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Scholastica unclenched her hands, which had suddenly and painfully tightened, and touched the ancient parchment as though it were crawling with vermin. “‘Krypte!”’ she said in the voice of a woman condemning souls to the Pit for disobedience. “‘Hide this!”’ She traced her finger along the path of words, translating slowly. Like all church folk of her generation, she had learned Arethousan from Queen Sophia and her foreign retinue. “‘Many around have been fulfilled among us … these miraculous signs and omens, all the things from the heavens. I write for you an orderly account, most excellent Theophilus, so you may know the truth regarding this thing in which you have been instructed by word of mouth.”’
“Who is Theophilus?” asked Liath.
“Silence!” Scholastica turned the page, searching among the letters, none of which had any meaning to Sanglant. Some she was able to read; others she skipped over. He could not tell the difference. “‘God is born in the flesh …’ This is the heresy of dual nature!” She turned from white to red as she turned another page, and another. No one spoke or moved except Biscop Alberada, who wiped her brow and shuddered. “‘Then came the blessed Daisan before the judgment of the Empress Thaissania, She of the Mask. And when he would not bow before her but spoke the truth of the Mother of Life and the Divine Logos, the Holy Word, then she announced the sentence of death. This he met joyfully, for he embraced the promise of the Chamber of Light. But his disciples with him wept bitterly. So was he taken away and put to the flaying knife and his heart was cut out of his breast …”’
Her voice, ragged and chill, grew several degrees colder on these words, and her gaze, startlingly hot, lifted to sear Sanglant where he sat rigid, not knowing what to do, entirely at a loss, routed from the field. She was incandescent with anger, but she went on in a tone like a bell tolling for the dead.
“‘And a darkness fell over the whole land …”’
She broke off and rose. Even the church folk shrank back from her righteous wrath. The great princes tensed.
“A darkness, indeed! This is the source of the storm that has afflicted us! This is the heresy of the Redemption, and that of the dual nature! Brought into this realm, we now see, by a renegade monastic who strayed from the church and forgot his vows, and passed the poison on into his daughter.”
The words dropped like iron, more damaging than a spear thrust or a sword’s cut.
Only Liath did not appear to notice. She was too busy gazing in wonder at the open page. “Do you suppose it is a forgery, or the truth? How could one tell? It looks old, but the parchment might have been scraped clean and reused. It could have been discolored to appear old. Or it might be as it seems, centuries old. Is the Arethousan gloss written contemporaneously with the original, or was it glossed later? How can we know the truth of something that happened so long ago? One would have to gather evidence from many sources …”
She looked up expectantly. Only then did she falter, and he saw her bewilderment and the slow dawn of understanding.
As he understood, too late.
Hugh knows her better than I do.
Hugh had guessed she would betray herself, once the book’s existence was revealed, because she could not stop asking questions. Because she wanted to know the truth, whether the Earth rotated or the sun rotated, or if the winds were born in vast bellows or set in motion by the turning spheres, or why and how arrows shot into the heavens returned to a particular spot on the Earth. If an ancient manuscript was truth, or lie. She cared nothing for the politics of the situation or the church’s traditions of orthodoxy.
In that way, of course, she was a heretic, just not in the way they imagined.
“I don’t know where my father came by this text,” she said. “As I already told you, I can’t read it. I only knew a little Arethousan. It was taught to me by Father Hugh.”
“You have already condemned yourself,” said Mother Scholastica. “You admit twice over this is your father’s book.” She turned pages. “Here, a florilegia of sorcery, the arts of the mathematici which were condemned at the Council of Narvone. And here—what language is this?”
“It’s Jinna. This is a copy of the astronomical text On the Configuration of the World—”
“An infidel’s black sorcery!”
“No, it’s just a description of the workings of the heavens, based in part on Ptolomaia’s Tetrabiblos. There’s nothing heretical in that!”
“It must be burned.”
“It will not be burned!” Liath grabbed the book right out of the Mother Scholastica’s grasp, clapped it shut, and hugged it to her chest.
Sanglant shut his eyes momentarily, unable to bear the looks cast his way: some gasped, some gloated, some were genuinely shocked, and Wichman, at least, was enjoying the spectacle as he scratched at his crotch.
Liath tried reason, although she must see by now that reason would fail. “I had hoped, Mother Scholastica, that you and your scholars could examine this text …”
“It must be burned.”
“But don’t you want to know?” She was indignant. “If it’s true, then the church mothers lied to us. If it is a forgery, then the heresy is discredited. It never serves any purpose to burn what you fear.”
How passionately she spoke! Only he, among those in this chamber, understood how literally she meant those words.
Mother Scholastica turned away from her to Sanglant. “You cannot hide, Nephew, from the poison you have brought into the court. Do you see, now, how she seduced you?”
It was true that he could not hide. He opened his eyes to face them, all gazing expectantly at him. Was Theophanu happy to see Liath discredited, or was she merely puzzled? Ekkehard looked bored. The margraves and dukes were waiting, as soldiers in battle, to see what command he would give, by which they would judge his worth. That Scholastica and the church folk held their line was evident to all.
He shifted ground.
“I demand that Hugh of Austra be brought before me. I charge him with Henry’s murder, in collaboration with Adelheid of Aosta. I charge him also with the murder of Helmut Villam.” He gestured toward the door. “I have with me this Eagle, called Hathui, known to many of you as Henry’s loyal servant, a particular favorite of my father’s. She is my witness. She saw both deeds committed with her own eyes and will swear that Hugh is the murderer.”
