Crown of Stars

by Kate Elliott

  Hanna helped dig two graves, one for the soldiers and Jerome and Aurea, and a separate pit for Lady Bertha. Sister Rosvita and the older nuns stripped her and wrapped her in her cloak; in this fur-lined shroud they buried her. Rosvita sang the blessings over the dead. Bertha’s seven surviving soldiers wept. Everyone wept, all but Hanna, who had no tears, and Mother Obligatia, who had seen too much death to be scoured even by this.

  “How comes it that those who attacked called the name of Prince Sanglant?” asked Sergeant Aronvald.

  “I do not know,” said Rosvita.

  “They’re like him in looks. His kinfolk.”

  “It’s true,” she agreed, looking troubled.

  “Think you he has betrayed us?” asked the sergeant.

  “You traveled with him last of all, Sergeant. What do you say?”

  He stared at the mound of dirt. “My lady trusted him. Yet the creatures did call his name. How could they know it, if he was not in league with them? Yet my lady would not put her trust in one who meant to betray her.” He glanced sidelong at Princess Sapientia, who remained mute and emotionless, like a puppet dangling from slack strings. “Better if this one had died, than our bold lady,” muttered the sergeant, but he was careful to pitch his voice so only Hanna heard him.

  Afterward, as they saddled and harnessed the horses, as they wedged their supplies into place and made ready to leave, Hanna saw how they looked at the painted cart in their midst.

  They feared her, who had saved them.

  “Eagle.” Rosvita beckoned her over, and they walked apart, shying away from a dead man masked behind a lizard’s snout. Fortunatus stood rear guard.

  “What is it?” asked Hanna, although she already knew by the way their eyes shifted toward the cart and away again.

  “I thought …” Rosvita sighed, frowned, touched her forehead as if her fingertips might coax out words. “Lady Bertha and I discussed, yesterday, that it might be time to send you ahead as Eagles ride, to carry news of our coming.”

  “Where meant you to send me?”

  She shook her head. “It no longer matters. Yesterday I did not know. What she is.”

  “She is no Daisanite,” said Fortunatus. “She does not believe in God.”

  Their expressions chilled Hanna. Anything might happen if Sorgatani were left alone among those who could not speak to her, those who could never look into her face.

  “Trust her,” she said, hating the way her voice quavered, the way it betrayed her desperation and sudden fear. “I pray you. She saved us.”

  “What if she turns on us?” asked Rosvita, not with anger or bitterness or suspicion but as a leader must ask, seeking information. “She is not our kind.”

  “Trust her, and she will trust you. Distrust her, and she will distrust you.”

  “Is that all of your advice, Eagle?”

  “There is nothing else to say.”

  “She is a terrible weapon. A curse.” The gray light of morning softened the lines on Rosvita’s face. The journey had aged her, yet she was not bowed. She led them now that Bertha was dead. She would hold firm.

  “Terrible, yes,” said Hanna, thinking of Bulkezu and his Quman hordes, of lizard-snouted creatures shooting poisoned arrows at her out of the dark, of griffins and centaurs. Thinking of Hugh. “But it is better we hold such a weapon, is it not? Better that we do, than that our enemies do.”

  Fortunatus looked at Rosvita, and she at him. Perhaps he raised an eyebrow so imperceptibly that Hanna could not quite mark it. Perhaps it was a slight movement of his lips. These two were intimate in the same manner as family fit hand in glove. Hanna knew they were communicating although she could not hear what it was they said.

  “Yes,” replied Rosvita to the words he had not spoken. “Mother Rothgard is famous for her knowledge of sorcery. It might be we should consult her. To protect ourselves.”

  “To protect her!” protested Hanna.

  Fortunatus closed his eyes, looking pained and weary.

  “So it might also be argued,” agreed Rosvita. “Alas it has come to this, that it is good for us that we grasp such a poisoned arrow to our heart.”

  “She is what the Horse people and her own mothers made her. She is a good person!”

  They looked at her. They doubted. They did not believe.

  Maybe, in her heart, she did not believe either, but she remembered Sorgatani’s tears.

  “God ask us to remember compassion, do They not, Sister?”

  “They do. Why do you say so?”

  “Think of her, then, no older than I am. Think of her imprisoned in that cart for all of her life except when she might wander in woodland or grassland where no one unsuspecting can stumble across her. Think of her, and feel compassion. Then you will trust her.”

  Fortunatus batted a fly away from his face, his mouth twisted, his gaze fixed on the dirt.

  “What of this other whisper?” Hanna demanded, sensing that to press forward might distract them from Sorgatani. “Some of the soldiers are saying that the raiders must have been in league with Prince Sanglant.”

  “As easy to say they were seeking Sanglant so they could kill him,” said Rosvita. “These are fears speaking. I do not believe it. Do you?”

  Do I? Hanna could not speak to refute it, or admit it. Rosvita smiled sadly and seemed ready to speak, but she paused, cocked her head, and listened.

  There came an unspeakably faint rattle, like buckets clanging together. The dogs barked. Sergeant Aronvald shouted a warning. The men, made furious by exhaustion and grief, grabbed their weapons and cursed.

  In silence, except for the dogs barking and wagging their tails, they waited.

  Like a miracle, there came walking Laurent and Tomas up the road with buckets swinging They started as they came closer, seeing the wagons laden and ready to leave.

  “Did you mean to leave us?” called Laurent cheerfully. “Can’t get rid of us so easily!”

  No one moved, only watched them stride closer, as if they might be possessed by ghouls.

  “What happened to you?” demanded the sergeant.

  “We got lost, turned around entirely. Figured it was too dangerous to try to get back at night. Likely break a leg! So we bedded down in the woods. Whew! Had one damp spell when the rains came over, and fool Tom got a nettle sting on his left hand, but otherwise we survived without being eaten by wolves or swallowed up by …”

  Laurent was a dark-haired lad with a round, rosy face unaltered by their travails. He was younger than Hanna and pleased at having played a practical joke even if he hadn’t meant to, but as he looked around at their faces, his own expression shifted, darkened, and fell, and he shut up.

  Tomas saw a corpse. Whitening, he nudged Laurent and pointed. His left hand was, indeed, blistered with the fading red rash of a nettle sting.

  “Ai, God!” Laurent exclaimed. “What’s wrong? What have we missed?”

  “Move along,” said the sergeant, not answering him. “Move along.”

  III

  OLD FRIENDS

  1

  THE king’s progress came after many days to the Oder River and rode south to Walburg, reaching the fortress of the Villams in time to celebrate the Translatus at the holy cathedral begun by Helmut Villam and not yet complete. Here, in the east, his aunt, Biscop Alberada, left him to return to Handelburg in the easternmost marchlands. Here, three days later, Margrave Gerberga declared that it was her intention to take her leave of the progress and, together with her royal husband, ride southeast to her lands of Austra and Olsatia.

  “There is trouble abroad,” she said in her matter-of-fact way as Sanglant’s intimate companions reclined at their ease in a large chamber set aside for their use by Margrave Waltharia. “I dare not remain away longer. I fear raids out of the wilderness. Anything might happen.”

  The shutters stood open, admitting a cold breeze. By morning, every puddle in the forecourt would be iced over, but within the tower chamber the heat of so many bodies k
ept them cozy. A carpet insulated them from hard planks. Besides the fire, a half dozen braziers stood on tripods around the room, radiating warmth. Sanglant sat in the chair that had belonged to his father, the regent’s seat with its back carved to resemble a span of wings, its feet ending in a lion’s solid paws, and its dragon-faced arms. It had survived the tempest and firestorm on the shore of the Middle Sea. Each night his servants set it up and each morning, when they set out to ride, took it apart again. It was cunningly made, easy to handle, and impressive to see. But it was uncomfortable to sit in, even with a cushion placed on the seat. He often wondered if Henry had wanted it that way, to remind him of the dangers and difficulties of ruling should he ever begin to relax too much.

  The nobles of the realm rested more easily on couches and well-cushioned chairs or on sturdy benches padded with feather pillows. Sitting cross-legged on the carpet, Prince Ekkehard played chess by the fire with Gerberga’s young sister, Theucinda. She was a pleasant enough girl, old enough to marry but young enough to giggle, as she did now when Ekkehard moved his Biscop to a vulnerable position and, too late, realized his mistake.

  Theophanu was also playing chess. She sat at the table across from one of the clerics from the schola, but hers was a serious game, all maneuvering done in silence. Her gaze did not once leave the board as her opponent assessed the placement of red and white. Theophanu had left one of her Castles in jeopardy, but Sister Elsebet had lost one of her Eagles and looked ready to lose the second. Neither had the advantage, but either could win in five moves.

  Duchess Liutgard was writing a letter with her own hand, supervised by a cleric of her household. Now and again she addressed a comment to Waltharia, who was seated beside her. Waltharia worked steadily with her needle as she embroidered the sleeve of a fine midnight-blue tunic sized, Sanglant noted, to fit a man. Obviously Waltharia was preparing to welcome the husband she expected to replace Lord Druthmar, the one she had asked Sanglant to find for her.

  He sighed.

  “I did not drop it.”

  “You did!”

  “No, you misplaced it. It wasn’t my fault, it was yours.”

  “You’re always blaming me!”

  This from the corner, where Rotrudis’ daughters, Sophie and Imma, sat and whispered. Despite hating each other, they were rarely apart. Their brother Wichman snored on a couch, an empty cup just about to slide out of his right hand.

  Clerics, stewards, servants: he marked each one. He knew them all. Those who were new to his retinue were revealing their quirks and temperaments to him, day by day. Naturally, the only one missing was his beloved wife. He frowned.

  “Anything,” Gerberga repeated. Her gaze dropped briefly onto her husband, and she flushed and waved a hand in the air as if to fan away a fly.

  Ekkehard looked up. “Why must ’Cinda stay behind?”

  That got their attention. Every head lifted. After a breath, or three breaths, most looked away but everyone continued to listen. Even Wichman stirred, opening his eyes. On a quiet night such as this, they had to enjoy whatever entertainment came their way.

  “You are too attached to her, Ekkehard.”

  Theucinda looked up at her sister, trembled, and said nothing. She was the youngest of Judith’s brood. Coming after the beautiful Hugh, the forthright and commanding Gerberga, and the blunt and combative Bertha, it was no wonder that she was a mouse.

  “She is like a sister to me!” objected Ekkehard. “Aren’t you?” he said, pressing Theucinda, although it was obvious the girl would have preferred to remain silent. “Aren’t you?”

  Something shifted in her expression. Perhaps, after all, she hid her stubborn Austran streak beneath that fragile, freckled complexion and rosy mouth. A pretty enough girl, but not at all to Sanglant’s taste. Thank God he had escaped marriage to her!

  The diminutive creature spoke in a soft voice. “I don’t want to enter the church, Gerberga.” The words came out as if she had learned them by rote. She looked at Ekkehard, then blushed.

  “I said I’d marry her!” cried Wichman, rallying from his stupor. He scratched his crotch, burped, and stared with incomprehension into his empty cup.

  Gerberga snorted. “Let your cousin Sanglant find a suitable husband for you, Theucinda, and you will not have to enter the church. He means to do as much for Waltharia, so why not for you?” She smiled at Sanglant.

  A challenge! He lifted a hand off the arm of his chair to acknowledge her request.

  Theophanu had, after all, been listening. Her hand, poised to move her Castle, froze in midair as she looked over. How cool her voice was, yet her words scorched. “If there are any suitable men to be found, a circumstance I doubt. Yet I pray you, Theucinda, do not despair. You may not have to wait long. Perhaps an institution could be founded for you, as it was for my dear brother Ekkehard. Then after you have said your vows, you will be sure to be called to marriage.”

  “That is the end of it,” continued Gerberga, soundly irritated now. “Theucinda remains with the king’s progress. We leave in the morning, Ekkehard.”

  “God, I have to pee,” said Wichman.

  Rotrudis’ son had tactical flair. It was just possible that he rose and made a scene of departing in order to break up the gathering, to allow folk to retire to their beds without battle being joined. Or it might be that he simply had to pee after drinking five or ten cups of wine. He staggered out, and in twos and threes they followed him. Sanglant remained seated, waiting, and at last he was alone with Waltharia. She handed her embroidery to a servant and raised an eyebrow, waiting in her turn. Coals were brought. The servingwoman folded up the tunic and stored it in a chest. A man gathered up cups and took them away on a tray.

  He found that solitude, with her, made him uncomfortable. Without meaning to, he touched the gold torque at his neck, the one she had persuaded him to wear, and he felt heat burn in his cheeks and knew he was blushing.

  She smiled. She knew him that well.

  “I know where Liath is,” she said, rising.

  “I thought she came up with us,” he complained, “but she has not been here this past hour. How do you know where she is?”

  She chuckled. “She asked me about a certain person living in retirement here.”

  The words stung him. They had secrets, Waltharia and Liath. They confided in each other. It was disconcerting and, in truth, a little irritating. But he said nothing, only stood and beckoned to Hathui, who was waiting by the door.

  They came down the broad stone steps of the tower and passed through the dark hall where so recently the crowd of nobles had feasted. The lamp carried by a steward illuminated alcoves and benches in flashes. Here rumpled shapes slept, crowded together for warmth. A pair of dogs nosed along the floor, seeking scraps lost in the rushes. Sanglant could still smell the tantalizing odor of roasted meat, just as the dogs could. They barked, seeing a rival, but slunk away.

  A door led onto the courtyard where the kitchen buildings stood far enough away from the hall to protect it from the ever present danger of fire. Waltharia led them past these to a tiny cottage set back by a well amidst a withered flower garden. She pushed the door open and they went inside. A pool of light created by a single lamp graced the room. Liath sat on a three-legged stool, bent forward to listen to an elderly woman who was propped up on pillows in her bed and dressed in a plain linen shift like an invalid. He recognized her lean, lined features, squared shoulders, and keen gaze at once, but the expression on her face as she spoke with Liath was not hostile, not as it had been when he had first met this old woman years before in Walburg. In those days, her hostility had been directed toward the old Eagle, Wolfhere.

  She looked up first. As usual, Liath was so intent on what she was doing that it took her a moment to notice the arrivals. Not so with him; she could not enter any room he was in without him immediately being aware of her presence.

  Ah, well.

  “Sanglant,” she said, beckoning. She nodded to Waltharia, not needi
ng to greet her. Somehow, it made the relationship between the two women seem more intimate than the one she shared with him.

  “Here is Hedwig,” Liath added. “She was an Eagle.”

  The old woman stirred, groping for a cane and looking quite startled—but not, he thought, because of his presence.

  “I pray you, Eagle,” he said, “no need to rise. I recall your old injuries. I’ll sit here.”

  There was a chair. He grabbed its back and swung it over.

  “I thank you, Your Majesty,” she said with a hint of sour humor as she cast an accusing glare at Liath. She released the cane to rest against her bedding.

  He sat beside Liath, facing the old Eagle. Waltharia remained standing at the foot of the bed. Hathui circled around to warm her hands at the hearth fire. Smoke swirled in the lamplight. A servant hurried forward to place more wood on the fire. It was so cold in the cottage, despite the blaze, that Liath’s breath steamed when she spoke.

  “Repeat what you told me, I pray you, Hedwig.”

  The old woman frowned, first at Liath and afterward upward at the loft of darkness that hid the ceiling. She was measuring her words in her mind before she spoke them. He almost laughed, because the look of her made him feel so young. She was exactly the kind of old woman who had frightened him most as a boy because this sort were apt to scold a hapless child for stealing tarts from the kitchens when it was only hunger that drove him. This kind was merciless, even in the face of honest need. Even to a royal prince who in other hands might expect a little leniency.