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“What will you write next?” Liath asked, hoping to distract her.
Rosvita coughed politely, and the other clerics hastily and obviously went back to their work. She set down her quill—a magnificent eagle’s feather, surely the mark of great favor from the king or his mother—beside the book. “Queen Conradina was herself wounded in battle, and thus finding herself burdened with disease as well as the loss of her earlier good fortune, she called her brother Eberhard to her side and reminded him that their family had every resource that the dignity of the rulership demanded—every resource except good luck. She gave to Eberhard the insignia of their royal ancestors—sacred lance, scepter, golden torque, and crown—and told him to take the insignia and give them to Duke Henry along with his allegiance. Soon after this she died, a brave and valiant woman, outstanding both at home and in the field, well known for her liberality—”
“Both in and out of bed,” said one of the clerics, and others laughed and then quieted when Rosvita signed for Silence.
“Eberhard offered both himself and the treasures to Henry, made a peace treaty with him, and established friendship. That friendship he kept faithfully to the end. Then, at the city known as Kassel, in the presence of all the great princes of the realm, he made Henry king.”
“Of course,” said Liath. “And now the first Henry’s great-grandson, our Henry, is King of Wendar and Varre.” She bowed slightly, backing up. “I beg pardon for disturbing you, Sister. I will leave you and these others to your work.”
She turned and hurried out the door, then leaned against the wall and thanked Lady and Lord that she had escaped their scrutiny. The faint lime scent of freshly washed plaster burned in her nostrils and with it burned a wash of envy. Had events transpired differently that dimly recalled day nine years ago, she might have taken orders herself and become a cleric. She could have sat together in the company of others like herself, and written, and read, and talked. How strange that Ivar chafed where she might have found happiness. But it was not to be.
Still, seeing the clerics made her wistful—and bold. She walked back to the stables, feeling a sudden urge to touch the book again, even if the act itself of touching the book brought her into danger.
The dim light in the stables draped like a cloak of secrecy thrown over her shoulders, giving her courage. She pulled The Book of Secrets out of the saddlebag and opened it delicately. She waited a moment, but no cold wind disturbed the stillness of the stables. Even for her salamander eyes, it was too dark in the stables to read. Instead, she simply sat touching the book, the binding, the grain of the leather, the parchment leaves and the fragile touch of the innermost book, ink on papyrus.
She laid her check against it, breathing in its dry perfume. Da’s book. All she had left of him and everything he had given to her. Ai, Lady. He had given her all that he had, literally; all the power that was in him. She had only doubted him because she hadn’t understood.
It was never safe, not for her. She no longer wondered at Da’s exaggerated vigilance, his fastidious wariness, his attention to each least detail at every monastery guest house, at every isolated inn or farmer’s shed they had bedded down in. Not any more.
Hugh had understood Da’s power better than she had, it seemed. Wind rattled the stable doors and she started around, but it was natural wind. She could smell rain, though none yet fell, could hear the clatter of bare branches outside as the storm’s breath, running before it, stirred the trees in anticipation of its coming. Hugh.
That suddenly, as if the name itself had magic, she shuddered, trembling violently, and caught the book against her chest as she fought back tears. She must not, could not, give in to the old fear. She had escaped him.
“Eagle. Liath.”
She jerked, startled, and spun around, but it was too late. She had been run to ground, cornered, and cut off.
Rosvita had come after her.
3
ROSVITA knew she would be damned for her curiosity, so she had given up trying to stop herself from succumbing to its lure.
She had blotted the fresh ink carefully and left the book open to dry, pushed back her chair, and risen to follow the young Eagle. Since the incident in the library at Quedlinhame, she had not been able to stop thinking about the young Eagle.
Once out in the courtyard she saw the young woman vanish into the stables, so she followed, tracking her to an empty stall where she sat alone in the gloom.
“Eagle. Liath.”
As soon as she spoke the words, she saw the object the girl clutched to her chest like a frightened child. It was a book. Surprised and puzzled, Rosvita acted before thinking. She stepped forward and plucked the book from the Eagle’s grasp. The girl gasped out loud and jumped up, but Rosvita had already retreated to the door and thus the Eagle had perforce to follow her outside as a starving dog slinks at the heels of a woman gnawing on a succulent rib of pork.
“I beg you—” stuttered the girl, face washed gray with fear. She was of good height but so slender that she appeared frail.
At once, faced with such an expression of abject misery and terror, Rosvita relented. She handed back the book and yet, as the young woman locked the book under her left arm, immediately regretted her own act of generosity. The title was lost in the folds of the Eagle’s cloak. What on God’s earth did an Eagle mean by carrying a book? And what kind of book was it? But Rosvita was too wise to attempt a direct assault.
“I can’t help but wonder where a woman such as yourself learned to read Dariyan so fluently,” she said. “Are you church educated?”
The girl hesitated, her fine mouth turning down stubbornly. Then, with an effort, she smoothed her expression. Rosvita had studied faces for too many years not to recognize a person who wanted to remain unnoticed and unremarked—although how, with such a striking face, this young person thought she could remain unnoticed, Rosvita could not fathom.
“My da educated me,” she said at last.
“You mentioned him to Queen Mathilda, did you not? He was in the church?”
She shrugged, not wanting to answer.
“Perhaps he left the church after you were born,” suggested Rovita, trying to sound sympathetic, trying to worm her way past the wall the girl had thrown up. “Does he have kin? Do you know who your people are?”
“I have been told he has cousins at Bodfeld. But they disclaimed the kinship after—” She broke off.
