“I … I … think not.”
“No,” Maeniel said. He was still holding the necklace. He dropped it with a clatter among the rest of the gold.
Regeane stood, shivering with the terror of her vision. She got another look at Maeniel’s face. She was being tested, probed.
Maeniel reached down and lifted a torc, simple but made of heavy gold with inlaid knobs at its ends. “What do you think of this, then?” he asked.
Regeane braced herself, stretched out her hand, her fingers closed around it.
Again there was darkness and the sound of the sea. A pyre flared on a headland. All around Regeane were the sounds of anguished grief. The wind blew the flames aside for a second and Regeane saw the dark figure within. And she knew, with the perishing of this woman, all her world perished also. In the night vigil of her mourners she understood darkness was the elegy, the violent sea a dirge not for one woman, but for a whole people.
Regeane drew her hand away very quickly. “No,” she whispered, stone-faced. What is he doing to me? she thought.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said as he laid the torc down gently. “It is said to have belonged to a mighty queen never defeated in battle.”
“It would not be suitable for me,” Regeane said.
Maeniel reached down and lifted a mass of golden chain by one crooked finger. It emerged as another necklace made of fine golden chains in red, yellow, and white gold secured by fruiting grape vine with each grape picked out in pearls.
Tentatively, Regeane took hold of it, wondering what sort of trick he might be playing now. This time the vision she saw was of morning. Maeniel himself lay on a stone in the center of a circle of menhirs. He was naked. His youthful flesh was beautiful in the gentle light. His face was that of a much younger man, the long muscular limbs stretched out in voluptuous relaxation were those of a stripling youth.
Again, as with the shepherd on the Campagna, Regeane felt an awareness of utter vulnerability in his innocent sleep. A woman sat beside him. She wore the necklace Regeane held and nothing else. Silver comb in hand, she was dressing her long dark hair. There was an unmistakable air of complacency and power in her gaze as she stared down on the sleeping Maeniel.
Regeane drew her hand away from the necklace. “This one, I think,” she said.
Maeniel placed it gently around her neck. Then he took Regeane’s hand and kissed it. “I will take my leave of you ladies and say good-bye. Until tonight then,” he said to Regeane and strode from the garden followed by Gavin, leaving Regeane and Lucilla standing beside the golden baubles on the table.
XXVIII
WHEN SHE WAS SURE HE WAS GONE AND SHE heard the entrance doors closing, Regeane ripped off the jewels and flung them onto the table with the rest. “He is more than he seems,” she gasped and staggered toward a bench. She sat down heavily.
“What was wrong with those things?” Lucilla asked. “What did he do? Did you see visions?”
“Enough,” Regeane said, “to make him as no ordinary man. But I cannot think what he is. A magus … I don’t know.”
“Girl,” Lucilla said, sweeping the gold into a pile and beginning to replace it in the saddle bags. “Speak to me coherently. Tell me what’s wrong. I saw your face when you touched that first necklace. You looked as if you’d seen a dozen ghosts.”
“I did, in a way,” Regeane said. “Some objects, Lucilla, carry the memory of events, evil and good, they’ve been associated with. They are, in a sense, alive. Remember the dress on the cart when we first met? The one I described as vile?”
“Yes,” Lucilla said.
“Well, all of those pieces of jewelry were alive in that way. I’m certain he selected them deliberately.”
“If he did, you gave yourself away completely. Deception is not an art native to your character.”
“No, it isn’t, is it?” Regeane admitted as she sat on the bench, twisting her hands despairingly. She could feel the tears trickling down her cheeks.
“Stop that,” Lucilla commanded. “This is not the time for tears but for clear thinking and planning. We must both decide what to do about this man. Now, while he’s here in Rome. I have the ear of Count Otho. If I can convince him this Maeniel might betray the Franks …”
Something warm and soft fell gently into Regeane’s lap and she felt a comforting hand squeeze her shoulder. She blinked away her tears, looked down, and saw her father’s mantle. She clutched it to her breast and gently dried her tears on the soft woolen cloth. Love, and then a sense of almost unbearable loss, flooded through her, blinding her to the world around her. They had failed each other, her wayward parents, and in a sense had failed her, she thought, remembering her mother’s wounded love. But however twisted by religious teachings and the world’s malice, her mother had loved her. And her father’s arms had been her strength in the very canyons of hell.
She had seen him enter the forest. Did Gisela await him there, assured of his forgiveness and God’s? Was death only a sleep from which we awaken into a garden of light? Regeane looked up and saw Antonius standing by her side, smiling.
He was handsome again. A few faint, pale scars marred the fine-boned aristocratic face, but otherwise, he looked for all the world like a healthy man in the prime of his life. He was slender, clad in the long, embroidered tunic and the ornate toga of a Roman aristocrat. The fingers on her shoulder were intact and powerful. His grip was firm and strong. She had won. And the sense of victory over death drove out the demons of doubt, uncertainty, and despair, the way the sun scatters mist.
“Let her cry if she wants, Mother,” he said, gently. “There is a time for tears and, believe me, I know they can heal the heart.”
“Be quiet, Antonius,” Lucilla said. “I’m on the track of an idea. If we can convince this Count Otho that—”
“Ever the intriguer, aren’t you, Mother?” Antonius said.
“Yes,” Lucilla answered. “You know my mind. The best of all my children and you are the cleverest. I own it. Now tell me how you would set about convincing Otho this Maeniel is dangerous.”
“I wouldn’t bother,” Antonius replied. “At least not now. Since this morning I visited Otho.”
“Yes,” Lucilla said. “Of course, he must have urgent political reasons for being here.”
Antonius nodded.
“He wants to see if there is any truth to the story that the Lombards are spreading about Hadrian’s family being tainted by leprosy,” Regeane said.
“She’s not slow, is she, Mother?” Antonius commented. “In any case I called on him this morning and denied all the rumors. I even stripped naked in his presence.”
“Did he try to seduce you?” Lucilla asked.
Antonius shook his head in negation. “I don’t believe that’s one of his weaknesses.”
“What a pity,” Lucilla said. “That’s always a good point of leverage with these barbarians. They affect to despise effeminacy.”
“Yes,” Antonius said. “It was something of a test. However, when I was sure he was convinced these disease allegations were only a Lombard trick, I then persuaded him that it might be a good idea if I were appointed a captain of Regeane’s guard.”
Regeane gave a soft sigh of relief.
Lucilla clapped her hands together and rolled her eyes heavenward. “A masterstroke,” she shouted as she embraced Antonius. “Oh, my son, my most beautiful, perfect son.” Tears were streaming down her cheeks. “How can I ever thank you, Regeane?”
Antonius pried himself from Lucilla’s embrace ever so gently and kissed her hand.
“I’m sure you will think of something, Mother,” he said with almost tender irony.
“You darling boy,” Lucilla said.
But Regeane saw a twinkle of equally subtle malice creeping into her eyes.
“Your father would be proud of you,” Lucilla continued.
“Which one is that?” Antonius asked with an air of innocence. “The black-bearded Thracian pirate with the muscl
es and scars? I believe I recall he sailed to his death in a violent storm. Or was it the Sicilian poet who won your heart with song? He, I understand, was a bit too fond of wine. Didn’t you say he was murdered in a tavern brawl?”
Lucilla looked at him sourly for a moment. “I was trying to get you to study your letters at the time. You have no idea how difficult it is to get an adolescent with a roving eye to apply himself. Or at least you won’t until you have children of your own.”
Antonius winked at Regeane. “This ghostly procession of fathers has goaded me on all my life,” he sighed. “I believe the best one was the Umbrian muleteer who stank of garlic and onions. You invented him when I was about to take up with Adraste.”
“I didn’t approve of Adraste, but I notice it didn’t deter you,” Lucilla said.
“No,” Antonius said, settling himself on the bench beside Regeane. “Thank you for not saying ‘I told you so’. Tell me, would my father really be proud of me?”
Something changed in Lucilla’s face. Her eyes took on a haunted look. For a second, she seemed to shrink into herself and looked almost old, but her recovery was immediate. She drew herself up, eyes flashing. “Dear boy,” she said. “I’m sure he would. But I have an even more important question to ask you. Are you in love with Regeane?”
“Lucilla,” Regeane cried, outraged.
But Antonius threw back his head and laughed. “You mean, Mother, am I going to use my subtle skills as a courtier, my polished personal charm, my aristocratic air, to ruin both her and myself?”
“In a word, yes,” Lucilla snapped.
“No,” Antonius answered. He ticked off the reasons on his fingers. “First, I owe her too much ever to place her in the kind of danger that would be occasioned by an affair of the heart. Second, she’s not my type. You know the kind I like, raunchy, a little stupid, shameless, and just a tad bit cruel.”
“You forgot to mention greedy,” Lucilla said.
“Yes,” Antonius answered. “There’s that, too. Believe me, Mother, my behavior will be above reproach.”
“See that it is,” Lucilla said. “Make absolutely sure that no possible suspicion can be raised against you. And remember, appearances can deceive, also. Even innocent actions can be misinterpreted and guilt may be implied where none exists.”
“Mother,” Antonius said. “You have a tendency to preach.”
Lucilla swept the rest of the gold into the bag. “The sermon is over,” she said. “I hope you both took it to heart.”
Then she left, carrying the gold.
Regeane continued to sit where she was. Antonius was silent.
A brocaded butterfly paused in its search for nectar among the flowers and perched on her knee, folding its wings neatly into a sail. Regeane’s and the wolf’s eyes traced the hardened veins that held the dusty wings into their shape. Then the butterfly’s wings opened into a tapestry of yellow and black, and it fluttered away.
“What did you think of Maeniel?” Antonius asked.
“I like him,” Regeane said. “When he embraced me, I wanted to be his wife.”
“Is that possible?” Antonius asked.
“I’m not sure,” Regeane answered.
“Yes, I know,” Antonius said. “When I was reassuring my mother about our future relationship, there was another reason in the deepest part of my heart why I could never look on you as a lover—you’re not human.”
“No,” Regeane agreed, quietly.
A dragonfly flashed past Regeane’s face. One hand flicked out. She caught the dragonfly by the thorax. She held it, wiggling and buzzing loudly and indignantly, for a moment before she released it and let it go on its way in peace.
“How many humans do you know who could do what I just did so easily?” she asked.
“Very few, perhaps none,” Antonius answered. “Cage the wolf, Regeane.”
“No,” she answered. “The night Basil kidnapped you, he came here to kill me. On that night the wolf found her freedom. I will be free or I will be dead. It’s as simple as that. I can’t disavow her. We are one.”
“Then you will always be in danger,” Antonius said.
“I know,” Regeane answered. “And this Maeniel is a formidable opponent.”
Antonius nodded. “I’d already assessed him. Why do you think I got myself appointed captain of your guard? I did it to protect you and to forestall any lethal little plans my mother might be hatching.”
“Someone,” Regeane said, “should tell your mother that murder is frowned on in some circles.”
“Not in the circles you and I are going to travel in, Regeane. In those circles, it’s an instrument of policy. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she said. “Or at least, I’m beginning to. The blood of a king runs in my veins as well as the blood of a wolf. And I can never escape the dangers wrought by both. I must learn to defend myself.”
“As for my mother,” Antonius said. “I won’t make either excuses or apologies for her. She doesn’t need them. You don’t know what it was like here in Rome when the Lombards controlled the papacy.”
He bowed his head. “Every day another murder, usually the killing of one of Mother’s friends or Hadrian’s. Hadrian was too popular with both the people and the nobles to attack openly, but there were many clandestine attempts on his life. I remember very well the night he was poisoned—at a dinner in the villa of a man he believed to be his best friend.
“My mother fed him emetics while I held the basin. He vomited a very good dinner that would have killed him if it had remained in his stomach. For many years, my mother rarely dared go out openly by day and never by night. You see, she’d been set upon by a party of Lombard soldiers. I think the only reason she survived was that she put almost superhuman heart into her men by snatching up a sword and fighting alongside them. I, myself, crossed the Alps to the Frankish court to lay my mother’s wager. She left it to me.”
“Wager?” Regeane asked.
“Yes, wager on which Frankish king would prevail. Charles or Carloman.”
“I assume you made the right choice,” Regeane said.
“Charles,” Antonius nodded. “I got letters from him supporting Hadrian’s candidacy for the papal chair. As soon as the Lombard pope’s health began to fail …”
“I hope your mother didn’t have anything to do with that,” Regeane exclaimed.
Antonius paused, a speculative expression on his face. He brought one finger slowly to his lips. “Mother,” he whispered, half to himself, “is a thoroughly unprincipled virago, but I don’t think …” Then he began to sigh, flashing a set of strong white teeth. “Well,” he said, “I’ll never ask. In any case, those letters circulated among priests and patricians here in Rome charged with electing the pope, virtually guaranteeing Hadrian’s victory. But it was a very near thing, Regeane. Twice Mother’s friends, her girls, uncovered plots against Hadrian’s life. And once, he was forced to flee the city and hide on the estate of a friend.”
Regeane shuddered even though the air was warm. The wolf looked wonderingly through her eyes at the sunlit garden. Regeane felt the beast’s helplessness in the face of intrigue, treachery, and deceit. Her own heart longed for savage simplicities. One hungered, one hunted. Angered, one fought. Love was a shadow play by moonlight, governed by chance and choice. Never by force and politics. A final yielding of all of oneself to pleasure and desire. The female is respected. She gives life, she is life. Her body is a temple. The beast doesn’t use force. The strong-sinewed, powerful killer. The lord of the hours between midnight and dawn worships at the temple of love.
“Yes,” Antonius said. “There is a certain temptation to reject the world.”
Regeane gave a little start. “How did you know?”
“I think,” Antonius said, “that if I could do what you can do, I would be tempted, too.”
“You seem to enjoy the game for its own sake,” Regeane answered.
“Yes,” Antonius answered. “And if you are
wise, you will learn to enjoy it also. Because I’m very much afraid, Lupa, that you will play it all your life.”
“How so?”
“This King Charles,” Antonius said. “Men are already beginning to call him Charles the Great, Charlemagne. I was with him the night he wrote the letters that secured Hadrian’s election as pope.
“Those letters were written in secret, Regeane. His brother, Carloman, was still alive. Charlemagne was married to a Lombard princess and his mother leaned heavily toward an alliance with the Lombards. But Charlemagne was already laying the groundwork for what is now Frankish policy.”
Antonius lifted one hand and his words brought the scene to life for Regeane.
“We were alone in his chambers except for the scribe. Charles, you see, cannot really write, though he can read three or four languages well. We had only a few rushlights and the scribe toiled in their glow. Charles strode up and down, hands clasped behind his back. He must have carried not only the import of those letters in his mind for a long time, but each and every word he wished to use. For the scribe didn’t have to blot or correct a single line on the parchment. And he spoke not merely with the confidence of a king, but his mien was that of an emperor.
“When he was finished dictating and the scribe was sealing the letters I was to convey to Rome, I asked him how he could be so sure that he would ever be able to carry out his plans. He put it to me very simply. ‘Carloman, my brother king,’ he said, ‘is sickly. As you have no doubt observed.’ I had. ‘It will be a miracle if he survives another winter. The Frankish lords will not support his wife, a foreign woman, or her children, not against me, they won’t. And as for my mother’s leanings toward the Lombards, well,’ he said with a faint smile, ‘that’s a family matter and I’ll deal with it when the time comes.’ And he has, Regeane. This Charles—Charlemagne—is going to become a very strong king. Your connection with his family will become even more valuable and possibly more hazardous for you. It is given to you to learn the path of worldly power, or you will die.”
The Silver Wolf Page 41
