XIV
THE CROWN
1
“I PRAY you, Sister. Wake up.”
She sighed, wishing for this instant that she might not have to open her eyes and walk into the new day.
Fortunatus chuckled. “You must wake. It is already accomplished three days ago. Fear not. We will stand beside you. But come quickly. Sister Hathumod is asking for you.”
She opened her eyes to see his dear face hovering above hers. He had gained weight over the last year. He looked well. The girls—in truth they had earned the right to be called young women, but they would always be girls to her—waited impatiently, all bright smiles and shiny faces, and there was Brother Jehan and the new scribe, shy Baldwin, the frail scholar Brother Sigfrid, genial Brother Ermanrich, and more besides, clerics, presbyters, deacons, fraters, abbesses and abbots, monks and nuns, biscops, and even the humble lay brothers and sisters who worked the holy estates.
Hers, now. All of them.
The chamber was an opulent one, clothed in silks and tapestries. The couch on which she had taken her nap was embroidered in the Salian style with scenes cross-stitched into the fabric, in this case, episodes from the life of the Emperor Taillefer. There he rides with his black hounds upon the hunt; there he stands with staff and book, one hand raised, remarking on the stars in the heavens; there he sits with the crown of stars on his brow while he passes judgment over the famous dispute between two beekeepers; there he weds for the fourth time, and there he dies, hand clasping the wrist of his young queen, Radegundis, who is soon to be known as a saint.
The journey is a long one, and none can know when or where it will end.
They helped her to rise, and arrayed her in heavy robes, which she did not like. She thought longingly of her books. Surely there would be an hour here or there to continue the Deeds of the Great Princes once all the fuss died down.
They escorted her down a wide corridor, down steps to the lower level, and through a garden heavy with the scent of roses.
Last summer had remained cool, and the first frosts had come early. The winter had been hard, and many had died, and spring had come late again, but the skies had begun to clear. All summer they had been fortunate in days of lingering heat that caused the flowers to bloom wildly and in fierce colors.
She heard the swell and murmur of the crowd in the octagonal chapel, constant like the mutter of the sea along the shore, but Brother Fortunatus steered her to a suite opening off the rose garden. The shutters were closed because, here at the end, the light hurt the dying woman’s eyes.
Mother Scholastica was leaving. She paused at the door, and stepped back to let Rosvita pass in before she went out. She inclined her head, as she must do now, although Rosvita felt no triumph in it. Indeed, none of this had been of her doing.
“It is agreed that—with your blessing—Sister Hathumod will become biscop of Autun,” said the abbess.
Rosvita nodded. “Are you at peace, Mother Scholastica? Your voice has been raised many times among those who argued most forcefully against the final decision made by the council.”
The abbess looked toward the couch placed among the shadows. Her expression remained disapproving, but her words were firm. “I have spoken last rites over her. At the hour of dying, a person may see the heart of God, and speak true words. So is it written.”
She departed, making for the chapel. Rosvita crossed the chamber and knelt beside the couch, but Constance’s eyes were closed although a faint rise and fall like the echo of the sea swell stirred her chest.
Sister Hathumod kissed Rosvita’s ring. “Holy Mother.”
“Has she spoken?”
“Not since three days ago, Holy Mother, when she made conference with the last of them that held out against the truth.”
“Does she know that the final vote came last night?”
“I have not told her, Holy Mother.”
Rosvita took that limp hand between hers. She felt Fortunatus behind her, a steadfast presence. There were others in the chamber, and it seemed to her that many stood who were living and many who were only there in spirit, waiting to guide Constance’s soul up through the spheres to the Chamber of Light.
“I will tell it quickly, Constance. It has come about as you foresaw. The testimony of The Book of Secrets has opened its heart to us. The council has spoken. The world has changed. From this day forward the church will follow the path of the Redemption. So be it.”
Constance stirred. Her mouth parted. “Who are you?” she whispered.
Rosvita smiled wryly, glancing over her shoulder at Fortunatus and the others. In the room it was too dim to make out any but shadows, figures that might be dream or real, the past or the present or the future.
“I have been elected as Holy Mother, according to the decision of the council and the college of presbyters. Darre lies in ruins. It is uninhabitable, as our agents have seen. Autun will become the seat of the skopos. What is left to tell you? Nothing and everything.”
“You are the rose,” Constance murmured, in answer to her own question, and Rosvita saw that her vision had, in fact, ascended far past the bounds of mortal Earth. “Yet where have you gone?” Then her eyes opened and her face was transformed as if by light. “Ah! There is your crown!”