by Kate Elliott
No. He had been forced to take the novice’s hood. Forced because he loved Liath and she loved him and he would have taken her away from Hugh, and this had been Hugh’s way of revenging himself on Ivar.
No. He never minded the pain or the austerities of a novice’s life. The pain, even of the willow switch, reminded Ivar daily that he would, somehow, avenge himself on Hugh and save Liath from Hugh’s clutches. No matter that Hugh—bastard though he was—ranked far above a minor count’s youngest son. No matter that Hugh’s mother, a powerful margrave, was an acknowledged favorite of King Henry.
By hating Quedlinhame, Ivar kept himself strong enough to hate Hugh. Somehow, some way, Ivar would have his revenge.
2
BLOODHEART had sons. As time passed, Sanglant learned how to recognize them: by their ornamentation. Only the sons of Bloodheart could stud their teeth with gems; the mail skirts they wore, as intricate as lace, were gilded with gold and silver and woven with bright stones and flashing jewels; a stylized red-ocher arrowhead, symbol of their father’s hegemony, figured prominently in the pattern of colorful painting with which they decorated their torsos.
As summer passed into autumn and the vast nave of air in the cathedral grew steadily colder, sons came and went from their favored place in front of Bloodheart’s heavy chair. They left for expeditions whose fruit brought gold, cattle, slaves, and a harvest of endlessly fascinating small items: an eagle-feather quill, a length of sky-blue silk, a sword with an ornamented gold hilt, vases carved out of horn or marble, an arrow fletched with the iron-gray feathers of a griffin, a turquoise pendant engraved with sixpointed stars inlaid with gold, a silver paten, a bloodstone cameo ring, a linen tablecloth embroidered with silk, slivers of ossified dragon’s fire sharpened into thin blades, a hoard of green beads, translucent angel’s tears polished and strung together as a necklace, silk bed-curtains, and silk-covered pillows. Bloodheart tossed one of the pillows to Sanglant, but the dogs ripped it to pieces and bits of its feather stuffing floated, spinning in the still air, for the rest of the day.
One son haunted the cathedral more than the others, favored or in disgrace, Sanglant could not tell. He was easily distinguished from the others: He wore at his chest a wooden Circle of Unity, no doubt a trophy ripped off a corpse, and he had taken upon himself the odd habit of, once a day, overseeing the slave who brought bucket and rags to clean up the spot where, at the limit of his chains, Sanglant relieved himself. This humiliation Sanglant endured in silence. It was, in its own way, a mercy not to be left to fester in worse filth than what he already had to suffer.
But Bloodheart was fickle, or perhaps it served his purposes to act so.
Day by day more Eika trickled in until their numbers swamped the cathedral. They were like a swarm of locusts, all of them pestering him with pricks of their spears, with spit, with dogs sent to fight him until the tunic he had wrapped his forearms in lay in shreds on the floor and his skin was a mass of bleeding scrapes and bites. But it would heal. It always did, cleanly and without infection. Some of the dogs died, to be eaten by his pack and, finally, by him as well; this food he could not scorn, because he had so little. The dogs that fled him were quickly killed by their pack brothers.
The Eika cheered on these battles, ringing him and shouting and calling out encouragement. Since he understood so little of their language, he could not tell whether they hoped he died, or whether his living was entertainment enough. They sang until all hours of the night and seemed to have no need of sleep, nor could he sleep in any case, with the dogs testing him and the curious coming to stare and point and howl with laughter at the sight of a halfhuman prince among the dogs.
Bloodheart sat and surveyed all from his throne, and his priest crouched at his side, scratching the scars on his scrawny chest now and again, rolling bones to read the future, caressing the little wooden chest which he kept always beside him.
But at last, on a day made warm by the press of bodies and cold by the gloomy light that filtered in through the windows, Bloodheart rose and howled them to attention.
“Which of you has brought me the greatest treasure?” he cried, or so Sanglant assumed, because at once the sons came forward with magnificent treasures, some of which Sanglant had seen before, some of which were new: gold chalices; a necklace of emeralds; a sword of such terrible beauty and slender killing sleekness that it must have come from the forges of the east; a woman’s veil woven so cunningly that it could have been a spiderweb unfastened from branches and gilded with silver and pearls; rings made gaudy with precious stones; a reliquary of ivory and gold and pearls; a Quman bowcase—
Sanglant shut his eyes. He had to lean forward onto his hands, swept by such a powerful memory of Liath walking ahead of him through the stables, her body ornamented by a bowcase incised with a griffin devouring a deer, that he trembled. His dogs growled, always alert to weakness. Bloodheart barked out words, and Sanglant jerked up, ready to fight. Never let it be said that he did not fight until his last breath.
But Bloodheart’s attention was on another. He called one of his sons before him, the one who wore the Circle. This one, young and straight, had less of the bulky mass of his brothers, but there was yet something about him that was different, something Sanglant recognized but could put no name to, unless it was intelligence.
Bloodheart gestured to the treasures scattered like leaves at his feet. He spoke, indicating this last of his sons. What had he brought?
The other Eika howled and dogs began barking and howling in response. Never allowed to leave the city, this Eika son could hardly have been expected to find and bring home treasure. But perhaps he was in disgrace, and this, finally, was the moment Bloodheart had chosen to make the point.
The young Eika stood calmly under the storm of their howling and derision. At last, seeing they had not made him cower, they quieted. He did not speak immediately. He waited, and when he did speak, he spoke only to his father and, amazingly, in good Wendish.
“I bring you the most precious treasure,” he said, his voice as smooth as the tone of the bone flutes Bloodheart played each day. “Wisdom.”
“Wisdom!” Bloodheart grinned, flashing gems. “What might that be?”
“Which of your other sons can speak the tongue of the human kind?”
“Why should they? What use are the humans to us? They are weak, and being weak, will die. We will take what we want from them and go on our way.”
“They have not died yet.” He did not look toward Sanglant. “The humankind are as numerous as flies on a corpse. Though we are stronger, we are fewer.”
Murmuring, the others grew restless at an exchange few of them could understand.
“What matters it if we are fewer,” said Bloodheart, “if they are weaker?” But he still spoke Wendish, to Sanglant’s surprise. “What matters it as long as we kill twenty for every one of our brothers who dies?”
“Why must we kill so many if we could gain more with less killing?”
Bloodheart’s laughter sounded long and ominously in the echoing nave. Abruptly, he spat at the young Eika’s feet. “Go back to Rikin fjord. You are too young to bide here any longer. Your captivity weakened you, and you are not strong enough to fight this war. Go home and rest with the Mothers. Prove yourself there in the fjordlands, bring the other tribes under my heel, and perhaps I will let you return. But while you are under my displeasure, let none among my sons speak to you in the language of true people, but only in the language of the Soft Ones. I have spoken.”
He turned, spat toward Sanglant, and seated himself on his throne. The priest translated his words in a quavering voice, and then the hubbub began, so loud with howling and laughter and harsh words, with the scraping and banging of spear hafts on stone, and with the stamping of heels to the ground that Sanglant was deafened.
The Eika princeling stood his ground, oblivious to the taunts and the abuse. When at last Bloodheart began to distribute gifts to his favored soldiers, he alone left quietl
y, without looking back—out to the lit world beyond this stone and timber prison. A breath of wind touched Sanglant’s lips. He licked it, moisture from rain almost painful on his dry tongue.
Free to go, even in disgrace.
The madness came as a cloud covers the sun. But he fought it this time, fought succumbing to it. He did not want to fall into madness in front of so many, an animal in truth. But the dogs circled in, and the black cloud descended, and he forgot everything except his fear that he would be chained here forever.
3
A rich autumn light streamed in through the schola windows, bathing Ivar in such a soporific warmth that he nodded, then jerked himself back to attention as the schoolmaster paused beside him.
“Mundus, munde, mundi, mundo, mundum, mundo, Ivar. Certainly if you would bestir yourself, you could master Dariyan easily. Ermanrich, pay attention. Ah, yes, Baldwin, of course you are doing well; it just needs more practice. See, it is mundi here, not mundo, in the vocative.”
The schoolmaster moved forward to the second-year novices, whose study of Dariyan, the language of the old Empire and now of the Daisanite Church, was more advanced than that of the first years—all but Sigfrid, who spoke and read Dariyan fluently.
Ivar yawned and painstakingly impressed the word into the wax tablet. He was a slow writer and reader, having only learned the alphabet upon leaving the world and entering the monastery. Mundus, the world. Ivar very much wanted to be out in the world right now. He shifted, trying to get comfortable on the hard wooden bench, but of course it was impossible to get comfortable. One was not meant to be comfortable in the monastery but rather and always discomforted by one’s own unworthiness in the face of God’s majesty.
However, if he slid forward just so, he could lean a little farther into the sunlight that spilled over the table. The heat of the sun melted through the coarse fabric of his robe. The warmth was too powerful a spell. Ivar dozed off over his tablet while the schoolmaster, lecturing to the row of third-year novices, droned on about the elegant style on display in St. Augustina’s City of God.
Something nudged Ivar’s foot, and he snorted and started awake, losing his grip on his stylus. It fell to the stone floor, and the sound of its impact in the silent chamber resounded in his ears at least as loudly as if one of the huge stone pillars in the church had just crashed down.
But Fortune was with him this day, as She had not been yesterday when he had been caught trying to look at the female novices. Ermanrich—for he was the culprit who had nudged him awake—made a quick sign with his free hand: Look.
The schoolmaster had walked to the door and was now speaking in a low voice with Brother Methodius, prior of the monastic half of Quedlinhame as well as Mother Scholastica’s deputy. Finally he turned back to survey his pupils and signed: Stand.
Dutifully, they stood. Ivar stooped to grab the stylus off the floor and set it next to the tablet, for once free of the punishment that would normally attend his carelessness.
“Come.” Brother Methodius stepped forward. “You are to be granted the honor of attending the adventus of King Henry. Keep silence, I pray you, and keep your heads bowed humbly.” His eyes glinted, and Ivar thought the good brother suppressed a smile. “No doubt Our Lord and Lady will forgive you a single glance at the magnificence of the king’s progress as it passes by, if you are not yet strong enough to resist such temptation.”
He signed in the hand language learned by all the monks. Come. The novices formed rows quickly, for they had by now much practice in obedience. But even Sigfrid’s eyes were wide with awe at the thought of seeing the king.
Ivar had never seen the king, of course. Heart’s Rest and the North March of Wendar was too far north, too remote, and too poor to be of much interest to the king; the counts of the North March were left to rule as they wished, unless that rule came into direct conflict with the king’s authority. During Ivar’s lifetime such an incident had never happened, but his father, Count Harl, could dimly recall an expedition by the King’s Dragons—his elite cavalry—to put down a northern rebellion in the time of the younger Arnulf many years ago.
Here at Quedlinhame, of course, they could expect to see the king frequently. King Henry preferred to spend Holy Week at the foundation ruled over by his sister, Mother Scholastica, and inhabited by his widowed mother, Queen Mathilda, now a nun. In autumn, as it was now, the king and his court often rested here on their way to the royal hunting lodges in the Thurin Forest.
The king! Even Ivar, who tried very hard to dislike everything at Quedlinhame excluding his new friends, could not help but be excited. As they walked down the steps from the schoolroom and out of the dormitory, he noticed as if for the first time what a veritable hive of activity the great monastery had become. Servants swept pavement or whitewashed exterior walls. Women aired out blankets and featherbeds at the guest houses. By the kitchens, wagons waited in neat rows, their beds heaped with vegetables, casks of ale, baskets of ground wheat and rye, and crocks of honey. Cages of chickens stood stacked by the slaughter pit and a half dozen servants worked feverishly, chopping off heads, while others carried the dead chickens to huge vats of boiling water and threw them in to scald off the feathers. Butchered pigs and cattle hung, draining, from the beams of the slaughterhouse shed. The bakery fires roared, and the smell of cooking permeated the air.
The line of novices joined that of the assembled monks and they walked out together under the great archway that spanned the gate. Up until the time of the first Henry, Quedlinhame had been a fortress, part of the vast inheritance his wife, Lucienna of Attomar, had brought to their marriage. Together they had dedicated both the fortress and their only daughter Kunigunde to the church, and at age sixteen she had become first abbess—first “Mother”—of Quedlinhame Convent. During her long rule the foundation had expanded to include monks—which unfortunate ambition had transpired in the end to bring Ivar here to this prestigious foundation against his wishes.
Not even these troubling thoughts could dampen Ivar’s excitement as the entire community left the enclosure in dutiful silence and walked down the hill on the stone-paved avenue that led through town. They walked out beyond the town walls and along the road for at least a mile. They passed townsfolk, standing at the side of the road, who had left their tasks and brought themselves and their children to witness the arrival of the king. Out here, newly sown fields of winter wheat wore brown earth laced with shoots of tender green as their autumn garb. The view behind was dominated by the great hill on which stood the ancient fortress that was now the monastery; the towers of the church pierced the deep blue of the heavens, reaching toward God. They halted on either side of the road, two lines of simply-clad brothers and sisters of the church and the many layservants who served them and God both—perhaps two hundred souls in total.
Ivar heard the king’s progress before he saw it. He heard a muttering as of many feet and hooves and rolling wheels, felt the subtle vibration as a tremor rising up through the soles of his feet. He heard them singing, many voices raised in a joyful psalm. The strength of their combined voices, the sheer power of it, made him shiver with joy; not even a full prayer service and the chanting and singing of the monks and nuns in unison at Quedlinhame made him feel this sudden pull to be torn away from his own person and become some other one, one who could join in the concordia, the power that attended upon the king’s presence.
I sing of loyalty and justice.
I will raise this psalm to Thee, Our Lord and Lady Who are God in Unity.
I will follow a wise and blameless course whatever may befall me.
I will go about my house in purity of heart.
I will set before myself no sordid aim.
I will hate disloyalty.
I will silence those who spread tales behind men’s backs.
I will not sit at table with those who are proud and pompous.
I will choose the most loyal for my companions; my servants shall be folk whose lives are blame
less. Morning after morning I will put all wicked men to silence
and I will rejoice in all on God’s earth which is good.
The schoolmaster always enjoined his pupils to keep their heads bowed and their eyes toward the ground, for in this way they made themselves smaller and indicated their insignificance. But as the cavalcade drew near enough that he could hear the small noises of a hundred or more souls in movement, Ivar could not help himself. He had to look.
Ermanrich stirred beside him, and Baldwin drew in a sharp, surprised breath. Only Sigfrid kept his head dutifully bowed.
A King’s Eagle rode in front, as herald. She wore the scarlet-trimmed cape and the brass badge of an Eagle, and she stared straight ahead at the road before her; she had a hard, interesting face, broad shoulders, and the look of a person sure of her position and name in the world. In her right hand she held a staff, its haft wedged against her boot. The king’s banner draped from the staff, curling down to hide the hand itself, for there was no wind to lift the banner.
Behind her rode six young nobles honored this day with a position at the head of the procession. They, too, carried pennants, one for each of the duchies under Henry’s rule: Saony, Fesse, Avaria, Varingia, Arconia, and Wayland. Ivar guessed the four boys and two girls to be about the same age as himself; the girl holding the standard of Arconia had hair as pale as wheat and fingers so delicate that he wondered how she had the strength to grip the banner pole. He wondered whose child she was. If only he had been sent to court, instead of to Quedlinhame, then he might have ridden proudly at the front of such an adventus—an arrival—as this! His gaze skipped back to the riders who followed directly behind the pennants.
