by Kate Elliott
Was Hugh kind to use a senior presbyter as his errand boy, as if Petrus were no better than a common steward? Or was he only showing Rosvita the respect he felt she deserved because of her status as one of Henry’s cherished counselors?
“Let me but finish, Brother Petrus.”
The meal was quickly taken, shared with the young clerics and with Aurea, who finished up anything left over. Normally Rosvita might not break her fast until after the service of Sext, but with illness she knew she needed to eat more frequently in order to gain back her strength. Girls, of course, would eat whenever they could. Petrus had the habit of stillness. With folded hands, he bowed his head and shuttered his eyes. His lips moved in a silent prayer. Unaccountably she felt needled by his calm piety. Why should she not trust Hugh? He had shown nothing but complete loyalty both to his king and to God in the weeks since they had arrived in Aosta. In truth, some said—although never within Hugh’s hearing—that Henry and Adelheid would have faced far more resistance had Hugh not quelled Ironhead’s mercenary troops.
Fortunatus arrived with the rest of her retinue in tow: timid Gerwita, serious Eudes, the Varingian brothers Jehan and Jerome, and Ingeld, who was very young but recommended particularly by Biscop Constance herself. Bolstered by their presence, like a noble lady with picked warriors at her back, she let Petrus escort her through the Hall of the Animals and outside along an arcade surmounted by a procession of saints, each one lovingly carved into the marble.
Hugh received them outside the queen’s apartments. “I pray you, Sister Rosvita, be of good cheer. We have news from Wendar that comes ill today, with Princess Mathilda still feverish.”
The men had to wait outside. Not even Hugh entered the queen’s private apartments. Rosvita found Adelheid still seated in bed while one of her servingwomen finished plaiting her wealth of dark hair, tying off the end of the braid with a gold ribbon. A net of gold wire interlaced with tiny sapphires dressed her hair.
Two noblewomen had been allowed to sit on stools beside the bed. Rosvita recognized the two Gislas, neighbors in the region of Ivria. They had obviously been arguing.
“This cannot go on,” Adelheid was saying firmly. “Jinna pirates have attacked the coast thrice now, this summer, and because you two are feuding over a plot of land, no one can join together for long enough to end the raids.”
“But, Your Majesty—!” began the one called Gisla the Red, for her bright red hair.
“Nay, I have made my judgment. You both have children of marriageable age besides your heirs. Your second son, isn’t his name Flambert?”
“So it is, Your Majesty,” replied Gisla the Red, “but—” Adelheid turned to the other Gisla. “Flambert shall marry your third daughter, Roza, who I believe is now thirteen years of age.”
“But, Your Majesty—!” objected the other Gisla.
“They shall take the disputed lands as their own, and on their children I shall settle the title Counts of Ivria. Then you shall both have a share in lands none of which were wholly yours to begin with, but which came empty of a lordship by reason of the Jinna attacks.”
Gisla the Red bowed her head. “A fair judgment, Your Majesty.” Was it what she had been after all along? Rosvita did not know her well enough to judge.
The other Gisla had more objections, but she knew better than to make them now. “I will bow to your wishes in this matter, Your Majesty, but I will expect your assistance with provisions and troops in order to drive out the pirates.”
“You will have it.” Adelheid gestured to her servingwomen, and as they came forward to assist her to rise, the two noblewomen moved back into the crowd of courtiers, each one immediately surrounded by a faction eager to hear her side of the dispute. Adelheid’s women robed her in the southern style in an overdress heavily embroidered at the neck and elbow-length sleeves and belted three times round with a supple cloth-of-gold belt ornamented with cabochons.
She settled herself into the queen’s chair and gestured. “Sister Rosvita.”
“Your Majesty.” She knelt, and her three clerics hurriedly followed her lead. For all her timidity, Gerwita had a particularly graceful way of moving that would serve her well at court. “I trust Princess Mathilda is recovering?”
“So she is. The physicians say she will be healthy in another week. She is still a little feverish, but she is nursing well again.”
“God be praised, Your Majesty. What news from Wendar?”
Adelheid’s frown made her forehead crease slightly, presaging lines to come. She was still too thin. The birth, followed two months after by the fever, had weakened her more than anyone publicly admitted, but her color was good. “That is why I have called you to attend me, Sister. I need your counsel.” She beckoned. A travel-worn Eagle came forward from the cluster of women attending the queen. “I pray you, Eagle, repeat your message for the good sister.”
The Eagle was about the same age as Aurea, older than Adelheid, and unusually tall. She had big, callused hands and surprisingly delicate features, weathered by hardship. “As you please, Your Majesty,” she said obediently before closing her eyes, marshaling the words she had memorized. Her voice was high, at odds with her height and broad shoulders.
“Her Highness, Princess Theophanu, sends greetings to her most honored father, King Henry of Wendar and Varre, and to her beloved cousin, Queen Adelheid of Aosta. Ill tidings stalk the land. There have been reports of plague in the south. Varingia suffered a bad harvest last autumn, and there is drought in the land this spring. A Quman army has struck west through the marchlands and has been reported as far west as Echstatt in Avaria. They burn and pillage, leaving nothing behind but ruin. No news has come from Sapientia’s army since last autumn except rumors of a battle. I fear for the marchlands and indeed even for the heartlands of Wendar if this tide goes unstemmed. To this end, I have left Biscop Constance as regent in Autun while I ride with what forces I can muster to the east. Yet I lack troops, with so many taken south to Aosta. Duchess Rotrudis has taken ill, and her children are quarreling over their portions, all but her son Wichman, who rode east and vanished with Sapientia’s army. Prince Ekkehard left Gent in Wichman’s train and has also been swallowed up by the fighting in the east. Duchess Yolande claims that the Salian war for succession has bled away her fighting force, since many of her nobles have been forced to defend their borders from renegade bands pushed east by the fighting in Salia. Duke Conrad has pledged his aid, but there is further news that makes me hesitant to trust him. He has married Princess Tallia. That is why he was not in Bederbor last winter. The deed was done while Constance was riding progress through Arconia, and when she returned Lady Sabella had already given Tallia into Conrad’s hands. It is rumored that the girl is now pregnant. I pray you, Your Majesty. Let matters be settled quickly in Aosta. We need the army here in the north.”
Despite the questions burning to be asked, Rosvita remained silent a few breaths longer, in case the Eagle had not done. She knew better than to interrupt; an ill-timed interruption might jumble an entire message.
“What do you think?” asked Adelheid at last. A servant brought a cup of wine for the Eagle, who retired gratefully to a bench.
So much ill-starred news made Rosvita’s head spin. “I am thinking that King Henry will not be glad to hear of this alliance between Conrad and Tallia. Conrad should have asked Henry’s permission to wed the girl, since Henry is Tallia’s guardian, in default of her mother, Sabella.”
“The one who is imprisoned at Autun,” mused Adelheid, who had until six months ago been ignorant of Wendish intrigues, “for leading a rebellion against her brother.”
“Even so.”
“Is this alliance an advantage to us?”
Rosvita had to shake her head. “I fear not. Tallia has a claim to the throne of Wendar, just as Conrad does. Some would argue—as did the Varren nobles who followed Sabella’s revolt—that Tallia’s claim to the throne of Varre is stronger than Henry’s.”
“You
believe Duke Conrad to be ambitious.”
“I do, Your Majesty. He is also strong-minded, a man of bold temperament.”
“And poor judgment?”
“That is harder to say. I would not speak ill of a man as powerful as Conrad without good cause. He has offered none yet.”
“Will he come to Theophanu’s aid?” A servant came forward with a tray to offer her wine. The cup was, like Adelheid, a thing of beauty: carved sardonyx decorated with a filigree of gold wire studded with cabochons, an echo of those in her belt. Like Adelheid, it looked delicate, easily broken should it be dropped and smash into the floor. But Adelheid’s youthful prettiness made her easy to underestimate.
“It would be foolish of any noble in the kingdom to let the Quman range freely,” said Rosvita.
“Won’t the Quman just return to their homelands come wintertime? Can’t they be bought off?” Adelheid sipped at her wine before setting down the cup restively. “If only it were true that such raiding could be easily squelched. Yet how can we spare any troops from Aosta? The situation remains troubled here. Even in Darre there are still disturbances on the streets, people calling for this cleric or that biscop to be named skopos in place of Mother Anne. Bandits rule in Tarveni, and the noble houses of Calabardia refuse to send representatives to pledge loyalty to our reign. Henry fights in the south, but even so, half the southern provinces still lie in the hands of Arethousan thieves. I have pledged troops to rid my subjects of the Jinna pirates who plague our coasts. If Henry returns to Wendar now, all this will fall apart.” Her passionate gaze would have broken a man’s heart. “I know what it is to be a noble child at the mercy of her relatives’ ambitions. When I became pregnant, I swore my child would not suffer what I suffered when I was young, thrown to the wolves. I swore that she would inherit what is rightfully hers, in a land at peace. What shall I do, Sister Rosvita? What do you advise?”
“Send the Eagle on to King Henry, Your Majesty.”
“I could go myself!”
“Nay, you are right, Your Majesty, in remaining in Darre while the king rides out to consolidate your allies.” And knock a few reluctant heads together, or frighten them into swearing allegiance.
“You must consolidate your power here so that the king can return to a place of firm ground. If you leave, Darre’s support may crumble. No one questions your right to reign as queen.”
“No,” agreed Adelheid, more calmly, “they do not.”
“Has there been news of the king, Your Majesty? As you know, I am but recently risen from my sickbed.” She did not feel it necessary to tell Adelheid that her clerics brought her gossip every day. No doubt the queen guessed as much.
“They have laid in a siege at Navlia. Lord Gezo had made certain pacts with Ironhead and now refuses to hand over the greater part of the treasure which he took from Ironhead in return for supplying mercenaries. Duchess Liutgard was lightly wounded in the fighting. I confess, there has been some talk of her marrying again.”
Something in Adelheid’s expression alerted Rosvita. She said, carefully, “Has there been? Shall there be an open competition or does the duchess have anyone in mind?”
Adelheid had the courtesy to blush. “I have suggested to Henry that Prince Sanglant might be an appropriate husband for a woman of Liutgard’s rank and lineage.”
“Ah.” To get hold of her thoughts, now whirling violently, Rosvita folded her hands and bent her head, the better to contemplate the neatly laid out zigzag flooring, white stone alternating with black, beyond the pillow on which she knelt. Rosvita was certain that neither Liutgard nor Sanglant would welcome such a match, but she did not care to say so out loud. Liutgard had come early to her duchy and would not suffer any man for a husband who might try to rule with or for her. “Any gesture that opens the path of reconciliation is a welcome gesture, Your Majesty. Princess Theophanu’s message said nothing about Prince Sanglant.”
Adelheid smiled thinly. “So it did not, Sister. There are some who say that the king was too lenient with his bastard son.” Her eyes were bright in the soft light of morning shining in through the eastern windows to illuminate the handsome murals along the western wall, all of them depictions of scenes from ancient tales like the Lay of Helen and the conquests of Alexandras, the Son of Thunder. “Indeed, there are some who say that Henry’s marriage to the Arethousan woman Sophia ought never to have been recognized as valid. There are some who say that her children, too, should have no rightful claim to the throne.”
5
FOR three days they traveled fast through sparse woodland, well away from the road so that they would not be spotted. They rarely lost sight of the blood-knife banner. When they had a clear view down onto the road, it was easy to mark the progress of the high priest because of the startling headdress he wore, his feathers so lustrous that they seemed shot through with rainbows. Now and again they had to detour wide around a village and its vineyards and fields, careful not to be seen. The first time, Alain asked why they did not stop.
“Surely the folk here would aid us, if they all hate the Cursed Ones so much.”
Maklos pointed at the people working in the fields. It took a moment for Alain to realize that humans and Cursed Ones worked side by side, recognizably different only because of their complexions and because the Cursed Ones were, in general, shorter than their comrades. Some of the humans even wore their hair up in that distinctive topknot.
“They are slaves,” said Agalleos.
“They are dogs, licking the feet of our enemies,” retorted Maklos. He spat to show his disgust.
“They seem harmonious enough to me. Look. Do you see them laughing, there? See how that woman—she’s as human as you or I—stops to touch that man, as she might her own brother—”
“He is no man.” Maklos spat again. “He is a Cursed One. May he rot—”
“Hush,” said Agalleos. “My friend,” he said to Alain, “you are a foreigner and do not understand what you see. Slaves may smile and bow, hoping to be spared the whip. Magic may twist a person’s mind until she sees colors that are not there. Now, come. We cannot bide here or we’ll lose track of our party.”
Maybe so. There was so much he did not understand. Here in these lands even the houses were different, built of pale bricks and roofed with wooden shingles. But as they journeyed on he saw other villages where humans and Cursed Ones worked and lived together. The only places where the Cursed Ones lived separately was at the small forts, spaced a day’s march apart, where the high priest and his escort sheltered each night.
That third night as they bedded down in the pine woods within sight of earthworks, Agalleos could see that the matter still troubled him. “You have not walked in those villages, friend Alain. You have not walked in the ruins the Cursed Ones made of the town where I lived as a boy. We follow the high priest and his escort, yet can you say you have looked into his eyes, have you seen his expression? We are too far away to know any of those people except by the color of their cloaks. That does not tell us what lies inside their hearts.”
They lit no fire that night because the terrain had forced them close in to the road, well within sight of the low embankment and the wooden watchtower. Maklos took the first watch. Much later, Agalleos woke Alain for the final watch and lay down next to Maklos. Rage and Sorrow both slept; better to let them lie. They had come a long way without complaint, good comrades that they were. None better.
Alain leaned against the trunk of a pine, taking in the night sounds: an owl hooted, insects chirped, Maklos snorted softly in his sleep and turned over. After a while he moved cautiously to the edge.
The woodland had been cut back about an arrow’s shot on all sides of the little fort, an astounding amount of work. Sentry fires burned on either side of the gate, illuminating the glitter of rectangular shields set up along the embankment like a palisade. There was no moon, but the stars burned piercingly, so bright that for a moment he had an odd desire to weep with joy at their beauty.
A single figure passed the limit of the sentry fires and, lighting its way with a lamp, moved slowly into the clearing toward Alain’s hiding place. The man swung the lamp from side to side, searching low along the ground. Twice, he crouched and, knife glinting in the lamplight, gathered plants best reaped on a moonless night. Alain dared not stir. Something about the figure seemed familiar to him, a haunting ache, a teasing memory, but he could not say what. Darkness shadowed the man’s face, but as he came closer, Alain could see that he wore odd garb, not much more than a loincloth tied in a knot and draped loosely at the hips and, over his bare chest, a hip-length white cloak. Beaded sheaths covered his forearms and calves. Was that a feather stuck in his hair, bobbing in and out of sight as the lamplight caught its color?
The man crouched to investigate a spray of leaves among the ragged grass, lifting the lamp up at such an angle that all at once Alain saw his features boldly outlined.
It was the shadow prince, but not dressed as a prince in martial array and certainly not a shadow.
This man he had seen and exchanged words with in the ruins above Lavas Holding while an unseen shadow fort burned down around them. This man had led a column of refugees past Thiadbold’s cohort of Lions after Alain had negotiated a hasty truce, if there could in truth be any true intercourse between shades and people.
Maybe he gasped.
Maybe knowledge, like a knife-edged flower, opened in his heart. If the shadow prince was alive, Alain certainly could not be in the afterlife, because shades could not dwell on the Other Side; otherwise they would not be trapped as shades on Earth.
“Who is there?” said the man, lifting his head. He doused the lamp, but he had a habit, not unlike that of Prince Sanglant, of tipping back his head as though he were sniffing the breeze, trying to catch a scent.
A sentry moved out from the fires, crossing the grassy clearing quickly. “Is there anything wrong, Seeker?”
The prince waited a few breaths, still listening. Alain was achingly aware of the creak of the trees, the sigh of the wind through lush summer leaves, the soft snort of Sorrow, a stone’s throw behind him, as she dreamed.
