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“Showing off your accomplishments?” said Sapientia.
The book had not yet touched Theophanu’s hand, but her cheeks flushed as if her sister had slapped her. “At least I have some!”
“Children,” said Henry sharply. He took the book from Hugh, closed it with gentle care for the binding, and beckoned to Rosvita. “If you will, Sister, read to us.”
“I don’t want to hear any more of that story.” Sapientia smoothed a hand over her abdomen, then rose restlessly and wandered over to the fire. Lords and ladies parted to let her through; a few of the wiser souls had slipped out the door, escaping the heat, but most remained. A public quarrel between the royal sisters would enliven any long winter’s evening.
A plague on all of them, thought Rosvita grimly as she went forward to take the book, and then berated herself for her ill temper. But as winter chilled the air outside, so did it chill the mind and heart, and quarrels always surfaced under the winter sky that had been lulled to sleep by summer’s warmth and cheer. Yet, in almost nineteen years Rosvita had never seen Theophanu lose her temper, not even as a small child. What had caused her to do so now, and at such small provocation?
o;You are too generous,” he said, but he took the book.
“Indeed,” muttered Sister Amabilia.
Rosvita sat down again. Theophanu, restless, was still playing with her gown, her gaze fixed on her elder sister’s face.
Henry gestured to the seat beside him, opposite Sapientia. If he was taken aback at this change, he showed no sign on his face; he seemed as pleased by Hugh’s presence as he would have been at Rosvita’s—which unpleasant thought she berated herself for immediately.
Hugh opened the book, cleared his throat softly, and began to read.
“Here begins the Life. The most blessed Radegundis was born into a family of the highest earthly rank. She came of the royal bloodline in the barbarian nation of the Athamanni, youngest daughter of King Bassir and niece of Queen Hermingard, for it was the custom of that country to set brother and sister to rule together. But the Enemy works as cunningly as any burglar who wishes to divine the treasures most worth stealing out of a house, yet work in utter darkness. This the burglar accomplishes by tossing a fine sand into each corner of the room so that she may deduce the value of the object by the sound the sand makes when it strikes that object. So, too, do the creatures of the Enemy toss a fine sand of evil suggestion among the treasures of the human heart and by this means divine what they may steal.
“In this way Queen Hermingard suddenly lost her natural feeling of kinship for her brother. Inviting him and his guests to a banquet, she had them all murdered. It happened that among his guests were several Salian lords, and when news of this treachery got back to Salia, their kin were so outraged that they gathered together a host and descended upon the Athamanni and wiped them out. Only some few of the children survived, among them the saintly Radegundis. It was her lot to be quarreled over by certain lords as part of the plunder, each of them desiring her to come into his grasp. When news of her terrible plight reached the great emperor Taillefer, he had her removed from their keeping and placed under the care of guardians at his royal villa in Baralcha.
“Here she was taught her letters and became familiar with the treatises on agriculture by Palladius and Columellina, and learned to maintain inventories, and other things suitable to a lady who will manage an estate. She would often converse with other children being raised at the villa about her desire to become a martyr. She herself brought the scraps left from table to the poor assembled outside, and with her own hands she washed the head and hands of each poor beggar child. Often she would polish the pavement by the Hearth with her own dress, and the dust that drifts around the altar she would collect in a napkin and place reverently outside the door rather than sweep it away.”
Abruptly Sapientia choked down a giggle, then blurted out, “God help us. She sounds much like Lady Tallia. Do you suppose Radegundis is Tallia’s great-great-grandmother?”
Henry, frowning, turned to his daughter. “Do not speak so lightly of a blessed saint, Sapientia. No child came of the marriage between her and the emperor, and after his death she cloistered herself in the convent for full fifty years. It is unseemly to suggest she might have lapsed from her vows.”
There was a sudden profound silence while everyone in the hall attempted not to look at Father Hugh, whose lapse so prominently showed in the swell of Sapientia’s belly. Brother Fortunatus squeaked and snorted, stifling a laugh.
Theophanu stood up and went forward. “I will read now, if you will,” she said, and for this rescue was rewarded with a charming smile from Hugh.
“Showing off your accomplishments?” said Sapientia.
The book had not yet touched Theophanu’s hand, but her cheeks flushed as if her sister had slapped her. “At least I have some!”
“Children,” said Henry sharply. He took the book from Hugh, closed it with gentle care for the binding, and beckoned to Rosvita. “If you will, Sister, read to us.”
“I don’t want to hear any more of that story.” Sapientia smoothed a hand over her abdomen, then rose restlessly and wandered over to the fire. Lords and ladies parted to let her through; a few of the wiser souls had slipped out the door, escaping the heat, but most remained. A public quarrel between the royal sisters would enliven any long winter’s evening.
A plague on all of them, thought Rosvita grimly as she went forward to take the book, and then berated herself for her ill temper. But as winter chilled the air outside, so did it chill the mind and heart, and quarrels always surfaced under the winter sky that had been lulled to sleep by summer’s warmth and cheer. Yet, in almost nineteen years Rosvita had never seen Theophanu lose her temper, not even as a small child. What had caused her to do so now, and at such small provocation?
“I have nothing to do here,” said Sapientia, striding back to her father’s chair. “If you made me Margrave of Eastfall, as you promised, then I would have lands of my own to administer until—” She broke off, had the grace to flush.
“Sit,” said Henry. He did not glance at his courtiers, but he knew they were all listening. “I do not wish you to leave my side until you are safely brought to childbed.”
Sapientia fidgeted, glanced toward the other end of the hall where servants prepared tables for the night’s feast, and set her mouth in a sulky frown.
“I will ask our clerics,” said Henry, setting a hand on her arm placatingly, “what copies we have of these agricultural treatises, perhaps even the ones mentioned in the Life of Saint Radegundis. You may have them read to you.”
Sapientia considered this. She sighed. “It’s a fair idea, Father. But I want an Eagle or two for myself as well, so that I may have people to send at my own beck and call. It is only what is due my new consequence, isn’t it?”
“It would be fitting,” he agreed, aware, as he always was, that every soul in the hall waited on his judgment. He glanced toward Hathui, newly returned from her errand to Quedlinhame, then around the room. Four Eagles were in attendance on him right now, many more out on some errand or another, such as Wolfhere and his young companion who had journeyed south to Aosta with the renegade biscop, Antonia.
Theophanu had retreated in silence and during the exchange had gotten all the way to the door unremarked. Now, looking about, Henry saw her just as she stepped outside into a soft rain. Liath still stood, obedient, beside the door.
“There is one I would be willing to part with,” said Henry. Hathui looked up sharply. Hugh did not look at all. “She is young and strong, and she has proved herself at Gent. I have also heard it said that she is very accomplished for a common Eagle. My clerics say she can read.”
