King's Dragon (Crown of Stars 1)

“‘For a person is not accused because she is tall or short of stature, because he is white or black, because she has large or small eyes, or because he has some physical defect,’” quoted Berthold.

“Hush,” said Rosvita mildly, covering her lips to hide her smile.

“Lord Berthold,” said Cleric Monica. “I trust you will attend to my words or absent yourself so the rest may work in peace?”

He bowed his head obediently. Monica lectured for a while more, the words so familiar they sounded a drone in Rosvita’s ears. She stretched and rubbed her back, trying to be surreptitious about it, but Berthold, noticing, grinned at her before he finished writing his name.

Abruptly Rosvita became aware of voices from the garden outside, heard through the opened shutters of the window that let light wash over her desk. The others, children and clerics alike, concentrating on their work or on Monica’s lesson, seemed oblivious. Rosvita could not be.

Blessed Lady! The king’s daughters were quarreling again.

“I merely said I think you are unwise to allow such a man so much influence over your councils.”

“You’re jealous he chose my company over yours!”

“Of course that isn’t true. I am only concerned for your reputation. Everyone knows he is a charlatan.”

“He’s nothing of the kind! They’re all envious of his wisdom.”

“I thought they were all annoyed by his arrogance and his terrible manners.”

Rosvita sighed, laid down her quill, and wiped her fingers quickly on a rag, then rose from her stool, rubbing her aching back. Berthold looked up, startled; she signed to him to stay where he was. Cleric Monica merely nodded curtly at her, acknowledging her leavetaking; no doubt Monica knew and approved what she was about.

Rosvita hastened down the aisle of the scriptorium, cut through the sacristy—startling the aged brother in charge who had fallen asleep by the vestments—and came out into the rose garden in time to see the two sisters in their full glory by the fountain.

They were a strange admixture of their parents. Sapientia was, like her mother, small and dark and neat, but she had in all other ways the look of her father about her, including the unfortunate tendency to flush a bright red when she lost her temper.

Theophanu had the greater height and the finer figure, robust and well-formed, but also her mother’s unnatural coolness of temperament; Eastern wiles, the courtiers called it, and had never entirely trusted Queen Sophia, although they had wept as grievously as any when she was laid to rest. No doubt, thought Rosvita uncharitably, because they knew the accepted order of King Henry’s court, molded over the sixteen years of Henry and Sophia’s rule, would be thrown all into chaos when he married a new queen.

“You’re furious because Father wishes to name me as margrave of Eastfall and give me those lands to administer. You want them yourself!” Sapientia’s complexion by now rivaled that of the bright pink floribundas twining up the stone wall that bounded the private garden, although the color did not become her as well as it did the roses.

In eighteen years Rosvita had never yet seen Theophanu lose her temper, not even as a small child. Unnatural girl! She had many more effective ways of making her elder sister angry. “I trust that Father will add to my estates when he deems it time. I have never found it worthwhile to beg for duties before he is willing to settle them on me.”

Rosvita hurried forward. Poor Sapientia, in the face of this insult that so pointedly must remind her of yesterday’s tempest, was about to succumb to one of her famous rages.

“Your Gracious Highnesses,” said Rosvita just as Sapientia drew breath, “I have found you at last!” The bright statement had its intended effect: Sapientia, caught in the moment before speaking, lost hold of her thought.

Theophanu arched one eyebrow provocatively. “You bring news?” she asked politely, although Rosvita knew perfectly well the princess was not fooled by this transparent ploy.

Rosvita recalled the message from her father and blessed Our Lady for the inspiration. “It is only a small family matter, nothing important, but with great humility I venture to speak of it before you, Your Highnesses.”

“You must confide in us at once.” said Sapientia, coming forward to take Rosvita’s hands in hers. “We will do all we can.”

Theophanu simply lifted a hand in assent. “I have a brother, named Ivar, who has just been sent into orders. He is to become a monk at the monastery ruled over by Mother Scholastica, at Quedlinhame. I had hoped you might show some favor to me and my family by asking your Aunt Scholastica to watch over him in his early days there. He is very young, perhaps two or three years younger than you, Your Highness.” She nodded at Theophanu. “And I believe from the tone of my father’s letter that it was not Ivar’s intention to enter the church.”

“He is a younger son,” said Sapientia. “What else might he have wanted?”

“I cannot know his mind. I have only met him twice. He was born at least ten years after I left home to become a novice at Korvei. He is the child of my father’s second wife, who is a daughter of the countess of Hesbaye.”

“Ah, yes, she had three daughters by her third husband.” Sapientia released Rosvita’s hands and paced over to the dry fountain. Four stone unicorns, rearing back on their hind legs, regarded her calmly, their stippled surface streaked with old water trails from the spray that had coursed out from their manes and horns. Damaged by winter storms, the fountain had not yet been repaired. Father Bardo had apologized most profusely when the king and his court had arrived at Hersford Monastery to find the garden’s charming centerpiece not working.

It was a warm day for spring, going on hot. Without a cooling spray to refresh the courtyard, Rosvita felt the heat radiating up from the mosaic tile that surrounded the broken fountain.

“Her daughter, who is now the wife of Helmut Villam, spoke in my favor last night,” Sapientia continued, then laughed. “It will be interesting to see who buries more spouses before they themselves die, Helmut Villam or the countess of Hesbaye. But Villam is on his fifth wife now, is he not? The countess’ fourth husband is still alive. She will have to send him away to war as she did with all the others.”

“That was a tactless thing to say,” said Theophanu. “It is no wonder Father won’t send you on your progress.”

Sapientia whirled away from her contemplation of the fountain, took two strides to her sister, and slapped her.