Child of Flame (Crown of Stars 4)

5

ROSVITA rose at dawn and, after prayers, studied the first of the books Heriburg and Ruoda had found in the palace library the day before. This copy of the prose Life of Taillefer, by his faithful cleric and counselor Albinus, said in his time to be the most learned man in the world, confirmed what she already knew. Taillefer had had four daughters who lived to adulthood. Three had entered the church, including the famous Biscop Tallia. The fourth girl, Gundara, had after certain unnamed embarrassments been married to the Duc de Rossalia, the most powerful noble in the kingdom outside of Taillefer’s own family. Albinus said nothing more about Gundara’s life, only mentioned that a set of rich bed curtains, three Belguise tapestries, a square table engraved with a depiction of the universe set out as seven spheres, and four chests of treasure including vessels of gold and silver were allotted to her in Taillefer’s will.

“Here is the Chronicle of Vitalia.” Ruoda opened the next book to the appropriate chapter. The cleric and deacon Vitalia, at the Salian convent of St. Ceneri on the Eides, had written an extensive history of her cloister, and it was owing to her superior understanding as a woman that they could therefore discover more of the details they desired to know. In the civil wars following Taillefer’s death, the great emperor’s nephew’s cousin Lothair had emerged triumphant in the end and been crowned king of Salia in 629. Yet he had never been strong enough to claim the imperial title.

Eika raids that same year had devastated Rossalia, and the duc had died defending his lands, leaving Gundara a rich widow overseeing the upbringing of three children. Lothair had himself claimed Gundara, sending his first wife to the convent in order to marry Taillefer’s daughter. In the opinion of Vitalia, he had been cursed by God for this sin of arrogance and greed by having his old age disrupted by various rebellions hatched against him by his sons, all of whom quarreled incessantly.

“It still says nothing of the fate of Gundara’s other children by the duc de Rossalia,” observed Ruoda. “The eldest boy, Charles, inherited the dukedom when he came of age, married Margaret of Derisa, and had a son to inherit after him. What are you looking for, Sister Rosvita?”

The crisp writing on the yellowed page gave no hints. It spoke only of words copied by a scribe, events recorded by a hand long dead. “At times I feel as though a mouse is nibbling at the edges of some secret knowledge hidden in my heart. If I only give the mouse a while longer to feast, then it will uncover what I wish to know. If I can only be patient.”

She glanced, frowning, at Heriburg’s bandaged hand. The girl had burned herself yesterday trying to scratch magical sigils into a tin medallion. The incident had frightened and disturbed them all, and for now Rosvita contented herself with hanging sprigs of fennel and alder branches over the doors and windows to ward off evil spying.

aw her chance. She yanked hard on the rope, jerked it right out of Bulkezu’s hand in that instant when his attention jumped away from her, and leaped into the river. Hinging herself forward, she hit the water with a mighty splash, head going under. When she surfaced, she floundered toward deeper water, thrust forward as Bulkezu cursed behind her and shouts rang out. A host of men broke out of the trees to surround the band of Quman and their horses.

The current caught her. With bound hands, it was hard to keep her head above the water. The trailing rope caught in a snag and dragged tight.

“Hanna!”

Just as the noose pulled taut, choking her, just as her vision hazed and the water closed over her face, a hand gripped her. The rope came free, cut through, and she went limp, letting herself be hauled to the bank through the streaming water and thrown up on shore like a fish gasping for air.

“Hanna! We thought you were dead!”

Coughing and spluttering, she rolled onto her stomach and heaved a few times onto rocky shoreline. At last, she looked up to see the concerned and horrified faces of four very familiar men: Ingo, Leo, Folquin, and Stephen, her good friends from the Lions.

“Bulkezu!” she cried, heaving again as she struggled to her feet, but Ingo caught her easily as she staggered.

“Nay, we’ve captured a group of them, the ones that had you prisoner. Are you saying that lord with the broken wings is Prince Bulkezu himself?” He laughed aloud and punched Folquin merrily on the shoulder. “Won’t we have a great prize to deliver to Prince Sanglant!”

“Ai, God,” whispered Hanna. “I’m free.”

Her legs gave out completely and, while Ingo held her, she broke down and sobbed uncontrollably, a storm of tears she could no longer restrain.

5

ROSVITA rose at dawn and, after prayers, studied the first of the books Heriburg and Ruoda had found in the palace library the day before. This copy of the prose Life of Taillefer, by his faithful cleric and counselor Albinus, said in his time to be the most learned man in the world, confirmed what she already knew. Taillefer had had four daughters who lived to adulthood. Three had entered the church, including the famous Biscop Tallia. The fourth girl, Gundara, had after certain unnamed embarrassments been married to the Duc de Rossalia, the most powerful noble in the kingdom outside of Taillefer’s own family. Albinus said nothing more about Gundara’s life, only mentioned that a set of rich bed curtains, three Belguise tapestries, a square table engraved with a depiction of the universe set out as seven spheres, and four chests of treasure including vessels of gold and silver were allotted to her in Taillefer’s will.

“Here is the Chronicle of Vitalia.” Ruoda opened the next book to the appropriate chapter. The cleric and deacon Vitalia, at the Salian convent of St. Ceneri on the Eides, had written an extensive history of her cloister, and it was owing to her superior understanding as a woman that they could therefore discover more of the details they desired to know. In the civil wars following Taillefer’s death, the great emperor’s nephew’s cousin Lothair had emerged triumphant in the end and been crowned king of Salia in 629. Yet he had never been strong enough to claim the imperial title.

Eika raids that same year had devastated Rossalia, and the duc had died defending his lands, leaving Gundara a rich widow overseeing the upbringing of three children. Lothair had himself claimed Gundara, sending his first wife to the convent in order to marry Taillefer’s daughter. In the opinion of Vitalia, he had been cursed by God for this sin of arrogance and greed by having his old age disrupted by various rebellions hatched against him by his sons, all of whom quarreled incessantly.

“It still says nothing of the fate of Gundara’s other children by the duc de Rossalia,” observed Ruoda. “The eldest boy, Charles, inherited the dukedom when he came of age, married Margaret of Derisa, and had a son to inherit after him. What are you looking for, Sister Rosvita?”

The crisp writing on the yellowed page gave no hints. It spoke only of words copied by a scribe, events recorded by a hand long dead. “At times I feel as though a mouse is nibbling at the edges of some secret knowledge hidden in my heart. If I only give the mouse a while longer to feast, then it will uncover what I wish to know. If I can only be patient.”

She glanced, frowning, at Heriburg’s bandaged hand. The girl had burned herself yesterday trying to scratch magical sigils into a tin medallion. The incident had frightened and disturbed them all, and for now Rosvita contented herself with hanging sprigs of fennel and alder branches over the doors and windows to ward off evil spying.

“My lady.” Aurea appeared in the door. “Brother Petrus has come.”

It was time to attend the king, although Rosvita thought it strange that a presbyter came to fetch her rather than one of Henry’s own stewards. She took Fortunatus with her and sent the young women to the schola. They joined Henry and the court for midday prayers in the king’s chapel while, as was customary in Aosta, Queen Adelheid and her entourage prayed in the queen’s chapel. A colonnade connected the two buildings, and here Henry brought his retinue after the service of Sext concluded, to the royal garden.

“Walk with me, Sister Rosvita,” the king said as he strolled out into the garden.

Statues of every beast known to the huntsman stood alongside gravel paths bordered by dwarf shrubs or hidden beyond the taller ranks of cypress hedges. Stags and wolves, boars and lions and aurochs, guivres and griffins and bears glowered and threatened. Yet their threats weren’t nearly as great, Rosvita thought, as the busy courtiers of Aosta with their bland smiles and charming manners.

Beyond a square fence lay a captivating floral labyrinth whose twisting paths were delimited by beds of hyssop and chamomile, bee-flowers, a purple cloud of lavender, and the last pale flowers of thyme. Summer had leached away the strong fragrance, but there was still enough lingering that, when Henry opened the gate and beckoned to her to follow him onto the narrow paths, it was like walking into a perfumed sachet.

She knew the path better than he did and had to guide him past two wrong turns until they reached the bench placed at the center, surrounded by a circle of neatly trimmed rosebushes. From here, they looked back out over the low box shrubs as Adelheid emerged from the queen’s chapel, attended by Hugh and her ladies. Seeing Henry, Adelheid disengaged herself from her courtiers and struck out across the garden toward them.