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“Have you no honey for her throat?” asked the queen, speaking sternly to the nursemaid. “Ground up with chestnut meat, it might soothe her. She has always suffered these fits, as I’m sure you have not forgotten.” She noted each of the other attendants with her gaze. “I would have a bath, although I am sorry to disturb you all from your rest.”
Lady Lavinia pushed forward out of the throng. “Let us only be thankful you have survived, Your Majesty. Anything in my power to give you is yours.”
“You have endured the storm better than many,” observed Adelheid. As servants scurried off to haul and heat water and lay out clothing, she walked forward into the chamber to stand beside the bed shared by her daughters.
“The wind caused much damage, Your Majesty,” said Lavinia, “but my people have set to work with a will to repair roofs and fences and walls with winter coming on. For a few days afterward there was some ash fall, but not so much that we could not sweep it off the streets and dig out the few ditches and pits that it disturbed. Still, there has been no sun for many months. It has been a hard winter.”
For a long while Adelheid watched her daughters. Berengaria, too, had fallen asleep, but her thin face was pale and she whistled with each exhalation. A steward brought in cracked chestnuts, and the nursemaid sat down at the table to grind them into a paste she could mix into honey.
Beyond, in the courtyard, torches and lamps were lit and servants scurried to and fro. Captain Falco had vanished, replaced by two solemn guardsmen. Lavinia yawned silently and rubbed her eyes, but did not stray by one step from Adelheid’s elbow. The lady of Novomo was worn and worried but steadfast. She had lost less than most: her daughter had been sent north soon after Adelheid’s departure for Dalmiaka, and so had weathered the storm in her mother’s hall. Of her close kin, all were accounted for; all were alive.
Soon it would be dawn, such as dawn was these days without any sight of the sun’s disk ever appearing to promise that the light of God’s truth would soon illuminate all of humankind. God had clouded the heavens as a sign of Their disapproval.
“I have seen such things….” murmured Adelheid, more breath than speech. She did not weep, although her tone harrowed her listeners.
“What have you seen, Your Majesty?” asked Lavinia, wiping a tear from her own face.
“God’s wrath. I was spared only because I prayed to God that I might see my daughters once more. That they are safe is the best I could hope for. Henry is dead, murdered by his own son.”
“Patricide!”
The servants whispered together, and this rush of conversation, like the press of wind through trees, flowed outside into the courtyard from whence it would no doubt be blown throughout the entire palace and town.
Henry is dead, murdered by his own son.
Adelheid turned. “What must I do, Sister Venia? I had this report from an Aostan lord who saw Henry fall. Prince Sanglant has claimed the Wendish throne for himself although he is only a bastard and thereby has no right to take it. The Wendish folk have deserted us. The Aostan lords and ladies have fled to their castles, those who survived. The plain of Dar has been swallowed by the Enemy. Darre itself is a ruin. No one can live there. The western coast has burst into flame. The mountains spew fire. So we are punished for our sins. The nobles will strike against me. Already they blame me for what they term ‘the Wendish folly.’ Those who were once my allies have deserted me.”
Antonia smiled. At long last, God had answered her, as she had always expected Them to do. “Do not fear, Your Majesty. God are testing us. Through our actions, we will reveal our true natures. Then They will separate the wicked from the righteous. Anoint me as skopos, and I will set all to right.”
“How can I anoint you, Sister,” the queen asked bitterly, “when I have no allies and no army and you have no chair?”
“It is true I have no chair, but I possess the skopos’ robes and scepter, which were abandoned by Holy Mother Anne. She did not respect God as she ought. Earthly concerns stained her, so she forgot what was due her position as God’s shepherd on Earth.”
“Perhaps. But all fell out as she predicted. The Lost Ones have had their revenge, and we survive in the ruins of their triumph.”
“We are not yet ruined, Your Majesty. Be strong. I have one other thing Anne left behind.” She crossed into her chamber. After a servingwoman helped her into a robe, she waved the woman out of the room and turned to her wooden storage chest. She had bound a burning spell into the lock in the form of an amulet identical to that Anne had used in the palace in Darre: wolfsbane, lavender, and thistle. Tracing a sign, she murmured the words of unbinding and protection before teasing apart the amulet and unlocking and opening the chest. She dug beneath layers of silk and linen and returned to the other room.
Adelheid had not moved, although by now day was rising and the servants had extinguished the lamps.
Two stewards entered, the second waiting as the first whispered to Lady Lavinia, who nodded.
“Very good, Veralia. Have the guards bring the prisoners to the courtyard. I’ll be out in a moment.” As the first steward hurried out, Lavinia bent her head to hear the message brought by the second, then turned to Adelheid. “Your Majesty, if you will attend me, there is water now for a bath and clean robes to change into. A meal to be served and wine to drink.”
Adelheid did not move.
“I must go out for a moment, Your Highness,” Lavinia continued, looking anxious when Adelheid did not respond. “My soldiers scout the countryside every day, seeking refugees. Enemies. Allies. We cast a wide net, and now and again catch a handsome fish. Few march as boldly to our walls as you did.”
Lavinia faltered as Antonia shook her head, enjoining silence. Mathilda’s attendants had shoved the big table out of the way and up against a tapestry depicting the trials of triumphs of St. Agnes, the virgin whom fire refused to burn. Antonia set her burden down on this table and unwrapped the cloth covering. It gleamed in lamplight, polished and bright.
“That is Emperor Taillefer’s crown,” said Adelheid. Her expression sharpened. The fire that had refused to touch St. Agnes, tied to the stake for refusing to offer incense to pagan gods, had leaped into Adelheid’s heart and caught there.
“Henry may be dead, Your Majesty, but his daughters live. You are still Empress, crowned and anointed.”
“I am still Empress,” she whispered, nodding.
God grant a certain light to some people that causes them therefore to draw the eye. As one watches a flame ignite in oil, Antonia watched Adelheid burn once more. The trials she had suffered had seared away her soft prettiness, but even this could not touch the core of her, which was iron.
“We must bide our time and make our plans carefully,” the queen went on. “We must seek what advantage we can. We must act quickly to build a base of support. News must go out at once that there is a new skopos. Then folk must come to us to receive your blessing.”
