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Adelheid, of course, wore no gold torque to mark her royal descent. It was a Wendish and Salian custom, one that had never migrated south of the Alfar Mountains. Nor could Aosta boast a true royal lineage. In truth, any of the noble families of Aosta might claim the throne for themselves, if they were strong enough.
But the mellow gold of a masterfully crafted torque gleamed at the throat of Adelheid’s companion. The ends of the braided gold had each been formed into the face of an angel. The woman did not rise as Henry strode forward.
Adelheid did.
“Henry! I pray you, forgive me for not meeting you at the gates. My physicians—”
He kissed her warmly on either cheek before insisting she sit. “Rest, my heart,” he said fervently, seeing that she was comfortably settled before he beckoned to the nursemaid. “Here is my sweet Mathilda. How fares she?”
The sleeping Mathilda looked healthy, red-cheeked like an apple at first blush, her limbs plump and her downy cap of hair as dark as her mother’s.
“She fares well,” said Adelheid proudly. “She eats well, and grows quickly.”.
“But not as quickly as your granddaughter,” said the cleric seated on the couch next to Adelheid’s.
Henry gave the baby back into the nursemaid’s arms and examined this woman who had not shown him the least deference. King and cleric studied each other. A difficult winter and spring waiting in Wayland for the passes to clear, a grueling journey over the mountains, and a month spent in almost constant motion winning over or, at times, intimidating the Aostan nobles had not wearied Henry as much as his new bride, new child, and new throne had uplifted him. He had more silver in his hair but, like a crown, it ennobled him. A man half his age might well wish for as much vigor as the king possessed. Certainly Adelheid had never complained of his bed, and even now she gazed at him admiringly, seeing what a fine figure he cut in a rich tunic and with his hair still tousled from the day’s ride.
But the cleric had vigor also. She wore arrogance with an ease that betrayed high birth and an expectation that others would bow to her authority. And she had stillness. She sat, hands clasped in her lap, and regarded the king with a thoughtful gaze unblemished by strong emotion. If she felt fear, or anger, or joy, no hint of it touched her eyes.
“Who are you, who sits while I stand?” he asked bluntly.
“I pray you, Henry,” began Adelheid, reaching for his hand.
At the same moment, Hugh came forward. “Your Majesty, if I may be given leave—”
“Nay, Hugh,” objected Adelheid, addressing him in a most casual manner. “It must be done, and done quickly.” She turned to Henry. “We have had word from the south. Ironhead’s cousin has raised an army to avenge him. Jinna raiders have put to shore in both Navlia and Tratanto. The Arethousan emperor claims the entire province of Aelia, and the Count of Sirriki begs for our aid in fighting off the pirates who have besieged his ports. Six of the northern lords refused my summons to come to court to make their submission. Untimely rain threatens the grape harvest in Idria, and the stores of rye here in Darre have all been taken by rot. Two deacons in Fiora were struck dead by lightning. There are rumors of a heresy taking hold in the northeast. Meanwhile, Mother Clementia is dead these three months or more, and the throne of the skopos remains empty.”
“Surely the presbyters meet and hold council, as is their tradition,” began Rosvita.
“The council of presbyters may argue for months,” said Hugh quietly before bowing his head to await events.
Adelheid glanced at Hugh, as if expecting him to go on, but he kept his gaze lowered modestly, fixed on the parquet floor and its two tones of wood, blond and ebony, spreading out from his feet in a pattern of repeating squares. Like good and evil, the warring inclinations stamped into every human soul.
“The presbyters weave their own intrigues that have nothing to do with the security of Aosta,” continued Adelheid fervently, taking Henry’s hand again. “Many of them do not care to act in favor of restoring the empire. Yet those same clerics will not necessarily move against a strong hand setting the emperor in place.”
“What are you saying?” asked Henry.
But Rosvita already knew, with that sudden, sure instinct that causes dogs to shy and birds to twitter in the hour before an earthquake hits. She had heard Sanglant’s testimony. It did not take any great wisdom to add two to two and count up four. “You are Sister Anne, of St. Valeria’s Convent.”
“Liath’s mother!” murmured Hathui, standing just behind the king. “I see no resemblance.”
Henry was not slow to catch their meaning. “Are you the woman who claims to be the granddaughter of Emperor Taillefer?”
Anne did not rise. She lifted a single hand, like a queen calling for silence. “What need have I to claim such a thing when it is truth? Why else would I wear the gold torque of royal kinship?”
This argument stymied Henry, but Villam could not remain silent. “Any woman or man might put a gold torque around their throat and say what they will. In the marchlands, imposters sometimes ride into villages and claim to be clerics, or lords, or heathen sorcerers with the power to make birds talk and the rivers run with gold. What proof have you?”
Anne was neither amused nor angry. Her calm ran as deep as the ocean. “What proof do you desire? Is it not obvious?” She whistled, an unexpected sound coming from that ageless, composed face. A huge black hound trotted into view, emerging from behind a carved wood screen. Servants shied away, but it approached meekly enough and lay down submissively at Anne’s feet.
“That looks like one of Lavastine’s hounds,” said Henry, examining the hound with the keen interest of a man who keeps a large kennel and knows the names of all his dogs. “I thought they were all dead.”
“I do not know where the beast came from,” said Anne, “only that it did come to me one day to offer its obeisance. I believe this hound is descended from the black hounds who were loyal to Taillefer. They are spoken of in poems, and I have seen them depicted in tapestries.”
“There is one carved in stone in Taillefer’s chapel at Autun, faithful in life as in death,” said Rosvita, and while it was true that one might mark a resemblance, too much time had passed between the reign of Taillefer and this day to know whether this fearsome creature was itself the descendant, many dog generations on, of the emperor’s famous hounds.
“Nay, Your Majesty.” Villam crouched to get a better look, although he did not venture too close. “This is indeed one of Lavastine’s hunting hounds. I recognize the look of it. The ears. The size. The breadth of its chest. It might as well have swallowed a barrel. I respected those hounds too well to forget them now.”
“What do you want?” asked Henry.
