Elliott, Kate - Crown of Stars 3 (80 page)

"Not if you're dead," retorted Theophanu. "Then the field is open."

"Not to him! His mother's father was a mercenary who made his fortune fighting with the Jinna and who later sold his daughter as a concubine to the lord of Sabina. But
she
was known to have had many lowborn lovers, and one of them is commonly supposed to have sired Ironhead."

"How came he to the lordship, then?" asked Theophanu.

"Ironhead murdered his half brother and married the widow, who possessed noble birth, lands, and treasure. But he sired no children on her, and the Arethousans now occupy her lands. No one knows if he murdered her or banished her to a convent. Do you think the nobles of Aosta will kneel before
him?"
Her anger cooled abruptly, and she turned to the abbess. "I beg your pardon, Mother. This is not our choice, is it? If you forbid it, then we cannot act."

Obligatia smoothed her hands down the length of her walking stick. "I will not interfere if you choose to accept Lord Hugh's aid."

"Do you think it possible the crown can serve as he says it can?" asked Rosvita, startled.

"When my predecessor was on her deathbed, she spoke to me privately and passed on to me knowledge that has been in the keeping of the abbesses here since the days of St. Ekatarina. I have no proof, I have seen no evidence myself, but there are stories of crowns being woven into gateways that can lead a traveler to distant lands."

"An old magic now lost to us," mused Rosvita. "Yet, Your Highness," she added, addressing Theophanu, "did we not see the painting on the wall of the guest chapel? It could signify a way of traveling that humankind has long since forgotten—or never known."

"I am against it," replied Theophanu stubbornly. "I cannot do anything but speak against it, because I believe now and always that he tried to murder me by means of magic. But you have not yet said what you think, Sister Rosvita. Do you agree with me, or do you agree with Adelheid?"

"Is it right to accept aid from one who has already been censured for the act we would demand from him? And yet, a man like Ironhead who would cut down mature olive trees and castrate his enemies' loyal soldiers is not wise enough to make a good regnant. And if he is not of noble blood, then he is not worthy^" But strangely, she thought of Hathui, and she did not finish the comment. "In any case, Your Highness, we must act to benefit your father, whom we know to be a just and wise regnant." Yet she could only shake her head, burdened by the sudden weight of it all. "Nay, I cannot make a decision quickly when the matters before us are so grave. I must have time to think it over."

"Very well," said Theophanu, all cool strength again. "I will abide by your decision, Sister Rosvita. I will agree to whatever you choose."

"I pray you, Your Highness!" cried Rosvita, almost laughing, for the burden seemed doubly weighty now.

"Nay, I have spoken. I will agree to whatever you choose, Sister, because in this matter I trust your judgment better than I trust my own."

Ai, God! Theophanu trusted her to see Hugh in a reasoned light, where Theophanu could only view him through a veil of hatred and, perhaps, thwarted desire. But Rosvita was not sure she could judge Hugh and his offer with any greater wisdom, not given her own prejudices in the matter. She was not unbiased; she might yet be proved wrong about Liath.

Yet judge she must. The fate of a queen and a princess and the future of Aosta itself rode on her shoulders now.

Everyone was waiting on her. She found her voice at last. "If I might have some solitude to reflect, Mother?"

The abbess nodded. "As you wish, Sister. Paloma can escort you to the library."

It seemed a fitting place for a woman of her inclinations to make what might prove to be the most difficult, even damning, decision of her life.

FVAR
woke disoriented. His head hurt, and his mouth tasted like rotten fish. After a moment, he realized he was not alone. Someone who was very warm, rather damp, and quite naked pressed against him on the lumpy bed. From elsewhere in the dim hall, he heard whispers, giggles, grunting, and a moan that trailed off into a gasp of sudden pleasure.

The person beside him stirred. "Are you awake, my lord?" She had a high, breathless voice, like to a woman in the throes of carnal ecstasy. Last night at the Feast in honor of Candlemass, that voice and her body had inflamed him past endurance; that, and the wine, of course. But it was like this every night, here in Gent in the newly built dormitory hall of the monastery of St. Perpetua, Lady of Battles and patron saint of the chaste and of barren women. Every night Father Ekkehard ordered a feast laid out and buxom young women brought in from ttown to serve food and drink, and after dicing, and singing, and dancing, and wrestling, and a great deal of wine, some of the girls left, and some stayed.

Someone flung open a shutter, and he shut his eyes. The light made his head pound. The girl slid off the bed and peed in the corner; he heard the quiet splash of it on the juniper boughs strewn on the floor. A moment later she sat down heavily next to him and stroked his loins unenthusiastically.

"We can ride that horse again, my lord," she said. "You know how I do love to ride."

In the sour grip of morning, her voice didn't sound quite as sincere as it had the night before. She sounded tired and frankly rather bored.

He fumbled under the mattress, found a few coins, and thrust them into her hands. "Nay," he said. "Go on, then."

"Ah!" For the first time, he heard real passion. "That's so generous, my lord."

He only waved his hand. He had to pee, and he wished mightily that she was gone. Yet as the girl shrugged on her clothing and left amidst sounds of other women leaving, someone vomiting, and the roll and scatter of a dice game starting up, he wished even more that he could fly away with her. But not
with
her, precisely; he didn't care any more for her than he had for the woman he'd bedded before her, or the one before that, or perhaps it had been the same woman several nights running; he wasn't sure. But Ekkehard never seemed to tire of their nightly feasts, and since Ekkehard was prince, and newly ordained father of the monastery of St. Perpetua on the Veser, they followed where he led.

"Darpng Ivar." Baldwin plopped down beside him, as naked as the girl had been. He was all sweaty, his hair was rumpled, and someone had dumped the dregs of the wine pot over his head. He was still the handsomest man in the hall. "We're off to hunt. New game's been sighted in the eastern woods. Get dressed!"

Ivar groaned.

"Ridden to exhaustion!" Baldwin laughed. "Foundered! Or is he?" He nuzzled Ivar's neck far more passionately than the young woman had, and Ivar felt the familiar stirring of lust between his legs. Most anything could rouse it these days; most everything did.

"Not yet lamed!" Baldwin let his hands stray as he lay down beside Ivar on the narrow bed. And why not? There wasn't anything else to do here, day in, day out. At least Baldwin really loved him. The woman had just wanted the coin. "Dear Ivar. How was she? Tell me about it, everything you did with her. Did she touch you like this? Did she remind you of Liath?"

Ivar bolted up, lust banished. "I have to pee." He practically fell off the bed in his haste to get away. The movement made his head swim, and his stomach curdle. He threw up into a corner, and began to weep, and after a bit he realized that Baldwin crouched beside him, a steadying hand on his back.

"There, now, I'm sorry," said Baldwin. "I promised you before not to talk about her anymore."

"I hope she's dead," said Ivar furiously. "She abandoned me. She never cared for me at all."

"That's right, agreed Baldwin. "Here, lie down again. You look ill." He whistled sharply, and one of the servingmen hurried over. "Get him some wine. And get my clothes."

"I don't like it here," muttered Ivar. His head throbbed. "But there's nowhere to go, and no reason to go, and nothing, nothing, nothing! And I don't much like the prince," he added, hating himself for whining.

"I don't either," confided Baldwin. "But he got us away from the margrave, didn't he?" The serving man returned with a cup of wine and Baldwin's clothing. "Come now. Where's that sweet smile?"

Ivar couldn't muster up any smiles, sweet, grumpy, or otherwise. He flung an arm over his eyes and lay there, hating himself and everything around him, except maybe Baldwin.

Must his head pound so? A moment later, the door into the dormitory hall was shoved open so hard that it banged on the wall behind. Baldwin leaped up. The ill-named Brother Humilicus appeared in the door like the wrath of God, glowering, with a frown so deep that it seemed permanently chiseled into his handsome features. He had been set in charge of the new monastery by King Henry; it was his precise and orderly rule that Ekkehard had, upon arriving, overset completely.

But Ivar didn't like Brother Humilicus either. In fact, Ivar no longer liked anyone, anywhere, anyhow. Except maybe Baldwin and Ermanrich and Sigfrid, because they had suffered with him at Quedlinhame. Except Lady Tallia, but he didn't really
like
her; one didn't like or dislike a saint. Saints lived beyond crude emotion. They simply existed to be venerated.

Yet he had done nothing but drown himself in wine and carnal lust.

Baldwin got a strong grip on his arm and yanked him to his feet as the other young novices stumbled up to show respect to Brother Humilicus, their senior in every way.

Including piety.

Prince Ekkehard sprawled on his bed, staring sulkily at Brother Humilicus but not bothering to rise. His bed was set somewhat apart from the others and, as was usual for him, he had two girls with him, one on either side. Milo lay curled like a dog at the foot of the bed, snoring loudly. One of the girls dressed hastily as Brother Humilicus stared at her with disgust. The other, Ekkehard's favorite, was a pretty, dark-haired woman at least five years older than the prince. Her slender body already showed signs of pregnancy. Carrying a royal bastard had made her proud, and she took her cue from the prince: She stretched insolently, displaying swollen breasts and belly.

"You have missed morning prayers, Father." Brother Humilicus felt obliged to say this every morning.

"So I have. Here, Milo." He nudged Milo with a foot, and the boy snorted awake. "Get me my hunting clothes. Dear Brother Humilicus, please see that the horses are ready. Will my cousin Lord Wichman be coming with us?"

"As you wish, Father," replied Brother Humilicus tonelessly. He withdrew without further comment.

Ivar pulled on his tunic, stumbled outside, and washed his face in the cistern. Although winter's chill stung the air, no ice had formed over the water. In the last month or so snow had dusted the ground two or three times and melted off, and it had rained a few times, nothing more. As he stood breathing in the cold air, the ache in his stomach subsided, but nothing could ease the ache in his heart. He didn't want to be here in Gent; he didn't want to go back to Heart's Rest or Quedlinhame, and he couldn't anyway. There was no reason to be anywhere. He had had a good life before Liath. He had been happy then, almost. It was all her fault.

"Maybe she did witch you," said Baldwin, coming up behind him and resting a hand companionably on his shoulder.

Ivar began to weep, hated himself for weeping, and got angry instead. "What was the point of seeing the miracle at Quedlinhame? Why would God torment us with seeing Her handiwork so close up, and then abandon us?"

Baldwin shrugged, found a ceramic pot on the ground, and used it to sluice water through his hair. When he straightened, he set the pot down and wiped water from his eyes and lips. A bead dripped from his nose. "God never abandoned us. The miracle is still with us in our hearts, if we let it be. Maybe Liath was really an agent of the Enemy, like they said at the council. The biscops and presbyters wouldn't condemn her for no reason, would they? Maybe she shot a poisoned arrow into your heat, Ivar, and that's why you're so sad and angry all the time. Prince Ekkehard has noticed it. He's not sure he wants you among his companions if you won't drink and laugh and sing with the rest of us."

"And whore and be drunk every night and never pray and do nothing but please myself? That's hardly God's work!"

Baldwin picked a spray of wilted parsley, chewed on it, then spat it out. "How can we know what God's work is? I just do what I'm told."

"You don't! You ran away from Margrave Judith." "I had to," said Baldwin solemnly. "God made me. God whispered to me that Margrave Judith sent her last husband into a battle where she knew he'd be killed, because she wanted to marry me. God warned me that she'd do the same to me in four or five years, when a younger, handsomer boy came along."

Ivar regarded Baldwin in the fine light of a pleasant winter's morning. "Baldwin, there isn't a handsomer man than you, not in this entire kingdom."