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“It is over.” She looked back. No sign of life came from the hut.
“I heard nothing, and saw nothing,” said Villam. “Except my son, climbing like a young squirrel trying to dash its brains out on the cliffs below.”
“Let us go,” said Rosvita. She did not have the heart to speak of their conversation.
Villam accepted her reticence. He signed to his men. Together they made their way back along the trail, this time skirting the clearing of fallen stones. Rosvita was too sunk in thought to observe the clearing or even think much of it, though Berthold tried to detour over to one of the mounds and was stopped by his father.
King Henry would not like what Brother Fidelis had said, not if Henry wished to name Sanglant as his heir. It was all very well to say a bastard might inherit the throne in Salia. But not when the price was death, civil war, and the extinction of a noble lineage. Perhaps Henry would see reason. He was a good man and a good king, and he had three strong legitimate children.
But that was not what ate at her. Like a hand scratching at a door, the question nagged at her. Who were the Seven Sleepers?
In all her reading and study, preparing to write her work of history, she had come across a few references to the Seven Sleepers. It was an innocuous story, one of many set among the tales of the early martyrs; even Eusebe mentioned it, in passing, in her Ecclesiastial History.
In the time of the persecution of Daisanites by the Dariyan Emperor Tianathano, seven young persons in the holy city of Sai’s took refuge in a cave to gain strength before they presented themselves for martyrdom; the cave miraculously sealed over them and there they were left to sleep until …
Until when? That Rosvita had never learned, or even thought to ask. As she had learned over twenty years of studying the chronicles and interviewing eyewitnesses to events fifty years ago, not all tales were necessarily true.
But something in the way Brother Fidelis had said the words, his hesitation, his suggestion that creatures who were not human worried at him in his solitude, plaguing him to make him speak of these “seven sleepers,” made her think this was more than just a legend.
“You are solemn, Sister Rosvita,” said Villam, understandably trying to draw her out.
“I have much to think about,” she said. He was too well mannered to press her.
2
THAT night they celebrated the Feast of St. Susannah, a saint beloved by cobblers and goldsmiths and jewelers. The king’s retinue filled up the old monastery’s guest houses and half the villages within an hour’s walk of the cloister, in addition to those who stayed in tents pitched in the surrounding pastures. The brother cellarer, in charge of provisioning the monastery, was actually heard to mutter that the king’s retainers were too many and too fond of their food and wine.
Henry presented a sober face to the assembly. Only Rosvita and Villam knew why she had spoken to the old hermit. Only Rosvita knew the content of that interview and Henry’s reaction to it when she had told him the whole.
He had thought for a long time while she stood, patient and silent, beside him. Although Father Bardo had offered his own study to Henry, to use as bedchamber and receiving room, Henry chose the upstairs room in the chief guest house. The room was spacious but boasted no ornamentation.
Here, with both shutters open to the spring air, she and King Henry were alone for a brief time.
Except on formal occasions, Henry always dressed in the style of his people, if more richly than most: knee-length tunic trimmed with gold braid; leggings and; at this time of year, soft leather boots worked with eagles and lions and dragons, the three pillars on which his power was built. The Eagles were his messengers, the Lions his faithful foot soldiers, and the Dragons his heavy cavalry, the pride of his army. But these were only his personal weapons.
His power as king of all Wendar and Varre rested on the submission of the great princes of the realm to his overlordship.
His black leather belt was embossed with the sigils of the six dukedoms, painted in gold: a dragon for Saony, a lion for Avaria, an eagle for Fesse, a guivre for Arconia, a stallion for Varingia, where horses were bred, and a hawk for Wayland.
He wore four gold rings, one for each of the march-lords: Helmut Villam, Judith of Olsatia and Austra, and Werinhar of Westfall. The margrave of Eastfall was dead now and the ring she had received in her turn from Henry lost on the battlefield or stolen away by looters to adorn some Quman lord out on the grasslands.
A fifth ring, bearing the seal of his sovereignty, he wore on a golden chain around his neck.
He wore no crown. It traveled, along with his robe of state, his scepter, and the Holy Lance of St. Perpetua, Lady of Battles, in an oak chest carved with griffins and dragons grappling in eternal war.
He listened to Rosvita’s account of her interview with Brother Fidelis. He considered it while she waited. In his youth he had been more impetuous, blurting out his first thoughts. Now, eighteen years after his election to the throne of Wendar and Varre, he had mastered the skill of sitting still.
“But Taillefer did not himself designate one of those illegitimate sons as his heir,” he had said finally. “I need only look at my own family. Sabella was found unfit to rule, just as I would have been, had I not proven myself capable. In that case my father would have designated one of my sisters, or my brother Benedict, as heir. But he chose to present me to the dukes and margraves for their affirmation after my heir’s progress. Taillefer did not single out any child, bastard or otherwise. If he had, events might have fallen out differently.”
Rosvita was left none the wiser, for though she asked circumspectly, he offered no more insight into what he meant to do. His daughters Sapientia and Theophanu sat on either side of him at the great feast that night. His young son Ekkehard was prevailed upon to sing, accompanying himself on the lute; the child truly did have a sweet voice. If Henry chose to put Ekkehard in the church, his would be a fine voice raised in prayer to heaven.
At midmorning the next day two Eagles rode in, covered with dust, travel-worn and weary. They brought grave news.
“Gent is besieged,” said the senior of the two women, a grim woman who favored her left leg. She was not reticent in addressing King Henry. “We were five Eagles, riding to Gent to see the truth of these rumors for ourselves. Within sight of the city but outside the walls, we were set upon by Eika. I was wounded in the attack. So my comrade—” Here she indicated the other woman, who was young, perhaps the age of Berthold or Theophanu. “—and I fled west to carry this news to you, Your Majesty. We rode part of the way with a company of Dragons. They escorted a deacon and a holy relic to safety. The rest of the Dragons, including Prince Sanglant, remain besieged within Gent.”
omething in the way Brother Fidelis had said the words, his hesitation, his suggestion that creatures who were not human worried at him in his solitude, plaguing him to make him speak of these “seven sleepers,” made her think this was more than just a legend.
“You are solemn, Sister Rosvita,” said Villam, understandably trying to draw her out.
