Princes.
Rosvita shifted on her stool. Her back was sore already. When she had first come to the King’s Chapel as a twenty-year-old fresh from Korvei Convent, she had been able to sit up long into nights broken only by the call to prayer and work by candlelight at the copying and recopying of old texts and, indeed, at texts she had herself composed despite the lack of humility such composition betrayed in one so young. But after twenty years of labor, first in the service of King Arnulf the Younger and now for King Henry, her body was no longer as supple and strong.
But she smiled as she readied a new page. It was as her old Mother Abbess always said: “The pains of age remind us of the wisdom we have won through our trials.” Since Mother Otta of Korvei had then been a vigorous old woman past her seventieth year who had never known a day’s sickness in her life and who was yet the gentlest, most amiable, and wisest person Rosvita had ever met, the words resonated with a charming and most appropriate humility. Mother Otta yet lived, incredibly approaching her ninetieth year, a sign of Our Lady and Lord’s Grace, although she was now frail and almost blind.
For ten years Rosvita had labored, taking notes, speaking with ancient courtiers and biscops, studying old records in the archives of the monasteries and convents through which the King’s Court traveled on its endless progress. Now she had begun to write. She hoped she would complete this great project in such good time that Mother Otta might have it read to her before she died.
Here begins the First Book of the Deeds of the Great Princes.
After twenty years of labor in the scriptorium, Rosvita knew well how difficult it would be to make changes
once she had begun, the time it would take to recopy an entire page or, worse, a whole chapter. But she had decided at last on the order of chapters, and it was truly time to plan no longer but simply compose.
1. First of all I will set down a few things regarding the origin and condition of the Wendish people, following in this matter only hearsay, since the truth of those times is too thickly obscured in antiquity.
Some hold that the Wendish people lived first in the northlands, from which they were driven south by the incursions of those whom we name the Eika, the dragon-men. Others believe that the Wendish came originally from Arethousa, and that they were the remnant of the great army led by Alexandros, the Son of Thunder, which after its final defeat by the armies of the Dariyan Empress Arku-ak-nia was scattered throughout the world. This opinion I heard in my youth from an old scholar. For the rest, it is commonly accepted that the Wendish were an ancient and noble people, known to the Hessi peoples and written of in their most ancient books, and referred to in Polyxene’s History of the Dariya.
We are certain, however, that the Wendish people first came to these lands in ships, and that they landed at the town known as Hathelenga, which lies west of the city of Gent. The natives who lived in those lands at that time, said to be Ostravians, took up arms against them. The Wendish fought valiantly and took the shorelands for their own.
There was a sudden eruption of noise at the entrance to the scriptorium. Clerics and monks, lost in their copying, now started up or turned their heads as old Cleric Monica appeared at the head of a loud and, for the moment, unruly band. But it was not an invasion of the Wendish tribes. It was merely the inconvenient arrival of the youngest members of the king’s schola.
Rosvita sighed and set down her pen. She then berated herself for her exasperation and rose to help Cleric Monica herd her charges onto benches at those of the desks which were free. As she sat back down at her own bench, eyeing fresh parchment with the longing of one who knows she will not be able to work any further this hour, a young man slid onto the bench beside her.
“I beg your pardon,” he whispered.
It was young Berthold Villam. He smiled winningly at her; he was one of those rare young men who are utterly charming without being the least aware of it. Indeed, of the children and young persons who attended the king’s progress, he was her favorite. He had turned fifteen last winter and had, as was customary, been given a retinue of his own. Thus, he was too old for the schoolroom, but he, genuinely loved learning or, at least, was desperately curious.
He reached out diffidently and touched the parchment, ink still wet on it, with a forefinger. “This is your History?”
Rosvita nodded. Other children, she noted, were sharing benches with the clerics who had been at work in the scriptorium. In the last half year the number of children on the king’s progress had doubled. This by itself was a sign there was trouble in the kingdom.
Her gaze settled on the girl who sat, silent and with a mulish expression, on the bench nearest Cleric Monica. This latest arrival was the eldest child of Conrad the Black, Duke of Wayland; though she was only eight years old, she knew she was being held hostage for her father’s good behavior.
“Now, children,” said Cleric Monica. She was quite bent with arthritis but a formidable presence nevertheless. She glared the children into silence and raised a hand. “Attend. There are enough tablets that you must only share with one another person. Some of you boys need only listen.”
Berthold fidgeted, fingers toying with Rosvita’s stylus. Like many of the boys and young men who were fated to marry and then spend most of their life riding to war or protecting their wives’ lands, he had not been taught how to write, although he could read. He noticed what he was doing and, embarrassed, ducked his chin.
“You may use it,” she said. He flashed her a smile and laboriously impressed a “B” into the tablet.
“Attend,” said Cleric Monica. “To read the works of the ancients you must know Dariyan, for that is the language in which they wrote and spoke in the old Dariyan Empire. Though there is much knowledge we may gain from those works left to us after the fall of that great empire, there is a greater knowledge yet: that the old Empire, the union of elves and men, was fated to fall because its emperors and empresses would not receive into their hearts the truth of the Unities and the blessing of the Light. That is why, when the great Taillefer restored the empire in the year 600, he called it the Holy Dariyan Empire.”
“But no one faults the piety of Taillefer,” muttered Berthold, trying to write an “E” that had straight lines, “and yet his empire collapsed and no king or queen has been crowned Holy Dariyan Emperor in Darre since Taillefer. How is that explained?”
“A good question,” murmured Rosvita, aware suddenly that Cleric Monica’s hard gaze had turned their way. It was too bad, really, that the boy must marry. He would have made a fine historian.
Cleric Monica coughed meaningfully and went on with her teaching. Berthold sighed and essayed an “R.” Rosvita found her gaze wandering over the assembled children.
The great magnates of the realm were each expected to send a child to attend the king’s progress. Some, usually younger siblings, would be educated as clerics and in time join the King’s Chapel and Greater Schola. Other children might only pass through for a year or two as part of their education, to get a taste of life in the everchanging, always moving court as it traveled through the lands ruled over by King Henry.
And a few, whose parents were of suspect loyalty, might stay for a much longer time. Although no one ever spoke the word, these children were hostages, although well-treated ones.
That was not true of Berthold, of course. His father, the margrave Helmut Villam, was King Henry’s favored counselor and most trusted companion.
Of the great princes of the realm, the four margraves were usually the most loyal to the king. Of all the princes, the margraves most needed the king’s support. As administrators of the marchlands, those lands that bordered the easternmost territories controlled by the Wendish peoples and their allies, they were always at the forefront when the barbarian eastern tribes raided civilized lands for loot and slaves.
From their lands missionaries set out into the wild lands to convert the heathens. Into their lands came the most intrepid settlers, willing to risk the assaults of the heathen tribes in return for good lands to farm clear of obligation to any lord except the king or prince.
For three years the borderlands had been quiet, and because of this the margraves—or their heirs—were able to spend part of every year in attendance on the king. This spring, besides Villam, the king’s progress boasted the presence of the illustrious Judith, margrave of Olsatia and Austra.
She had left her marchlands in the capable hands of her eldest daughter and brought her two youngest children to court. One of them, a sallow girl of about fourteen years of age, sat with a slack-jawed expression, staring at Cleric Monica as if the elderly woman had just sprouted horns and wings.
Werinhar, margrave of Westfall, had sent his youngest brother to court. This young man was destined for the church, and like a good cleric-in-training he was at this moment diligently copying down Monica’s speech.
As usual it was the dukes—the most powerful princes of the realm—who posed the greatest problem. The three dukes whose lands lay in the old kingdom of Wendar remained loyal: Saony, Fesse, and Avaria. All of them had either children or young siblings here now; Rosvita had seen many young people from those families come and go in the last twenty years.
But the dukedoms of Varingia, Wayland, and Arconia lay in the old kingdom of Varre, and the loyalty of their dukes was less constant—and more suspect. So Duke Conrad of Wayland’s daughter sat at the front of the class and laboriously copied letters under the strict attention of Cleric Monica. So, half a year ago, Tallia, daughter of Sabella and Berengar, had come of age and left the king’s progress to return to Arconia. No one had thought anything of it then; it was a natura
l progression.
But two months ago Rodulf, Duke of Varingia, had recalled his youngest son Erchanger from Henry’s side. And now they heard daily the rumors that Sabella meant to rebel again against Henry’s authority.
Berthold snorted under his breath, amused. “Ekkehard’s fallen asleep again.”
“Ai, Lady,” murmured Rosvita. She did not at first have the courage to look. When she did, she saw that the only son of King Henry and Queen Sophia was, indeed, asleep, head basketed on an arm, tunic pulled askew to reveal the gold torque around his neck. He was snoring slightly. Ekkehard was a good boy but prone to staying up late at banquets listening to the poets and musicians rather than studying his letters, as he ought.
Monica, blessedly, had not yet noticed the boy was asleep. Most of her attention was reserved for Duke Conrad’s daughter, a slender girl who had inherited a full share of her grandmother’s blood: She was as black as a Jinna merchant. On her, the gold torque reserved for the direct descendants of kings shone beautifully against black skin.
Berthold, following the line of Rosvita’s gaze, muttered slyly: “She’ll be very handsome when she grows up.”
“So was it said of her grandmother, a great beauty despite that her complexion isn’t what we are used to. But the blessed Daisan himself lived in the lands now conquered and ruled by the Jinna, so who is to say he was not himself as dark-complexioned as she?”
“‘For a person is not accused because she is tall or short of stature, because he is white or black, because she has large or small eyes, or because he has some physical defect,’” quoted Berthold.
“Hush,” said Rosvita mildly, covering her lips to hide her smile.
“Lord Berthold,” said Cleric Monica. “I trust you will attend to my words or absent yourself so the rest may work in peace?”