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But the dukedoms of Varingia, Wayland, and Arconia lay in the old kingdom of Varre, and the loyalty of their dukes was less constant—and more suspect. So Duke Conrad of Wayland’s daughter sat at the front of the class and laboriously copied letters under the strict attention of Cleric Monica. So, half a year ago, Tallia, daughter of Sabella and Berengar, had come of age and left the king’s progress to return to Arconia. No one had thought anything of it then; it was a natural progression.
But two months ago Rodulf, Duke of Varingia, had recalled his youngest son Erchanger from Henry’s side. And now they heard daily the rumors that Sabella meant to rebel again against Henry’s authority.
Berthold snorted under his breath, amused. “Ekkehard’s fallen asleep again.”
“Ai, Lady,” murmured Rosvita. She did not at first have the courage to look. When she did, she saw that the only son of King Henry and Queen Sophia was, indeed, asleep, head basketed on an arm, tunic pulled askew to reveal the gold torque around his neck. He was snoring slightly. Ekkehard was a good boy but prone to staying up late at banquets listening to the poets and musicians rather than studying his letters, as he ought.
Monica, blessedly, had not yet noticed the boy was asleep. Most of her attention was reserved for Duke Conrad’s daughter, a slender girl who had inherited a full share of her grandmother’s blood: She was as black as a Jinna merchant. On her, the gold torque reserved for the direct descendants of kings shone beautifully against black skin.
Berthold, following the line of Rosvita’s gaze, muttered slyly: “She’ll be very handsome when she grows up.”
“So was it said of her grandmother, a great beauty despite that her complexion isn’t what we are used to. But the blessed Daisan himself lived in the lands now conquered and ruled by the Jinna, so who is to say he was not himself as dark-complexioned as she?”
“‘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.”
old, following the line of Rosvita’s gaze, muttered slyly: “She’ll be very handsome when she grows up.”
“So was it said of her grandmother, a great beauty despite that her complexion isn’t what we are used to. But the blessed Daisan himself lived in the lands now conquered and ruled by the Jinna, so who is to say he was not himself as dark-complexioned as she?”
