In the Ruins (73 page)

“These are evil tidings,” agreed Adelheid. “Yet much of this we know ourselves, here in Aosta.”

“This we suffer together.” He nodded.

“What do you want?” demanded Antonia. “You are a heretic, apostate, an Arethousan who lies as easily as breathes and who, like the fox, will steal eggs from a mother’s nest to feed your own kits.”

Adelheid’s hands clenched on the pearls as she rounded on Antonia. “I pray you! Holy Mother, let him speak. I sent envoys to inquire about an alliance. I did not expect the lord general himself to answer my call,”

“What lordship has he?” Antonia inquired sweetly. “Your proud lineage is known to all, Your Majesty. I am a daughter of the royal house of Karrone. What is he?”

He flexed his arms a little. By the breadth and thickness of his hands, one could read his lineage: a man of the sword, grown with the sword, risen by the sword, a general who had fought his entire life. “I married a noble wife,” he said. “Born into the house of Theophanes Dasenia. She is cousin of the last emperor. Also, she is cousin two times removed to the Princess Sophia who marries your King Henry in early days. A clever, industrious woman, proud, a giver of alms. Noble in all ways.”

His breath caught. The assembly was quiet, hearing in his voice a grief that made Antonia, for a moment, feel an inconvenient thread of sympathy wrap her heart. Quickly severed.

“Dead, now.” He was pale. Adelheid, too, had lost her color, and yet in all ways her looks had changed utterly since the general had entered the hall. His interest made her seem younger.

He looked at the empress, but what he saw Antonia could not read in his expression. “Arethousa is fallen, Your Majesty. The city is destroyed. Its people are exiles, those
who live. Many more are dead. Even the great church is ruins.”

Adelheid nodded, as if this did not surprise her. Why should it? She had seen Darre.

“What of the young emperor, General Lord Alexandros?” Antonia asked. “Does Lord Niko live?”

He nodded, but his gaze remained fixed on the queen as on the spear of his enemy, which might pierce him at any unguarded moment. “The emperor lives under the skirt of his aunt, Lady Eudokia. She and I were allies once.”

“Once?” Adelheid asked quickly. “No longer?”

He smiled, as if Adelheid’s question were suggestive of brilliance. How easily men of a certain age were dazzled by young, pretty women. Henry had fallen in just such a manner, it was said.

“This is what I say,” he continued. “Lady Eudokia prefers blindness. She walks in the ruins and calls them a palace. I cannot be blind to what I see.”

“What do you want, General?” Antonia asked, seeing it was wise to intercede before the conversation ran out of her control. “I believe that the Empress Queen Adelheid has made a rash suggestion that her daughter might marry the boy who is now Emperor of Arethousa. Is that what you have come to speak of? If so, let us move directly to the point. Speak bluntly, as you soldiers phrase it!”

That one good eye fixed on her briefly and disconcertingly, and he marked her and acknowledged her, but he shifted his attention back to Adelheid.

They always did! Men were fools, not to see where the true power lay. They were unbelievers, not placing their trust in God’s servants first. Not reaching for faith before earthly lusts. Always humankind failed, and it irritated her so much!

“This I hear also on my journey,” he said. “Darre, this great city, also lies in ruins. Poison smoke kills the people who live there. Every person must flee. The city is dead.”

Adelheid did not move, not to nod, not to shake her head. She had grown tense. The pearls pooled in her lap, but she was no longer touching them but rather the arms of her throne as she glared at him.

“What do you want, General? Have you come to mock me?”

“I want to live.” He patted his chest. “I—and you, Your Majesty—stand atop these ruins. Two great cities. Two noble and ancient empires. All ruins.”

She nodded but did not trust herself to speak. Tears filled the queen’s eyes. She had seen so much and lost so much, and his words affected her deeply. All there, in that assembly, strained to listen. He had that capacity, as did Adelheid: that he could draw to him those willing to follow. Like the pearls, he had luster, difficult to see when one first looked at his stocky body, bushy black beard, and terribly scarred face.

“Ruins, yours and mine. To the north, these Ungrians and Wendish, perhaps not so badly harmed. To the east, the heathen Jinna and their fire god. These also, perhaps, have not suffered so badly as we do, but it is hard to say. Last, heed me. Listen well. To the south, the Cursed Ones return. There is land where once there is sea. Already they raid into the north. When they gather an army and move in force … we will be helpless.”

So silent was it in the hall that Antonia heard horses stamping outside. So silent was it that when someone coughed, half a dozen courtiers started as at a thunderclap. It was almost dark now and in this silence a score of servants began lighting lamps.

“This I know,” said Adelheid at last. “There is long enmity between your people and mine, General. There is the matter of church doctrine, not easily put aside. But these are things, now, that matter less than the evils that besiege us. This is why I sent my envoys to ask for an alliance.”

He nodded again, as if to seal a bargain. “For myself, I admit I care little what the priests and deacons sing. I care little whether the blessed Daisan is a man such as myself or mixed with the substance of God.”

Before Antonia could speak, Adelheid reached to fasten a hand over the skopos’ wrist. Such a tiny, petite hand, to have such an iron grasp. Antonia did not like this man, but she knew that to object now would destroy her tenuous alliance
with Adelheid. How bitter it was to rely on earthly power! If only God had given her the means to smite her enemies more comprehensively than with individual galla, she would take to the task with a vengeance.

The general nodded as if to show he understood Antonia’s disgust. He indicated her with an open palm, showing respect in a way that won her grudging admiration. “Here are those who will fight for God. Let them battle where they can do good. As for me, I will use my sword where I can and my wits where I must. Are you agreed to the marriage?”

It was a swift thrust, but it did not take Adelheid by surprise. “My daughter Mathilda, to be betrothed to the young Emperor Niko. Yes. She is young yet, not more than five, but she will grow.”

His good eye narrowed. Where the scar damaged his face, he had no expression. It appeared that the muscles were somehow paralyzed. “Your daughter is of no use to me. She is a child.
You
are a woman.”

That fast, everything changed. Just as a wind will overset the careful preparations of a farmer who has not yet bundled his hay, so the plans agreed between Antonia and Adelheid flew away to nothing.

The empress laughed. Her nearest courtiers, seeing and hearing the words not spoken, set hands to faces, or hid their eyes, or chortled, or exclaimed, each according to their nature.

Antonia fumed. She must remain silent or lose all. She saw her own power eroding so quickly that she knew she must cling to the shoreline before the entire sandy cliff collapsed beneath her. It was no good to protest that the queen must not trust Arethousans or that her beloved Aostans would never trust her again should she marry one, because she had already considered and approved the idea of marrying her young daughter to one of them. To a foreigner! A heretic!

Here he sat as if he already ruled by Adelheid’s side.

“Betroth your daughter to the young emperor if need be,” he went on. “This is also good. But the power of yours
and of mine—the power to keep our empires alive—must be joined. Otherwise we will die and our empires will die. Do you want this, Your Majesty?”

Antonia seethed with a rage she could never express.

“No,” said the empress. “I do not want my empire to die. Yet if I make an Arethousan king beside me, my people may turn their backs on me.”

“‘King’ is only a title. I will be your consort, a simple lord. Call me what you will. What you must. But only you and only I, joined together, can save our empires.”

She took hold of his callused hand, hers so slight and his so large but surprisingly gentle as he touched her small fingers and smiled. By this simple means, they were betrothed in the sight of humankind.

But not of God.

He rose, and Adelheid rose with him. None spoke. The court was too stunned to speak, seeing what no one had ever expected: the empress of Aosta binding herself to a crafty Arethousan who by guile and wit and no doubt worse means had raised himself to become general and lord among that heretical people.

“Holy Mother,” he said, “I pray you, we throw ourselves on your mercy. Without your blessing, we are done. Without your blessing, the empires will fall, these two, who hold the ancient and true ways up as a light for all humankind.”

She was silent and stubborn. She could wait him out.

He had not done yet.

“Yours is the most power of all, Holy Mother. Yours, the right to strike first.”

Still raging, while displaying a calm face, she succumbed to curiosity. “What do you mean?”

“We are vulnerable to those who live in the north, if they choose to invade us while we are weak. You can weaken them. You alone have that power.”

A clever man, but naturally, he must be, because all Arethousans were clever, lying, unscrupulous creatures who drank bathwater and ate too much garlic and onions and dressed improperly, men like women and women like
men, and pretended a false humility that was in truth nothing but pride. Yet she could not help herself. He had piqued her interest.

“What do you mean?”

“You are the Holy Mother. She commands the obedience of all children of God. Is that not so?”

“That is so. I am delighted that you, a heretic, can recognize my authority.”

He nodded, not
quite
bowing his head. He was a dangerous man as he had himself confessed. He did not truly believe; to him, the church was merely a tool.

A weapon.

“Those who are disobedient, what comes of them?”

“They are censured. They must do penance.”

“And after this? If they still disobey? I think you have the power to place them under a ban.”

“Ah!” breathed Adelheid, cheeks flushed and eyes bright as she understood him.

As Antonia did. “I could place them under anathema, if they deserved such an excommunication, but how does this help Aosta? How does this help Arethousa? How does it help the holy church, which must be my sole concern?”

Because he was a dangerous man, he smiled. He shrugged. “One time, when I am young, I stand on duty at night. I hear a noise in the bush. It might be anything, but I thrust with my spear. I stab a man in the leg. So we discover this one I catch is a spy. He tells us where the enemy camps and what they intend. So we take the enemy by surprise. This is my first victory. It comes sometimes that a man must thrust his spear into the dark where there may be nothing but a rat. In this way, we strike even if we do not know what we will hit. It is better than nothing. It is better to do something than to stand and wait.”

“I am tired of being helpless,” said Adelheid. “I am tired of standing and waiting while others take action.”

“You believe I should place all of Wendar and Varre under anathema. If I do so, none may be blessed at birth or marriage. None may receive last rites. The deacons may
not lead mass, and the biscops may not ordain deacons. This is a terrible thing, General.”

“They have acclaimed as regnant a man who killed his own father,” said Adelheid. “Is that not a terrible thing? Does it not go against God’s own Word? If we on Earth do not love, respect, and obey our own mother and father, how can we then love, respect, and obey the Mother and Father of Life?”

“I see,” murmured Antonia, and she did see. “There is merit in this plan. If they send word that a more worthy contender has been raised to the throne, then I will consider lifting the ban. If they persist in giving their loyalty to a half-breed bastard who murdered his own father, then I cannot.”

“You see,” added Adelheid triumphantly. “There might be more than one reason why Lord Hugh murdered Lady Elene. She is Conrad’s daughter. She had a claim to the throne, just as her father does. One that would have superseded any claim Lord Hugh might have hoped to put forward for Princess Blessing.”

Alexandros listened but said nothing.

“Let us go one step farther,” Antonia added. “All except the Duchy of Wayland will fall under the ban. Conrad may be persuaded to ally with us. He is ambitious. He has other children.”

“Sons?” asked Adelheid, then caught herself and glanced at the general. How fickle she was! She had pledged Mathilda on the one hand yet was already plotting a new alliance on the other.

The general seemed not to hear, or to understand, or else he chose to ignore the question.

Antonia could not. Did Conrad have sons? Might young Mathilda marry into the Wendish royal house, or were she and Conrad’s children too closely related? There was also Berthold, Villam’s child, who might yet serve them. Indeed, now that she thought on it, he and Wolfhere were exactly the right people to serve her in this.

Hugh of Austra was a fool, and a dead fool, just as he deserved, his bones tumbled in the woodland. Never kill the
children of noble houses. They were always more use alive than dead.

“So be it,” she said, raising her staff so that the assembly would listen and would hear. There is more than one way to fight a war. There is more than one way to win a battle.

TO haul stone you must walk to the quarry, hoping it is close by, and load what weight you can carry into a sling woven of tough fiber, whose burden rests on the band that crosses your forehead. Men wearing nothing except a kirtle that barely covers their loins work at the rock face with pickaxes, wedges, and sledgehammers. The air is heavy with the dust of stone. Everyone is sweating even though the sun remains hidden behind a high veil of clouds.