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Just after Vespers, Villam came to Rosvita where she labored in the scriptorium, packing her notes and stylus and parchment, her quills and ink, into a chest for the journey. He appeared so close to panic that she immediately set aside her book and came to him.
“My son is missing,” he said. “Have you seen him today?”
Guilt struck at her heart. So much had happened she had forgotten about her promise to keep an eye on the boy. At once she suspected where he had gone. “I have not seen him. His retainers?”
“Six are also missing, young men of his own age, none of the older ones. The others will say nothing.” Clearly, Villam suspected the worst.
“Bring them to me.”
With grim satisfaction, Villam left. She finished packing and left the chest in the care of one of her servants. She met them before the Hearth, the only place with any semblance of peace in the entire valley. Villam brought two men: a white-haired man with the look of a faithful, battle-hardened retainer and a much younger man, not above sixteen or eighteen years, who was flushed and had obviously been crying.
Rosvita studied them both. The old man she gave up on at once. He looked like the old praeceptor, the man who had been assigned many years back to train the boy at arms and whose loyalty would be fixed to the young lad he had half raised; he could not be swayed by fear. But the younger man could.
“You do not mean to lie to me?” she demanded of the young one. “Who are you, child? Who are your parents?”
Stammering, he told her his name and lineage.
“Where is Lord Berthold?”
He betrayed himself by glancing at the old man. The old retainer glared stubbornly ahead. The young one began to fidget, twisting his hands together, biting at his lower lip.
“Look in my eyes, child, and swear to me by the name of Our Lady and Lord that you do not know.”
He began to cry again.
That quickly, as if to spare the young man the shame of lying or of betraying his master, the old armsmaster spoke. “He knew nothing of the expedition. I advised against it, but, once determined, Lord Berthold would not be swayed.”
“Yet you did not go with him!” Villam lifted a fist as if to bring it down, hard, on the Hearth, and only at the last instant remembered where he was. He slapped the fist against an open palm instead. It was getting dark. Her ability to read the subtleties of their expressions was already lost to her. Two monks entered the chapel, brands burning in each hand; they began to light the sconces. Soon the office of Compline would be sung and the monks would take themselves to their beds for the night.
“So did he order me, my lord. I am his obedient servant. And in truth, I feared no mischief. They are only old ruins. I have seen such with my own eyes and feared nothing from them. I made sure he took six of his best men-at-arms with him when he left this morning after Prime.”
“Yet he has not returned.”
The old armsmaster hung his head. Even in the inconstant light of torches she could now read clearly his guilt, his recognition of his own bad judgment, written as plainly as if he had spoken aloud.
“Take torches, picks and shovels, whatever you need, and ten of my men-at-arms and the rest of my son’s retainers. Go now.”
They did as Villam ordered.
Rosvita joined the prayers at Compline. It was crowded, for not only the king but every noble who could command room crowded into the monastery’s church. But when the others filed out, Villam remained, and he knelt on the cold ground, hands clasped in prayer, for the rest of the night.
The monks sang Nocturns, then, at first light, Lauds. King Henry arrived for the office of Prime fully arrayed for riding, wearing a coat of mail. Sapientia walked behind him, also fitted for riding; she carried her father’s helm under one arm and she wore the badge of St. Perpetua, Lady of Battles, on her right shoulder. Theophanu would remain in the train, behind the main army, with those like Rosvita who did not fight.
As soon as Prime was sung and the last prayer spoken over the Hearth, Henry left the church and crossed to where his horse waited, already saddled. It was just dawn. No men had returned from the night expedition to the old ruins.
“We must ride,” said King Henry.
Villam bowed his head, for of course he knew the king spoke truthfully. He splashed water on his face to refresh himself and then, with the others, set forth.
That morning the army did not range out ahead of the cavalcade of wagons and animals that constituted the people and goods of the king’s progress. At midday, a party from the monastery caught up to them.
Rosvita hastened forward from her place in the train in order to hear the news. Berthold was a good boy, full of promise. She felt herself responsible. She had not watched over him as she had said she would.
But she read no hope on the face of the old armsmaster, who came forward as spokesman for the others.
“It is a grievous tale I have to tell, my lord.” His voice was even, but his eyes betrayed the depth of his distress.
“My son is dead,” said Villam, as if voicing the words would cause the worst of the pain, of a father’s loss of his favored son, to be over with quickly, to fade that fast into the dull ache of a loss suffered years before. Better that than the raw grief that cut to the heart.
