“His half sister,” Agius corrected. “Queen Berengaria of Varre was her mother. When she died, the younger Arnulf married Mathilda of Karrone, who is Henry’s mother. And then?”
“I don’t know.”
“These are the living children of Arnulf and Mathilda. Henry. Rotrudis. Richardis, known as Scholastica, who is Mother at Quedlinhame Cloister. Benedict. Constance. Brun. Henry also has a half sister who is the child of the younger Arnulf and a concubine. She is Alberada, now Biscop of Handelburg, but that is far to the east in the marchlands, and she has taken no part in the quarrels between Henry and Sabella. Now. Who are the six dukes?”
“I … I don’t know. Well. Duke Rodulf is one. And isn’t Sabella’s husband Berengar called a duke?”
“He is indeed. He is Duke of Arconia, although of course Lady Sabella administers his lands, as his wife. Rodulf is Duke of Varingia. The city of Autun lies on the border of those lands administered by Rodulf and his wife, which we call Varingia, and those lands administered by Sabella and Berengar, called Arconia. Perhaps you wonder, then, why the Biscop of Autun is sympathetic to Henry’s cause, though her city lies within that region controlled by Lady Sabella?”
Alain nodded dutifully.
“When Sabella first rebelled against her brother’s authority eight years ago, the biscop of Autun was one of her principal supporters. So Henry removed the biscop of Autun and made her abbess of a small, isolated convent instead. He then convinced the skopos to install in her place his young sister Constance. The white deer. Of course Constance supports Henry.”
“What of the other four dukes?”
“Three of the dukes support Henry. Henry’s sister Rotrudis is Duchess of Saony and Attomar. The duchy of Saony is the original seat of power of his family. Before they became kings, they were the dukes of Saony.”
“How did they become the kings, then?”
“That you must learn another time, or read for yourself. Now attend.” He looked ahead as they came out of the shadow of the trees into sun. A long downslope rolled out from their feet. Soon they would come within an arrow’s shot of the city walls. Alain wondered how soon they would be noticed by the people within the city. “Burchard, Duke of Avaria.”
“He is your father.”
“Yes.” Alain wanted to draw him out, but Agius spoke the word so curtly the boy dared ask no more questions. “And third, Liutgard, Duchess of Fesse, who is also of royal kin.”
“The one you were betrothed to.”
“I see you have listened more closely than I supposed.”
“But your brother married her instead.”
Agius looked away quickly, hiding his expression. Alain thought of the little girl who had clung to her uncle in Biscop Antonia’s tent; clearly Agius’ bond to his brother and thus his brother’s children was very strong.
With sudden sympathy for Agius’ grief and impotent fury in the face of his niece’s captivity, Alain asked another question. “Who is the sixth duke?”
A hesitation. At last Agius spoke, although he still looked away, staring at the ground. “Conrad, Duke of Wayland, known as Conrad the Black. Sabella claims he supports her, but he has not brought his forces to march with hers.”
“And the margraves?”
Agius had recovered his composure. He lifted his chin—cleanly shaven that morning, as befit a man dedicated to the church—and took in a deep breath of air, as if to fortify himself. “Chief among the margraves is Helmut Villam. Second, and almost as powerful, is Judith, margrave of Olsatia and Austra. Werinhar, margrave of Westfall, is the other.”
“You said there were four.”
A shadow crossed Agius’ expression, the same raw grief. Alain understood at once that this had something to do with his beloved brother. “The margrave of Eastfall and both her sons died three years ago in a battle fought against the Quman.”
“Is—is that the battle your brother died in?” A wild guess, but Alain knew he was right by the sharp glance Agius threw him and the frater’s sudden grim silence.
They walked for a while. The biscop and her clerics were still singing; the hymn from the East evidently had many verses. He did not want to look at Agius or to ask him any more questions, whether about margraves or verses. Agius held such a store of pain in him that it hurt Alain to see it.
Agius whispered words in Wendish under his breath, in time to the voices of the others.
“‘Daughters of Nisibia, act as did your mother,
Who laid a Body within her,
And it became a Wall without her!
Lay in you a living Body,
That it may be a Wall for your life.
To Thee be glory, Who chose most wisely.’”
As the clerics finished the hymn, the biscop slowed her mule and the entire procession came to a halt. Antonia dismounted.
Autun was built on a hill that rose out of the plain of the Rhowne Valley. Hovels and huts stood outside the walls, but like the fields they were empty of any life except for a stray chicken pecking along the verge of the settlement. Antonia’s party was as yet out of arrow shot of the city walls, but at the great palisade gate that marked the main entrance to the city a company had assembled. Two banners flew, and as the company descended the road, coming out to meet Biscop Antonia, Alain made out their devices: One, like the banner of the city of Mainni, showed a tower, this a gray tower surmounted by a black raven. The other banner, so bright a gold it seemed to reflect the sun itself, depicted a white deer.
Agius moved forward to stand beside Biscop Antonia. He was sickly pale. Antonia, looking perfectly at her ease, had a magnanimous smile on her face as she waited for the group from the city to arrive and greet her.
As befit the daughter and sister of kings, the Biscop of Autun had a handsome and impressive retinue. Her clerics wore robes of fine linen dyed a rich burgundy, and each one held a book, a token of their station. Draped over their left shoulders they each wore a long, embroidered linen scarf. There were perhaps thirty clerics in the company; Alain had never seen so many books in one place before. Indeed, it had never occurred to him so many might exist in all the world.
Monks and nuns attended her also, carrying thuribles, round vessels of beaten brass in which incense was burned; the thuribles hung from chains, swinging slowly back and forth to the rhythm of the soft chanting of the company. “Kyria eleison. Kyrie eleison.” Lady, have mercy on us. Lord, have mercy on us.
The Biscop of Autun rode a white mule at the center of the procession. Though she wore a biscop’s rich vestments and mitre, Alain could see at her neck the golden torque marking her as born of royal kin. She was young, certainly younger than Agius, but she had a grave expression that made her look as steady and wise as a woman twice her years. Her complexion was healthy if pale, and when she dismounted and came forward on foot, hands outstretched to greet her sister biscop, Alain could see she was tall and of good stature, like her elder half sister Sabella. She had a light step and an elegant manner. Alain saw immediately why she had received the name ‘the white deer.’
She took Biscop Antonia’s hands in hers and at once the soft chanting of her company ceased. There was silence except for the scrape of shifting feet on dirt and the jingling of harness.
“I greet you, sister, and welcome you to my city,” said Constance. She had a pleasingly high voice, full and clear. But she did not smile. “I am surprised to find you here, so far from Mainni and the Hearth over which you were ordained to watch.”
“I give you greetings in return, sister,” said Antonia with rather more sweetness. “I come in the peace of Our Lord and Lady.”
“There are others with you.” Constance looked back along the road down which Antonia and the others had come.
Of course, the road was empty. Sabella’s army was safely encamped several hours’ ride into the Duke of Varingia’s territory. This was strange, certainly, in itself. The duchy of Arconia remained under the aegis of Berengar and Sabella. Yet a biscop’s d
uties were twofold. She watched over the spiritual well-being of her charges and over the Hearth of the cathedral given unto her by the authority of the skopos. But a biscop must be consulted in worldly matters as well, just as the king or duke had a say in what noblewoman was most deserving of elevation to biscop when a see became empty by reason of death or dishonor. As Biscop of Autun, whose spiritual duty was to watch over the inhabitants of the central portion of the kingdoms of Wendar and Varre—the region known as Arconia—Constance had the right to demand to be consulted on matters pertaining to the administration of the duchy of Arconia. Perhaps Sabella’s hold on the loyalty of the populace in her own husband’s duchy was not as strong as that populace’s love for their new young biscop, Constance.
“I fear there is strife in your family,” said Antonia, sounding much stricken at having to be the bearer of bad tidings. “I have come as mediator. I beg of you to come with me to speak of these matters with Sabella and Rodulf.”
“It grieves me to hear of such things,” replied Constance without any indication this was news to her, “but I fear the ill-will of Sabella, for reasons you must know, and in any case I am loath to leave my people—” Here she gestured toward the city, which lay quiet in the midday sun. “—without my guidance, and without my presence to protect them.”
Agius had remained in the background, hidden by the robes of Antonia’s clerics. Now he stepped forward. The bleak dark stain of his frater’s robes stood out starkly against the brighter clothing of his more worldly brethren.
Constance’s expression brightened. She looked delighted. “Agius! You have surprised me.” She released Antonia’s hands and reached and drew Agius to her as if he were her brother. The show of familiarity astonished Alain. “I did not expect to find you in such company.”
Just barely Alain caught in Constance’s tone a muted disgust for the company Agius was keeping. If Antonia noticed it, she made no sign; she beamed as fondly on them as an elderly kinswoman might approve the reuniting of two feuding siblings.
“I travel where I must,” Agius said. He looked torn between his obvious pleasure in seeing Biscop Constance and the dilemma that hung over him as the executioner’s sword hangs over the neck of the condemned. “I follow the path which Our Lady has set before my feet.”
“And that path led you to Sabella’s camp?” asked Constance. If there was sarcasm in her utterance, Alain could not hear it.
“Worldly consideration led me to Sabella’s camp, Your Grace.”
“I thought you had turned your face away from worldly considerations, Frater Agius, when you refused marriage and took the brown robe of service instead.”
He smiled grimly. “The world is not yet done with me, Your Grace. Alas.”
“It is ever thus, that the world intrudes when we wish most devoutly only to contemplate God.” Constance folded her hands together and bowed her head slightly, as if in submission to God’s will. Then she raised her head to look at Agius directly again. “But God in kindness endowed humans with freedom equal to that of the angels. For is it not true that the sun and the moon and indeed even the stars are so fixed that they can only move in the path marked out for them? Yet it is not so with those born of human mothers. Thus must our behavior be reckoned with that of the angels. The praise or blame which a man’s conduct deserves is really his own.” She turned to Biscop Antonia. “Do you not agree, Your Grace?”
Of course Alain recognized at once that the remark was like a barbed spear: meant to sink in with little hope to ease it out without great pain.
Biscop Antonia had impenetrable armor. She nodded. “It is as you say, Your Grace. Thus do Our Lord and Lady judge our actions, by what we do and by what we leave undone.”
Agius made no reply.
This silence Biscop Constance took in stride. “Now that we are met on the road,” she continued, “I pray you will return with me to my hall, where my people will entertain you as is fitting with a good feast and a taste of Autun wine.”
Agius shifted violently. “I have come to ask,” he said quickly, “that you return with us to Sabella’s camp, as Biscop Antonia requests of you.”
“Surely it would be unwise of me to place myself in Sabella’s power, although certainly I hold no personal enmity toward my sister.”
“I will hold myself responsible, and none other, if any harm comes to you, Your Grace.”
“Are you pledging me safe passage, Agius?”
“I pledge to escort you safely back to your city, Your Grace.”
She was startled, though she tried to conceal it. “Then I will agree to go,” she said. “Better peace than war, as the blessed Daisan said.”
“I will go with you, then,” added Agius, “to your hall while you gather anything you need to take to Sabella’s camp.”
“No need.” She shrugged and gestured to her servants to bring her mule. “I am armored with my faith, Frater Agius, as are we all who have given our lives to Our Lord and Lady. And I am made strong by my brother’s confidence in me—as he is by mine in him.”
“Then it is well we should go.” Yet Agius hesitated as both biscops were helped onto their mounts. He came forward and took the reins of Biscop Constance’s mule in the place of her servant. “But did not the blessed Daisan say, he who spurns what is offered is all too often in want? It is past midday, and if we ride on now, we and the others of Biscop Antonia’s party will have walked all day fasting.”
Even Alain did not have to guess at Biscop Constance’s reaction to this statement; she was delighted to be able to offer hospitality. Aunt Bel had said many a time within his hearing: “So does Our Lady judge us, by our generosity at table.” Aunt Bel was so well-known for feeding folk passing through Osna village that less magnanimous householders sometimes fobbed guests off on her. Never had she turned one away.
“Then certainly we must return to my palace and dine,” said Constance with evident pleasure.
They returned, Agius still leading the mule, to Autun. It was the largest city Alain had ever seen, with a stone wall and a stone and timber cathedral and so many buildings all shoved together that he wondered how the folk who lived there did not choke on each other. They passed quickly through the gate and down a wide avenue flanked with timber houses built in a style quite unlike the long-houses of his village. The walls of the biscop’s palace rose to the height of three men. He barely had time to catch his breath before they were led inside its imposing timber frame.
There, he was allowed to sit by the great hearth and eat bread so white and soft it was more like a cloud than what he knew as bread, heavy loaves with thick dark crusts. He was given leave to eat as much as he wished of the best cheese he had ever tasted and the leavings of the fowl and fish that made up the biscop’s simple midday meal. All this while Rage and Sorrow gnawed on hambones still bristling with meat and fat. Probably poor Lackling had never eaten as much pork in his entire cold and lonely life as the hounds devoured in the course of the next hour. It was a terrible thing to sit and eat with such pleasure while Lackling had not even the peace of a marked grave.
But Alain could not help himself. Even helping to serve at Count Lavastine’s table during the visit of Lady Sabella and her entourage he had not seen a meal as casually elegant as this. But then, Biscop Constance was the king’s sister, born of the lineage of kings. The dark beams and tapestried walls, the bustling clerics and the fine linen worn by every least servant, served to remind him how small a place Osna village was. Certainly Aunt Bel and his father Henri were respectable and prosperous freeholders. Of this they and their children could always be proud. Bel had lost children to disease but never to starvation, as many did. But sitting in this hall, even in the ashy corner by the hearth, that pride seemed little compared to the great state employed in the service of princes.
What the great ones spoke of he had no idea. He ate too much and then his stomach ached from the rich food, to which he was not accustomed. The long walk back to Sabella’s camp see
med to take an eternity. Each step jolted him. He leaned, alternately, on Rage and then on Sorrow, to keep his balance. The two biscops rode side by side, not giving pride of place to the other. Agius, evidently set on maintaining his pose as simple frater rather than duke’s son, continued to lead Constance’s mule.
Alain hoped he would make it to camp without throwing up by the side of the road.
But after an hour and with the day neither too warm nor too cold and the wind a pleasant touch on his face, he began to feel better. Of them all, only Agius looked steadily worse as they came closer to Sabella’s camp.
Scouts had run ahead. As their party crossed the last rye field before the camp began its sprawl through pasture and light woods, soldiers and campfolk appeared to line their path, to stare at the royal biscop. Together, Antonia and Constance made a striking pair: cheerful age and stern youth. To see two biscops in the same cavalcade was a rare sight, and Alain wished suddenly and painfully that Lackling could be alive to see it, for he so loved all that was bright and lovely to look upon—even if only from a distance. But Antonia had brought death to the boy. How could she ride with such a smooth countenance, as if nothing troubled her conscience?
But was it not Agius who spoke of the inner heart? As Aunt Bel said: “A smooth countenance without reflects a calm soul within.” So Alain had always believed. Now he wondered. How could any person make dealings with blood and dark shades and by that means bring about the death of an innocent simple boy, and yet show no sign of that terrible sin in her face?
Lady Sabella waited in front of the great tent surmounted by her banner. Her daughter Tallia stood beside her, looking pale and cold in a gown of silk the color of harvested wheat. Duke Rodulf and her other partisans stood at her side or a few steps back; Count Lavastine, in their midst, appeared wooden, drained of life. Sabella did not come forward to greet her half sister but rather waited for Constance to dismount and walk forward in her turn.
“Sister,” said Constance mildly, “I give you greetings. It is my devout hope we can mend these troubles that have torn our family apart.”