“Mother Clementia is dead!” Stopping in front of Hugh he set fists on hips as if he expected Hugh to take the blame. “Now what are we to do? I need a skopos who will support me! You know how the nobles all hate me.”
“My lord king, it might serve you better if you did not abuse thirteen-year-old girls in the sight of your noble companions and a hundred church folk.”
Ironhead spat on the plank walkway. “I’ll never win their love, so why should I temper what I do?”
“It’s true that a bastard should not expect love,” agreed Hugh smoothly, “but he may yet earn a measure of respect.”
“Will respect earn me the new skopos’ support, whoever she may prove to be?”
“Do not fret, my lord king. The right person will be chosen as skopos.”
“Will she truly? So you have promised me before.”
“Have I not accomplished everything that I promised you in Capardia, at the convent?”
Ironhead grunted, pacing in a tight circle bound by the railing and the stairs. “You promised me I’d win the crown and that Mother Clementia would herself place the circlet on my head. So it proved.”
“Then what troubles you, my lord king?”
“I’ve gold enough to buy another thousand mercenaries, but King Henry has gold, too. Spring is upon us. Soon the passes will open. If he marches down into Aosta, he might bribe my army with Wendish gold and then where would I be? Without the skopos’ support, I can’t hold on to Darre, much less the rest of Aosta.”
He flung himself against the railing so hard that Antonia flinched, afraid the wood would shatter and he go tumbling down, and down, to fall and break himself on the roofs of the houses built up against the base of the cliff.
in the waning days of the dying year, the night air had a fresh taste to it, the scent of change. In Aosta, the rains were drawing to a close. With the turn of the year, the rainy season would give way to the long drought that marked summer and early autumn. Meanwhile, in pots set at intervals along the wide parapet walkway, lilies and violets and roses had already begun to bloom. Some hopeful soul had hung myrtle wreaths from the tripods where lamps stood, their flames marking the path for anyone who walked abroad so close to dawn.
He made his way to one corner of the walkway, leaning far out over the waist-high wooden railing as though ready to test if he could fly. Wind whipped his robes around him, bringing them to life, or perhaps they, too, were being visited by a daimone coerced down from the spheres above.
The bell rang for Vigils, but here on the wall its call seemed unimportant compared to God’s glorious creation laid out before them. The clouds had blown off to reveal the heavens in all their brightness.
She paused in a pool of darkness to look down toward the river running far below at the base of the hill. From this height, the shadowy ribbon of the river was glazed a silvery gray by the moon’s last light. Almost full, the moon was setting now, Somorhas’ bright beacon following behind. She studied the stars, pleased to find it easier to identify the constellations. Somorhas stood at the cusp of the Healer and the Penitent, in her bright aspect as the morning star. Red Jedu shone malevolently above, caught in the Sisters, who plot mischief, but steady Aturna shone within their house as well, with the promise of wisdom brought to their scheming.
He spoke unexpectedly, still staring out into the gulf of air. “Nay, do not step out into the light. I know you come from Sister Anne. The king is coming, and it is better if he does not see you.”
At once, so easily, her mastery was overset. Her heart pounded erratically, and for an instant she felt as might a hen, come face-to-face with the fox himself. Was it possible he’d known all along that she was following and observing him? She touched the amulets hanging against her breast, hidden by her cleric’s robes, and breathed herself back into calm. Nay, he did not call her by name. Perhaps he had heard her, but he hadn’t seen her face. He wasn’t sure exactly who she was. Her scheming was still safe as long as Anne didn’t suspect her.
Silent, she stayed hidden from his sight.
“Tell Sister Anne, if you please, that I have considered what she had to say. But she must understand that I am loyal to my king.”
The heavy tread of agitated footsteps echoed up to her. Someone was climbing the outside stairs. She shrank farther back into the shadows. The bell began to toll again, ringing out seven strokes, the call of death. Another bell, in a distant chapel, took up the stroke, and then a third, an echo ringing through the city below, leaden and somber.
Ironhead strode onto the parapet, breathing heavily.
“Mother Clementia is dead!” Stopping in front of Hugh he set fists on hips as if he expected Hugh to take the blame. “Now what are we to do? I need a skopos who will support me! You know how the nobles all hate me.”
“My lord king, it might serve you better if you did not abuse thirteen-year-old girls in the sight of your noble companions and a hundred church folk.”
Ironhead spat on the plank walkway. “I’ll never win their love, so why should I temper what I do?”
“It’s true that a bastard should not expect love,” agreed Hugh smoothly, “but he may yet earn a measure of respect.”
“Will respect earn me the new skopos’ support, whoever she may prove to be?”
“Do not fret, my lord king. The right person will be chosen as skopos.”
“Will she truly? So you have promised me before.”
“Have I not accomplished everything that I promised you in Capardia, at the convent?”