by Mary Gentle
He gave a shrug, with bulky shoulders; and winced at kneeling on the
hard wood. ‘Of course. I want you to think about anything that speaks to
my side of the argument!’
I might prove my own case, of what truly happened – but that wouldn’t help bring Aldra Videric back as your adviser . . .
I sat with my elbows on my knees, and thrust my fingers through my
hair
It would begin to prove the true story if I used Ramiro Carrasco de
Luis as a witness. The confused emotions of guilt, gratitude, hatred, and
attraction that he felt towards his hermaphrodite rescuer would make
him speak.
I might make King Rodrigo believe in the extent of Videric’s guilt.
But I should not seek to do that. Since he needs to retain that shred of
trust to work with the man.
‘Do I have to swallow the “forgiveness” of a man who sent people
after me to kill me?’
The King of Taraconensis gave me the quirk-lipped look that I have
known as long as I have known him. ‘Ilario, I assure you, abasement
becomes quite natural after a while . . . ’
‘It does?’
‘No.’
I couldn’t have painted Rodrigo’s expression; the gleam in his dark
eyes that was amusement, grief, anger, and self-mockery; all together.
‘No,’ Rodrigo Sanguerra repeated. ‘And you’re not my enemy. In fact,
you bear a surprisingly small grudge against your King. I don’t envy you
on your knees before a man who hates you. But . . . ’
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He put one hand down, to begin to rise; I leapt up and offered hand
and arm.
‘You’re wrong about the grudge, sire.’
‘Am I?’
‘All that’s in the past. I can’t carry it now.’
‘Ah.’ He made fists of his hands as he stood there, stretched his arms
out, and I heard tendons and ligaments crack. ‘I think I’m wearing you
down. If I come tomorrow, who knows what you’ll say?’
If there was an hour during the night when I slept, I didn’t know about it.
The water clock marked what would have been watches on Frankish
and Iberian ships, and were hours of prayer here. After a while I got up
and dressed, and, when the time came, fed Onorata with the warm goat’s
milk that Ramiro Carrasco deftly obtained.
If we had both been slaves, I would have teased him with how a lawyer
felt about being skilled in milking goats. As it was, I left him to resume his sleep.
Onorata rarely woke more than once in the night, now. I almost
regretted that, leaning at the window and watching moonlight mimic the
earlier sun on distant crawling waves. I could have done with somewhat
to keep me occupied.
In all honesty, had it been a night in Carthage or Rome or Venice, I
would have contrived some accident to wake up Rekhmire’, just so that I
could talk to the Egyptian.
I squinted out at the black featureless immensity that was the land-
mass of Taraco. Wondering how long the mules would take to Aldra
Videric’s estates, and how riding was treating his knee.
It’s possible to become surprisingly accustomed to someone’s company, I concluded, and went back to wrestle with Iberian wolf-skin bed-covers,
and lay awake until dawn.
Honorius liking Onorata’s company, and I not knowing how long I
would be here for him to have it, I spent more time in the prison than in
my own quarters.
I sat on the wide ledge, one leg hanging down inside the room. From
this acute angle, I might just see the sea in the north-east. Sun flashed like hammered gold. From this high citadel I could watch Zheng He’s
ship tacking slowly up and down the coast – showing its sheer
dimensions off to Taraconensis’ smaller towns, and bringing their
knights and mayors hot-foot to Taraco and the King’s presence.
Rodrigo Sanguerra had abandoned kneeling, and that morning had sat
with me in my rooms with an air of relaxation. As if, despite what he
must attempt to persuade me into, this time was a pleasant relief from
court politics.
Now I recall why he kept his hermaphrodite slave . . .
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Where the sun fell on the sea, it was bright enough to make eyes sting
and water.
King Rodrigo had said, Panic is spreading very well. Up here, it’s too high to see what men and women do when the dragon-painted ship
threatens them; too far off to hear screams, or shouts of anger, or see
whether any man is hurt.
I pushed myself back into the room, off the sill, and leaned on the back
of the settle, watching with Honorius as Onorata tugged at the wolf’s
pelt. She might have been wriggling forward on her belly, or only
wriggling by accident.
‘This plan of the King’s,’ I began.
The door of the prison opened; royal guards strode in, Rodrigo
Sanguerra behind them. Honorius sprang to his feet. I crouched to pick
up Onorata, and put her into Saverico’s arms, the young ensign being
nearest me.
Honorius nodded and Carrasco and the three men-at-arms retired to
the kitchens. He bowed his head to his King. ‘Majesty?’
Rodrigo Sanguerra waved a hand to dismiss his escort. They filed out.
Absently, he seated himself on the oak settle, gesturing that we might sit
too if we so chose.
‘You have knowledge of the Alexandrine envoy,’ he observed. ‘I
thought I might therefore ask you questions, confidentially.’
‘What?’ I managed intelligently.
The King ignored me, passing a sheet of parchment to Honorius.
‘Is this in his own hand?’
‘His scribe would know better.’ Honorius held it out to me.
It was signed Rekhmire’ and a Pharaonic pictogram, as he had signed
letters he had had me write.
I read it out. ‘“I find it compelling to stay with the Aldra Videric at his
estate for some time longer. Perhaps a week or a month. His hospitality is
overwhelming, and he desires me to stay for the hunting.”’
‘Is it genuine?’ Rodrigo demanded impatiently.
Compelling. Overwhelming.
‘Yes. He wrote it, Majesty. But . . . ’ I tried to catch Honorius’s eye.
Noblemen die of hunting accidents, horses and beasts are dangerous
pastimes. But they die also of conspiracy or ambush and are reported as
‘hunting accidents’. I saw Honorius recognised my thought.
He frowned. ‘It could be true. The damned book-buyer – sorry,
Majesty; I mean Master Rekhmire’. He might have decided he needs
time enough there to persuade Lord Videric into seeing things his
way . . . ’
The words trailed off into the heated air of the chamber.
The King raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘Ilario?’
My hands clenched into fists. ‘Yes, it’s possible – but also possible it’s a
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flat lie! I think – Videric has decided to hold the Alexandrine envoy as a
hostage.’
The King looked very close to startled. ‘No. No, I think not. The
Videric that I know is not a fool! If Master Rekhmire’ has conveyed what
we do here, Pirro must think he has only to wait for me to recall him. He
would also know that Taraconensis can’t a
fford to harm the representa-
tive of Queen Ty-ameny.’
I took several steps, pacing about the room, arms wrapped around my
body. For all the heat, I was cold.
‘Alexandria would only hear it was a hunting accident. Impossible to
prove it wasn’t.’
‘Ilario, really—’ King Rodrigo sighed, as I have known him sigh
before. ‘You allow your fear and hatred to distort your judgement. My
lord Videric is not fool enough to allow harm to come to the Egyptian.’
Insight hit me as if it were a bolt from a crossbow.
I all but bit my tongue as the realisation struck.
‘No.’ I stepped forward, putting my hand on Honorius’s shoulder,
willing him to understand. ‘No, that’s right. I am misjudging him.
Videric’s not that stupid.’
‘Then—’
‘ Rosamunda is. ’
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9
The King scowled, but I ignored him; aware I was gripping Honorius’s
shoulder hard enough that my fingers must hurt. He would have bruises.
I felt as if I needed to urge the clarity of this truth into his body and blood.
My father frowned.
Thinking of . . . his Rosamunda? The woman who would have run
away from her husband, until she was offered a choice between material
comfort and my father’s love?
The woman who twice, in Taraco and in Carthage, came close to
killing her son-daughter?
Honorius’s frown deepened. ‘It’s not in Aldro Rosamunda’s interests
to harm the book-buyer. She’ll want her husband made First Minister
again.’
‘She won’t think that far!’
The house of Hanno Anagastes came back to me: Rosamunda’s
expression behind her frozen eyes.
‘Rekhmire’ ruined her. You didn’t see her face in Carthage!’
The frown became a scowl. Honorius absently reached up and peeled
my fingers from the ball of his shoulder, and gripped my hand in his.
‘She’d end up the wife of an exile if she did this. Or Videric would
divorce her!’
‘Rosamunda has a queue of rich and powerful men who’d marry her
on the spot if she were divorced by Videric—’
Abruptly, I was silenced by the look that flashed across his face.
No way to apologise in front of King Rodrigo without enabling him to guess why Honorius would need an apology.
King Rodrigo slowly nodded. ‘The Queen of the Court of Ladies? Yes
. . . There are always men willing to take beauty and ignore the
reputation that comes with it. Can you think Aldro Rosamunda honestly
possessed of such a hatred against the Alexandrine—’
I interrupted a king. ‘Can you ask me to bet Rekhmire’’s life on the
chance that she’s more greedy than she is vindictive?’
I let go of Honorius’s hands and glared at Rodrigo Sanguerra.
‘Majesty, how soon can you talk to the bishops?’
King Rodrigo blinked, caught for once wrong-footed. ‘The bishops?’
‘This ceremony – reconciliation – apology – “ceremony of peace” –
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penitence. Whatever you call it! How soon can it be arranged? How long
will it take to summon Aldra Videric and get the bishops into the
cathedral? Let’s get this started before that lunatic woman does
something to harm Rekhmire’!’
The King of Taraco looked at blankly at the Captain-General of
Leon and Castile. My father smiled.
I found my face heating. I rubbed my hands across my cheeks.
More cautiously, Honorius inquired, ‘Ilario . . . You do know what this
involves?’
‘Yes. I’m happy to eat dirt as publicly as required! Satisfied?’
A broad grin spread over Honorius’s face, despite his evident best
efforts to suppress it.
Rodrigo looked self-possessed; I couldn’t read what else might be
hiding under that efficient expression. ‘Very well. The King’s household
guard may accompany the return message to Aldra Videric – in what
strength would you suggest, Ilario?’
‘I want him protected. Well protected.’
‘Wise.’ King Rodrigo stood, dropped a curt nod at Honorius and
strode towards the door, barely waiting for us to rise. ‘I’ll send a full company. The more of the King’s Guard, the more honour, after all.’
He broke out into a smile just before the door shut on his heels.
Honorius looked at me.
He said nothing.
‘What!’ I protested.
The retired Captain-General of Castile and Leon glanced over his
shoulder at Saverico, as the men-at-arms came back into the room, and
gestured for the young ensign to bring him Onorata.
Hefting the child into his arms, Honorius murmured, ‘Taken you long
enough to realise . . . ’
Orazi smirked.
I swore. ‘I’m not – I don’t – there isn’t – cao!’
Honorius pulled me into an embrace gentle only because of the child
he also held.
‘Rosamunda won’t cause his death – because the damn book-buyer
isn’t stupid. Don’t worry for him. Do what you have to do, Ilario. And
I’ll stand with you, if I have to disguise myself with a sack over my head!’
I spluttered out an uncertain laugh.
‘That’s better.’ Honorius put one hand on the nape of my neck and
shook me gently. ‘I swear, in all my years as a soldier, I’ve learned how to
tell rash men and fools from the rest – and Rekhmire’ is neither.’
He paused. Smiled.
‘Your judgement isn’t so bad, son-daughter.’
There was no sensible reply to make, I thought.
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And Honorius’s grip felt surprisingly reassuring, even if his conclu-
sions were self-evidently mistaken.
‘Let’s get this over with,’ I said.
The initial part of the ceremony took three days.
If something excruciatingly humiliating can be boring, I thought, this
is.
On the first day I knelt outside the church door as one of the flentes, those who weep; dressed only in a shirt, and formally asking the men and
woman who went in to Mass to pray for me, and to intercede with God
on my behalf. On the second day I was allowed into the narthex of the
cathedral as one of the audientes, the hearers, and knelt on the cold mosaic floor behind the catechumens until the end of the sermon – not
listening very much to what Bishop Ermanaric said, in fact, but lost in
the sensation of chill stone under my shins, and trying to work out (in the
slanting light from the ogee windows) what were the differences between
these pale stones and the glass mosaics of Venice and Constantinople.
On the third day a different bishop, Heldefredus, preached about
pardoning those who had sinned, and I took my place as one of the
genuflectentes, kneeling between the cathedral door and the ambo, dizzy because of a whole day’s fast, and speaking only to implore the
procession of priests as they walked past me:
‘Pray for me, a sinner!’
Again, I was taken out before the Mass was celebrated.
Videric was not present. Nor Rekhmire’.
Honorius let me know himself forbidden to come, and offered his
presence all the same. I sent Orazi back with strict instructions to keep the Lion of
Castile caged.
Let this not cause any more trouble than it has to!
King Rodrigo sent his household guard to assist in bringing me the
plain meats that the bishops had allowed in my penitential cell on the
first and second days.
Sergeant Orazi, scowling, told me each day in bad Alexandrine –
incomprehensible to the junior priests who oversaw us – that none of our
expected visitors had ridden into Taraco yet. And in the language of
Taraconensis added that Onorata was well, and possibly missing me.
Not knowing young babies, the sergeant said, he found it difficult to tell.
On the night of the first fast I didn’t see any of the guard, since no man
was to bring me food, and the bishops’ priests evidently thought
themselves capable of providing fresh water.
There was no candle or lantern in the hermit’s cell built outside, up
against the cathedral walls. I took advantage of what daylight there was
left coming through the door-grate to take the smuggled paper and chalk
out from under the thin straw palliasse.
I drew faces. Odoin, who’d been a lieutenant in Rodrigo’s royal guard
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when I left, and now had his promotion to captain. Hunulf, and
Winguric; who had worked with me in the scriptorium, and Galindus, of
course.
I appreciated that they didn’t visit, since every other man or woman I
might know from nine years in Rodrigo’s palace crowded close to satisfy
their urge to stare at me.
The sheet of paper was not large. I drew faces in miniature. Egica,
who taught me Latin and letters at sixteen, when it became apparent that
Federico’s hired tutor had been cheap for a reason. Egica’s face was
more lined, his nose more covered in red broken veins, in this last year; I
could smell spirits on him when he stumbled past me, one hand
outstretched as if he would have ruffled my hair in passing.
More men greeted me with shuttered faces. Less than a year, and I am
ignored by those I have diced with and trained with in arms, and women-
gossips with whom I debated what colours one might put together in
embroidered tapestries . . . even young children whose parents had been
passing friendly to the King’s Freak –
The light was definitely gone.
I crumpled the paper up into a compressed ball in my hand, and
