Prince of Dogs (Crown of Stars 2)

“How will you explain that?” she demanded, but he only smiled, mocking himself more than her.

“I am the count’s heir. No one will question me except my father, and there’s no reason he need ever hear about it. Now go on. I will say nothing of what I’ve seen today.” He dashed off into the woods in the direction of the shouting. The hounds loped behind him.

She lingered by the fire, but she knew that if she looked within it now, no veil would part, no gateway would open. With a sigh, she started by a roundabout way back to camp. Ai, Lady. Her knee was sopping wet; the baggy cloth of her leggings alternately stuck to her skin and, as she walked, peeled off only to slap back again, cold and slimy.

But such discomfort mattered little against the offer the Aoi sorcerer had made to her: “Find me.”

3

ROSVITA thought she recognized the book Father Hugh now carried with him. But he had such an elegant way of keeping it close against him or tucked away in the carved chest that one of his servants carried along behind him, of closing it softly, as if without thinking, or laying his hand over the binding to half conceal it, that she could never get a good look. She wasn’t quite sure that it was, in fact, the same book she had seen Liath carrying last autumn on the very day Princess Sapientia had returned to the king’s progress.

Rosvita hated being curious, but she had come to accept the fault and, perhaps, embrace it a little too heartily.

After seven days, the infant girl was anointed with holy water and perfume and given the name suggested by her father: Hippolyte, after the blessed saint. A robust child, she wailed heartily, indignant at the cold touch of water on her skin, and flushed a bright red from head to toe. Sapientia left seclusion and pleaded with Henry to let the court travel the four days to Thersa, whose accommodations were far more pleasant than these.

King Henry’s good humor could hardly be improved upon. But Rosvita had observed that a man or woman who held their own child’s child felt a certain triumph, as at a victory over the fragility of life on this mortal earth. Without argument, he relented. The entire court bundled itself and its possessions up yet again and headed off. God were gracious: The weather for the short journey was mild and sunny. At Thersa they settled in for a three-week stay so that the new mother and child could gain strength before continuing north to Gent.

“Perhaps it is time to lay his memory to rest,” said Henry in a low voice one evening, and Rosvita merely murmured encouragement.

So it was arranged. A small party rode out the next morning, consisting of King Henry, Helmut Villam, Rosvita and three clerics, Father Hugh, and a company of Lions with an Eagle in attendance. A track led through greening fields to a village whose residents hurried to greet them. Father Hugh passed out sceattas to the householders; King Henry blessed the little children, held up for him by their mothers and fathers so he could set a hand on each dirty head. A little-used path led to a stream’s edge. Here, clumps of grass waved in the rush of high water. The steep banks had overflowed slightly, but only the Lions got wet; the ford proved passable for the riders.

The ruins lay in a jumbled heap along the slope of land before them, crowned by a ring of standing stones. Once, buildings had stood here. Had they been built by the same people who raised the circle of stones, or was this a later fortress, built here to guard—or guard against—the influence of the crown of stones? With the nearby stream and cultivatable land, it made a good homestead, as the persistence of the villagers showed: Few people would willingly live within sight of a ring of stones unless they had a compelling reason to remain there.

Henry dismounted and, with Villam beside him, made his way up through the ruins alone.

“Now there’s two men still mourning the loss of sons,” said Brother Fortunatus, looking around the scene with interest. “Is this where the Aoi woman vanished?”

“Up in the ring of stones, I should think,” said Sister Amabilia. “And poor Villam lost his son in a ring of stones.”

“He did?” demanded Brother Constantine. “I never heard that story.”

“That was before you came to us,” said Amabilia sweetly, never loath to remind the solemn young man that he was not only young but the son of a Varren lady sympathetic to Sabella. “Young Berthold was a fine young man, a true scholar, I think, though it’s a shame he was being kept out of the church so that he could be married.”

“But what happened to him?”

Brother Fortunatus wheeled around, excited by the prospect of gossip. “He took a group of his retainers up to explore the ring of stones above the monastery of Hersfeld …” He paused, relishing Constantine’s wide-eyed stare, and dropped his voice to a dramatic whisper. “… and they were never seen again.”

“Hush!” said Rosvita, surprised at her own snappishness. “Berthold was a good boy. It isn’t right to make a game of his loss and his father’s grief. Come now.” She saw Hugh seat himself on an old wall somewhat away from everyone else and open his book. “You may look around, as you wish. Brother Constantine, you may wish to discover if there are any Dariyan inscriptions on the stones and whether you can read them. Do not approach the king unless he requests your company.” Together with Villam, the king had vanished into the circle of stones, a half dozen Lions and his favorite Eagle hard on his heels. “Go on.” They scattered like bees out to search for honey. Rosvita composed herself, then strolled casually across the ruins, picking her way over fallen stone and mounds of earth, until she reached Hugh.

“Father Hugh.” She greeted him as she seated herself on a smooth stretch of wall. “You must be pleased at your mother’s loyalty, sending her physician so far away from her lands in order to attend Princess Sapientia.”

As he turned to smile at her, he gently closed the book; she gained only a glimpse of a bold hand scrawled in uneven columns down the page. “Indeed, Sister. But I believe my mother intends to return to the king’s progress as soon as she has completed her business in Austra.”

ta hated being curious, but she had come to accept the fault and, perhaps, embrace it a little too heartily.

After seven days, the infant girl was anointed with holy water and perfume and given the name suggested by her father: Hippolyte, after the blessed saint. A robust child, she wailed heartily, indignant at the cold touch of water on her skin, and flushed a bright red from head to toe. Sapientia left seclusion and pleaded with Henry to let the court travel the four days to Thersa, whose accommodations were far more pleasant than these.

King Henry’s good humor could hardly be improved upon. But Rosvita had observed that a man or woman who held their own child’s child felt a certain triumph, as at a victory over the fragility of life on this mortal earth. Without argument, he relented. The entire court bundled itself and its possessions up yet again and headed off. God were gracious: The weather for the short journey was mild and sunny. At Thersa they settled in for a three-week stay so that the new mother and child could gain strength before continuing north to Gent.

“Perhaps it is time to lay his memory to rest,” said Henry in a low voice one evening, and Rosvita merely murmured encouragement.

So it was arranged. A small party rode out the next morning, consisting of King Henry, Helmut Villam, Rosvita and three clerics, Father Hugh, and a company of Lions with an Eagle in attendance. A track led through greening fields to a village whose residents hurried to greet them. Father Hugh passed out sceattas to the householders; King Henry blessed the little children, held up for him by their mothers and fathers so he could set a hand on each dirty head. A little-used path led to a stream’s edge. Here, clumps of grass waved in the rush of high water. The steep banks had overflowed slightly, but only the Lions got wet; the ford proved passable for the riders.

The ruins lay in a jumbled heap along the slope of land before them, crowned by a ring of standing stones. Once, buildings had stood here. Had they been built by the same people who raised the circle of stones, or was this a later fortress, built here to guard—or guard against—the influence of the crown of stones? With the nearby stream and cultivatable land, it made a good homestead, as the persistence of the villagers showed: Few people would willingly live within sight of a ring of stones unless they had a compelling reason to remain there.

Henry dismounted and, with Villam beside him, made his way up through the ruins alone.

“Now there’s two men still mourning the loss of sons,” said Brother Fortunatus, looking around the scene with interest. “Is this where the Aoi woman vanished?”