King's Dragon (Crown of Stars 1)

In the town below, a few bedraggled streamers still decorated the streets. When Henry and his army had marched in, the town of Kassel had been recovering from the raucous Feast of St. Mikhel, celebrated four nights before. Though the biscop dutifully spoke out against several of the local customs, even she could not prevent the usual festival which involved a young woman riding through the streets of Kassel clothed only in her hair—or in this case, in a gauzy linen undershift, some attention being shown to modesty—while the townsfolk closed their shutters and pretended not to watch her go by. After this procession everyone trooped out of doors and drank themselves sick. Rosvita was not sure exactly what had happened in the original story to force the poor woman to ride out in such a humiliating way, only that St. Mikhel was by a miracle supposed to have clothed the hapless virgin in a light so blinding it protected her from the stares of the heathen and the ungodly.

“It is said,” said Princess Theophanu, coming up beside Rosvita to stand in a splash of sunlight, “that this stronghold was built on the ruins of a Dariyan fortress which was itself built on the ruins of an older palace whose great stones were set in place by the daimones of the upper air.” She indicated the huge lintel.

“Like the stone circles,” said Rosvita, thinking of young Berthold. “Though some say they were set there by giants.” That was what Helmut Villam had said, that day when they had explored the old fallen stone circle and Berthold had still walked alive in the light of day. Ai, Lady, this sorrow she must bear with her. But she could not allow it to drag her down. “Come,” she said, turning to Theophanu. “We will read from the book I was given by the hermit, Brother Fidelis. In this way we may reflect upon the life of a holy woman while we wait to hear from King Henry.”

She turned back into the hall, where light and shadow played among the thick wood pillars and in the eaves far above. No fire burned in the hearth this day; it was warm enough that only cooking fires in the kitchen house needed to be lit. Servants dressed in tabards sewn with the gold lion of Fesse lingered nervously beside the side doors. One brought wine forward, but she gestured for him to take it away. She was not thirsty.

Young Ekkehard had fallen asleep on a bench. His gentle face and sweet profile reminded her bitterly of Berthold Villam, who was lost to them now. Ekkehard was a good boy, if a little too fond of carousing late into the night and singing with the bards who traveled from one great court to the next.

“It is just as well,” said Theophanu, coming up beside Rosvita.

“What is just as well?”

Theophanu nodded toward her younger brother. Of all Henry’s children, Ekkehard looked the most like his father: golden-brown hair, round face, and a slightly arched, strong nose. At thirteen, he was lanky and tall and a bit clumsy except when he was playing the lute, but so—it was said—had Henry been at that age before he grew into the broad and powerful stature of his adult years. “It is just as well,” said Theophanu, “that Ekkehard loves music and the pleasures of the feast more than he does the promise of power.”

Rosvita did not quite know what to make of this bald statement.

Theophanu turned her dark eyes on Rosvita. “Is that not the source of Sabella’s rebellion? That she is not content administering her husband’s dukedom? That she wants more?”

“Is greed not the source of many sins?” asked Rosvita.

Theophanu smiled innocently. “So does the church teach, good sister.”

Theophanu was old enough to have her own retinue, and yet her father kept her close by his side, just as he kept Sapientia beside him rather than giving her a title and lands to administer. Did Theophanu chafe at this treatment? Rosvita could not tell. Was she angry that her sister had been allowed to accompany Henry to meet Sabella on the field and been given her own command? That she had been left behind when truly she was larger and stronger and more fit physically for the exertions of battle? Theophanu’s expression and her inner thoughts on these matters remained unreadable.

Rosvita unwrapped the old parchment codex from the linen cover in which she had swaddled it and turned carefully to the first page. Brother Fidelis’ calligraphy was delicate yet firm, betraying the lines of an older age in the loops and swirls of the occasional fillips of ornamentation he had allowed himself as he wrote. A Salkian hand, Rosvita thought; she had examined many manuscripts and books over the years and come to recognize various quirks and telltale signs of specific scribes or of habits learned in certain monastic schools.

She touched the yellowing page with reverence, feeling the lines of ink beneath her fingers like the whisper of Fidelis’ voice, coming to her as from down a long tunnel, through the veil of years.

Theophanu sat beside her and waited, hands clasped patiently in her lap. Rosvita read aloud.

“‘The Lord and Lady confer glory and greatness on women through strength of mind. Faith makes them strong, and in these earthly vessels, heavenly treasure is hid. One of this company is Radegundis, she whose earthly life I, Fidelis, humblest and least worthy, now attempt to celebrate so that all may hear of her deeds and sing praise in her glorious memory. The world divides those whom no space parted once. So ends the Prologue.’”

Rosvita sighed, hearing Fidelis in these words as if his voice echoed through the ink to touch her ears. She went on. “‘So begins the Life. The most blessed Radegundis was of the highest earthly rank—’”

Ekkehard snorted and woke up suddenly, tumbling off the bench onto carpets carefully laid there by his servants. At that same moment, one of Theophanu’s servingwomen appeared in the doorway.

o;It is said,” said Princess Theophanu, coming up beside Rosvita to stand in a splash of sunlight, “that this stronghold was built on the ruins of a Dariyan fortress which was itself built on the ruins of an older palace whose great stones were set in place by the daimones of the upper air.” She indicated the huge lintel.

“Like the stone circles,” said Rosvita, thinking of young Berthold. “Though some say they were set there by giants.” That was what Helmut Villam had said, that day when they had explored the old fallen stone circle and Berthold had still walked alive in the light of day. Ai, Lady, this sorrow she must bear with her. But she could not allow it to drag her down. “Come,” she said, turning to Theophanu. “We will read from the book I was given by the hermit, Brother Fidelis. In this way we may reflect upon the life of a holy woman while we wait to hear from King Henry.”

She turned back into the hall, where light and shadow played among the thick wood pillars and in the eaves far above. No fire burned in the hearth this day; it was warm enough that only cooking fires in the kitchen house needed to be lit. Servants dressed in tabards sewn with the gold lion of Fesse lingered nervously beside the side doors. One brought wine forward, but she gestured for him to take it away. She was not thirsty.

Young Ekkehard had fallen asleep on a bench. His gentle face and sweet profile reminded her bitterly of Berthold Villam, who was lost to them now. Ekkehard was a good boy, if a little too fond of carousing late into the night and singing with the bards who traveled from one great court to the next.

“It is just as well,” said Theophanu, coming up beside Rosvita.

“What is just as well?”

Theophanu nodded toward her younger brother. Of all Henry’s children, Ekkehard looked the most like his father: golden-brown hair, round face, and a slightly arched, strong nose. At thirteen, he was lanky and tall and a bit clumsy except when he was playing the lute, but so—it was said—had Henry been at that age before he grew into the broad and powerful stature of his adult years. “It is just as well,” said Theophanu, “that Ekkehard loves music and the pleasures of the feast more than he does the promise of power.”

Rosvita did not quite know what to make of this bald statement.

Theophanu turned her dark eyes on Rosvita. “Is that not the source of Sabella’s rebellion? That she is not content administering her husband’s dukedom? That she wants more?”

“Is greed not the source of many sins?” asked Rosvita.

Theophanu smiled innocently. “So does the church teach, good sister.”