by Kate Elliott
“Is there something new you wished me to see?” She saw it just as Theophanu pointed to a banner fluttering atop a small traveling pavilion half concealed behind Ironhead’s palatial white tent: red silk with an eagle, dragon, and lion stitched in gold.
“Isn’t that the sigil of Wendar?” asked Paloma. “Does that mean the king of Wendar has come?”
Rosvita almost laughed, imagining the king confined to such a paltry tent and with no sign of his elaborate entourage. “Nay child. A party riding on King Henry’s business and under his safe conduct would carry such a banner. There, at the tip, is a gold circle. That signifies an embassy led by a cleric from the king’s court.”
“They arrived yesterday at dusk, escorted by Ironhead’s soldiers,” said Theophanu.
“Can it be that your father has heard of our plight?”
“You shall see,” said Theophanu. She turned to the young lay sister. “Paloma, you know the route.” The young woman nodded. “Gutta,” she said to the dark-haired girl, “go see what work awaits you in the kitchens.”
Paloma led princess and cleric back through the refectory, down a side tunnel that banked into stairs, and through a hanging that concealed a smaller tunnel ventilated by air holes. Soon it grew too dark to see except by touch, and they crept forward as quietly as wolves nosing up on unsuspecting prey. Then, abruptly, dim light filtered through a screen carved so cunningly out of a thin sheet of rock that they could see into the lit chamber beyond without their own shapes being revealed. Rosvita eased in beside Theophanu and together they gazed into the whitewashed guest hall. Rosvita had come to that hall four days ago to see Brother Fortunatus who, like the soldiers and male servants, could not venture into chambers consecrated as a holy convent. Now she saw only soldiers standing at nervous guard over a pair of Aostan clerics. A red-haired Eagle stood off to one side, expression shadowed.
“It still seems incredible to me,” one cleric was saying to another in Aostan. “I’ve crossed St. Vitale’s Pass in Aogoste and met blizzards. I don’t see how his party could have made it over the pass this late in the year and then brag of fine weather.” He dropped his voice. “What if it was weather sorcery? Yet none of his escort will utter an ill word of him. It’s as if he’s bewitched them all.”
“Or was wrongfully accused.”
“You know as well as I that normally St. Vitale’s Pass is closed from mid-autumn to early summer. I’ve never heard of any party crossing a week before Candlemass!”
The other man shrugged. “It’s been a mild winter. They just had good fortune. The soldiers I spoke to said that as they came down the last few leagues it had begun to snow behind them.”
“That proves nothing. It could still have been weather sorcery. What about those other tales we’ve heard? What about those lights we saw from the height of the rock last night? You heard screaming, too.”
“Hush,” said his friend, glancing toward the soldiers. “We’re here to see that he keeps his word to Lord John, nothing more. What matter if there is sorcery at work? Sometimes I wonder what harm there is in sorcery, if it can be used for good. I’m sick enough of this siege and these rations that I’d not care if magic were used to persuade Queen Adelheid to surrender, so we could finally go home.”
“Dominic!” His friend drew the Circle of Unity at his chest, like a ward against evil.
Theophanu tugged on Rosvita’s hand, and Rosvita followed her into a passage so narrow that rock rubbed her shoulders, then her head, and she had to kneel and walk forward on her knees like a penitent approaching the altar. The path dipped, Theophanu let go of her hand, and she touched a stair-step and, farther up, Theophanu’s sandaled feet. She pulled herself up beside the princess in a cupboardlike space scarcely large enough for both of them. A hazy veil more mist than light screened one side of the space, but it took her a few moments to understand where she was.
They crouched together crammed inside the altar carved into the chapel. The light that burned without, veiled by a screen of cloth, came from two lamps hanging from iron racks set on either side of the tiny chamber.
A man knelt before the altar, head bowed, hands clasped as he prayed. She could not see his face, but she did not need to see his face. She felt Theophanu trembling beside her like a doe caught in a net. She knew the set of those shoulders, that golden sheen of hair, the perfect posture, neither too humble nor too proud as he knelt before God’s altar and prayed in his mellifluous voice.
“Lord, my heart is not haughty nor my eyes lofty;
neither do I exercise myself in things too high for me.
Lady, surely I have behaved and quieted myself.
My soul is like that of a weaned child clinging to its mother.
Let us put our hope in God, for ever and ever.”
A cleric straightened up after ducking through the archway that led back into the guest hall. “I beg pardon for disturbing you, Lord Hugh.”
He looked up. It was truly amazing how perfectly the light framed his features even when he could not know that someone watched him. His expression was somber, his eyes kind. “Brother Dominic.” He smiled gently, not quite enough to reveal the chipped tooth. “Speak, Brother. Tell me what troubles you.”
“Has the mother abbess replied to your request yet, Lord Hugh? Will she see you and allow you to speak to Queen Adelheid?”
“I have heard nothing yet. But I trust in God, as must we all.”
“Some have wondered if you volunteered to negotiate with the mother abbess only to escape Lord John’s captivity. After all, you are safe from him up here. You might hope for rescue and watch from safety while those who brought you this far suffer below.”
“I am humbled by your accusations, Brother, but I would be first to acknowledge that I deserve them.” As he spoke, his features perfectly composed, he toyed with a red ribbon twined in his left hand. “I bear no ill-will toward the clerics and soldiers who were given the duty of escorting me to the skopos. Lord John’s soldiers should not have taken us prisoner and brought us here, and once Lord John learned of our destination, he should have freed us to continue on. But I understand that he is an ambitious man and hopes to make use of us as hostages. If I fail here, then I will join my companions in a martyr’s death. If I succeed, then we will ride on to Darre and I will present myself to the skopos as I was bidden at the Council of Autun.”
Brother Dominic grunted, as if himself displeased. “Your words are reasonable, Lord Hugh.” He hesitated, and finally spoke in a voice as low as that of a man plotting against his master. “It is hard to believe that any council could condemn you.”
Hugh bowed his head. “God know the truth.”
Brother Dominic shuffled nervously, as if he feared he had said too much. “I will leave you to your prayers.” He retreated.
For a long while Hugh knelt there, head bowed, unmoving, saying nothing. Rosvita scarcely dared breathe. Her gaze was caught by the painting on the wall opposite, faded now but still perfectly legible. The images depicted a party of Aoi dressed in feathers and short capes and not much more passing through a burning archway that led into a circle of standing stones. Beyond the stones lay a second and smaller stone crown, about a quarter the size of the first circle, situated within a cluster of buildings of a strange and wonderful design; a party of travelers, painted proportionately small, emerged from the second stone crown out of an arch of flame.
Hugh’s movement pulled her back. He drew out a small chest that had been concealed by the fall of his robes. A blood-red ribbon wound like ivy through the clasp that locked it tight. He untied the ribbon, raised the lid, and lifted out a sprig of juniper and a rectangular shape muffled in linen. Unwrapping it, he revealed a book.
Rosvita jerked back, hitting her head against rock. She caught a gasp in her throat. How had he regained The Book of Secrets? He began to read out loud.
“When the Moon is full, the studious one can by means of the threads woven by the planets and the heated air engender
ed by the Moon’s waxing coax down to the Earth the daimones of the lower air, those who live beneath the Moon’s sway. It is well known that men who are perverted and greedy for earthly gains are more susceptible to their influence, and the studious one may gain what she desires in this way: If she wraps the threads of the heavens neatly around these daimones and speaks the charms and the seven names of the holy disciplas and burns the smoke of juniper and fennel to cloud and chain their spirits, then they will do as she bids them. By certain unseen ways they insinuate themselves most subtly and marvelously into the bodies of humans because their own bodies have little corporeal substance but partake of the air and fire of heaven, and through certain diverse and imaginary visions they mingle their own thoughts with those of their hosts until one mouth may utter what another mind whispers.”
Ai, God, what had happened to Liath at the judgment at Autun? Her head throbbed.
Theophanu nudged Rosvita, and with Paloma they backed up along the tunnel until they emerged into the main corridor. She had to rest because her legs trembled and ached as if she’d just climbed the rock itself, but when she had recovered her strength, they walked in silence past the chapel where hump-backed Sister Carita knelt in prayer. Beyond the chapel lay the tiny library whose vertical shafts gave enough light that Rosvita could see all the shades of color in the soft rock, gray and pink and cream, that striped the walls. Sister Petra sat at the scribe’s lectern, situated so that the light from the ventilation shafts striped her work. With practiced strokes, she drew her quill across parchment. Rosvita paused. Weeks ago in the throes of the worst of her fever, she had asked Mother Obligatia to continue the copy Sister Amabilia had been making of the Vita of St. Radegundis. Was Sister Petra copying Brother Fidelis’ work?
Theophanu and Paloma had gone ahead, so she hurried after them instead of going in to ask. Many hands had worn the walls smooth, and the ground slid like finest marble under her slippers, burnished by the passage of many feet over the centuries. They descended stairs and here, deeper in the rock, they came to a landing so dim that they almost ran into Sister Hilaria, who emerged from the broad stairs that led down to the well. Two full buckets swayed on the yoke set over her shoulders and a third balanced on her head on a base of rolled-up cloth. She smelled of water and dripping rock. Behind her, two of Adelheid’s servingwomen staggered onto the landing and set down half-full buckets as they caught their breath and shielded their eyes from the light.
“A good day to you, Your Highness,” Sister Hilaria said, seemingly unwinded by her climb. “Sister Rosvita, it is good to see you on your feet.”
They stood aside to let her pass before them into the kitchens. Smoke stains decorated the walls above the kitchen hearths where huge ventilation shafts let in light and let out smoke. A fire burned on the middle hearth, tended by poor Sister Lucida, who was not only crippled but not quite right in the head. At the single table, Gutta and another woman kneaded dough, in flour to their elbows. Gutta wore a crude burlap apron to protect the queen’s fine gown. Two other servants made themselves busy, stirring a thin soup flavored mostly with horse fat and patting out flat cakes.
Sister Hilaria emptied the water into a barrel. She patted Sister Lucida on her shoulder, and the crippled nun bobbed her head happily and said a few slurred words which Rosvita could not understand. Sister Hilaria laughed. “Nay, I shan’t let you have all the onions. You’re a glutton for onions, and I won’t be the one to lead you into sin!” Lucida honked out a laugh, and with a cheerful grin Hilaria set yoke and buckets over her shoulders for another trip to the well just as the other water-bearing women finally made it to the barrel. “Just one more trip, friends!” Hilaria cried enthusiastically, “and we’ll be done.”
“For this hour!” groaned one, but Theophanu and Paloma had already gone on, and Rosvita hastened after them. She was still weak and didn’t trust her legs, so she went cautiously down a steep ramp that rang with strange echoes. It grew dark quickly, and because the nuns had no oil to spare for lamps they had to feel their way. Rosvita noticed the change: a yeasty scent, a roughening of the walls under her seeking fingers. She stumbled on the lip of a little ditch dug into the rock, and Theophanu took her by the elbow to steady her. Groping, Rosvita discovered a millstone set on its side, rolled away into a recess cut into the rock.
“Careful,” said Paloma. “It can be rolled across the passageway to block it.”
“In the event of an attack,” said Theophanu. “The nuns who built this place surely had little trust in human kindness.”
“Oh, no,” said Paloma with surprise. “The nuns didn’t carve these chambers. They’ve always been here, so the story goes. The nuns and Teuda and I just live here. Even Mother Obligatia doesn’t know how far into the rock the labyrinth goes. I’ve taken a candle and gone down to explore, but there’s never time to get far before the candle burns low. Come. It’s just around this corner.”
It took Rosvita a moment to identify the sounds echoing around her as music, and then they rounded a corner and came into a cavern so high that she couldn’t see its ceiling for darkness. A single lamp burned, revealing Queen Adelheid seated at her ease while soldiers entertained her. One had a battered lute, decently tuned, and he strummed a cheerful tune while a companion played the tune on a pipe. A trio slapped out drum patterns on their thighs and another man trilled birdcalls as a counterpoint to the melody. At the edge of the light, half a dozen soldiers stamped and spun in intricate little turns, dancing. It was odd to see Queen Adelheid smiling and clapping as if this rustic display pleased her as much as an elegant court entertainment. Her noble companions stood behind her, some enjoying themselves, others looking strained and tense. Adelheid saw Theophanu and beckoned to her, indicating a chair next to hers. As soon as the soldiers saw Theophanu, they faltered and ceased their playing.
Theophanu removed the pillow from the chair and set it on the floor. “Sit here, if it pleases you, Sister.”
“I thank you, Your Highness. Your Majesty, where is Mother Obligatia?”
“She is still with the wounded.”
“If I may attend her for a moment?”
Both queen and princess assented. A soldier came forward to escort Rosvita to the side chamber where the wounded lay, and as she ducked under a low arch carved into stone, she heard the music begin again behind her, echoing weirdly in the great cavern.
Weeks had passed before Rosvita had understood that the ancient nun who was tending her through her sickness was Mother of the convent. Now, by the light of a single lamp, Mother Obligatia knelt beside a fair-haired man who had been wounded fighting off one of Ironhead’s fruitless attacks. She was carefully rewrapping the poultice at his shoulder.
“Bless you, Mother,” he murmured as Rosvita came up beside them.
She said a blessing over him before bracing herself on a stout walking stick as she struggled to her feet. Before Rosvita could move forward to aid her, Captain Fulk appeared at her side to help her up.
“How may I assist you, Mother?” Rosvita asked.
“Stay beside me a moment, Sister. I am done except for this poor soul, but I fear there is nothing I can do for his wounds.”
One man rested apart from the others, and he lay silent except for a ghastly whimper that escaped him at intervals, sometimes followed by a string of hoarse words that made no sense until she realized he was speaking in Aostan, not Wendish: “no beginning no end cold sting in my heart falling the stone it hurts Lord protect me Ai God! the eyes!”
The shadows were a merciful cloak. His injuries had festered. Skin peeled away from his mouth, exposing teeth and gums, and one eye seemed seared shut with silvery threads impressed into the curve of his skull. A faint metallic scent stung her nostrils, a flavor like iron filings that she could almost lick from the air. Then Mother Obligatia undid the wrappings that covered his chest. Rosvita gagged at the stench of decay and had to step back.
A hand steadied her: Captain Fulk. He murmured an apology and hasti
ly stepped away. The soldier holding the lamp shut his eyes.
From the pool of darkness outside the lamplight, Brother Fortunatus ghosted into view to take his place at Rosvita’s side. “You are well, Sister?” The murky light made his face seem unnaturally pale, or perhaps it was only the poor soldier’s suffering.
“You are too anxious, Brother,” she said fondly. “I am recovering well for a woman of my years. I have nothing to complain of. Dear God, how could I?” She gestured. “What has happened to this poor man? Is he one of Queen Adelheid’s soldiers?”
Mother Obligatia dabbed a sharp-smelling ointment on his wounds, and the soldier began thrashing, moaning horribly. Rosvita had to look away as Captain Fulk knelt to hold the man down.
Brother Fortunatus shifted nervously before he spoke in a whisper. “There is magic here, Sister. It has been hidden from us until now.”
“You cannot believe that Mother Obligatia or any of these good nuns indulge in sorcery?”
“There is a secret hidden here,” he insisted stubbornly. “Look at him. He was brought in last night, just before Vigils. It seems odd to me that their attack should come only hours after Lord Hugh begged leave to speak with the queen.”
“What do you mean?”
The man gasped out a strangled croak, an unintelligible word, and then passed out. The threads of silver burned into his face gleamed, pulsing as if to the beat of his heart.
“He is one of Ironhead’s soldiers. A party of a dozen or more climbed the north face of the outcropping last night. They reached the stone crown at the summit at dusk. I suppose from there they meant to drop down upon us from above.”
She felt abruptly weak, shaken with memories of uninterpretable dreams. The ground seemed to rock beneath her like a boat shifting on the waters, and her stomach ached. “I must have been asleep.”
