King's Dragon

  Rosvita did not know quite what to say. She had seen death many times, of course, but never on such a scale as this. Up among the Lions, an Eagle knelt weeping over the body of an infantryman.

  “It was a hard-fought battle,” Rosvita said finally. “Which? The one on the field, or the one we witnessed just before your party rode in?”

  “Which one was that?”

  “Henry’s argument with Duchess Liutgard.”

  Rosvita did not know Duchess Liutgard well—the young duchess came to court rarely—but she did know that Liutgard possessed the fabled temper that had, so the chroniclers wrote, marred the reign of her great-great-aunt, Queen Conradina, a woman fabled for having as many arguments as lovers and both in abundance. “Why should the king argue with Liutgard?”

  Judith found a stain of blood under one fingernail and beckoned to a servant. The servingwoman hastened over and washed the margrave’s hands while she talked. “Liutgard rode beside Villam when Sabella’s guard was overtaken. They fought loyally—”

  “Liutgard and Villam?”

  Judith smiled, but there was a hint of derision in her expression. “That is not what I meant. Sabella’s retinue fought loyally and many were slain before the fight was given up. Rodulf died there.”

  “Duke Rodulf? That is grievous news.”

  “He fought for Varre, as he has always done. More for Varre, I would suppose, than for Sabella. Alas, he could not bring himself to accept a Wendish king.”

  “Perhaps his heirs will be more reasonable.”

  “Perhaps,” echoed Judith with a quirk of the lips that expressed doubt more than hope.

  “Villam was wounded?” Rosvita asked. She was beginning to wonder if Judith was toying with her for her own amusement.

  “Badly, yes.” If this distressed the margrave, she did not show it. Rosvita had never much liked Judith, but the margrave had been loyal to Arnulf and then to Henry, never wavering in her support. She was not an easy woman to like, yet neither could she be dismissed. She was far too powerful for that. “Because Villam was wounded, Liutgard was able to take Sabella into her custody.”

  “Ah.” This explained much. “I suppose that did not sit well with Henry.”

  “It did not. That was what they argued about. Henry demanded that Liutgard surrender Sabella into his custody. Liutgard told him she would not until Henry was calmer and more able to think clearly.”

  “Ai, Lady,” murmured Rosvita. “That was rashly spoken of her. She might have found more diplomatic words.”

  “Diplomacy is for courtiers and counselors, my dear cleric, not for princes. I have never found Liutgard possessed of subtlety in any case. You know Burchard’s son is dead?”

  “Burchard’s son?” What had the Duke of Avaria and his children to do with this? The subject changed so quickly, and before Rosvita was done understanding the last one, that she did not follow the leap. Liutgard had married the duke of Avaria’s second son, Frederic, but he had died several years ago.

  Judith sighed ostentatiously, examined her fingernails for traces of blood or other detritus of armed struggle, and allowed the servant to dry her hands on a clean linen cloth. Then with a gesture she dismissed the servant. “Sabella seems determined to take the men of that line with her in her defeats, though she cares not one whit for them. I speak of Burchard’s elder son, Agius, the one who went into the church.”

  Judith related a rather confused tale of the guivre, the frater, and a boy who had led Count Lavastine’s hounds to the kill.

  “You are going too quickly for me,” said Rosvita. “I do not know what part Count Lavastine has in this battle. The last I heard of him, he had refused Henry’s command to attend him on his progress. That was almost a year ago.”

  “He turned up at the battle on Sabella’s side.” Judith paused and brushed a finger along her upper lip where a fine down of hair grew, the mark of her impending passage from fertility to wisdom. “But that is the strange thing: he withdrew his forces from the battle halfway through.”

  “After the guivre was killed, when he saw which way the wind was blowing?”

  “No. Before that, when it appeared all was lost for Henry and that Sabella would win. No one can explain it, since Lavastine and his men have fled.”

  At long last, Rosvita was beginning to see where all this led. “What of Henry and Sabella?”

  “We are at a stalemate there, it appears. Liutgard refuses to turn Sabella over to Henry, and Henry rages, as you can see.”

  “Have you attempted to intervene, my lady?”

  “I?” Judith smiled.

  That smile. It was that particular smile, one Judith was famous for, that made Rosvita not like her, although she had no other good reason. The margrave of Olsatia and Austra was loyal to the house of Saony, had pledged her loyalty first to the younger Arnulf and then after his death to Henry. But Rosvita did not believe any affection or deep bond held her to them. Rosvita believed Judith remained loyal to Henry because she needed him and what he could bring her: his military support. The position of prince in the marchlands, the unstable border country, was a precarious one, and Judith had called on—and received—aid from Henry more than once.

  Like many other noblewomen of the highest rank, Judith had given birth before her first marriage to a child gotten on her by a concubine or at any rate some handsome young man not of noble birth whose looks had caught her youthful fancy. That first marriage, as such marriages were, had been arranged for her by her kin to the mutual advantage of both houses. The concubine had long since disappeared. But the child had lived and thrived.

  Lady bless, but Judith had petted and cosseted that boy; perhaps he would not have turned out so insufferable had he not been so handsome—those who had been at court longer than Rosvita said the boy resembled his father, in looks, at least; some said in charm as well. He had been a brilliant student, one of the most brilliant to pass through the king’s schola in Rosvita’s time there, but she had not been unhappy to see him leave. How unlike Berthold he had been in all ways except the one for which she of all people could not condemn him: curiosity.

  But Hugh was gone now, into the church, and no doubt caught up in church concerns and his new position as abbot of Firsebarg. Without question his mother hoped to elevate him to the rank of presbyter, and with that honor he would leave Wendar to live in the skopos’ palace in Darre. He would have no reason to trouble the king’s progress with his presence. Thank the Lady.

  “I have sent my personal physician to attend Villam,” said Judith. She shrugged her shoulders, settling the mail shirt down more comfortably over her torso. “But no, I have not attempted to intervene. That duty is for his counselors.”

  Rosvita smiled wryly and humbly. By such means did God remind her not to pass judgment on others. She nodded to the margrave and excused herself. It was time to take the bull by the horns.

  “What have you to say for yourself,” demanded Henry as soon as he caught sight of her. “Why have you not brought Sabella to me? Ai, Lady! That idiot daughter of mine has made a fool of herself, according to report, right in front of everyone and not even knowing she was doing so. Ai, Lord, what did I do to deserve such children?”

  “I am here now, Your Majesty,” she said, trying to remain calm. Henry was so red in the face that his veins stood out and he looked likely to burst. “And though my lineage is a proud one, you must know I cannot give orders to such as Duchess Liutgard.”

  He considered this for at least two breaths, which gave her time to put her hand on his elbow. The touch startled him. It was not her place, of course, to touch the king without his permission, but the gesture served to make him think of something other than his grievances.

  “You are angry, Your Majesty,” she added while he was gathering his wits.

  “Of course I am angry! Liutgard denies me the very person whose treason may yet cost me the only child—”

  “King Henry!” She said it loudly and sharply. She knew with bitt
er instinct that he had been about to say something he would later regret. Something about Sanglant. “Let us go inside and see to Villam.”

  Had no one thought to calm him by appealing to his genuine affection for his old friend and companion? Rosvita could not believe they were so nervous of him as that. She gestured toward the tent. He frowned at her, but he hesitated. Then, abruptly, he went inside, leaving her to follow. The Eagle—Hathui—nodded as Rosvita ducked inside. Approvingly? Rosvita shook her head. Surely no common-born Eagle, not even one as proud as that one was, would think of approving or disapproving the actions of the nobly born.

  Villam had lost his left arm just above the elbow. Rosvita dared not ask how he had taken the wound. The old man seemed half asleep, and she feared even whispers would wake him.

  But Henry pushed the physician aside and laid a hand—gently, despite the fury that still radiated from him—on Villam’s forehead.

  “He is strong,” he murmured, as if to make it true. The physician nodded, concurring.

  “There is no infection?” asked Rosvita softly.

  “It is too early to tell,” said the physician. He had a light, rather high voice, marred by a strong accent. “He is, as His Majesty say, a strong man. If no infection set in, then he recover. If one do, then he die.”

  Henry knelt beside the pallet. The physician dropped to his knees at once, as if he dared not remain standing while the king knelt. Henry looked up and gestured to Rosvita. She knelt beside the king and murmured a prayer, which Henry mouthed in time to her words, right hand clutching the gold Circle of Unity hanging at his breast.

  When she had finished, the king looked over at the physician. “What do you recommend?”

  Rosvita studied the man. She did not trust physicians. They seemed to her like those astrologi who wandered from town to town promising to tell people’s fates by reading the positions of the stars—for a substantial fee, of course: They catered to the credulous and the frightened. But this man was beardless, so he was either a churchman or, just possibly, a eunuch from the East. She wondered where Judith had found him and what trade the margrave might be carrying on with Arethousa.

  His voice, when he spoke again, confirmed his status. It was too high for a true man. “I learn by the writings of the Dariyan physician Galenē, she of old days but great learning. This I follow. A man with such a wound must rest many weeks in a dry, warm place. The wound must keep clean. The man must—” He broke off and made eating gestures with a hand. “—ah—take broth and other food good in the stomach. His body will heal, or it will not heal. We aid. God choose.” He drew the Circle at his chest and bowed his head to show his submission to God’s will.

  Villam’s right arm lay folded across his chest. Henry took it now, and the old man’s eyes fluttered open and focused, but he did not speak. Henry brushed away tears.

  “You must go to Kassel, Helmut, and there recover your health,” said Henry softly. “I march on Autun to restore my sister to her biscophric.” He leaned forward and kissed the old man gently on either cheek, the kiss of peace, and rose.

  This interlude had calmed him outwardly. The king nodded to the physician, who in the Eastern way touched his forehead to the ground.

  Outside, Henry turned to Rosvita. “Let Sabella wait,” he said in a low, intense voice that betrayed the rage still boiling within him. “Let her wonder, while we ride to Autun and I refuse to see her.”

  Rosvita smiled slightly. Henry had indeed returned to his senses. How quickly he turned the tables. Now, rather than Liutgard keeping Sabella from him, everyone would speak of Henry’s anger being so great that he could not bring himself to look his sister in the face. That was, of course, much more effective.

  But there was one question she had to ask, though she dreaded it. “You will not ride to Gent?”

  His jaw tightened. He clasped his hands behind his back, as if holding them there was the only way to control himself. “Two-thirds of this army is dead or wounded. I will restore Constance, and more besides, and then we will have the summer to raise an army. Gent must hold firm until autumn.” His eyes flashed with anger. “And Sabella will learn what it means to raise her hand against me a second time.”

  4

  HENRY and his retinue camped outside Autun for three days before Biscop Helvissa worked up enough courage to open the gates and let them in.

  Alain watched from a vantage point above Autun as the great gates swung open and the people of Autun swept out with wild rejoicing to welcome Constance back to the city.

  “Henry will not leave Helvissa as biscop for long,” said Lavastine. He stood beside Alain, a strange enough occurrence in itself, and together they stared down at what remained of Henry’s army and of Sabella’s rebellion. For the last many days, as they had marched west to Autun and then camped here, out of sight, Alain had seen groups of men fleeing westward, the remains of the men-at-arms levied from the lands controlled by Sabella, Duke Rodulf, and the other lords who had come under their sway. Fleeing westward; fleeing back to their homes. They had work to do, after all, in the fields. The time for spring sowing was long past. Now they must hope that summer would be long and the harvest delayed and that their families had been able to plant something against winter’s hunger. Now they must hope for a good crop of winter wheat and rye for next year.

  Besides Henry’s army, and the retinues of the great lords who remained in Henry’s custody, only Lavastine’s company remained intact. He had sent Sergeant Fell on ahead with the infantry, for the count and his people also had fields to tend and next winter to survive. Miraculously, none in his company had taken any serious wounds. All would return to their families.

  But Lavastine had remained behind with his twenty mounted soldiers, and he had shadowed Henry’s progress to Autun and now waited here. Alain did not know why Lavastine waited or what he meant to do. All Alain knew was that something had changed radically. Now he slept in Lavastine’s tent, on a decent pallet, and he was fed the same food that the count ate; he had been given a fine linen tunic to wear instead of his old ragged wool tunic, now much worn and patched.

  “Come,” said Lavastine, turning away as Henry’s banner vanished into the city. “We will return to my tent.”

  They went, the hounds leaping around them, in fine good spirits this beautiful day. Alain was troubled. He still had nightmares about Agius. If only he had saved the frater. But he had not. Agius had sacrificed himself—and for what? Agius did not love King Henry. He had acted against Sabella and Antonia, not for Henry, though his action had saved the king.

  Ai, Lady. If only he had the courage, but he did not. He had stood by while Lackling was murdered, because he had feared Antonia’s power. He had said nothing after he had witnessed the feeding of some poor innocent to the guivre. He had accused no one—though surely the word of a freeholder’s boy would never be listened to by the nobly born. He had not even thought to throw himself in front of the guivre at the battle; that he had managed to kill it was only because of Agius’ willingness to sacrifice himself for the good of others.

  Or for his own revenge on Sabella.

  Alain sighed. It was all too deep and convoluted for him to make sense of.

  “Come inside,” said Lavastine, as much order as request, and yet Lavastine’s attention toward him was perhaps the greatest mystery of all. Alain followed the count inside. He was half a head taller than Lavastine but never felt he towered above him, so intense was Lavastine’s presence. Truly, the sorcery Antonia had laid upon Lavastine had been powerful in order to overcome that commanding disposition.

  Lavastine sat in a camp chair that one of his servants brought to him. “Sit,” he commanded Alain, sounding irritated that Alain had not sat down immediately.

  “But, my lord—” began Alain, while around them the count’s captain and servants stared. They were just as amazed as he was that the count wished a common boy to be seated beside him as though they were kin.

  “Sit!”

>   Alain sat.

  Lavastine called for wine, two cups, and then dismissed everyone but Alain. When the flap closed behind the last retreating servant, a gloom pervaded the tent chamber. Thin shafts of light lanced through gaps in the tent walls. Illuminating a line of carpet, the hilt of a sword, the ear of a hound. The hounds panted merrily. Sorrow rolled onto his back and scratched himself along the spine of the carpet. Rage growled and snapped at Fear, who had crept too close to Alain.

  “Alain Henrisson,” said the count. “That is what you call yourself?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “You saved my life and my honor on the field of battle.”

  Alain did not know what to say, so he merely bowed his head.

  “I did not intend to support Sabella. Nor, for that matter, did I intend to support King Henry. My lands are my concern, as are the safety and well-being of the people who live there. That is all. I never wanted to be dragged into these conspiracies. But you could not have known this. Why did you act as you did?”

  “B—because … I …”

  “Go on! You must have had a reason.”

  Seeing that even in this friendly mood Lavastine was irritated by delay, Alain spoke as quickly as he could, hoping it made sense. “I—I saw that Biscop Antonia wasn’t—she had Lackling murdered. She was going to murder the Eika prince you took prisoner, but he—he got away. Then she killed Lackling and I couldn’t trust her—”

  “Hold, hold, boy. Who is this Lackling?”

  “One of the stableboys, my lord.”

  Lavastine shook his head slightly. The name meant nothing to him. “She had him murdered? Why was this not brought to my attention?”

  “She brought strange creatures, my lord, to the ruins, and then you changed. You were—”