King's Dragon

  Sabella did not offer Constance her hands, the sign of kinship and safekeeping. Instead, she took a step back and signed to her soldiers. They swarmed forward to form a ring around the two women and their retinues. Antonia dismounted and came to stand beside Sabella. Tallia stared somberly at Constance, as if the young biscop were an apparition. Agius sank to one knee, head bowed, still holding the halter of Constance’s white mule.

  “You are now come to rest in my hands, Constance,” said Sabella in the flat voice that disguised her emotions, if indeed she had any. “You are my hostage for Henry’s good behavior and for his agreement to give precedence to my rightful claim.”

  Like a deer, startled by the sudden appearance of the hunter, Biscop Constance threw up her head, eyes wide, looking as if she were about to bolt. But of course she was surrounded. She drew her hands back and folded them in front of her. This gesture allowed her to regain her composure.

  “I have been betrayed,” she said in a loud, firm voice. She turned to gaze directly at Agius, who rose slowly to face her, his complexion white. “You promised me safe escort, Agius. Cousin.” The word, said with emphasis and anger, was a weapon, meant to wound.

  Agius said nothing.

  “He gave you safe escort,” interposed Antonia. “He escorted you safely into your city, where we broke our fast. Then we came here, but he had already discharged the obligation. He did not promise you safe passage for a second time.”

  Constance did not even glance toward Antonia. “You have deceived me, Agius. I will not forget it.”

  “Nor should you,” he replied, his voice rough. But he looked beyond Constance to Sabella. Alain was suddenly struck by the age of the two women: Sabella was old enough to be Constance’s mother; as indeed she would have been, might have been, had she proven herself fertile on her heir’s progress so many years ago, the progress that had resulted in her being passed over for the throne. Tallia, the late fruit of her marriage, looked like a frail reed out of which to create the staff that would grant her the authority of a sovereign queen.

  “And so, Lady Sabella,” said Agius harshly, “my part in this is finished. Release my niece and let us ride free, as you promised.”

  “As I promised, I will free your niece into the custody of the biscop of Autun, whom I now restore to the seat taken unlawfully from her by the decree of my brother Henry and with the connivance of my sister Constance.” She gestured. An old, frail woman tottered forward, wearing biscop’s vestments marked with the badge of the city of Autun.

  “You will go against Henry’s wishes?” Constance demanded. “I am the biscop of Autun.”

  “And by what right did Henry remove this woman from her see?” Sabella’s tone was mild but unyielding. “Helvissa was given the biscop’s crosier by the authority of the skopos herself twenty years ago. Henry’s worldly authority does not outrank the spiritual authority of the skopos in these matters. I merely restore Biscop Helvissa to her rightful place.”

  But looking at the old woman, whose hands shook with palsy, Alain could not imagine she would be anything except a pawn in Sabella’s plans.

  “She is Mother to a convent now,” Constance said, “not biscop. I was invested—”

  “You were invested as a deacon in the church, sister. Your election to biscop can, I think, be treated as invalid. It is as a deacon you will remain in my custody.”

  Constance gasped. Looking furious, she shut her mouth tight.

  A servingwoman came forward with the little girl, Agius’ niece. The child had the expression of a cornered animal, gone still while waiting for the deathblow. She saw her uncle and leaned toward him as rushes lean in a stiff breeze, but she made no move to run to him. It was as if a leash held her to her captors. Tears trailed down her cheeks, yet she made no sound though her chin trembled. A slender gold torque gleamed at her neck.

  “The child will return with the biscop to the city of Autun,” said Sabella, sounding satisfied with herself and the fruition of her plan. “But you may not leave me, Frater Agius. I may still have need of you.”

  “Then my niece remains in your custody.” His voice was quiet, too quiet, perhaps. Alain had never heard him so subdued. Agius glanced toward the girl, then tore his gaze away from her. The child hiccuped down a sob in response.

  Constance knelt abruptly, extending her hands. “Come, child,” she said, more order than request. The child looked to her uncle, got his bare nod, and took hesitant steps forward until Constance’s hands rested lightly on her shoulders. “This is Ermengard, daughter of Duchess Liutgard and her husband Frederic of Avaria. She is destined for the church.” Only then did Constance look back up at Sabella. “Even our quarrels must not stand in the way of Our Lady’s and Lord’s will. Let one of my clerics escort her to Autun and put her into the care of my chatelaine, a woman of good birth and education.”

  Agius stood with hands clenched, gaze fixed on his niece with uncomfortable intensity. The new biscop staggered and had to be supported by a servant.

  “I will allow this,” said Sabella at last. “Constance, I leave you in the hands of Biscop Antonia. Now.” She turned to Duke Rodulf. “We march. Autun will comply with the wishes of her rightful biscop, although we will leave a garrison behind to make sure of their loyalty to us.”

  Alain caught sight suddenly of Sabella’s husband, Berengar, sitting with a servant on the ground in front of Sabella’s great tent. The two men—noble and servant—were playing chess. Berengar laughed with great gusto, almost braying with pleasure, knocked over the servant’s pieces, and proclaimed himself winner. Tallia flinched. Biscop Antonia set a steadying hand on the young woman’s shoulder.

  So it was done. The girlchild, Ermengard, was led away in the company of the new biscop of Autun. Constance was led away under guard, though she refused to relinquish her biscop’s robes and mitre and scarf, and none there dared take these things from her by force.

  “You have deceived me, Sabella,” said Agius finally.

  “It surprises me to hear you say such a thing,” replied Sabella. “For we both promised safe passage and met our obligations. I do not hold it as deceit.”

  “I do.”

  “Yet reflect on this, cousin. Were Constance to remain in Autun, there would be war between her people and mine. What better judgment is there than that by which discord is dissolved and peace reestablished?”

  “What better judgment? That of Our Lady, who looks within our souls and judges what She sees there.”

  Sabella lifted an eyebrow, the most expressive gesture Alain had ever seen her use. “I am as you see me, Frater Agius. By this must you judge me. I trust you will submit to the custody of Biscop Antonia.”

  “I will submit because I have no choice.”

  “Then he is yours, Your Grace,” she said to Antonia.

  “And this one as well,” said Antonia. To Alain’s horror, the white-haired biscop turned her gaze on him.

  “This one?” Sabella looked first here and then there and finally, with some confusion, found him with the hounds as if she had not truly seen him before. “He is a kennel boy, is he not? I recognize Lavastine’s hounds.”

  “Not just a kennel boy, I believe,” said Antonia. “I would be gratified if you would render him into my care.”

  Sabella shrugged. She did not even consult Lavastine, who in any case no longer spoke except when spoken to and then in that flat monotone which reminded Alain of Sabella’s voice. “He is yours.” She turned away, leading Duke Rodulf and the others with her. Tallia trailed behind, looking back over her shoulder. Briefly, Alain met her eyes: They were palest gray-blue, like the dawn sky on a cloudless day. Then she followed her mother inside the great tent.

  Alain shivered. He dared not look up at Antonia. Sabella’s indifference to his fate terrified him. So easily was he abandoned. Outside of Lavastine’s camp, none knew or cared what happened to him. What if Antonia suspected, or even knew, he had witnessed Lackling’s murder?

  “Come
,” said the biscop in her usual kind voice. “You will serve at the feast tonight, Alain.”

  He shuddered. She even remembered his name.

  “Frater Agius, I hope you are not too proud to serve as well.”

  “I will serve as I am bid.”

  But Alain heard the terrible pain welling up underneath the humble words.

  Together they were escorted to the river and given some privacy to wash. Agius’ expression had taken on such a cast of blankness that Alain feared for him. But the frater said nothing. He knelt on the bank and prayed silently while Alain washed his own face and hands, then, tentatively, peeled off his tunic and washed his chest and back. Finally, not sure when he would have such a chance again, he stripped and waded to the deepest part of the little river, up past his thighs, took a ragged breath, and went under.

  He came up, spitting and coughing, into a boiling mass of hounds. They swam round him, their tails whipping against his skin. Rage nipped at him, and Sorrow swam on to the other side of the river and shook himself all over with such power that Alain, in the middle, felt the spray off his coat.

  Unexpectedly, Alain felt a swell of simple joy. He laughed. Had not Rage and Sorrow chosen him as their companion? It seemed impossible for Biscop Antonia to harm him as long as the two hounds protected him.

  He waded back to shore. Agius was still praying. If his eyes had lifted from his hands even once, Alain saw no sign of it.

  “Wash yourself, my friend,” said Alain finally. “Is it not what Our Lady would wish, that we appear before her cleansed?”

  He was not sure Agius heard the words, so he shook out his clothing as best he could, let himself dry off, and dressed. The guards shifted at their positions, anxious to return their charges to the biscop’s custody.

  “You are right,” said Agius suddenly. He took off his frater’s robe. Under it, against his skin, he wore a coarse shirt woven of linen and horsehair. But Alain noticed at once that his leg, where Sorrow had bitten him, was dirty, red, and swollen. Before Alain could utter a word, Agius removed his hair shirt.

  Alain could not restrain a gasp. Even the guards murmured in awe and horror.

  The stiff cloth had rubbed Agius’ skin raw. In places, the open skin was festering.

  “Doesn’t it hurt?” Alain whispered, feeling the pain like fire on his own back and chest.

  Agius threw himself full length on the ground, hands clenched, awful tortured skin exposed. “It is no more than I deserve. I betrayed one for the other, only to find myself betrayed in return. Ai, Lady, I thought only to help the child, for the love I bore Frederic.”

  “But you saved your niece, surely?”

  “Saved her from what? She still remains in Sabella’s custody, since Sabella’s creature now acts as biscop of Autun in Constance’s place. I could not even take the child to safety, back to her mother’s castle or to the king’s progress. I pray that the king learns of these deeds soon, for they will make him very angry.” He spoke more slowly now, almost savoring the words. “The king’s anger is a terrible thing to behold.” A slight moan escaped him, the sound of a creature mourning. “Ai, Lady, You will judge me harshly, as I deserve. I vowed to leave the world and enter Your service, and yet the world pursues me and grants no mercy from its burdens. Forgive me my sins. Let my belief in the true knowledge of Your Son’s sacrifice grant me a measure of peace in my heart.”

  So on he went, back to his prayers. The guards muttered, listening and watching.

  Alain did not know what to do. In an odd way, Agius reminded him of the piteous guivre: wounded and suffering in a cage made for it by others. Yet the guivre was of itself no pitiful thing; it had a fierce and hideous nobility, separate from human concerns.

  After a bit, the hounds ventured closer, then nudged at Agius’ prostrate body. The frater did not react to this threat. Perhaps Agius hoped, at that moment, they would tear him to pieces and have done with it. But instead, Sorrow licked at the wound on his leg and Rage licked the sores on his back.

  Alain hurried forward to find Agius weeping silently. He knelt and whispered soothing words to him as he might to Aunt Bel’s youngest daughter Agnes when she was caught in nighttime fears.

  Finally, Agius let Alain help him into the water and wash.

  But that night Agius did not eat, nor did he the next day as they marched on, leaving Autun behind. Only in the evening did Alain coax him to take a crust of old bread, scarcely fit for beggars.

  Watched as they were, this piece of information was conveyed to Biscop Antonia. She took Alain aside the next morning and thanked him kindly for his care of Frater Agius.

  “Although he professes a heresy,” she said gently, “I hope to bring him back to his senses and into the church again.”

  But Alain feared, in Agius’ silence and stubborn fixed stare, that the frater had taken into his head some kind of terrible idea, that he meant to do something rash or dangerous. Agius prayed incessantly, even while walking. At every halt in the march he spoke to a growing audience of the curious about the revelation of the Son, the blessed Daisan, through Whose sacrifice our sins are redeemed.

  XI

  A MOUSE’S HUNGER

  1

  “LET us rest here,” said Rosvita to her escort. She indicated a log that had, by the grace of Our Lady and Lord, come to rest like a bench just where the path broke out of the forest atop a ridge. From this plain but serviceable seat one could see the valley spread out below, the plaster and timber buildings of Hersford Monastery, the large estate, and the several villages strung like clusters of grapes along the Hers River.

  She was not sure a magnate of Helmut Villam’s stature would deign to sit on such a humble seat. But she sat down and, after a moment, handing the reins of his horse over to his son, so did he.

  The thin wail of a horn carried to them on the stiff wind that blew along the ridge top. They watched as out of a copse below the king and his company emerged, bright banners signaling their passage.

  A white banner marked with a red eagle in profile now flew among the other—more familiar—pennants. Duchess Liutgard of Fesse had arrived at Hersford Monastery yesterday. Hersford lay on the border between the duchies of Saony and Fesse; it was traditional for the reigning duke to escort the king across into her domain. Liutgard had inherited her position at a very young age—and perhaps because of her youth she adhered strictly to the old forms.

  “I fear you have missed the hunt,” said Rosvita. What intrigues would be planted on today’s hunt, their fruit to be harvested many months from now—for good or for ill?

  Villam coughed, flushed from the exertion of toiling up the hill. A big man, he had spared his horse the last steep climb by leading it instead of riding. “The hunt is ever on, Sister Rosvita. Only the prey we hunt differs from chase to chase.”

  “Do you think King Henry is serious? That he intends to elevate the illegitimate child over the legitimate ones?”

  Villam’s smile was slight and self-mocking. “I am not an unprejudiced observer in this matter. If King Henry did indeed designate Sanglant as his heir, against all custom, then can it not be said I have a direct interest in promoting Sanglant’s elevation?”

  “How would that be so?” she asked, wondering if he would actually state outright what most people believed to be true: that he had stood by while his eldest daughter, Waltharia, carried on an affair of some months’ duration with the charming Sanglant, an affair that had ended with her pregnancy by the prince and subsequent marriage to a sturdy young man of noble birth and pleasant manners.

  But for answer, he only smiled knowingly. Behind, his son Berthold, standing close enough to listen in, gave a snort of amusement. It would be well to remember, thought Rosvita, that the lad had, as well as undoubted skill at arms, his father’s ironical bent and a seemingly endless store of amiability.

  “I think,” said Villam suddenly, “the king must make up his mind to marry again. Queen Sophia has been at peace in the Chamber of Li
ght for almost two years now, and the nuns have sung prayers in her memory through two Penitires. The king is strong, but it is always to the benefit of a man to be strengthened by marriage to a woman his equal in courage and wit.”

  She chanced to glance up at the son, who was obviously trying to suppress laughter. Since Villam was notorious even among the great princes of the realm for his weakness for comely young concubines, it was useful to know his children were aware of his fault and apt to judge him leniently despite it. She sighed. Now that King Henry had charged her with this errand, she knew she would be drawn more and more into the intrigues that journeyed along with the cavalcade of physical creatures and goods on the king’s progress. The prospect gave her no pleasure. It would only take time away from her History.

  “He must choose carefully if he marries again,” she said, resigning herself to the inevitable.

  “When he marries again. Henry is too shrewd to remain unmarried, and when a worthy alliance reveals itself, I am sure he will take advantage of it. Henry is a man like any other.” Villam stroked his gray beard while he watched hounds and then riders vanish into a stand of wood. He wore his usual affable smile, but there was a certain reticence about his expression, a distance in his eyes as he contemplated the wood below, silent trees which concealed the hunting party within. “A man like any other. Except he has only the one bastard and wishes for no other. None can fault the king’s piety.”

  “Indeed not,” she hurriedly agreed. Certainly it was true.

  “But it is not piety that stays him from that course.”

  “You are saying, Lord Helmut, that it is memory, not piety, that restrains him from taking a concubine. The events to which you refer occurred while I was still a novice at Korvei. You think he loves the woman still?”

  “No woman. I am not sure I would call it love. Sorcery, more like. Understand this, Sister Rosvita. She cared nothing for the rest of us.” That same self-mocking smile teased his lips and vanished. “And I say that not only because I am a vain man and wished for her to acknowledge my interest in her, and was annoyed that she did not. Certainly, she was beautiful. She had also an arrogance worthy of the Emperor Taillefer himself, were he to descend from the heavens and walk among us as she did then. But we were as nothing to her. Her indifference to the rest of us was as complete as ours is to—” He ran a hand along the smooth surface of the log, long since scoured free of its bark by wind and rain and sun. Picking up a tiny insect, he displayed it, let it crawl across the tips of his fingers, then flicked it casually away. It vanished among the weeds. “—this least of Our Lord’s and Lady’s creatures. Perhaps it was only a man’s vanity, but I always felt she wanted something from Henry, not that she felt affection toward him. But I have never figured out what it was she wanted.”