o;Let him join my schola instead,” said the king. “Sister Rosvita supervises the young clerics and the business of the court. She would be glad to attend to his education.”

“That would be a great honor,” said the lady without emotion, glancing toward Lady Tallia. She, like everyone else there, understood that her son was now a hostage for her good behavior and continued support.

Hathui cleared her throat, shifting to stretch her back. “Indeed,” she murmured so that only Liath could hear, “the king’s schola has increased vastly in numbers in these last two months, so many young lords and ladies from Varre have come to join us. They almost make up for the lack of Princess Sapientia.”

These sudden and occasional outbursts of sarcasm from Hathui never failed to surprise Liath. But since Hathui always grinned after speaking them, Liath could not be sure whether she disliked the nobles or merely found them amusing.

Liath followed the movements of young Constantine as he was brought before the king to kneel and be presented to Henry. He was even allowed to kiss the king’s hand. Would she have wished for such a life? To be given into the king’s schola, where she might study, write, and read all she wished—and be praised for it? If Da hadn’t died—

But Da had died. Da had been murdered.

She touched her left shoulder, where, when she wasn’t riding, she usually draped her saddlebag. She felt light, almost naked, without it, but she had to leave her gear wrapped in her cloak in the fortress stables. She hated to leave the bag anywhere, for fear someone would steal both it and, more importantly, the precious book hidden inside, but she’d had no choice. At least this time one of the Eagles had been left behind to guard all their various possessions while the others came to stand attendance on the king and remind these Varren lords of the king’s magnificence and his far-reaching strength.

Lions stood here, too, ranged along the walls. She caught sight of Thiadbold, by the door that led out of the great hall to the courtyard and kitchens. He was chatting with one of his comrades.

Above the buzz of conversation she heard Margrave Judith address the king. The imposing margrave terrified Liath even though Liath was certain that Judith could not know who Liath was and had no reason to connect an anonymous Eagle with her own son. Hugh was abbot of Firsebarg now, which lay west of here in northern Varingia. He had no reason to attend the king’s progress. At first, she had been afraid that Henry’s progress through Varre might take them that far, but it had not because on this journey, Henry did not need to visit a place loyal to him.

“I will take my party and ride east to my marchlands,” Judith was saying. “I will raise what levies I can, Your Majesty, but with the harvest coming, with winter after and then the spring sowing, it will be next summer before I can march on Gent.”

“What of this marriage I’ve heard you speak of?” asked the king. “Will that delay you?”

She raised her eyebrows. A powerful woman of about the same age as Henry, she had borne five children, of whom three still lived, and had outlived two husbands. Unlike Lady Svanhilde, these travails had not weakened her, and she could still ride to battle, although she had sons and sons-in-law to do that for her now. Despite herself, Liath had to admire Judith’s strength—and be grateful that strength wasn’t turned against her.

“A young husband is always eager to prove himself on the field,” she said. This statement produced guffaws and hearty good wishes, to which she replied, in a stately manner, “I see no reason he can’t fight at Gent, once we reach there. But I must return to Austra to marry, and I promised I would collect my bridegroom this past spring.” Her lips quirked up, and she looked rather more satisfied at the prospect than Liath thought seemly. “The delay brought on by Sabella’s rebellion was unexpected. I hope his kin have not given up on me.”

“It’s hot in here,” muttered Liath.

“And not just because of the conversation,” retorted Hathui with a grin. “Go outside for a bit. You won’t be needed.”

Liath nodded and sidled away from the high table. Pressing back along the wall, she got caught in an eddy of servants bringing the next course, roasted pheasants arranged on platters with their feathers opened like a fan behind them. From this vantage she could hear the conversation at the nearest table, where Sister Rosvita sat with her clerics.

“I hope he’s as handsome as they all say her first husband was,” one woman was saying.

“Her first husband wasn’t handsome, dear Sister Amabilia,” said the plump young man sitting beside her. “He was heir to considerable lands and wealth because his mother outlived her sisters and gave birth to no daughters. It was the margrave’s famous Alban concubine who was so handsome. Isn’t that right, Sister Rosvita? You were with the court then, weren’t you?”

“Let us keep our minds on Godly subjects, Brother Fortunatus.” But after uttering this pious sentiment, Sister Rosvita smiled. She was famous at court for her great learning and wise counsel, and for never losing her temper. After two months with the king’s progress, Liath could not help but admire her from afar—especially having heard Ivar sing her praises so often in Heart’s Rest. “I can’t recall his name now, but in truth, he was memorably beautiful, the kind of face one never forgets.”

“High praise from you, Sister Rosvita,” said the one called Amabilia. “Even if you do remember everything.”

The stream of platters and pheasants passed. Liath hurried on and made it to the door.

“Thiadbold.” She stopped beside the red-haired Lion. “What of the man this morning, whose cheek was cut so horribly? Will he live?”

“He’ll live, though he won’t be charming any of the women with his handsome face, alas for him.”

“Will he still be able to serve as a Lion? What will happen to him if he can’t?” She knew all too well what it meant to have neither kin nor home.

“A Lion who is unfit to serve because of a wound in battle can expect a handsome reward from the king, a plot of land in the marchcountry or fenland.”

“Aren’t those dangerous and difficult places to farm?”

“In some ways, but you’re free of service to the lordlings who demand tithes and labor. The king only demands service from you to man the marchcountry watchforts. Even a man as scarred as poor Johannes will be can find a wife if he has a plot of land to pass on to their daughters. There’s always a strong woman to be found, a younger sister, perhaps, who’d like to forge out on her own and will overlook an unsightly scar.” He hesitated, then touched her, briefly, on the elbow. “But mind, Eagle, we Lions will remember that you came to his aid.”

Behind them, at the table, the king rose and lifted his cup, commanding silence. “In the morning we march east, toward Wendar,” the king announced. Several of the younger lords cheered, happy at the prospect of marching nearer to those lands where fighting might be expected. “But let us not rejoice in a hall of mourning. Let us remember the lesson of St. Katina.”

Since St. Katina had been tormented by visions of great troubles lying in wait for her village in the same way a beast of the forest lies in wait for an innocent fawn, Liath wondered that King Henry would want to remind his retinue of her story. But this was her feast day, and her visions had proved truthful.

“‘Do not let fear draw a veil across your sight,’” said Biscop Constance.

Tags: Kate Elliott Crown of Stars Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net