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This manor house he built was no lodging place. He constructed it, in his mind, as his own, his refuge—his land, not another’s. He had nothing of his own save his status as the king’s son, his sword and spear, his shield and armor, his clothing and tent and, over the course of years, a number of horses. All else he received because of obligations owed to the king or, now and again, certain gifts from certain women. But he was careful in his affairs as in all else, obedient to his father’s wish that he choose wisely and discreetly and never ever indulge himself where his interest might cause trouble farther down the road.
None of this he had now, of course, not even the gold torque he had once worn around his neck, symbol of his royal lineage. That torque now adorned Bloodheart’s arm, symbol of his victory, and Sanglant wore an iron collar such as all of Bloodheart’s dogs wore.
He must not think of his humiliation. He must think of other things or else he would fall into madness. He walked, in his mind, across fields and forest and pastureland. His lands. Through these lands he would walk, no longer outfitted for war, no longer dressed in a Dragon’s tabard and armor, no longer wearing the Dragon helm that marked him as captain.
No longer a Dragon.
In this place, he was outfitted like any other noble lord, with a retinue, with servants and field hands. The outbuildings would include a stable, of course, for his horses, a byre, beehives, a forge, a weaving house.
Like any other noble lord, he would be married. This was more difficult to imagine. All his life he had been told, repeatedly, that the king’s bastard son could not marry. Only legitimate children married. For an illegitimate one to do so might set in motion endless intrigues whose fruit would be as sour as discord. Indeed, no one had expected him to live long enough to chafe against the prohibition; he had already served as captain of the King’s Dragons longer than any other man before him except wily old Conrad the Dragon.
But the lord of a manor must wed, and must beget children to inherit from him and his lady. He had always been an obedient son. Now, among the dogs, wreathed by iron and no longer by gold, he need not be.
What woman in Henry’s progress, what daughter of a noble lady, might be suitable? Whom would he choose? Who would choose him?
But when he skirted the kitchens where servants prepared the evening’s feast, when he passed through the broad-beamed hall, striped with afternoon’s light through the narrow windows, when he crossed under the threshold and out into the garden where a lord might find his lady-wife picking herbs for healing simples or dictating a letter to her cleric, he saw no noblewoman from the king’s progress waiting for him. No count’s or duchess’ daughter smiled up at him, greeting him with affection.
When he opened the door that led into the bedchamber, the woman who waited inside, half surprised but obviously pleased by his appearance, was the young Eagle. Liath.
2
IT was bitter cold, and out here by the dying fire the wind cut and burned Liath until she shuddered under its bite. But she dared not go inside where the nobles sat at table, carousing long into the night in observance of the Feast of Saint Edana of the Bonfires, whose saint’s day was celebrated with much drink and good cheer. Hathui had returned from Quedlinhame, and she could attend the king. Better for Liath to remain outside, as far away as possible, even shivering in the breath of coming winter.
Out here the stars shone with brilliant clarity. The waning crescent moon had not yet risen. This sky was perhaps her favorite, winter’s sky. The Child and the Sisters, second and third Houses of the zodiac, rode high in the heavens; the Crown of Stars, just outside the grasp of the Child, stood almost at zenith. Below, the Hunter guarded them from the Guivre, whose yellowish eye gleamed directly overhead. But it was not the Hunter who was fated to vanquish the dreadful Guivre but rather his unseen companion, the Huntress, valiant Artemë. In Andalla one could just see her where she rested among the southern stars, and Liath had even once glimpsed her golden boot, known to the Jinna as the star Suhel, the handsome one. Here in the north only her Bow and its fire-tipped Arrow star, blue-white Seirios, could be seen above the horizon.
She searched for the planets and found three. Wise Aturna, eldest and slowest of the wandering stars, moved through the Sisters, the third House, and stately Mok through the Lion. Red Jedu, the Angel of War, shone in sullen grandeur in the Penitent. A baleful influence, according to the astrologi. But Da scorned the astrologi. He called them street merchants and ignorant tinkerers and claimed they knew nothing of the true knowledge of the heavens. That knowledge hadn’t saved him.
She shivered again in the wind’s chill and put more sticks on the fire, building it until flame licked and popped up a lattice of branches. Smoke stung her nose and eyes. She chafed her hands to warm them and tugged her cloak more tightly about herself, prepared to wait out the night. The stables were close by, but even there among the horses and servants she could not feel safe. In any enclosed place he might corner her. Only out here, under the winter sky, did she have room to run.
The debate entertained Rosvita and to some extent surprised her. The subject was well worn, of course: Is it better to be useful or to be good? From his earliest days as sovereign, King Henry had encouraged such debates; his younger sister Constance, now Biscop of Autun, had excelled at them during her time at court.
No, indeed, this time it was the participants who surprised her. For once, Princess Sapientia showed wisdom and kept her mouth shut, letting others argue while she sat in the chair of honor at her father’s right side and basked in the attention of the courtiers. Her younger sister Theophanu sat beside Rosvita in silence, her expression as smooth as cream; she, too, kept quiet, although she never spoke recklessly under any circumstances. Henry’s youngest child, Ekkehard, actually listened to the debate, mouth half open. Like his elder sister Sapientia, he stared wide-eyed and worshipfully at the younger of the two debaters. Ekkehard had been seized with one of his admirations and this time Rosvita could not deplore his choice.
Three years ago she would have, had Ekkehard stared in this way at this particular man. But Hugh, abbot of Firsebarg and the bastard son of Margrave Judith, had altered so greatly in the five years he had been absent from the king’s progress that it was only by his lineaments, his actual face and hair, that she knew him.
“The Rule of Saint Benedicta commands abbot and abbess to do good rather than to govern,” said Hugh in response to Cleric Monica—she had for many years now taught all the young folk in the king’s schola, where he had once been a pupil.
“But if our stewardship is given us for the profit of many, then must we not learn to govern in order to benefit our subjects most usefully?” A vigorous elderly woman who had disliked Hugh when he was her student, Monica was softening as the debate wore on. Rosvita recognized the gleam in her eye and the quirk of her lips with which she favored only her most exemplary students. Hugh had been brilliant, but he had also known he was brilliant and wished others to acknowledge it, and that sort of arrogance had never been tolerated by a teacher such as Monica.
Now, however, Hugh smiled gently. “But of course,” he said mildly, “I must bow before the wisdom of my preceptor. Is it not true that the teacher is an artist who molds her students as clay is fashioned into vessels of glory? A good student will imitate his teacher’s example and strive to become her image in excellent and sublime qualities. We learn to govern, and the first person we learn to govern is ourselves. Then virtue without creates virtue within, and thus we become both good and useful.”
How had Hugh, as brilliant and handsome and arrogant as he had once been, become so gracious, witty, and charming, if no less beautiful in form? His voice was moderate, his gestures composed, his manners amiable and elegant. Only this morning, when the king’s progress had left the manor house at which the king had rested overnight, Hugh had distributed bread with his own hands to a family of beggars standing alongside the road. By no sign did he betray that he had any interest in Princess Sapientia except that of a well-mannered courtier privileged to ride with the king’s progress.
ere the stars shone with brilliant clarity. The waning crescent moon had not yet risen. This sky was perhaps her favorite, winter’s sky. The Child and the Sisters, second and third Houses of the zodiac, rode high in the heavens; the Crown of Stars, just outside the grasp of the Child, stood almost at zenith. Below, the Hunter guarded them from the Guivre, whose yellowish eye gleamed directly overhead. But it was not the Hunter who was fated to vanquish the dreadful Guivre but rather his unseen companion, the Huntress, valiant Artemë. In Andalla one could just see her where she rested among the southern stars, and Liath had even once glimpsed her golden boot, known to the Jinna as the star Suhel, the handsome one. Here in the north only her Bow and its fire-tipped Arrow star, blue-white Seirios, could be seen above the horizon.
She searched for the planets and found three. Wise Aturna, eldest and slowest of the wandering stars, moved through the Sisters, the third House, and stately Mok through the Lion. Red Jedu, the Angel of War, shone in sullen grandeur in the Penitent. A baleful influence, according to the astrologi. But Da scorned the astrologi. He called them street merchants and ignorant tinkerers and claimed they knew nothing of the true knowledge of the heavens. That knowledge hadn’t saved him.
She shivered again in the wind’s chill and put more sticks on the fire, building it until flame licked and popped up a lattice of branches. Smoke stung her nose and eyes. She chafed her hands to warm them and tugged her cloak more tightly about herself, prepared to wait out the night. The stables were close by, but even there among the horses and servants she could not feel safe. In any enclosed place he might corner her. Only out here, under the winter sky, did she have room to run.
The debate entertained Rosvita and to some extent surprised her. The subject was well worn, of course: Is it better to be useful or to be good? From his earliest days as sovereign, King Henry had encouraged such debates; his younger sister Constance, now Biscop of Autun, had excelled at them during her time at court.
No, indeed, this time it was the participants who surprised her. For once, Princess Sapientia showed wisdom and kept her mouth shut, letting others argue while she sat in the chair of honor at her father’s right side and basked in the attention of the courtiers. Her younger sister Theophanu sat beside Rosvita in silence, her expression as smooth as cream; she, too, kept quiet, although she never spoke recklessly under any circumstances. Henry’s youngest child, Ekkehard, actually listened to the debate, mouth half open. Like his elder sister Sapientia, he stared wide-eyed and worshipfully at the younger of the two debaters. Ekkehard had been seized with one of his admirations and this time Rosvita could not deplore his choice.
Three years ago she would have, had Ekkehard stared in this way at this particular man. But Hugh, abbot of Firsebarg and the bastard son of Margrave Judith, had altered so greatly in the five years he had been absent from the king’s progress that it was only by his lineaments, his actual face and hair, that she knew him.
“The Rule of Saint Benedicta commands abbot and abbess to do good rather than to govern,” said Hugh in response to Cleric Monica—she had for many years now taught all the young folk in the king’s schola, where he had once been a pupil.
“But if our stewardship is given us for the profit of many, then must we not learn to govern in order to benefit our subjects most usefully?” A vigorous elderly woman who had disliked Hugh when he was her student, Monica was softening as the debate wore on. Rosvita recognized the gleam in her eye and the quirk of her lips with which she favored only her most exemplary students. Hugh had been brilliant, but he had also known he was brilliant and wished others to acknowledge it, and that sort of arrogance had never been tolerated by a teacher such as Monica.
