Child of Flame (Crown of Stars 4)

“No matter.” Sanglant lengthened his stride, moving out through the grass away from the rest of them as he called to his daughter. He wore a leather cord around his neck and now, restless, he pulled it out to cup his hand over a round leaf of silver engraved with various signs. “My father would not have named Anne as skopos and fallen victim to her lies if I had been at his side, advising him. She would never have gained such influence if it had been me who had ridden to Aosta with Adelheid as my queen.”

He stopped dead as his daughter crowed in triumph, having escaped Thiemo’s efforts to catch her, and turned on Wolfhere. “Or you could be telling Anne everything that you’ve learned while riding with me. You could be hiding from me what she tells you.”

“So I could, Your Highness. And I could kill your daughter while she sleeps. Lord Thiemo is a good boy, but not my match.”

“The old wolf is wise and subtle. Tell me, Wolfhere, how does one learn intrigue?”

“What sort of intrigue do you wish to learn?”

“The intrigue of the king’s court. It’s said that you were my grandfather Arnulf’s favorite. You, a common-born man. Folk must have hated you because he listened to you above all others.”

“So they did. And your father most of all.”

“Nay, truly? I thought he hated you because you tried to drown me.”

“Well, that didn’t help. But Henry hated me long before that. He envied me my place at King Arnulf’s side. Young men are prone to jealousies, my lord prince, and strange fancies. Yet Arnulf always knew Henry’s worth. There was never any doubt in his mind which of his children had been born with the luck of the king.”

“What of Henry’s children?” Sanglant glanced back toward the crowd of nobles gathered to celebrate Bayan’s victory. Sapientia stood beside her husband, bright and happy, handsome and shining, yet beside the Ungrian prince she looked as light as a feather, ready to float away at the least puff of wind. She hadn’t any weight.

“Ah.” Wolfhere smiled, baring his teeth as a wolf might when it snarls. “What of Henry’s children? Don’t forget that he has another child now, the infant Mathilda, born to Adelheid. A strong, healthy girl, though she is still a suckling babe.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“That Henry’s children by Sophia aren’t the only ones who can inherit his throne, Your Highness. He has two others. The newborn Mathilda. And you.”

Sanglant glared at Wolfhere until the old Eagle fidgeted, looking curiously nervous in the face of the prince’s obvious anger and grief. “Find my wife, Eagle. Why has your Eagle’s sight failed you? Has she hidden herself from you? Where has she gone?”

Wolfhere had no answer for him.

“I pray you, my lord prince,” said Heribert quietly, “it is like poison to the skin to handle it too much. Nor should you display it openly.”

Sanglant started, glanced at the silver medallion in his hand, and slipped it back under his tunic.

Only then, with the three men standing close together, did Zacharias realized that all three—prince, cleric, and Eagle—wore similar amulets concealed under their clothing, a protection against sorcery.

2

HOW long ago it seemed that she had had the leisure to sit in the scriptorium and work uninterrupted on her History of the Wendish People! It had been so long that the blessed Queen Matilda, of glorious memory, to whom the work was dedicated, had died without ever seeing a finished work. These days, Rosvita wondered if there ever would be a finished work.

As she moved through the sunny scriptorium, she noted the scribes busy at their work, clerics from the king’s schola copying out capitularies, deeds, and charters as well as letters pertaining to the king’s business here and in the north. So many rounded shoulders, so many busy hands. Now and again clerics looked up from their work to nod at her or ask for advice. More by accident than design, she was now in charge of Henry’s schola. Queen Adelheid had her own schola, made up of clerics from Aosta and overseen by Hugh, who had been assigned as the Holy Mother’s official emissary to the Queen.

“Sister Rosvita, ought we to be writing this cartulary to establish the county of Ivria? Shouldn’t that properly be done in the Queen’s schola?”

“Nay, Brother Eudes, we mean to establish King Henry’s right and obligation to rule in these lands so that none will protest if the skopos agrees to crown him as Emperor. Therefore, any grant must come from Henry and Adelheid together.” She walked on, pausing where light streamed in to paint gold over the parquet floor.

“Sister, we have heard another report of heresy, this time from Biscop Odila at Mainni. How are we to answer?”

“Patience, Sister Elsebet. The skopos has already indicated that she will hold a council on this matter next year. Write to Biscop Odila that she must confine those who will not recant so that they cannot corrupt the innocent, but by no means to act rashly. Avoid at all costs any public trial, until after the council, because it is in the nature of people to make martyrs where they can. We must beware making martyrs of these heretics. Can you render that in your own words, Sister?”

Elsebet had been with a schola for ten years, just the kind of cleric who did better if given a little independence to work. She smiled sharply. “Of course, Sister Rosvita. I am glad that the charge of the king’s schola has fallen to you. In truth, the skopos’ clerics and presbyters rule with too heavy a hand for my liking. I daresay the custom is different here in Aosta than it is in the north.”

Farther on, Ruoda and Heriburg sat side by side, one white-scarfed head and one pale blue one, intent on their copying.

“How comes the work?” Rosvita asked quietly as she paused beside them.

They had, open on the lectern above them, the Vita of St. Radegundis. Heriburg was continuing the copy started by Sister Amabilia, and Ruoda had begun a second copy, which Rosvita hoped to send to Korvei for safekeeping.

“Well enough.” Ruoda had blotted a word and now scraped the offending ink away with her writing knife.