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“Badly, yes.” If this distressed the margrave, she did not show it. Rosvita had never much liked Judith, but the margrave had been loyal to Arnulf and then to Henry, never wavering in her support. She was not an easy woman to like, yet neither could she be dismissed. She was far too powerful for that. “Because Villam was wounded, Liutgard was able to take Sabella into her custody.”
“Ah.” This explained much. “I suppose that did not sit well with Henry.”
“It did not. That was what they argued about. Henry demanded that Liutgard surrender Sabella into his custody. Liutgard told him she would not until Henry was calmer and more able to think clearly.”
“Ai, Lady,” murmured Rosvita. “That was rashly spoken of her. She might have found more diplomatic words.”
“Diplomacy is for courtiers and counselors, my dear cleric, not for princes. I have never found Liutgard possessed of subtlety in any case. You know Burchard’s son is dead?”
“Burchard’s son?” What had the Duke of Avaria and his children to do with this? The subject changed so quickly, and before Rosvita was done understanding the last one, that she did not follow the leap. Liutgard had married the duke of Avaria’s second son, Frederic, but he had died several years ago.
Judith sighed ostentatiously, examined her fingernails for traces of blood or other detritus of armed struggle, and allowed the servant to dry her hands on a clean linen cloth. Then with a gesture she dismissed the servant. “Sabella seems determined to take the men of that line with her in her defeats, though she cares not one whit for them. I speak of Burchard’s elder son, Agius, the one who went into the church.”
Judith related a rather confused tale of the guivre, the frater, and a boy who had led Count Lavastine’s hounds to the kill.
“You are going too quickly for me,” said Rosvita. “I do not know what part Count Lavastine has in this battle. The last I heard of him, he had refused Henry’s command to attend him on his progress. That was almost a year ago.”
“He turned up at the battle on Sabella’s side.” Judith paused and brushed a finger along her upper lip where a fine down of hair grew, the mark of her impending passage from fertility to wisdom. “But that is the strange thing: he withdrew his forces from the battle halfway through.”
“After the guivre was killed, when he saw which way the wind was blowing?”
“No. Before that, when it appeared all was lost for Henry and that Sabella would win. No one can explain it, since Lavastine and his men have fled.”
At long last, Rosvita was beginning to see where all this led. “What of Henry and Sabella?”
“We are at a stalemate there, it appears. Liutgard refuses to turn Sabella over to Henry, and Henry rages, as you can see.”
“Have you attempted to intervene, my lady?”
“I?” Judith smiled.
That smile. It was that particular smile, one Judith was famous for, that made Rosvita not like her, although she had no other good reason. The margrave of Olsatia and Austra was loyal to the house of Saony, had pledged her loyalty first to the younger Arnulf and then after his death to Henry. But Rosvita did not believe any affection or deep bond held her to them. Rosvita believed Judith remained loyal to Henry because she needed him and what he could bring her: his military support. The position of prince in the marchlands, the unstable border country, was a precarious one, and Judith had called on—and received—aid from Henry more than once.
Like many other noblewomen of the highest rank, Judith had given birth before her first marriage to a child gotten on her by a concubine or at any rate some handsome young man not of noble birth whose looks had caught her youthful fancy. That first marriage, as such marriages were, had been arranged for her by her kin to the mutual advantage of both houses. The concubine had long since disappeared. But the child had lived and thrived.
Lady bless, but Judith had petted and cosseted that boy; perhaps he would not have turned out so insufferable had he not been so handsome—those who had been at court longer than Rosvita said the boy resembled his father, in looks, at least; some said in charm as well. He had been a brilliant student, one of the most brilliant to pass through the king’s schola in Rosvita’s time there, but she had not been unhappy to see him leave. How unlike Berthold he had been in all ways except the one for which she of all people could not condemn him: curiosity.
But Hugh was gone now, into the church, and no doubt caught up in church concerns and his new position as abbot of Firsebarg. Without question his mother hoped to elevate him to the rank of presbyter, and with that honor he would leave Wendar to live in the skopos’ palace in Darre. He would have no reason to trouble the king’s progress with his presence. Thank the Lady.
“I have sent my personal physician to attend Villam,” said Judith. She shrugged her shoulders, settling the mail shirt down more comfortably over her torso. “But no, I have not attempted to intervene. That duty is for his counselors.”
Rosvita smiled wryly and humbly. By such means did God remind her not to pass judgment on others. She nodded to the margrave and excused herself. It was time to take the bull by the horns.
“What have you to say for yourself,” demanded Henry as soon as he caught sight of her. “Why have you not brought Sabella to me? Ai, Lady! That idiot daughter of mine has made a fool of herself, according to report, right in front of everyone and not even knowing she was doing so. Ai, Lord, what did I do to deserve such children?”
“I am here now, Your Majesty,” she said, trying to remain calm. Henry was so red in the face that his veins stood out and he looked likely to burst. “And though my lineage is a proud one, you must know I cannot give orders to such as Duchess Liutgard.”
He considered this for at least two breaths, which gave her time to put her hand on his elbow. The touch startled him. It was not her place, of course, to touch the king without his permission, but the gesture served to make him think of something other than his grievances.
“You are angry, Your Majesty,” she added while he was gathering his wits.
“Of course I am angry! Liutgard denies me the very person whose treason may yet cost me the only child—”
“King Henry!” She said it loudly and sharply. She knew with bitter instinct that he had been about to say something he would later regret. Something about Sanglant. “Let us go inside and see to Villam.”
Had no one thought to calm him by appealing to his genuine affection for his old friend and companion? Rosvita could not believe they were so nervous of him as that. She gestured toward the tent. He frowned at her, but he hesitated. Then, abruptly, he went inside, leaving her to follow. The Eagle—Hathui—nodded as Rosvita ducked inside. Approvingly? Rosvita shook her head. Surely no common-born Eagle, not even one as proud as that one was, would think of approving or disapproving the actions of the nobly born.
Villam had lost his left arm just above the elbow. Rosvita dared not ask how he had taken the wound. The old man seemed half asleep, and she feared even whispers would wake him.
