The Burning Stone (Crown of Stars 3)

Someone flung open a shutter, and he shut his eyes. The light made his head pound. The girl slid off the bed and peed in the corner; he heard the quiet splash of it on the juniper boughs strewn on the floor. A moment later she sat down heavily next to him and stroked his loins unenthusiastically.

“We can ride that horse again, my lord,” she said. “You know how I do love to ride.”

In the sour grip of morning, her voice didn’t sound quite as sincere as it had the night before. She sounded tired and frankly rather bored.

He fumbled under the mattress, found a few coins, and thrust them into her hands. “Nay,” he said. “Go on, then.”

“Ah!” For the first time, he heard real passion. “That’s so generous, my lord.”

He only waved his hand. He had to pee, and he wished mightily that she was gone. Yet as the girl shrugged on her clothing and left amidst sounds of other women leaving, someone vomiting, and the roll and scatter of a dice game starting up, he wished even more that he could fly away with her. But not with her, precisely; he didn’t care any more for her than he had for the woman he’d bedded before her, or the one before that, or perhaps it had been the same woman several nights running; he wasn’t sure. But Ekkehard never seemed to tire of their nightly feasts, and since Ekkehard was prince, and newly ordained father of the monastery of St. Perpetua on the Veser, they followed where he led.

“Darling Ivar.” Baldwin plopped down beside him, as naked as the girl had been. He was all sweaty, his hair was rumpled, and someone had dumped the dregs of the wine pot over his head. He was still the handsomest man in the hall. “We’re off to hunt. New game’s been sighted in the eastern woods. Get dressed!”

Ivar groaned.

“Ridden to exhaustion!” Baldwin laughed. “Foundered! Or is he?” He nuzzled Ivar’s neck far more passionately than the young woman had, and Ivar felt the familiar stirring of lust between his legs. Most anything could rouse it these days; most everything did.

“Not yet lamed!” Baldwin let his hands stray as he lay down beside Ivar on the narrow bed. And why not? There wasn’t anything else to do here, day in, day out. At least Baldwin really loved him. The woman had just wanted the coin. “Dear Ivar. How was she? Tell me about it, everything you did with her. Did she touch you like this? Did she remind you of Liath?”

Ivar bolted up, lust banished. “I have to pee.” He practically fell off the bed in his haste to get away. The movement made his head swim, and his stomach curdle. He threw up into a corner, and began to weep, and after a bit he realized that Baldwin crouched beside him, a steadying hand on his back.

o;I pray you, Your Highness!” cried Rosvita, almost laughing, for the burden seemed doubly weighty now.

“Nay, I have spoken. I will agree to whatever you choose, Sister, because in this matter I trust your judgment better than I trust my own.”

Ai, God! Theophanu trusted her to see Hugh in a reasoned light, where Theophanu could only view him through a veil of hatred and, perhaps, thwarted desire. But Rosvita was not sure she could judge Hugh and his offer with any greater wisdom, not given her own prejudices in the matter. She was not unbiased; she might yet be proved wrong about Liath.

Yet judge she must. The fate of a queen and a princess and the future of Aosta itself rode on her shoulders now.

Everyone was waiting on her. She found her voice at last. “If I might have some solitude to reflect, Mother?”

The abbess nodded. “As you wish, Sister. Paloma can escort you to the library.”

It seemed a fitting place for a woman of her inclinations to make what might prove to be the most difficult, even damning, decision of her life.

3

IVAR woke disoriented. His head hurt, and his mouth tasted like rotten fish. After a moment, he realized he was not alone. Someone who was very warm, rather damp, and quite naked pressed against him on the lumpy bed. From elsewhere in the dim hall, he heard whispers, giggles, grunting, and a moan that trailed off into a gasp of sudden pleasure.

The person beside him stirred. “Are you awake, my lord?” She had a high, breathless voice, like to a woman in the throes of carnal ecstasy. Last night at the Feast in honor of Candlemass, that voice and her body had inflamed him past endurance; that, and the wine, of course. But it was like this every night, here in Gent in the newly built dormitory hall of the monastery of St. Perpetua, Lady of Battles and patron saint of the chaste and of barren women. Every night Father Ekkehard ordered a feast laid out and buxom young women brought in from town to serve food and drink, and after dicing, and singing, and dancing, and wrestling, and a great deal of wine, some of the girls left, and some stayed.

Someone flung open a shutter, and he shut his eyes. The light made his head pound. The girl slid off the bed and peed in the corner; he heard the quiet splash of it on the juniper boughs strewn on the floor. A moment later she sat down heavily next to him and stroked his loins unenthusiastically.

“We can ride that horse again, my lord,” she said. “You know how I do love to ride.”

In the sour grip of morning, her voice didn’t sound quite as sincere as it had the night before. She sounded tired and frankly rather bored.

He fumbled under the mattress, found a few coins, and thrust them into her hands. “Nay,” he said. “Go on, then.”

“Ah!” For the first time, he heard real passion. “That’s so generous, my lord.”

He only waved his hand. He had to pee, and he wished mightily that she was gone. Yet as the girl shrugged on her clothing and left amidst sounds of other women leaving, someone vomiting, and the roll and scatter of a dice game starting up, he wished even more that he could fly away with her. But not with her, precisely; he didn’t care any more for her than he had for the woman he’d bedded before her, or the one before that, or perhaps it had been the same woman several nights running; he wasn’t sure. But Ekkehard never seemed to tire of their nightly feasts, and since Ekkehard was prince, and newly ordained father of the monastery of St. Perpetua on the Veser, they followed where he led.

“Darling Ivar.” Baldwin plopped down beside him, as naked as the girl had been. He was all sweaty, his hair was rumpled, and someone had dumped the dregs of the wine pot over his head. He was still the handsomest man in the hall. “We’re off to hunt. New game’s been sighted in the eastern woods. Get dressed!”

Ivar groaned.

“Ridden to exhaustion!” Baldwin laughed. “Foundered! Or is he?” He nuzzled Ivar’s neck far more passionately than the young woman had, and Ivar felt the familiar stirring of lust between his legs. Most anything could rouse it these days; most everything did.