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6
DURING Vespers, Rosvita stayed beside Mother Obligatia, who rested comfortably, propped up on pillows, on a litter set across a pair of benches beside the bier.
“I will remain with my granddaughter,” said the old abbess as the service came to a close. Captain Fulk had carried off the sleeping princess, while Liathano remained kneeling by the bier.
Rosvita nodded. “I must pay my respects at the guesthouse, to Biscop Constance.”
She left the church and walked alone to the guesthouse.
Although the upper suite was usually given to the highest-ranking guest, Biscop Constance had taken the lower rooms because she could not get up the stairs. She greeted Rosvita from a chair. Now and again she rubbed her hands together as if chafing them against cold. The lamplight softened the lines of pain that creased her forehead and around her eyes and mouth. She even smiled, although the gesture quickly flickered into a wince of pain.
Rosvita kissed the biscop’s ring. The young nun who hovered in constant attendance patted pillows and rubbed Constance’s shoulders, trying to make her more comfortable.
“I leave in the morning to continue my journey to Autun.” Although Constance’s body was weak, her will remained strong. “I must return to my seat as biscop. Seal the betrothal between Conrad’s son and Sanglant’s daughter. Oversee preparations for the crowning and anointing.”
“Have we judged wisely, or rashly?” Rosvita asked her.
“We have judged as well as we can. This Eika lord is far more subtle and farseeing than he seems at first glance. In any case, his army would have crushed both Wendar’s and Varre’s had Theophanu not acted precipitously.”
“Had you speech with her beforehand? Did you know what to expect?”
“No. I was as surprised as you. That is not even the greater part of what this cataclysm has brought in its wake. These clerics of my loyal schola will begin preparations for the council to be convened next summer. Best if it is held in Autun, under the shadow of the old emperor and the Council of Narvone.”
“When Biscop Tallia was repudiated, the arts of the mathematici and malefici, any sorcery done outside the auspices of the church, were condemned.”
Constance reached for and, with an effort, grasped Rosvita’s hand, looked searchingly into her eyes. “Will you support me? You understand that I believe in the miracle of the phoenix.”
“I will judge fairly. The writings of the church mothers weigh heavily, but I must bow to truth if truth is revealed.”
They kissed as sisters.
After checking to make sure the child was settled and her attendant given food and drink and a pallet to rest on, Rosvita walked upstairs where Brother Fortunatus, Brother Jehan, and the three girls had open the books: the Vita of St. Radegundis, their copy of the Chronicles from St. Ekatarina, and the Annals of Autun salvaged from the library in Darre.
“Fortunatus found a copy of the Chronicle of Vitalia in the library here.” Heriburg brandished the volume triumphantly. “So it is agreed that Taillefer had four daughters who lived to adulthood. Three entered the church, one of them Biscop Tallia. The fourth, Lady Gundara, married the duc de Rossalia. She had three children by him. The eldest inherited the dukedom, the second entered the church, and the third—a boy named Hugo—married the infant daughter of the count of Lavas, Lavastina.”
“So it’s true that the only remaining descendants of Taillefer in Wendar and Varre are the line of Lavas,” said Ruoda, speaking on top of Heriburg’s last sentence. “But we learned this before, in Darre, Sister Rosvita. Why is it of interest now?”
“‘The world divides those whom no space parted once.’” Rosvita found that Fortunatus had brought her a chair, and she sank down gratefully. She rubbed her forehead with the heel of a hand, shutting her eyes. “It has all been hidden in plain sight. We know whose child Brother Fidelis was. He was the heir of Taillefer by Queen Radegundis. We are blinded by his piety and his longevity, his good name, his reputation. That is why we never wonder at the girl he briefly wed.”
“Why do the hounds of Lavas bow before Mother Obligatia?” asked Gerwita. “We all saw it happen.”
Rosvita nodded. “The simplest explanation is usually the correct one.”
The room was simply furnished with rope beds, benches, a table, and a chest. The shutters had been taken down from both windows. They had left the door open to help the breeze pass through. Besides their writing implements and the precious books, they traveled with nothing more than a few extra robes and tunics, a pair of combs, brooches and pins for cloaks, blankets, flasks, needles and thread, eating utensils, a maul and muller, a bladder filled with lanolin, a sack of candles, and one iron pot.
They asked for nothing more than this.
She looked at her loyal schola: Fortunatus, who had endured so much and never once complained; the three clever girls; young Jehan, made frail by their journey but hanging on. Sister Amabilia had died long ago, and Brother Constantine had not survived the king’s progress. Aurea had died together with Brother Jerome in that first raid, but there would be others, waiting in Theophanu’s schola or learning their lessons in some novices’ hall, who would join them.
Someone must strike a lamp to flame in the darkness. Someone must care above all things that the truth be illuminated.
“He knows,” said Rosvita.
“Who knows?” asked Gerwita, but the others were already nodding.
“I saw him,” said Heriburg, “as I was coming upstairs. He was in this house, but he left and walked out into the tent camp, among the refugees. Is he a holy man, Sister?”
“He is a mystery, sent by God for us to unravel. He knows the truth. This I must do, as we are commanded by the regnant, whom we serve. Princess Theophanu desires that the rightful heir of the county of Lavas be brought forward. I will see it done. For the sake of King Henry, whom I loved, who loved his bastard son best of all his children, although it was unwise of him to do so.”
