Elliott, Kate - Crown of Stars 1 (37 page)

"Now, children," said Cleric Monica. She was quite bent with arthritis but a formidable presence nevertheless. She glared the children into silence and raised a hand. "Attend. There are enough tablets that you must only share with one another person. Some of you boys need only listen."

Berthold fidgeted, fingers toying with Rosvita's stylus. Like many of the boys and young men who were fated to marry and then spend most of their life riding to war or protecting their wives' lands, he had not been taught how to write, although he could read. He noticed what he was doing and, embarrassed, ducked his chin.

"You may use it," she said. He flashed her a smile and laboriously impressed a "B" into the tablet.

"Attend," said Cleric Monica. "To read the works of the ancients you must know Dariyan, for that is the language in which they wrote and spoke in the old Dariyan Empire. Though there is much knowledge we may gain from those works left to us after the fall of that great empire, there is a greater knowledge yet: that the old Empire, the union of elves and men, was fated to fall because its emperors and empresses would not receive into their hearts the truth of the Unities and the blessing of the Light. That is why, when the great Taillefer restored the empire in the year , he called it the
Holy
Dariyan Empire."

"But no one faults the piety of Taillefer," muttered Berthold, trying to write an "E" that had straight lines, "and yet his empire collapsed and no king or queen has been crowned Holy Dariyan Emperor in Darre since Taillefer. How is
that
explained?"

"A good question," murmured Rosvita, aware suddenly that Cleric Monica's hard gaze had turned their way. It was too bad, really, that the boy must marry. He would have made a fine historian.

Cleric Monica coughed meaningfully and went on with her teaching. Berthold sighed and essayed an "R." Rosvita found her gaze wandering over the assembled children.

The great magnates of the realm were each expected to send a child to attend the king's progress. Some, usually younger siblings, would be educated as clerics and in time join the King's Chapel and Greater Schola. Other children might only pass through for a year or two as part of their education, to get a taste of life in the everchanging, always moving court as it traveled through the lands ruled over by King Henry.

And a few, whose parents were of suspect loyalty, might stay for a much longer time. Although no one ever spoke the word, these children were hostages, although well-treated ones.

That was not true of Berthold, of course. His father, the margrave Helmut Villam, was King Henry's favored counselor and most trusted companion.

Of the great princes of the realm, the four margraves were usually the most loyal to the king. Of all the princes, the margraves most needed the king's support. As administrators of the marchlands, those lands that bordered the easternmost territories controlled by the Wendish peoples and their allies, they were always at the forefront when the barbarian eastern tribes raided civilized lands for loot and slaves.

From their lands missionaries set out into the wild lands to convert the heathens. Into their lands came the most intrepid settlers, willing to risk the assaults of the heathen tribes in return for good lands to farm clear of obligation to any lord except the king or prince.

For three years the borderlands had been quiet, and because of this the margraves
—or their heirs—were able to spend part of every year in attendance on the king. This spring, besides Villam, the king's progress boasted the presence of the illustrious Judith, margrave of Olsatia and Austra.

She had left her marchlands in the capable hands of her eldest daughter and brought her two youngest children to court. One of them, a sallow girl of about fourteen years of age, sat with a slack-jawed expression, staring at Cleric Monica as if the elderly woman had just sprouted horns and wings.

Werinhar, margrave of Westfall, had sent his youngest brother to court. This young man was destined for the church, and like a good cleric-in-training he was at this moment diligently copying down Monica's speech.

As usual it was the dukes
—the most powerful princes of the realm—who posed the greatest problem. The three dukes whose lands lay in the old kingdom of Wendar remained loyal: Saony, Fesse, and Avaria. All of them had either children or young siblings here now; Rosvita had seen many young people from those families come and go in the last twenty years.

But the dukedoms of Varingia, Wayland, and Arconia lay in the old kingdom of Varre, and the loyalty of their dukes was less constant
—and more suspect. So Duke Conrad of Wayland's daughter sat at the front of the class and laboriously copied letters under the strict attention of Cleric Monica. So, half a year ago, Tallia, daughter of Sabella and Berengar, had come of age and left the king's progress to return to Arconia. No one had thought anything of it then; it was a natural progression.

But two months ago Rodulf, Duke of Varingia, had recalled his youngest son Erchanger from Henry's side. And now they heard daily the rumors that Sabella meant to rebel again against Henry's authority.

Berthold snorted under his breath, amused. "Ekkehard's fallen asleep again."

"Ai, Lady," murmured Rosvita. She did not at first have the courage to look. When she did, she saw that the only son of King Henry and Queen Sophia was, indeed, asleep, head basketed on an arm, tunic pulled askew to reveal the gold torque around his neck. He was snoring slightly. Ekkehard was a good boy but prone to staying up late at banquets listening to the poets and musicians rather than studying his letters, as he ought.

Monica, blessedly, had not yet noticed the boy was asleep. Most of her attention was reserved for Duke Conrad's daughter, a slender girl who had inherited a full share of her grandmother's blood: She was as black as a Jinna merchant. On her, the gold torque reserved for the direct descendants of kings shone beautifully against black skin.

Berthold, following the line of Rosvita's gaze, muttered slyly: "She'll be very handsome when she grows up."

"So was it said of her grandmother, a great beauty despite that her complexion isn't what we are used to. But the blessed Daisan himself lived in the lands now conquered and ruled by the Jinna, so who is to say he was not himself as dark-complexioned as she?"

' 'For a person is not accused because she is tall or short of stature, because he is white or black, because she has large or small eyes, or because he has some physical defect,' " quoted Berthold.

"Hush," said Rosvita mildly, covering her lips to hide her smile.

"Lord Berthold," said Cleric Monica. "I trust you will attend to my words or absent yourself so the rest may work in peace?"

He bowed his head obediently. Monica lectured for a while more, the words so familiar they sounded a drone in Rosvita's ears! She stretched and rubbed her back, trying to be surreptitious about it, but Berthold, noticing, grinned at her before he finished writing his name.

Abruptly Rosvita became aware of voices from the garden outside, heard through the opened shutters of the window that let light wash over her desk. The others, children and clerics alike, concentrating on their work or

on Monica's lesson, seemed oblivious. Rosvita could not be.

Blessed Lady! The king's daughters were quarreling again.

"I
merely
said I think you are unwise to allow such a man so much influence over your councils."

"You're jealous he chose my company over yours!"

"Of course that isn't true. I am only concerned for your reputation. Everyone knows he is a charlatan."

"He's nothing of the kind! They're all envious of his wisdom."

"I thought they were all annoyed by his arrogance and his terrible manners."

Rosvita sighed, laid down her quill, and wiped her fingers quickly on a rag, then rose from her stool, rubbing her aching back. Berthold looked up, startled; she signed to him to stay where he was. Cleric Monica merely nodded curtly at her, acknowledging her leavetaking; no doubt Monica knew and approved what she was about.

Rosvita hastened down the aisle of the scriptorium, cut through the sacristy
—startling the aged brother in charge who had fallen asleep by the vestments—and came out into the rose garden in time to see the two sisters in their full glory by the fountain.

They were a strange admixture of their parents. Sapientia was, like her mother, small and dark and neat, but she had in all other ways the look of her father about her, including the unfortunate tendency to flush a bright red when she lost her temper.

Theophanu had the greater height and the finer figure, robust and well-formed, but also her mother's unnatural coolness of temperament; Eastern wiles, the courtiers called it, and had never entirely trusted Queen Sophia, although they had wept as grievously as any when she was laid to rest. No doubt, thought Rosvita uncharitably, because they knew the accepted order of King Henry's court, molded over the sixteen years of Henry and Sophia's rule, would be thrown all into chaos when he married a new queen.

"You're furious because Father wishes to name me as margrave of Eastfall and give me those lands to administer. You want them yourself!" Sapientia's complexion by now rivaled that of the bright pink floribundas twining up the stone wall that bounded the private garden, although the color did not become her as well as it did the roses.

In eighteen years Rosvita had never yet seen Theophanu lose her temper, not even as a small child. Unnatural girl! She had many more effective ways of making her elder sister angry. "I trust that Father will add to my j estates when he deems it time. I have never found it worthwhile to beg for duties before he is willing to settle them on me."

Rosvita hurried forward. Poor Sapientia, in the face of this insult that so pointedly must remind her of yesterday's tempest, was about to succumb to one of her famous rages.

"Your Gracious Highnesses," said Rosvita just as Sapientia drew breath, "I have found you at last!" The bright statement had its intended effect: Sapientia, [ caught in the moment before speaking, lost hold of her thought.

Theophanu arched one eyebrow provocatively. "You bring news?" she asked politely, although Rosvita knew perfectly well the princess was not fooled by this transparent ploy.

Rosvita recalled the message from her father and blessed Our Lady for the inspiration. "It is only a small family matter, nothing important, but with great humility I venture to speak of it before you, Your Highnesses."

"You must confide in us at once." said Sapientia, coming forward to take Rosvita's hands in hers. "We will do all we can."

Theophanu simply lifted a hand in assent.

"I have a brother, named Ivar, who has just been sent into orders. He is to become a monk at the monastery ruled over by Mother Scholastica, at Quedlinhame. I had I hoped you might show some favor to me and my family by asking your Aunt Scholastica to watch over him in his early days there. He is very young, perhaps two or three years younger than you, Your Highness." She nodded at Theophanu. "And I believe from the tone of my father's letter that it was not Ivar's intention to enter the church."

"He is a younger son," said Sapientia. "What else might he have wanted?"

"I cannot know his mind. I have only met him twice. He was born at least ten years after I left home to become a novice at Korvei. He is the child of my father's second wife, who is a daughter of the countess of Hesbaye."

"Ah, yes, she had three daughters by her third husband." Sapientia released Rosvita's hands and paced over to the dry fountain. Four stone unicorns, rearing back on their hind legs, regarded her calmly, their stippled surface streaked with old water trails from the spray that had coursed out from their manes and horns. Damaged by winter storms, the fountain had not yet been repaired. Father Bardo had apologized most profusely when the king and his court had arrived at Hersford Monastery to find the garden's charming centerpiece not working.

It was a warm day for spring, going on hot. Without a cooling spray to refresh the courtyard, Rosvita felt the heat radiating up from the mosaic tile that surrounded the broken fountain.

"Her daughter, who is now the wife of Helmut Villain, spoke in my favor last night," Sapientia continued, then laughed. "It will be interesting to see who buries more spouses before they themselves die, Helmut Villam or the countess of Hesbaye. But Villam is on his fifth wife now, is he not? The countess' fourth husband is still alive. She will have to send him away to war as she did with all the others."

"That was a tactless thing to say," said Theophanu. "It is no wonder Father won't send you on your progress."

Sapientia whirled away from her contemplation of the fountain, took two strides to her sister, and slapped her.

"Lady preserve me," Rosvita muttered, hastening forward.

Theophanu neither smiled in triumph nor cried out in pain; her face was as flat as polished wood. "Their loss should not be fodder for your amusement."

"Now, now," said Rosvita, hurriedly placing herself between the two young women. "Let us not argue and strike out when we feel the heat of our passions on us. 'It is well to
speak
first,' as the blessed Daisan said when his disciples asked him what to do when false accusations of sorcery were laid against them."