Elliott, Kate - Crown of Stars 1 (55 page)

"You were married before you became an Eagle?" Hathui shook her head, one side of her mouth quirking down and an eye ticking shut as if she was trying to close up an old memory. "No. It was taken from me by a Quman raider. And if I ever meet up with him or his people, he will pay for what he stole." Hanna felt her mouth drop open. "You'll catch flies," said Hathui, who had already recovered.

"I
—I'm sorry."

Hathui snorted. "What do you expect, from barbarians? I had no lasting harm of it, not like my aunt, who was killed in that raid."

"But
—but does this mean I can never have a child?" Hanna considered this prospect without pleasure. It was not something she had ever thought about before. She was a woman, and not in the church. Of course she I would have children.

"Of course not, if you wish for children. But you must either leave the Eagles or marry within them. A child born to a woman who is married to another Eagle is I accepted. I have seen three such children."

"Have you seen a woman cast out of the Eagles for
— well, for bearing a child?"

"I have." Hathui touched her brass badge, her long fingers tracing the eagle embossed there. "This is her badge. She died of the birthing, alas, and the child, too."

Hanna made the sign of the circle at her breast. Death or a blessing. Those words seemed apt enough. It was the kind of thing her mother would say.

"Come, Hanna. Let's sleep. There's bound to be more and much more running to do tomorrow." Hathui kissed Hanna affectionately on the forehead and took her by the arm. "We'll get our blankets. We can bed down here, at the foot of the king's chair."

"At the foot of the king's chair!" This was such a signal honor that Hanna wondered if her parents would ever believe it had actually been granted to their very own daughter.

"Indeed, he said so himself. He's a fine lord, is our king, and I am proud to serve him."

In the morning, just after the office of Terce
—the third hour of the day—was sung, another Eagle rode in. He came from the west. He was faint with exhaustion; his horse had foundered.

Grooms took his horse. Hathui took him in hand and with Hanna following at her heels led him to where the king held audience with Helmut Villam, the margrave, Judith, and others of the nobles in attendance, discussing the final plans for their dispersal to collect armies that could ride to Gent. Henry broke off their conversation and rose.

The Eagle threw himself on his knees before the king. "Your Majesty." He could barely speak, his voice was so hoarse.

"Bring him mead," said the king, and mead was brought.

The man gulped down a cup of the honey-flavored wine, and it soothed his coughing. He apologized. "I beg pardon, Your Majesty."

"Your news?"

"It is terrible news, Your Majesty." Almost, the man wept. "I am come from Autun. I have ridden four days and five nights, stopping only to change horses." He shut his eyes.

The tension in the chamber became unbearable as everyone present waited for him to continue. Hanna tried desperately to remember where Autun was, and what its significance might be. Wasn't it the seat of a biscophric? Yes! That was it: Henry's younger sister Constance was biscop of Autun.

As she remembered this, the Eagle took hold of himself and continued speaking. "I was able to escape Autun because of the aid of Biscop Constance's chatelaine. Autun is now in the hands of Lady Sabella."

Several of the courtiers spoke at once, then fell silent when Henry raised a hand. The king looked grave, as well he might. "The city has fallen?"

The Eagle spoke on a sigh. "By treachery, Your Majesty. Biscop Constance is a prisoner in the hands of Lady Sabella and her retainers. Sabella has installed Helvissa as biscop of Autun."

"Helvissa, whom I removed eight years ago with the consent of the others biscops of the realm?"

"Indeed, the same one, Your Majesty. Autun surrendered without a fight out of respect for the safety of Biscop Constance. Not one soul in Autun considers Helvissa their rightful lord. But that is not all. Sabella has an army, and Duke Rodulf of Varingia marches with her."

None moved or spoke, waiting for the king's reaction.

All Hanna could think of were those awful words:
"Sabella has an army."

"What of Duke Conrad of Wayland?" Henry asked quietly.

Hanna did not recall how Duke Conrad of Wayland fit into the convoluted kinship surrounding the king's court and that of the great princes, but to everyone else, the question seemed fraught with meaning. All waited. Villam
king's dragon
wiped his lips with a knuckle. Duchess Liutgard
—who had not yet left, though she was dressed for riding— clasped and unclasped her hands nervously.

But the Eagle only shook his head. He looked utterly exhausted. "I do not know if he marches with her or if he does not. I had to escape in the middle of the night. I have no information beyond that
—only that Sabella marches east."

East. Even Hanna knew what that meant. East, to

Wendar.

"She swore me an oath," said Henry even more softly. He looked furious and his movements, as he turned to bee' n to those closest to him, were as taut as those of a lion's, waiting to pounce. But he did not rage out loud. "Wendar itself is in danger. Sabella rebels against my authority and that rebellion we cannot tolerate. We cannot ride to Gent."

The words struck Hanna like a hammer's blow.

"Ai, Lady," she murmured, her heart leaden in her chest. What was going to happen to Liath?

We cannot ride to Gent."

What cost to Henry to utter those words?

Rosvita glanced at Villam, saw him looking at her in that same instant, as though they shared a thought. Three legitimate children Henry had. For the sake of the kingdom, he must risk the loss of the fourth.

Henry's hands were clenched. He stared for a long while at the fine Arethousan carpet under his boots, a geometric pattern of imperial purple and pale ivory, floral circles encasing eight-pointed stars. The rug had come as part of Queen Sophia's morning gift to Henry, for only she, daughter of an emperor and niece of the reigning Arethousan emperor, would dare to walk on purple. Some few of her possessions, as she had wished, had been sent back to Arethousa upon her death. Henry had kept this rug, perhaps against her wishes, for was it not also said of Henry that he believed he alone of all the reigning kings had the power to wear the mantle of the Holy Dariyan Emperor? Others had attempted to take on the title worn first by the great Taillefer. None had succeeded. The "new" empire, restored by Taillefer, had lasted a scant twenty-four years and had died with Taillefer. No king facing civil war could hope to make himself emperor, even with the support of the skopos herself.

"Make ready to ride," King Henry said at last. "We leave at dawn."

The Eagle, though he had ridden hard and through great danger, received no sign of the king's favor. He was dismissed to get food, drink, and rest. The king retired to his bedchamber. The others went out to their own retainers, and soon the king's retinue was in a great uproar as they prepared to march. Those nobles, like Liutgard and Judith, who had been ready to return to their estates were now
—with whatever soldiers they had—turned into Henry's army. There was no longer time for raising levies from far-off estates.

Eagles were dispatched to Rotrudis, Duchess of Saony and Attomar, and to Burchard, Duke of Avaria. Also, Eagles rode to the estates of lesser counts and lords. A great stock of grain and vegetables vanished from the monastery's cellars into the king's wagons, and chickens and geese were caged and the cages thrown on top of heaps of turnips and beans and baskets of wheat and barley and rye. Given the terrible news of Sabella's revolt, not even the cellarer complained when every cask of ale left in the monastery's wine cellar was rolled up the earth ramp and into wagons.

Just after Vespers, Villam came to Rosvita where she labored in the scriptorium, packing her notes and stylus and parchment, her quills and ink, into a chest for the journey. He appeared so close to panic that she immediately set aside her book and came to him.

"My son is missing," he said. "Have you seen him today?"

Guilt struck at her heart. So much had happened she had forgotten about her promise to keep an eye on the boy. At once she suspected where he had gone. "I have not seen him. His retainers?"

"Six are also missing, young men of his own age, none of the older ones. The others will say nothing." Clearly, Villam suspected the worst.

"Bring them to me."

With grim satisfaction, Villam left. She finished packing and left the chest in the care of one of her servants. She met them before the Hearth, the only place with any semblance of peace in the entire valley. Villam brought two men: a white-haired man with the look of a faithful, battle-hardened retainer and a much younger man, not above sixteen or eighteen years, who was flushed and had obviously been crying.

Rosvita studied them both. The old man she gave up on at once. He looked like the old praeceptor, the man who had been assigned many years back to train the boy at arms and whose loyalty would be fixed to the young lad he had half raised; he could not be swayed by fear. But the younger man could.

"You do not mean to lie to me?" she demanded of the young one. "Who are you, child? Who are your parents?"

Stammering, he told her his name and lineage.

"Where is Lord Berthold?"

He betrayed himself by glancing at the old man. The old retainer glared stubbornly ahead. The young one began to fidget, twisting his hands together, biting at his lower lip.

"Look in my eyes, child, and swear to me by the name of Our Lady and Lord that you do not know."

He began to cry again.

That quickly, as if to spare the young man the shame of lying or of betraying his master, the old armsmaster spoke. "He knew nothing of the expedition. I advised against it, but, once determined, Lord Berthold would not be swayed."

"Yet you did not go with him!" Villam lifted a fist as if to bring it down, hard, on the Hearth, and only at the last instant remembered where he was. He slapped the fist against an open palm instead. It was getting dark. Her ability to read the subtleties of their expressions was already lost to her. Two monks entered the chapel, brands burning in each hand; they began to light the sconces. Soon the office of Compline would be sung and the monks would take themselves to their beds for the night.

"So did he order me, my lord. I am his obedient servant. And in truth, I feared no mischief. They are only old ruins. I have seen such with my own eyes and feared nothing from them. I made sure he took six of his best men-at-arms with him when he left this morning after Prime."

"Yet he has not returned."

The old armsmaster hung his head. Even in the inconstant light of torches she could now read clearly his guilt, his recognition of his own bad judgment, written as plainly as if he had spoken aloud.

"Take torches, picks and shovels, whatever you need, and ten of my men-at-arms and the rest of my son's retainers. Go now."

They did as Villam ordered.

Rosvita joined the prayers at Compline. It was crowded, for not only the king but every noble who could command room crowded into the monastery's church. But when the others filed out, Villam remained, and he knelt on the cold ground, hands clasped in prayer, for the rest of the night.

The monks sang Nocturns, then, at first light, Lauds. King Henry arrived for the office of Prime fully arrayed
king's dragon
for riding, wearing a coat of mail. Sapientia walked behind him, also fitted for riding; she carried her father's helm under one arm and she wore the badge of St. Perpetua, Lady of Battles, on her right shoulder. Theophanu would remain in the train, behind the main army, with those like Rosvita who did not fight.

As soon as Prime was sung and the last prayer spoken over the Hearth, Henry left the church and crossed to where his horse waited, already saddled. It was just dawn. No men had returned from the night expedition to the old ruins.

"We must ride," said King Henry. Villam bowed his head, for of course he knew the king spoke truthfully. He splashed water on his face to refresh himself and then, with the others, set forth.

That morning the army did not range out ahead of the cavalcade of wagons and animals that constituted the people and goods of the king's progress. At midday, a party from the monastery caught up to them.

Rosvita hastened forward from her place in the train in order to hear the news. Berthold was a good boy, full of promise. She felt herself responsible. She had not watched over him as she had said she would.

But she read no hope on the face of the old armsmaster, who came forward as spokesman for the others. "It is a grievous tale I have to tell, my lord." His voice was even, but his eyes betrayed the depth of his distress. "My son is dead," said Villam, as if voicing the words would cause the worst of the pain, of a father's loss of his favored son, to be over with quickly, to fade that fast into the dull ache of a loss suffered years before. Better that than the raw grief that cut to the heart.

The armsmaster bowed his head. "No, my lord." But his tone was not encouraging. He caught breath and could not for a moment go on.