Elliott, Kate - Crown of Stars 1 (76 page)

Villam's right arm lay folded across his chest. Henry took it now, and the old man's eyes fluttered open and focused, but he did not speak. Henry brushed away tears.

"You must go to Kassel, Helmut, and there recover your health," said Henry softly. "I march on Autun to restore my sister to her biscophric." He leaned forward and kissed the old man gently on either cheek, the kiss of peace, and rose.

This interlude had calmed him outwardly. The king nodded to the physician, who in the Eastern way touched his forehead to the ground.

Outside, Henry turned to Rosvita. "Let Sabella wait," he said in a low, intense voice that betrayed the rage still boiling within him. "Let her wonder, while we ride to Autun and I refuse to see her."

Rosvita smiled slightly. Henry had indeed returned to his senses. How quickly he turned the tables. Now, rather than Liutgard keeping Sabella from him, everyone would speak of Henry's anger being so great that he could not bring himself to look his sister in the face. That was, of course, much more effective.

But there was one question she had to ask, though she dreaded it. "You will not ride to Gent?"

His jaw tightened. He clasped his hands behind his back, as if holding them there was the only way to control himself. "Two-thirds of this army is dead or wounded. I will restore Constance, and more besides, and then we will have the summer to raise an army. Gent must hold firm until autumn." His eyes flashed with anger. "And Sabella will learn what it means to raise her hand against me a second time."

HENRY and his retinue camped outside Autun for three days before Biscop Helvissa worked up enough courage to open the gates and let them in.

Alain watched from a vantage point above Autun as the great gates swung open and the people of Autun swept out with wild rejoicing to welcome Constance back to the city.

"Henry will not leave Helvissa as biscop for long," said Lavastine. He stood beside Alain, a strange enough occurrence in itself, and together they stared down at what remained of Henry's army and of Sabella's rebellion. For the last many days, as they had marched west to Autun and then camped here, out of sight, Alain had seen groups of men fleeing westward, the remains of the men-at-arms levied from the lands controlled by Sabella, Duke Rodulf, and the other lords who had come under their sway. Fleeing westward; fleeing back to their homes. They had work to do, after all, in the fields. The time for spring sowing was long past. Now they must hope that summer would be long and the harvest delayed and that their families had been able to plant something against winter's hunger. Now they must hope for a good crop of winter wheat and rye for next year.

Besides Henry's army, and the retinues of the great lords who remained in Henry's custody, only Lavastine's company remained intact. He had sent Sergeant Fell on ahead with the infantry, for the count and his people also had fields to tend and next winter to survive. Miraculously, none in his company had taken any serious wounds. All would return to their families.

But Lavastine had remained behind with his twenty mounted soldiers, and he had shadowed Henry's progress to Autun and now waited here. Alain did not know why Lavastine waited or what he meant to do. All Alain knew was that something had changed radically. Now he slept
in
Lavastine's tent, on a decent pallet, and he was fed the same food that the count ate; he had been given a fine linen tunic to wear instead of his old ragged wool tunic, now much worn and patched.

"Come," said Lavastine, turning away as Henry's banner vanished into the city. "We will return to my tent."

They went, the hounds leaping around them, in fine good spirits this beautiful day. Alain was troubled. He
king's dragon

still had nightmares about Agius. If only he had saved the frater. But he had not. Agius had sacrificed himself
—and for what? Agius did not love King Henry. He had acted
against
Sabella and Antonia, not
for
Henry, though his action had saved the king.

Ai, Lady. If only he had the courage, but he did not. He had stood by while Lackling was murdered, because he had feared Antonia's power. He had said nothing after he had witnessed the feeding of some poor innocent to the
guivre.
He had accused no one
—though surely the word of a freeholder's boy would never be listened to by the nobly born. He had not even thought to throw himself in front of the
guivre
at the battle; that he had managed to kill it was only because of Agius' willingness to sacrifice himself for the good of others. Or for his own revenge on Sabella. Alain sighed. It was all too deep and convoluted for him to make sense of.

"Come inside," said Lavastine, as much order as request, and yet Lavastine's attention toward him was perhaps the greatest mystery of all. Alain followed the count inside. He was half a head taller than Lavastine but never felt he towered above him, so intense was Lavastine's presence. Truly, the sorcery Antonia had laid upon Lavastine had been powerful in order to overcome that commanding disposition.

Lavastine sat in a camp chair that one of his servants brought to him. "Sit," he commanded Alain, sounding irritated that Alain had not sat down immediately.

"But, my lord
—" began Alain, while around them the count's captain and servants stared. They were just as amazed as he was that the count wished a common boy to be seated beside him as though they were kin. "Sit!" Alain sat.

Lavastine called for wine, two cups, and then dismissed everyone but Alain. When the flap closed behind the last retreating servant, a gloom pervaded the tent chamber. Thin shafts of light lanced through gaps in the

tent walls. Illuminating a line of carpet, the hilt of a sword, the ear of a hound. The hounds panted merrily. Sorrow rolled onto his back and scratched himself along the spine of the carpet. Rage growled and snapped at Fear, who had crept too close to Alain.

"Alain Henrisson," said the count. "That is what you call yourself?"

"Yes, my lord."

"You saved my life and my honor on the field of battle."

Alain did not know what to say, so he merely bowed his head.

"I did not intend to support Sabella. Nor, for that matter, did I intend to support King Henry. My lands are my concern, as are the safety and well-being of the people who live there. That is all. I never wanted to be dragged into these conspiracies. But you could not have known this. Why did you act as you did?"

"B
—because ... I..."

"Go on! You must have had a reason."

Seeing that even in this friendly mood Lavastine was irritated by delay, Alain spoke as quickly as he could, hoping it made sense. "I
—I saw that Biscop Antonia wasn't—she had Lacklng murdered. She was going to murder the Eika prince you took prisoner, but he—he got away. Then she killed Lackling and I couldn't trust her—"

"Hold, hold, boy. Who is this Lackling?"

"One of the stableboys, my lord."

Lavastine shook his head slightly. The name meant nothing to him. "She had him murdered? Why was this not brought to my attention?"

"She brought strange creatures, my lord, to the ruins, and then you changed. You were
—'

"Under a compulsion, yes." He made what was almost a spitting motion, as if the word, passing his lips, was distasteful to him. "I suppose Biscop Antonia would have denied everything and set her word against yours. Go on."

"Well, then, my lord, it just seemed wrong. The battle seemed wrong, that Sabella should win by treachery and sorcery and that poor imprisoned creature
—"

"The Eika prince? But he escaped."

"No. I meant the
giiivre."

"The
guivrel"
Lavastine barked a laugh. "I have no compassion for such a beast as that." He set a hand on the head of the hound that sat at his feet; actually, the hound sat half on his boots. This one had white in its muzzle, a sign of age, and Alain recognized it as Terror. The hound lifted its head to get a scratch from Lavastine's fingers.

"No, my lord," replied Alain, because it seemed expected of him. But he had compassion for the beast, horrible though it was; it had suffered, too, and he had killed it as much to put it out of its misery as to save Agius. "And Prater Agius
—"

"Yes," said Lavastine curtly. "Prater Agius saved the king at the cost of his own life. And you, what reward would you have for saving my life?"

"I?"

"Since there is no one else here, I would suppose I mean you! When I ask a question, I wish for an answer."

"B
—but I wish for no reward, my lord. I did what was right. That is reward enough in the eyes of Our Lord and Lady, is it not? But something for my family, perhaps—

"Ah, yes. Your family. This Henri, he is
—?"

"A merchant, my lord. His sister Bel is a freeholder of some distinction in Osna village."

"Yes. Near where the monastery was burned last year. What does Henry the merchant say about your parentage, Alain?"

Alain squirmed in the chair and took a sip of wine to cover his discomfiture. The wine was fine and smooth; he had never tasted anything as good before. Wine such as this did not come to the lips of common folk, not even the freeborn.

"He says
—"
He says.
Alain thought, briefly, about lying. But Henry and Aunt Bel had not taught him to lie.

They had treated him as kin, and it would dishonor them to twist their words now, even if the truth disgraced him before Count Lavastine. "My mother was a servant woman at your holding, my lord. My father Henri ... had an affection for her. She was known to
—" He bit at his lip. Ai, Lady, he could not simply call his mother a whore. "—to have consorted with men. She died three days after giving birth to me. The deacon gave me into Henri's care in return for his promise to offer me to the church when I turned sixteen." "You are older than sixteen, are you not?" "Seventeen now, my lord. I would have entered the church last year, but the monastery at Dragon's Tail— —was burned. Yes. That is the whole of the story?" "Yes, my lord."

Lavastine sat in the gloom and toyed with his cup, turning it around and around until Alain feared he would spill it. From outside, Alain heard Lavastine's captain speaking, something about Henry and Autun and the king's mercy, but even with his sharpened hearing, he could not string the phrases together into intelligible sentences. Sorrow yawned a dog's yawn, full of teeth, and threw himself against Alain's legs, leaning there until Alain was practically tipped over. He adjusted the chair, and this movement stirred the count to a decision.

"Attend, child," he said in his brisk, impatient way. "I must now tell you a tale and you must listen carefully, for this story I have never before confessed the whole of, and I will not speak it aloud again while I live."

Alain nodded and then, realizing the light was dim, managed to whisper, "Yes." The hounds snuffled and whined and grunted, eight fine black hounds, beautiful creatures, if vicious.

"I married once," said Lavastine softly. "But as all know, my wife and daughter were killed by my hounds."

"But how could that be?" asked Alain, curiosity overcoming good sense. "Or the child, at least
—"

"Listen!" snapped Lavastine. "Do not interrupt." Fear, thwarted of a place at Alain's side, had gone to the entrance and nosed aside the canvas flap. By this new stream of light, Alain saw Lavastine smile grimly. "How can that be? Even I don't know the true story of how my grandfather got the hounds, whether he received them in exchange for some kind of pact
—with whom, I don't know—or whether they came to him as part of his birthright. But my father—the only surviving child-inherited them in his turn, and I—also the only child who survived to adulthood—in mine. So my father arranged a marriage for me at the appropriate time so I could beget children—more than one, it was hoped—to carry on the line."

He drained the cup of wine suddenly and set the empty cup down on the carpet. "I was young, then, and I had taken a lover, a pretty girl from among the servingwomen. We often met up among the ruins, because I wanted to keep our meetings secret. But in time, as happens, she became pregnant and begged me to acknowledge the child so that she would not be branded as a common whore. But my bride was proud and covetous, and when she came to Lavas she told me she wanted no bastard child running about the hall. So I put aside the other woman and denied any knowledge of the child, and confessed my sin to the deacon, may her memory be blessed. The deacon promised to take care of the child and assured me I need trouble myself no longer. She was not even a freeborn girl." He picked up the winecup, tested it as if he had forgotten he had drunk it all, and set it down again with some annoyance. "I was not, perhaps, without fault in this matter."

Alain gulped air. He had forgotten to breathe. "Did she die? Giving birth, I mean."

Lavastine jumped up and strode to the entrance. He slapped Fear lightly on the flank and the hound retreated; the flap fell shut. "You will remain silent while I speak, Alain."

Alain nodded but Lavastine's back was to him. "No more wine," muttered Lavastine. "Yes, she died in childbed." He turned and spoke crisply and rapidly, as --. if to hurry the story to its ghastly conclusion. "My bride was young, strong-willed, impatient, and argumentative. Since I was of the same disposition, we did not suit. She rarely allowed me into her bed. I refrained from taking a concubine, but I soon suspected that
she
had taken a lover. I could prove nothing because her servingwomen were loyal and helped her hide this fact. When our first child was born, I did not trust her. I did not believe the infant was my child, and yet
—" He made a sharp gesture and strode back to the chair, but did not sit. "Yet it might have been. She raised the child to distrust me, though I tried to befriend it. The child was often a sweet girl, or so I could see from a distance. And with a daughter to assure the succession, my wife gave up the pretense. She forbade me her bed completely and began to flaunt a lover openly, a common man. She might as well have slapped me publicly in the face. But she said, 'what you had, a commoner in your bed, I may have as well.' She became ptegnatvt again and knew that this child was not—could not have been—mine. I demanded she put our daughter to the test, to face the hounds."