“And heirs?”
Osbert shrugged. “I’ll leave my own name, linked—if the god allows—with yours, in the shaping of this land. I have nephews for my own properties.” They had had this conversation before.
Aeldred shook his head again. There was more grey in his beard of late, Osbert saw. It showed in the lamplight, as did the circles under his eyes, which were always there after fever. “And I am, as ever when this passes, speaking to you as a servant.”
“I am a servant, my lord.”
Aeldred smiled wanly. “Shall I say something profane to that?”
“I would be greatly alarmed.” Osbert returned the smile.
The king stretched, rubbed at his face, sat up in the bed. “I surrender. And I believe I will eat. Would you also send for … would you ask my lady wife to come to me?”
“It is the middle of the night, my lord.”
“You said that already.”
Aeldred’s gaze was mild but could not be misconstrued.
Osbert cleared his throat. “I will have someone send—”
“Ask.”
“Ask for her.”
“Would you be so good as to do it yourself? It is the middle of the night.”
A small, ironic movement of the mouth. The king was back among them, there was no doubting it. Osbert bowed, took his cane, and went out.
HE LOOKED AT HIS HANDS in the lamplight after Osbert left. Steady enough. He flexed his fingers. Could smell his own sweat in the bedsheets. A night and a day and this much of another night. More time than he had to yield, the grave closer every day. These fevers were a kind of dying. He felt light-headed now, as always. That was understandable. Also physically aroused, as always, though there was no easy way to explain that. The body’s return to itself?
The body was a gift of Jad, a housing in this world for the mind and immortal soul, therefore to be honoured and attended to—though not, on the other hand, over-loved, because that was also a transgression.
Men were shaped, according to the liturgy, in a distant image of the god’s own most-chosen form, of all those infinite ones he could assume. Jad was rendered by artists in his mortal guise—whether golden and glorious as the sun, or dark-bearded and careworn—in wood carving, fresco, ivory, marble, bronze, on parchment, in gold, in mosaic on domes or chapel walls. This truth (Livrenne of Mesangues had argued in his Commentaries) only added to the deference properly due to the physical form of man—opening the door to a clerical debate, acrid at times, as to the implications for the form and status of woman.
There had been a period several hundred years ago when such visual renderings of the god had been interdicted by the High Patriarch in Rhodias, under pressure from Sarantium. That particular heresy was now a thing of the past.
Aeldred thought, often, about the works eradicated during that time. He’d been very young when he’d made the journey over sea and land and mountain pass to Rhodias with his father. He remembered some of the holy art they’d seen but also (having been a particular sort of child) those places in sanctuary and palace where the evidence of smashed or painted-over works could be observed.
Waiting now in the lamplit dark of a late-summer night for his wife to come, that he might undress her and make love, the king found himself musing—not for the first time—on the people of the south: people so ancient, so long established, that they had works of art that had been destroyed hundreds of years before these northlands even had towns or walls worthy of the name, let alone a sanctuary of the god that deserved to be called as much.
And then, tracking that thought, you could walk even further back, to the Rhodians of the era before Jad came, who had walked in these lands too, building their walls and cities and arches and temples to pagan gods. Mostly rubble now, since the long retreat, but still reminders of … unattainable glory. All around them here, in this harsh near-wilderness that he was pleased to call a kingdom under Jad.
You could be a proper child of the god, virtuous and devout, even in a wilderness. This was taught, and he knew it in his heart. Indeed, many of the most pious clerics had deliberately withdrawn from those same jaded southern civilizations in Batiara, in Sarantium, to seek the essence of Jad in passionate solitude.
Aeldred wasn’t a man like one of those. He knew what he’d found in Rhodias, however ruined it was, and in the lesser Batiaran cities all the way down through the peninsula (Padrino, Varena, Baiana—music in the names).
The king of the Anglcyn would not have denied that his soul (housed in a body that wracked and betrayed him so often) had been marked from childhood during that long-ago journey through the intricate seductions of the south.
He was king of a precarious, dispersed, unlettered people in a winter-shaped, beleaguered land, and he wanted to be more. He wanted them to be more, his Anglcyn of this island. And given three generations of peace, he thought it possible. He had made decisions, for more than twenty-five years, denying his heart and soul sometimes, with that in mind. He would answer to Jad for all of it, not far in the future now.
And he didn’t think three generations would be allowed them.
Not in these northern lands, this boneyard of war. He lived his life, fighting through impediments, including these fevers, in defiance of that bitter thought, as if to will it not to be so, envisaging the god, in his chariot under the world, battling through evils every single night, to bring back the sun to the world he had made.
ELSWITH CAME BEFORE his meal arrived, which was unexpected.
She entered without knocking, closed the door behind her, moved forward into lamplight.
“You are recovered, by the god’s grace?”
He nodded, looking at her. His wife was a large woman, big-boned, as her warrior father had been, heavier now than when she’d come to marry him—but age and eight confinements could do that to a woman. Her hair was as fair as it had been, though, and unbound now—she had been asleep, after all. She wore a dark green night robe, fastened all the way up the front, a sun disk (always) about her neck, pillowed upon the robe between heavy breasts. No rings, no other adornment. Adornments were a vanity, to be shunned.
She had been asking, for years now, to be released from their marriage and this worldly life, to withdraw to a religious house, become one of the Daughters of Jad, live out her days in holiness, praying for her soul, and his.
He didn’t want her to go.
“Thank you for coming,” he said.
“You sent,” she said.
“I told Osbert to say—”
“He did.”
Her expression was austere but not unfriendly. They weren’t unfriendly with each other, though both knew that was the talk.
She had not moved from where she’d stopped to look down at him in the bed. He remembered his first sight of her, all those years ago. Tall, fair-haired, well-made woman, not yet eighteen when they’d brought her south. He hadn’t been much older than that, a year from the battles of Camburn, swift to wed because he needed heirs. There had been a time when they were both young. It seemed, occasionally, a disconcerting recollection.
“They are bringing a meal,” he said.
“I heard, outside. I told them to wait until I left.” From any other woman, that might have been innuendo, invitation. Elswith didn’t smile.
He was aroused, even so, even after all these years. “Will you come to me?” he asked. Made it a request.
“I have,” she murmured dryly, but stepped forward nonetheless, a virtuous, honourable woman, keeping a compact—but wanting with all her heart to leave him, leave all of them behind. Had her reasons.
She stood by the bed, the light behind her now. Aeldred sat up, his pulse racing. All these years. She wore no perfume, of course, but he knew the scent of her body and that excited him.
“You are all right?” she asked.
“You know I am,” he said, and began unfastening the front of her robe. Her full, heavy breasts swung free, the disk between them. He looked, and t
hen he touched her.
“Are my hands cold?”
She shook her head. Her eyes were closed, he saw. The king watched her draw a slow breath as his hands moved. It was not lack of pleasure in this, he knew, with a measure of satisfaction. It was piety, conviction, fear for their souls, a yearning towards the god.
He didn’t want her to leave. His own piety: he had married this woman, sired children with her, lived through the tentative reshaping of a realm. Wartime, peacetime, winter, drought. Could not have claimed there was a fire that burned between them, but there was life, a history. He didn’t want another woman in his bed.
He slipped the robe past her ample hips, drew his wife down beside him and then beneath. They made love whenever he recovered from his sickness—and only on those days or nights. A private arrangement, balancing needs. The body and the soul.
After, unclothed beside each other, he looked at the marks of red flushing her very white skin and knew that she would—again—be feeling guilt for her own pleasure. The body housed the soul, for some; imprisoned it, for others. The teachings varied; always had.
He drew a breath. “When Judit is married,” he said, very softly, a hand on her thigh.
“What?”
“I will release you.”
He felt her involuntary movement. She looked quickly at him, then closed her eyes tightly. Had not expected this. Neither had he, in truth. A moment later, he saw the tears on her cheeks.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said, a catch in her throat. “Aeldred, I pray for you always, to holy Jad. For mercy and forgiveness.”
“I know,” said the king.
She was weeping, silently, beside him, tears spilling, hands gripping her golden disk. “Always. For you, your soul. And the children.”
“I know,” he said again.
Had a sudden, oddly vivid image of visiting one day at her retreat, Elswith garbed in yellow, a holy woman among others. The two of them old, walking slowly in a quiet place. Perhaps, he thought, she was to be his example, and a withdrawal to the god was his own proper course before the end came and brought him either light or dark through the spaces of forever.
Perhaps before the end. Not yet. He knew his sins, they burned in him, but he was in this offered world, and of it, and still carried a dream.
In time, the king and queen of the Anglcyn rose from the royal bed and dressed themselves. Food was sent for and brought in. She kept him company at table while he ate and drank, ravenous, as always, after recovery. The body’s appetites. In and of the world.
They slept, later, in their separate bedchambers, parting with the formal kiss of the god on cheeks and brow. Dawn came not long after, arriving in summer mildness, ushering a bright day, enormous with implication.
CHAPTER VII
Hakon Ingemarson, by ten years his father’s youngest son, enjoyed being called upon to ride west across three rivers and the vague border as an emissary to King Aeldred’s court at Esferth (or wherever else it might be) from their own settlements in the southern part of Erlond.
Aside from the pleasure he took in this very adult responsibility, he found the Anglcyn royal children exhilarating, and was infatuated with the younger daughter.
He was aware that his father was only disposed to send him west when their pledged payments were late, or about to be, taking shrewd advantage of evidence of friendship among the younger generation. He also knew that those at the Anglcyn court were conscious of this, and amused by it.
An ongoing joke, started by Gareth, the younger son, was that if Hakon ever did arrive with the annual tribute, they’d have Kendra sleep with him. Hakon always struggled not to flush, hearing this. Kendra, predictably, ignored it each time, not even bothering with the withering glance her older sister had perfected. Hakon did ask his father to allow him to lead the actual tribute west, when it eventually went, but Ingemar reserved that journey for others, the money well guarded, saving Hakon for explaining—as best he could—their too-frequent delays.
They were sprawled in the summer grass south of Esferth town, near the river, out of sight of the wooden walls. Had eaten here out of doors, four of them, and were idling in late-morning sunshine before returning to town to watch the preparations for the fair continue.
No one spoke. Birdsong from the beech and oak woods to the west across the stream and the rising and falling drone of bees among the meadow flowers were the only sounds. It was warm in the sun, sleep-inducing. But Hakon, reclining on one elbow, was too aware of Kendra beside him. Her golden hair kept coming free of her hat as she concentrated on interweaving grasses into something or other. Athelbert, king’s heir of the Anglcyn, lay beyond his sister, on his back, his own soft cap covering his face. Gareth was reading, of course. He wasn’t supposed to take parchments out of the city, but he did.
Hakon, lazily drifting in the light, became belatedly aware that he could be accused of staring at Kendra, and probably would be with Athelbert around. He turned away, abruptly self-conscious. And sat up quickly.
“Jad of the Thunder!” he exclaimed. His father’s oath. Not an invocation anyone but Erlings new to the sun god were likely to use.
Gareth snorted but didn’t look up from his manuscript. Kendra did, at least, glance at where Hakon was looking, briefly raised both eyebrows, and turned calmly back to her whatever-it-was-going-to-be.
“What?” Athelbert said, evidently awake but not moving, or shifting the hat that covered his eyes.
“Judit,” said Kendra. “She’s angry.”
Athelbert chuckled. “Aha! I know she is.”
“You’re in trouble,” Kendra murmured, placidly plaiting.
“Oh, probably,” said her older brother, comfortably sprawled in deep grass.
Hakon, wide-eyed, cleared his throat. The approaching figure, moving with grim purpose through the summer meadow, was quite close now. In fact…
“She, ah, has a sword,” he ventured, since no one else seemed to be saying it.
Gareth did glance up at that, and then grinned with anticipation as his older sister came towards them. Kendra merely shrugged. On the other hand, Prince Athelbert, son of Aeldred, heir to the throne, heard Hakon’s words, and moved.
Extremely swiftly, in point of fact.
As a consequence, the point of the equally swift sword, which would probably have plunged into the earth between his spread legs a little below his groin, stabbed into grass and soil just behind his desperately rolling form.
Hakon closed his eyes for an excruciating moment. An involuntary, protective hand went below his own waist. Couldn’t help it. He looked again, saw that Gareth had done the very same thing, and was wincing now, biting his lip. No longer amused.
It wasn’t entirely certain the blade, thrust by someone moving fast on uneven ground, would have missed impaling the older prince in an appalling location.
Athelbert rolled two or three more times, and scrambled to his feet, white as a spirit, cap gone, eyes agape.
“Are you crazed?” he screamed.
His sister regarded him, breathing hard, her auburn hair seeming afire in the sunlight, entirely free of any decent restraint.
Restraint was not the word for her at all. She looked murderous.
Judit jerked the sword free of the earth, levelled it, stepped forward. Hakon thought it wisest to scramble aside. Athelbert withdrew rather farther than that.
“Judit … ” he began.
She stopped, held up an imperious hand.
A silence in the meadow. Gareth had set down his reading, Kendra her grass-plaiting.
Their red-headed sister said, controlling her breathing with an effort, “I sat up with father, beside Osbert, for part of last night.”
“I know,” said Athelbert quickly. “It was a devout, devoted—”
“He is well now. He wishes to see Hakon Ingemarson today.”
“The god be thanked for mercy,” Athelbert said piously, still very white.
Hakon saw Judit glance at him.
Ducked his head in an awkward half-bow. Said nothing. He didn’t trust his voice.
“I went,” said the older daughter of Aeldred the king and his royal wife, Elswith, “back to my own chambers in the middle of the night.” She paused. Hakon heard the birds, over by the woods. “It was dark,” Judit added. Her self-control, Hakon judged, was precarious.
Among other things, the sword was quivering in her hand.
Athelbert backed up another small step. Had probably seen the same thing.
“My women were asleep,” his sister said. “I did not wake them.” She glanced to one side, regarded Athelbert’s bright red cap lying in the grass. Went over to it. Pierced it with the sword, used her free hand to tear the cap raggedly in two along the blade, dropped it back into the grass. A butterfly flitted down, alighted on one fragment, flew away.
“I undressed and went to bed,” Judit went on. She paused. Levelled the blade at her brother again. “Jad rot your eyes and heart, Athelbert, there was a dead man’s skull in my bed, with the mud still on it!”
“And a rose!” her brother added hastily, backing up again. “He had a rose! In his mouth!”
“I did not,” Judit snarled through gritted teeth, “observe that detail until after I had screamed and awakened all three of my women and a guard outside!”
“Most skulls,” said Gareth thoughtfully, from where he sat, “belong to dead people. You didn’t actually have to say that it was a—”
He stopped, swallowed, as his sister’s lethal, greeneyed gaze fell upon him. “Do not even think of being amusing. Were you,” she asked, in a voice suddenly so quiet it was frightening, “in any possible way, little brother, a part of this?”
“He wasn’t!” said Athelbert quickly, before Gareth could reply. And then made the mistake of essaying a placating smile and gesture.
“Good,” said Judit. “I need only kill you.”
Kendra held up her grass plaiting. “Tie him up with this, first?” she murmured.
“Be careful, sister,” Judit said. “Why did you not awaken when I screamed?”