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“‘When his last illness laid low the emperor, she could not be torn from his side although she was great with child. She knelt beside him with such devotion that her attendants feared for her health, but she could not be shaken from her prayers and at last his passing, made gentle by her efforts, came about, and his soul was lifted to the Chamber of Light.’
“‘At that time many powerful princes flocked like carrion crows to the side of the illustrious emperor, desirous of obtaining by guile or force what he would leave behind him. Not least among these treasures stood the blessed Radegundis, a jewel among women. But she had no kin to protect her from their greed.’
“‘Still heavy with child, Radegundis clothed herself and her closest companion, a woman named Clothilde, in the garb of poor women. She chose exile over the torments of power, and she swore to marry no earthly prince but from this time on to bind herself over into God’s service alone. In this way, they escaped in the night and fled to the convent of Poiterri, where they took refuge—’”
A crash and a startled scream shuddered through the hall. Sanglant had leaped to his feet in such a state of wild excitement that he had overturned the table at which he and several others sat. A stunned silence held the feasting crowd, like a deeply indrawn breath before a shout, while he stood with head thrown back, like a beast listening for the snap of a twig in the forest.
Then he sprang over the overturned table and bolted toward the doors, heedless of food and platters scattered under his feet, of wine splashed everywhere and now soaking into the rushes. Whippets scurried forward to snap at the spilled trays while servants scrambled to save what they could.
“Sanglant!” cried the king, coming to his feet, and the young man jerked to a halt as if brought up short by a chain. Perhaps only that voice could have stopped him. He did not turn to face his father. His hands shook noticeably, and he stared at the main doors so fixedly that Hanna expected a brace of Eika to come clamoring in, axes raised for a fight.
But no one entered. All was still except for the scuff and tap of servants cleaning up and the groan and heavy thunk of the table being tipped back onto its feet by the combined efforts of three men.
“As I was telling you, Your Highness,” remarked Hugh to Sapientia in a pleasant voice that carried easily in the hush that now pervaded the hall, “when Queen Athelthyri of Alba was angry with certain of her subjects for fomenting rebellion against her, she set her dog Contumelus over them as their count. And quite a fine count he was, this dog, for it is said that besides wearing a neckband and a gold chain as a mark of his rank, he had a certain gift, that after he barked twice he could speak every third word.”
Half the assembly tittered. Henry did not laugh, and an instant later a rash of barking came from out of doors, hounds singing a warning.
“Make way!” a man shouted outside. Hanna heard horses, the buzz of voices, and caught a glimpse of movement in the twilight beyond the threshold.
Two Eagles came into the hall.
“Liath!” Hugh stood up so quickly that his chair tipped over behind him.
On the other side of the hall, Ivar had to be restrained from bolting forward by Baldwin.
Sanglant took a step forward and then froze. A thin flush of red stained his cheeks. Liath marked him; Hanna saw it by the way her step faltered, and she supposed everyone else saw it, too. He stared at her, his body turned as a flower turns with the sun so he could follow her with his gaze as she strode forward with Wolfhere to the king.
Hugh muttered words under his breath, Hanna could not make them out.
The two Eagles knelt before the king’s table.
“Wolfhere,” said Henry with such dislike that the old Eagle actually winced. The king gestured. A servingman hastened around the table to give a cup of wine to Liath; she took a draught, then gave the cup to Wolfhere, who drained it.
“Your Majesty,” he began with cup still in hand.
The king indicated that Liath should relay her messages first, but he caught her in the act of glancing over her shoulder toward Sanglant, and she stuttered out something meaningless as many among the assembly giggled, or coughed.
“I come from Weraushausen, Your Majesty,” she said, recovering quickly. “I bring this message from Cleric Monica: She will join you with the schola. I bring also capitularies needing your seal, and a letter for Sister Rosvita from Mother Rothgard of St. Valeria Convent.”
“I pray it brings news of Theophanu.” At last Henry deigned to look upon Wolfhere, who had waited patiently under the king’s censure.
“Your Majesty,” Wolfhere said briskly. “I bring news from the south. Duke Conrad sends this message: That he will wait upon Your Majesty before Matthiasmass.”
“Why has it taken him so long to come before me after the insult he gave my Eagle?”
“His wife, Lady Eadgifu, died in childbed, Your Majesty.”
A murmur rolled through the hall, and several women wailed out loud. The king drew the Circle at his breast. “May God have mercy upon her.” He leaned forward to rest a fist on the table. “What of the message you took to the skopos? Is it true that you believe Biscop Antonia did not die in this avalanche we have been told of?”
“She did not die, Your Majesty.”
“You have seen her alive?”
“I do not need to see her to know she still lives—although I do not know how she escaped or where she is now.”
“I see. Go on.”
“Her Holiness Clementia, skopos and Mother to us all, has passed this judgment on Antonia of Karrone, once biscop of Mainni: that she be excommunicated for indulging in the arts of the malefici. ‘Let neither woman nor man who stand within the Light of the Circle of Unity give her shelter. Let no deacon or frater take her confession or give her blessing until she bring herself before the throne of the skopos and repent of her deeds. She may no longer enter into a church and take mass. Any who consort with her or give her shelter will also be excommunicate.’ These were the words of the skopos.”
