by Kate Elliott
Already benches were being drawn up. Clerics and nobles crowded onto these seats while captains and lords stood behind them. There was Fortunatus! He made a sign with his hand so she could know all was well, and the look of relief on his face assured her that the rest of her precious schola had indeed survived the onslaught unscathed. Farther back she saw Sergeant Ingo of the Lions standing beside the one-handed Captain Thiadbold, now able to walk on his own.
Yet where was Mother Obligatia? What shelter had they found for her? And what of the shaman? What would happen to her?
What sign she made she did not know, but a hand brushed her shoulder, and that brief touch comforted her.
Last, and only with difficulty pushing their way through the crowd, came two litters. One was borne by a quartet of Arconian captains, and the other by stout clerics, four of Scholastica’s most martial attendants. Behind them limped a white-faced man whose shoulder was wrapped in linen still stained with oozing red blood. Lord Wichman was so weak from loss of blood that he could not stand unaided but must lean on one of his captains. He reeled up the steps, dropped heavily into a chair behind Conrad, and seemed at once to lose consciousness, eyes closing and head thrown back.
The captains set down the body of Sabella, daughter of Arnulf and Berengaria, beside the corpse of her nephew. The clerics lowered the litter bearing Princess Sapientia’s corpse and placed it beside that of her aunt.
Although the smell of sweaty and bloodstained bodies already permeated the hall, at once the stink of death struck Rosvita hard enough that she flinched from it: the strong sour smell of drying blood, the stench of loosened bowels and voided urine, all these indignities suffered by the dead were eye-wateringly apparent emanating from the two dead women, even though Sabella’s body bore only a single wound and Sapientia’s no trace of injury at all. No such stink wafted from the corpse of Sanglant, although he ought to smell worse having suffered such gashing wounds.
Mother Scholastica rose. “So are we all come.”
The crowd in the hall—and those still pushing into crevices and hand’s-width spaces along the back—grew quiet.
“So are we all come. All who are able-bodied and able-minded. For long years we were told that this prince’s mother laid a geas on his flesh, that no creature male or female could kill him. But after all, we see that this was merely a tale told by Henry to aggrandize his favorite child. Sanglant’s run of luck is over. Now he lies before us, who claimed the throne of Wendar and Varre although he had no right to do so.”
“For shame,” said Liutgard. “For shame, Mother Scholastica! Those of us who rode at his side out of Aosta and accepted his elevation will not have our decision so easily dismissed. His was the right. Henry named him with his dying breath.”
“It’s true that my brother Henry showed partiality toward the infant, who was destined for another fate according to the custom of the Wendish people. None among you believe that Henry’s decision was made with his dying breath. The day Sanglant was born, Henry confessed his wish to his father, King Arnulf, that he desired to make this bastard child his heir. I recall it!”
She surveyed the gathering with the pride and arrogance that her long years as abbess of the holy and powerful institution of Quedlinhame had granted her.
“I recall it, for I was already invested in the church and soon to become abbess. I was present in the councils of power, and in those councils held more privately with the king. So I tell you: this request went against all of Wendar’s customs and traditions! The bastard child must be the king’s Dragon, not the king himself. As well, the child was born of a foreign woman, with no maternal kin to support him and besides that an ancient and suspicious tale of old enmity dogging his heels. He could never be trusted.”
“Yet he was best among us,” said Theophanu in her cool voice.
Her flat statement caused Conrad to begin weeping again, for all his gestures were grand ones that every soul could join with. Many wept in the hall, some louder than others.
“Arnulf knew the child could never be trusted,” repeated Scholastica. She swept her hand to include the span of the hall and raised her voice yet more, a strong soprano that carried above the grief and anger of the crowd. “Henry was obsessed with the Aoi woman, but it was obvious to any eye that she did not love him but was at work on some hidden plan. This Arnulf saw. This he strove to prevent.”
“So it comes, that my nephew is dead.”
Wichman roused from his stupor. “His is not the only death today!” Then he laughed like a man driven mad by pain.
“No, indeed, it is not. Here also died Princess Sapientia, killed by sorcery. And Sabella—my elder sister.”
Wichman coughed blood. With the sleeve of his gambeson, Conrad wiped the spume off Wichman’s chin, and called servants forward, but the other man waved away these attendants.
“I will hear all of it. I will hear!” he croaked. “Now that Sanglant is gone, there’s not one of you left who can best me in combat.”
“Let him be,” said Scholastica. Her gaze, bent on him, was not kindly. “Let him hear, if he wishes. All these claims are now thrown over. Their souls have ascended to the Chamber of Light. Let us speak a prayer in their memory.”
Rosvita wiped her brow, and even that slight movement made her shoulder pinch and smart. She murmured the responses as the abbess intoned the prayer, but her heart was numb and her thoughts strayed.
Where had Constance come from? How came it that she was escorted by Eika soldiers? Had Sorgatani survived?
Rosvita had left the field as soldiers struggled to right the wagon, and when she surveyed the assembly now, she saw no sign of Hanna’s white-blonde hair although several times she caught her breath, thinking she had found her, only to realize that the Eika had hair just as bone pale.
Where was Wolfhere? He had spoken puzzling words by the roadside, and she began to think that if she could only recall them exactly that they would answer many questions, but exhaustion muddied her mind. It seemed to her that her eyes watered, that a faint perfume like rosewater drifted off the body of the dead man, a sweet and pleasing smell. She covered her eyes, dizzied.
A hand steadied her. “Patience,” he murmured.
The voice soothed her; her thoughts cleared as Mother Scholastica called again for silence.
“Let it be known that a writ of excommunication has reached me, carried by diverse hands. The skopos who reigns in Darre has threatened to lay an anathema on Wendar and Varre if the people are ruled by a bastard half-breed, born to humankind’s ancient enemy. Now that threat is lifted.”
In the front row of benches, Lord Berthold jumped up.
“Let me speak!” he cried. “I have been in Aosta in recent months. Let me tell you the truth about the woman who named herself skopos! She is no Holy Mother. She is the same Antonia, cast out as biscop of Mainni because she soiled her hands with bindings and workings. She knew the secrets of calling the galla. With them, she murdered her enemies without regard to any innocent souls who might be devoured by the galla. She is not Holy Mother! She only called herself by that name, but no college of presbyters elected her. They are all dead!”
“Silence!” cried Mother Scholastica, truly shocked. “What are you saying?”
He roared on. The intensity of voice raised from such a mild-seeming youth was astonishing. “Darre is gone. The holy city is uninhabitable, consumed by the Abyss. It is a place of fire. Pits of steam and poison. What authority can this woman have, who calls herself skopos? With what scepter does she rule?”
“Silence!” demanded Mother Scholastica, turning red.
“Who are you?”
“I am Berthold. The son of Helmut Villain, his youngest child.”
“Berthold of Villam is lost. Dead.”
“I am found. Living. And I am not done speaking! This I have also to report. Blessing, the daughter of Sanglant, lives. She lived also as a prisoner in Novomo for many months, as did I and my companions. She was stolen awa
y by Hugh of Austra, who that same day murdered Elene of Wayland.” His voice trembled, but he reined himself in.
“I will not tolerate this disrespect—” began Scholastica.
Conrad rose, and with a curt gesture signaled silence. Although he spoke in a measured tone, his anger had the force of a shout. “Where is the Eagle, Wolfhere? He knows the full tale, and I would like to hear it all now.”
“I don’t know where he is. I lost track of him after the end of the battle. But as for the manner of Elene’s death, there’s nothing he can tell you that I cannot answer, for I was there.” He choked. Brusquely, he wiped away tears. “That is not all, although to my mind it was the worst. There’s this also: Queen Adelheid of Aosta has allied herself with the Arethousan general, Lord Alexandros. He fled a civil war in Arethousa, and now he is married to Aosta’s queen. I heard also tales that the city of Arethousa was entirely destroyed in the tempest last autumn. Just as Darre was.” He paused, so full of adrenaline that he was panting, flushed, and sweating.
“Is that all?” Conrad asked. Then shook his head, with a kind of grunting laugh that a man might make when he is mired in sorrow but caught nevertheless by life’s irony. “To think of Villam’s son making this strange journey. Ai, God, my poor Elene.”
In answer, Berthold sat down and clasped his hands tightly in his lap.
Scholastica nodded at Conrad, and he smiled mockingly at her, but he sat down.
“So are we answered,” she said. “Henry’s obsession has been overthrown. Aosta and Arethousa have suffered God’s wrath. Yet so have we.” She glanced at the Eika lord—the first time by look that she had acknowledged his presence—but did not meet his inquisitive gaze.
The Eika lord listened and watched with a fierce and intelligent concentration that made Rosvita nervous. Despite the trappings—the primitive standard, the gaudy lacework that girdled his hips and thighs, the jewels drilled into his teeth, and the bare chest painted in spirals and cross-hatches—he was not what he seemed. He might appear savage, but far more dangerous currents surged within.
“It is time to acclaim a proper regnant. One who will heal the land, not divide it. So my father Arnulf, of blessed memory, said to me before he died. Better, he said, that if Henry’s obsession overtakes all, and my wishes are not followed, the line of Conrad rule rather than half-breeds.”
“That would be acceptable to me,” said Conrad mildly. “And to my heirs, all descended as I am from the first Henry. The blood of my daughter Berengaria flows also with Arnulf’s blood, through her mother, Tallia of Varre.”
So it came. The mask cracked. Theophanu rose in clear and blushing fury, a fine figure of anger who in that moment resembled her father in his famous wrath.
“It would not be acceptable to me. I love Conrad as my cousin, you may be sure. But in the absence of Sanglant and my elder sister Sapientia, I am Henry’s rightful heir. I have waited too long. I have been shunted aside too many times. I will not sit quietly and see what is rightfully mine pass to my distant kin.”
Such a hush might only be found during the Mass for the remembered dead, when the host of mourners and worshipers reflects upon their own sins. The peace endured a long time, broken at last by Mother Scholastica as she unclenched hands. Rosvita had not seen her curl them into fists, but the rigid line of her figure betrayed the tight control and bitter anger with which she regarded Theophanu.
“Beware Arethousans bearing gifts. You are too much your mother’s daughter. None love you.”
Theophanu lifted her chin to meet the blow. “Maybe so. But her lineage was of the highest order, a daughter of the empire. It was Arnulf himself who brought her to this country to marry his son.”
Wichman stirred, barking out a coarse laugh. “A strange objection, Aunt, since Conrad was also born of a foreign bitch.”
With a roar, Conrad jumped up, oversetting his chair, but when he whirled with an arm raised to clout Wichman, he caught himself.
Wichman chortled, then began again coughing up that pinkish spume.
“Carry him out of here,” said Conrad with disgust. “He’s sorely wounded.”
“Nay, nay,” rattled Wichman. “I meant what I said. I want to hear. Indeed, I’ll risk my life to stay, for I wish to hear my aunt’s reply to this puzzling question.”
His words had not shaken Scholastica. She regarded him with scorn. “Lady Meriam was unexceptional. She was brought here as a child and embraced the true faith with sincerity and wisdom. I find no fault in her. Sophia, however, was never truly one of us. It is better this way. Conrad will rule, and his daughter by Tallia will be heir to the regnancy.”
Theophanu took a step forward, making it easy for her to see each of the great princes in their chairs. To see the bodies of her brother and her aunt and her sister, whose blood she shared.
In Heart’s Rest there is a saying: It is the mother’s blood that tells.
The princess extended her left hand, palm open, although it wasn’t clear whom she meant to include in the gesture. Her expression was clean, her anger strangled. Her voice was clear and strong.
“With Sanglant and Sapientia dead, I am Henry’s eldest surviving child. Henry was your regnant. He ruled you well, all of you, before the tide took him. I am not beloved as my brother was, nor will I ever be. But I am wise and canny. I will rule as a prudent steward in troubled times. We must recover what is lost. We must fight against the chaos the tempest has left in its wake. Sanglant knew this. That is why you acclaimed him. That is why I stepped aside in his favor, although my claim was legitimate. Conrad is a fine warrior, but I am a better steward. That is my claim.”
Conrad smiled, as though this were all an entertainment put on to make him laugh. “And will you lead us when battle is joined, Theophanu? Or will the armies of Wendar and Varre choose to follow me?”
“What battle? The battle is over. We have lost. Will you fight those who outnumber us tenfold? Will the flower of our armies, the strength of our men, be cut down when we need them most to tend and build and plant? When we need them to protect us from the beasts and renegades who have flourished these past few years? From the threat out of Aosta and Arethousa? From the threat of our ancient enemies, the Cursed Ones?”
Conrad made a hissing, contemptuous sound, indicating the silent Stronghand. “What solution do you propose to combat their army, then? Cousin?”
She smiled, although there was nothing of sweetness in it. “The sensible one.”
With the slightest shift of her feet and shoulders, it could be seen that her outstretched hand was offered to the Eika prince, who watched her with a lively amusement, as if he had already guessed her intention.
“Let Lord Stronghand agree to become my husband, and he will rule beside me, consort to my regnant.”
The Eika laughed, a shockingly human sound.
The uproar rising from all sides drowned all other words.
5
ALTHOUGH he respected Mother Ursuline and her sisters within the church for their strength, and admired the Hessi merchant women for their quick understanding of the shifting forces that had altered the currents of the northern seas trade, Stronghand had not yet found a woman born of humankind whose intelligence truly reminded him of the deep cunning at work in the mothers who directed the fate of the Eika.
But maybe this one came close.
The attack was so neat and so brutal that he had only seen it coming an instant before it struck. The rest of the assembly was blindsided, taken utterly off guard.
He rose and acknowledged her with a polite nod.
She looked him in the eye, asking a question by the way she lifted her chin slightly. The other great princes were stunned, but even so a few among them were thoughtful rather than outraged.
After a while, because of his silence, and hers, and the absolute silence of his ranks of warriors as they waited for his signal, the crowd’s exclamations and muttering died away until he could speak and know he would be heard.
&nb
sp; “It is a better bargain than I expected. What terms do you propose?”
“I will never countenance this!” cried Mother Scholastica.
Biscop Constance answered her. “I pray you, Aunt. I would speak.”
At the sound of a strong, steady voice issuing from such a crippled body, folk listened respectfully. Even Mother Scholastica waved a hand to show she would not interrupt, and Stronghand had certainly always understood that the mothers of the tribe must be listened to with full attention.
“Let me tell you in short measure my tale. You know that I was made biscop of Autun years ago, and more recently that Henry invested me as duke of Arconia after Sabella’s failed rebellion. Later, I was deposed and sent to an isolated monastery called Queen’s Grave, for no woman who entered it ever came out again. Queens of old often took refuge there from cruel husbands or rapacious relatives. Be aware that, although I hold no grudge against him, Conrad knew of my imprisonment and acceded to it.”
The duke of Wayland stirred uncomfortably in his seat but made neither excuse nor denial.
“This I know,” agreed Mother Scholastica. “It is because of your imprisonment that much bad blood arose between Wendar and Varre.”
Constance nodded. “Sabella has passed beyond forgiveness or vengeance. Let it be.”
“How came you to be released?” asked Duchess Liutgard.
“That is a tale for another day. I took refuge at Lavas Holding with Lord Geoffrey, who stands as regent for the young count, his daughter. Sabella discovered where I was and sent a troop of soldiers to fetch me. I came with the escort rather than risk the lives of innocent children that Sabella was holding hostage. Reaching Autun, we discovered that Sabella had already marched east with an army. On our way here, we were overtaken by the Eika. All of my small company were taken prisoner. So I can tell you something of these Eika and their leader.” “What would you tell us?” asked Theophanu. Human women were not beautiful. The least of the SwiftDaughters was glorious compared to a body whose flesh was as soft and dull as half-baked dough. But this one had a certain cool presence to her that made her different than her sisters. She was not marked by the constant surge and ebb of emotion that marred their faces. One could look at her and feel restful.
