The Burning Stone (Crown of Stars 3)

“I am humbled by your accusations, Brother, but I would be first to acknowledge that I deserve them.” As he spoke, his features perfectly composed, he toyed with a red ribbon twined in his left hand. “I bear no ill-will toward the clerics and soldiers who were given the duty of escorting me to the skopos. Lord John’s soldiers should not have taken us prisoner and brought us here, and once Lord John learned of our destination, he should have freed us to continue on. But I understand that he is an ambitious man and hopes to make use of us as hostages. If I fail here, then I will join my companions in a martyr’s death. If I succeed, then we will ride on to Darre and I will present myself to the skopos as I was bidden at the Council of Autun.”

Brother Dominic grunted, as if himself displeased. “Your words are reasonable, Lord Hugh.” He hesitated, and finally spoke in a voice as low as that of a man plotting against his master. “It is hard to believe that any council could condemn you.”

Hugh bowed his head. “God know the truth.”

Brother Dominic shuffled nervously, as if he feared he had said too much. “I will leave you to your prayers.” He retreated.

For a long while Hugh knelt there, head bowed, unmoving, saying nothing. Rosvita scarcely dared breathe. Her gaze was caught by the painting on the wall opposite, faded now but still perfectly legible. The images depicted a party of Aoi dressed in feathers and short capes and not much more passing through a burning archway that led into a circle of standing stones. Beyond the stones lay a second and smaller stone crown, about a quarter the size of the first circle, situated within a cluster of buildings of a strange and wonderful design; a party of travelers, painted proportionately small, emerged from the second stone crown out of an arch of flame.

Hugh’s movement pulled her back. He drew out a small chest that had been concealed by the fall of his robes. A blood-red ribbon wound like ivy through the clasp that locked it tight. He untied the ribbon, raised the lid, and lifted out a sprig of juniper and a rectangular shape muffled in linen. Unwrapping it, he revealed a book.

Rosvita jerked back, hitting her head against rock. She caught a gasp in her throat. How had he regained The Book of Secrets? He began to read out loud.

“When the Moon is full, the studious one can by means of the threads woven by the planets and the heated air engendered by the Moon’s waxing coax down to the Earth the daimones of the lower air, those who live beneath the Moon’s sway. It is well known that men who are perverted and greedy for earthly gains are more susceptible to their influence, and the studious one may gain what she desires in this way: If she wraps the threads of the heavens neatly around these daimones and speaks the charms and the seven names of the holy disciplas and burns the smoke of juniper and fennel to cloud and chain their spirits, then they will do as she bids them. By certain unseen ways they insinuate themselves most subtly and marvelously into the bodies of humans because their own bodies have little corporeal substance but partake of the air and fire of heaven, and through certain diverse and imaginary visions they mingle their own thoughts with those of their hosts until one mouth may utter what another mind whispers.”

crouched together crammed inside the altar carved into the chapel. The light that burned without, veiled by a screen of cloth, came from two lamps hanging from iron racks set on either side of the tiny chamber.

A man knelt before the altar, head bowed, hands clasped as he prayed. She could not see his face, but she did not need to see his face. She felt Theophanu trembling beside her like a doe caught in a net. She knew the set of those shoulders, that golden sheen of hair, the perfect posture, neither too humble nor too proud as he knelt before God’s altar and prayed in his mellifluous voice.

“Lord, my heart is not haughty nor my eyes lofty;

neither do I exercise myself in things too high for me.

Lady, surely I have behaved and quieted myself.

My soul is like that of a weaned child clinging to its mother.

Let us put our hope in God, for ever and ever.”

A cleric straightened up after ducking through the archway that led back into the guest hall. “I beg pardon for disturbing you, Lord Hugh.”

He looked up. It was truly amazing how perfectly the light framed his features even when he could not know that someone watched him. His expression was somber, his eyes kind. “Brother Dominic.” He smiled gently, not quite enough to reveal the chipped tooth. “Speak, Brother. Tell me what troubles you.”

“Has the mother abbess replied to your request yet, Lord Hugh? Will she see you and allow you to speak to Queen Adelheid?”

“I have heard nothing yet. But I trust in God, as must we all.”

“Some have wondered if you volunteered to negotiate with the mother abbess only to escape Lord John’s captivity. After all, you are safe from him up here. You might hope for rescue and watch from safety while those who brought you this far suffer below.”

“I am humbled by your accusations, Brother, but I would be first to acknowledge that I deserve them.” As he spoke, his features perfectly composed, he toyed with a red ribbon twined in his left hand. “I bear no ill-will toward the clerics and soldiers who were given the duty of escorting me to the skopos. Lord John’s soldiers should not have taken us prisoner and brought us here, and once Lord John learned of our destination, he should have freed us to continue on. But I understand that he is an ambitious man and hopes to make use of us as hostages. If I fail here, then I will join my companions in a martyr’s death. If I succeed, then we will ride on to Darre and I will present myself to the skopos as I was bidden at the Council of Autun.”

Brother Dominic grunted, as if himself displeased. “Your words are reasonable, Lord Hugh.” He hesitated, and finally spoke in a voice as low as that of a man plotting against his master. “It is hard to believe that any council could condemn you.”

Hugh bowed his head. “God know the truth.”

Brother Dominic shuffled nervously, as if he feared he had said too much. “I will leave you to your prayers.” He retreated.

For a long while Hugh knelt there, head bowed, unmoving, saying nothing. Rosvita scarcely dared breathe. Her gaze was caught by the painting on the wall opposite, faded now but still perfectly legible. The images depicted a party of Aoi dressed in feathers and short capes and not much more passing through a burning archway that led into a circle of standing stones. Beyond the stones lay a second and smaller stone crown, about a quarter the size of the first circle, situated within a cluster of buildings of a strange and wonderful design; a party of travelers, painted proportionately small, emerged from the second stone crown out of an arch of flame.

Hugh’s movement pulled her back. He drew out a small chest that had been concealed by the fall of his robes. A blood-red ribbon wound like ivy through the clasp that locked it tight. He untied the ribbon, raised the lid, and lifted out a sprig of juniper and a rectangular shape muffled in linen. Unwrapping it, he revealed a book.

Rosvita jerked back, hitting her head against rock. She caught a gasp in her throat. How had he regained The Book of Secrets? He began to read out loud.

“When the Moon is full, the studious one can by means of the threads woven by the planets and the heated air engendered by the Moon’s waxing coax down to the Earth the daimones of the lower air, those who live beneath the Moon’s sway. It is well known that men who are perverted and greedy for earthly gains are more susceptible to their influence, and the studious one may gain what she desires in this way: If she wraps the threads of the heavens neatly around these daimones and speaks the charms and the seven names of the holy disciplas and burns the smoke of juniper and fennel to cloud and chain their spirits, then they will do as she bids them. By certain unseen ways they insinuate themselves most subtly and marvelously into the bodies of humans because their own bodies have little corporeal substance but partake of the air and fire of heaven, and through certain diverse and imaginary visions they mingle their own thoughts with those of their hosts until one mouth may utter what another mind whispers.”

Ai, God, what had happened to Liath at the judgment at Autun? Her head throbbed.

Theophanu nudged Rosvita, and with Paloma they backed up along the tunnel until they emerged into the main corridor. She had to rest because her legs trembled and ached as if she’d just climbed the rock itself, but when she had recovered her strength, they walked in silence past the chapel where hump-backed Sister Carita knelt in prayer. Beyond the chapel lay the tiny library whose vertical shafts gave enough light that Rosvita could see all the shades of color in the soft rock, gray and pink and cream, that striped the walls. Sister Petra sat at the scribe’s lectern, situated so that the light from the ventilation shafts striped her work. With practiced strokes, she drew her quill across parchment. Rosvita paused. Weeks ago in the throes of the worst of her fever, she had asked Mother Obligatia to continue the copy Sister Amabilia had been making of the Vita of St. Radegundis. Was Sister Petra copying Brother Fidelis’ work?