The Gathering Storm

by Kate Elliott

  Too late Ivar recognized the servants for what they were: retired soldiers. Even the abbot had the bearing of a man who had fought in a battle or two as part of the biscop’s military host. They were many, and Ivar and his friends were few.

  “But there was a phoenix,” objected Baldwin. “I hate it when people don’t believe me.”

  “Where did this miracle take place?” demanded the prior.

  “In the borderlands, some days east of Gent,” said Ivar.

  “A conveniently long distance from here,” said the abbot.

  “Have you any other witnesses?”

  “The villagers saw it,” said Ermanrich.

  “The villagers are not here, my friend. What of the Lions who accompany you? Or Lady Hathumod?”

  “Prince Ekkehard saw it, as did all of his companions,” said Baldwin.

  “Prince Ekkehard abides far to the east as well, and is now married to Margrave Gerberga—”

  “He does not!” retorted Baldwin, who was never more indignant than when he was utterly sure of his ground. “He’s abbot of St. Perpetua’s in Gent. He can’t be married. And he was just at the battle with us. I saw him cut down!”

  “It’s said Prince Ekkehard survived many things, including battles, captivity, and his own treasonous actions. I think your account must be confused, Brother Baldwin.”

  “It is not!”

  “Baldwin.” Ivar had a bad feeling that he was missing something very important. “Father Ortulfus, you must forgive us if we seemed confused. It seems to me that only a few nights have passed since I saw both Margrave Judith and Prince Bayan alive. It seems an ill omen when I hear you speak as if they’re dead.”

  “Ivar!” Sigfrid’s whisper was like the murmuring of ghosts on the wind. Sigfrid had thought of something that the rest had not.

  “What is it?”

  “The year,” said Sigfrid diffidently.

  “The year?”

  “What year is it?”

  “Any fool knows that it’s—um—what year is it, Sigfrid?” The prior made to speak, but Father Ortulfus silenced him simply by lifting a hand. “Go on, Brother Sigfrid,” said the abbot more kindly than before, although his sudden gentleness made Ivar unaccountably nervous. “What year is it?”

  “The year of our Lord and Lady, seven hundred and thirty,” answered Sigfrid quietly, but he had a sad little frown on his delicate face.

  The door set into the wall behind the abbot’s seat opened. “My lord abbot,” said a brother, leaning his head in. “The brothers have assembled and are waiting for you.”

  It was time for prayer.

  “It was a miracle,” said Sigfrid stubbornly. Despite his small size and unprepossessing appearance, he had both the intelligence and strength of faith to speak with an authority that made others listen. “Ask if you will at Quedlinhame, for they will remember clearly enough when they cut out my tongue: How, then, can I speak now, if not by a miracle?”

  “A difficult question to answer,” agreed Ortulfus, rising from his chair. His officials stood as well, leaving only Baldwin, Sigfrid, and Ermanrich on their benches. “Be sure I will write to Mother Scholastica for her account. But it will take many weeks or even months to get a reply, and I must decide what to do with you in the meantime. In truth, like any pestilence, heresy spreads quickly unless it is burned out.”

  The monks blocked the doors, and while the chief of scribes hadn’t the ready stance of a fighter, the others looked able to hold their own in a scrap.

  They were trapped.

  “You are three years too late,” added Father Ortulfus. “This is the autumn of the year seven hundred and thirty-three since the Proclamation of the Holy Word by the blessed Daisan.”

  Three years.

  Sigfrid swayed, and Ermanrich made a squeak, nothing more, as his eyes widened in shock and his mouth dropped open with an of surprise and disbelief. No one knew better than Ivar how well Sigfrid attended to his studies. Sigfrid hadn’t been wrong.

  “What three years?” demanded Baldwin.

  Ivar felt the grasp of that ancient queen who had appeared to him in the barrow, clutching him by the throat, squeezing the life from him, her hands cold as the grave. Magic had caught them in its grip, and now they were paying the price. They had escaped the Quman, but not at the cost of two nights. Not even at the cost of a month.

  “Three years,” he whispered.

  “Maybe we were asleep,” said Ermanrich, who for once had no joke to make, “like that Lord Berthold we saw under the barrow.” Monks murmured in surprise and alarm, and a startled servant, hearing that name, scurried out the door.

  “It’s a lie!” cried the prior, a bluff, soldierly looking man. “They’re liars as well as heretics! I was here the day Margrave Villam’s son disappeared up in the stone crown among the barrows. He hasn’t been seen since, and those tunnels were searched for any trace of the young lord.”

  “We did see them!” protested Baldwin. “I don’t know why none of you believe anything we say!”

  “I’ll have silence,” said Father Ortulfus, his voice like the crack of a whip.

  Cold air eddied in through the open door, disturbing the warm currents off the braziers. A misting rain darkened the flagstone pathways in the courtyard, seen beyond the brother waiting patiently in the doorway. In the center of the courtyard stood an elaborate fountain depicting four stone unicorns rearing back on their hind legs. A hedge of cypress hid the colonnade on the opposite side of the courtyard, but several stout monks loitered there. The abbot had left no escape route unguarded.

  “My lord abbot,” said the servant again. “The brothers are waiting for you to lead Vespers.”

  “Come, then,” said Father Ortulfus grimly. “Let us pray all of us together, for surely in this hour of trouble and confusion we have need of God’s guidance.”

  X

  THE DEPTHS OF HIS GAZE

  1

  “THE Eagle, Your Majesty, recently come from Princess Theophanu at Osterburg.”

  All morning every person in the palace had done nothing but talk about the triumphal procession of Henry and Adelheid into the city yesterday evening. With each hour the story grew in the telling: how the king had single-handedly quelled the riots, how the queen’s mercy had saved children from death, how malcontents had thrown down their staves at the sight of Presbyter Hugh. God had smiled on the righteous in their campaigns in Aosta. They had won a great victory over the Jinna bandits outside the town of Otiorno. Although the Arethousan usurpers in southern Aosta still clung to power, the authority of Henry and Adelheid in northern and middle Aosta could now be called decisive.

  Yet despite these epic feats, the scene confronting Hanna seemed strikingly domestic in its intimate charm. King Henry sat at a table in a private chamber, staring at the chessboard across which he and Duchess Liutgard of Fesse battled, ivory against black. Hanna knelt, grateful for the cushion of carpet beneath her knee. Because the king did not look up from his game immediately, she had time to study the room and its occupants.

  The king looked little older than when she had seen him last. Had it really been three years since she had left his court at Autun bound for the east with a company of Lions? Much of that time seemed like a blur to her, passed in captivity or in illness. She had been on the road a long time.

  About half of the royal garden was visible through an open window. A dark-haired child played in that garden, followed by a veritable swarm of attendants. Even at this distance Hanna heard her shrieks of delight as her nursemaids tried to catch her while she ran excitedly along the twisting pathways of a floral labyrinth, stumbling on unsteady feet but always climbing gamely up with a new burst of energy.

  Mathilda, child of Henry and Adelheid, was the anointed heir to the kingdoms of Wendar and Varre and to the kingdom of Aosta. She was not much more than two years of age, but every one spoke of her as the child who would be empress in the years to come. No one spoke of Henry’s children by Sophia at
all, except muttered comments about the untrustworthiness of Arethousans bearing gifts. And soon Mathilda would not be sole child of Henry and Adelheid.

  Adelheid reclined on a couch, and by the shape of the queen’s belly Hanna judged her about midway through a second pregnancy. While a singer accompanied herself on a lute, the queen chatted in a desultory way with white-haired Duke Burchard and half a dozen noble courtiers. Adelheid had such a graceful way of using her hands to punctuate her speech, like birds or ribbons, that Hanna did not realize she was staring at the queen until she heard her own name spoken.

  “Hanna! The king will hear your report now.”

  Henry moved his castle to threaten Liutgard’s biscop before turning.

  “What did you say, Father Hugh?” With narrowed eyes, he examined Hanna, resting his chin on a cupped hand. Rings glinted on his fingers, set with gemstones, a banded cabochon of onyx, polished sapphire, and a waxy red carnelian. No spark of recognition lit his face, but perhaps he had already seen and noted her as she came in.

  “Your Majesty.” Was there any hint, in his expression, in his carriage, in his tone, that Hathui’s accusation had been true? She saw nothing damning. He seemed entirely himself, the regnant robed in dignity and luck. “Your daughter, Her Most Royal Highness Princess Theophanu, sent me with an urgent message.” She bent her head, letting the words unfold that she had memorized over a year ago and kept fresh each day, awaiting this moment. “To my lord father, His Glorious Majesty Henry, king of Wendar and Varre, I, his loyal daughter Theophanu, send heartfelt prayers for his health, his well-being, and his wisdom. I pray you, my lord king, let my pleading words awaken compassion in your heart for the troubled state of your kingdom.”

  The litany of afflictions rolled easily off Hanna’s tongue. Internal strife in Wendar and Varre. The Salian civil war spilled over into Varingia and Wayland. Famine and plague, flooding and hailstorms. A plague of heresy and the destruction wrought by the Quman invasion, under the command of Bulkezu, who had gone so far as to take Prince Ekkehard prisoner and with flattering words and rich presents turn him against his own countryfolk. The town of Echstatt burned and the palace at Augensburg still a ruin, where crows feasted on the corpses of Bulkezu’s hapless prisoners. A rot spreading among the rye, poisoning the grain and any who ate it. A two-headed calf born alive. Tallia pregnant by Conrad, and the duke celebrating Penitire in Mainni as if he were a king. Biscop Constance’s silence from Autun. The death of Duchess Rotrudis followed by plotting and quarreling among her unworthy heirs. Prince Bayan dead in battle against the invaders, and Princess Sapientia ridden east with Sanglant, who had taken over her army and made it his own. The traitor, Prince Ekkehard, promised to Margrave Gerberga.

  Hugh made a stifled exclamation.

  “Margrave Gerberga?” Henry sounded surprised, or perhaps puzzled.

  “Judith was killed in battle three years ago against the Quman, who rode under the command of the same Bulkezu whom Prince Bayan and Prince Sanglant defeated at the Veser.” No need to regale them with the story of how Judith’s head had survived as an ornament hanging from Bulkezu’s belt. “Her daughter Gerberga inherited Olsatia and Austra.”

  “The margrave has taken a grave step by marrying Ekkehard, Your Majesty,” said Liutgard, speaking now that Hanna had already been interrupted. “No person vowed to the church may be forced into marriage vows. Wasn’t Ekkehard promised to the monastery?”

  “Indeed,” said Hugh. Did he mourn the death of his mother? Or did he already know she was dead? “Ekkehard was invested as abbot of St. Perpetua’s in Gent. It was your own wish that he be offered to the church, Your Majesty. Do not forget the incident with Lord Baldwin. You did not give permission for Prince Ekkehard to be released from his vows and ride to war, much less be allowed to marry.”

  “This is rebellion.” Henry caught hold of a captured black dragon and squeezed it until his knuckles turned white. “My own sons and daughter have turned against me.”

  “Princess Sapientia may only be Sanglant’s pawn,” said Hugh.

  “It seems likely,” said Liutgard, glancing toward Duke Burchard who, with the rest of the folk in the chamber, had drawn closer to listen. “Sanglant has the stronger personality, if indeed it is true this is rebellion and not some other business. If the Quman invaded, then perhaps he has pursued the remnants of their army east to make sure they do not threaten Wendar again.”

  “My God,” murmured Burchard. Contemplating the ruin the Quman had made of Avaria, he looked as frail as a withered stick blown about in storm winds. “I should have been there to defend my people. Did the Quman meet no resistance at all? Were there none left to fight them?”

  Hanna dared look at him directly, hearing shame in his voice. And oughtn’t he be ashamed? He had not met his obligations to protect his own people. “No one, my lord duke, except the common folk who died defending the land and their families. I don’t know how many of the noble lords rode south with you to Aosta. Those who remained in Avaria paid off the Quman so they would go away. Lord Hedo’s son abandoned his post to join the quarrel in Saony. I don’t know what happened to him.”

  “That’s enough,” murmured Hugh.

  She flinched, expecting a blow. It did not come. Her knee hurt where it pressed into the carpet, not so thick after all; not thick enough to protect her from the obstinacy of the marble floor.

  “There is more to my message.”

  Henry rose, cutting her off. “I have heard enough.” Even Liutgard looked surprised. No one ever cut off an Eagle’s message.

  Ever.

  “Adelheid.” The king held out his hand, making ready to leave, and as he turned, Hanna looked up full into his face.

  She saw his eyes clearly.

  She had never forgotten the complex brown of his eyes, veined with yellow and an incandescent leaf-green. He had beautiful eyes, worthy of a regnant, deep, powerful, and compelling.

  His eyes had changed.

  She could still see the brown or at least the memory of that pigmentation. But the deep color had faded, washed into a watery, pale blue substance that writhed in the depths of his gaze like a wild thing imprisoned and straining against the bonds that held it within its cage.

  With a shudder she swayed and caught herself on a hand. The emerald ring he had given her shone on her middle finger: an oiled, milky-green stone set in a gold band studded with garnets. She had sworn to bear witness for the king who had gifted her with that ring. But she was no longer sure the man standing here was the same man to whom she had given her loyalty, and for whom she had suffered and survived as a prisoner all those months.

  “Your Majesty.”

  Henry brushed past her. His companions and attendants followed him to the covered terrace that looked out over garden and maze.

  “Papa! Papa!” Princess Mathilda shrieked in the distance, galloping to greet him.

  A handful of worried looking men and women, all Wendish, remained behind.

  “I would hear the rest of your message, Eagle,” said Duke Burchard, leaning on a cane as he stepped forward.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord duke.” Hugh moved smoothly up beside her. He had not left her alone since they had departed St. Asella’s the night before; she had even slept on a pallet in his bedchamber, beside his other servants. “I am commanded to take down the Eagle’s message in writing to deliver to King Henry when he has more leisure to contemplate Princess Theophanu’s words. If you wish to interview this Eagle, you will have to wait until I have finished with her. I pray you will forgive me this inconvenience. Your distress is evident.”

  Duke Burchard’s lips tightened. He glanced at Duchess Liutgard. These signs were too fragile to stand up to scrutiny, and perhaps they were only the trembling quirks of an aging man.

  “I know you are the king’s obedient servant, Your Honor,” Burchard said at last. “I pray that after you have taken the Eagle’s statement you will allow one of your servants to escort her to my suite, so I may
interview her. It appears she has firsthand knowledge of the Quman invasion.”

  “So it does,” replied Hugh with a lift to his voice that made Hanna rise to her feet, as in a sparring contest. She was still waiting for the blow. He gestured to her to follow the servant who hovered always at Hugh’s heels, carrying a satchel.

  She glanced back as they left the chamber in time to see Burchard, looking after her, beckon to Liutgard. The two heads, one hoary and aged and the other young and bright, leaned together as the duke of Avaria and the duchess of Fesse bent close in intimate conversation. The door closed, cutting them off, and Hanna felt rushed along as Hugh led his retinue at a brisk pace under shaded porticos and out across the blistering hot courtyard that separated the regnal palace from the one where the skopos dwelled.

  Too late, Hanna realized the direction they were heading. Shading her eyes did little to soften the sun’s glare or the nagging fear that crawled in her belly. Her knee still hurt. They crossed under the shadow of a vast arch and passed more sedately along corridors inhabited only by the occasional scuff of a cleric’s sandals on swept stone. Open windows offered glimpses onto bright gardens, golden and sere after summer’s dryness, where the spray of fountains made rainbows in the air. She felt the breath of that moistened air as they passed, swiftly fading, the merest touch.

  Where was Hugh taking her?

  The golden halo of his hair was no less brilliant than the sun’s light. His carriage was graceful, his attitude humble without false modesty, and each glimpse of his face reminded her of whispered tales of innocent children half asleep at their prayers catching sight of angels.

  This was no dream.

  Elderly presbyters bowed their heads respectfully as Hugh passed, and he paused to greet them with such unassuming sincerity that it was impossible to fault him for pride or self-aggrandizement. It was hard to imagine him in his humble frater’s robes disdainfully leading services in the rustic church at Heart’s Rest for a congregation of half-pagan and thoroughly common northern folk whom he obviously despised. Even Count Harl had seemed crude beside Hugh’s elegance, and Hugh had not deigned to hide his scorn for Harl and Ivar and their rough northern kin. Yet to see Hugh here was to see a man so different in all ways that she felt dizzy, as though she were seeing double.