Child of Flame (Crown of Stars #4)

Child of Flame (Crown of Stars #4) Page 322

“The honor would be mine.”

They strolled along shaded arcades. Brother Petrus followed ten steps behind, carrying an unlit lamp.

“I am sorry you could not attend Her Majesty yesterday. We went outside the city to oversee the grape harvest at one of the royal vineyards.”

“It is well for Queen Adelheid to get out more,” agreed Rosvita. “I am happy to see that she is recovering her health at last.”

They spoke for a bit of inconsequential things: Princess Mathilda, Aostan architecture, the rituals of the grape harvest. What game was Hugh playing? Yet at times like this, she wondered if he had truly changed. By all reports, and by her own personal observation, he was pious, discreet, benevolent, eloquent but gentle, grave in his authority and yet as humble as a beggar, affable to every person yet with such an elegance of manners that he never seemed common. Surely if he were irretrievably stained by the evil inclination, then that mark must somehow show in his outward form. But it did not. It had become something of a joke in the schola that when queen and presbyter rode out into the streets of Darre, folk gathered to acclaim her authority and to marvel at his beauty.

They stepped out from a colonnade to cross a courtyard on a graveled path, white stones crunching under their feet. Afternoon shadows drew long across the neatly raked garden and crisscrossing paths. Above, parapets rose, visible beyond the roofs of the palace.

“The Holy Mother means to appoint you to oversee a council on this heresy that troubles the north.”

“So she has given me to understand. I fear I am not qualified to lead such an investigation.”

“Nay, Sister, do not say so. You are respected by all. It is well known that your judgments are made without any regard to your own personal inclinations. I cannot think of any person in the church who is as widely trusted as you are.” They stepped onto the portico that framed the entrance, three monumental arches, that led from the skopos’ palace into the forecourt of the royal compound. Rosvita had never gotten used to the speed with which the sun set here in the south; no long, lingering twilights common to summer days in the north. Darkness was already falling, drowning them in shadow beneath the heavy arches. She could barely make out the elongated figures of saints carved into the facade, pale forms looming above them, stern but merciful.

“I am troubled, Sister,” said Hugh softly. Brother Petrus waited obediently behind them, just out of earshot. In the forecourt beyond, torches were being lit, placed in sconces around the court, light flaring and smoke streaming toward the heavens. A dozen grooms hurried out from the open gate that led in to the stable yard. Distantly, from the direction of the road that led down into the city, she heard shouting and cheers.

She said nothing, only waited, and after a moment Hugh went on. “What would you do if you discovered an ancient text in whose words you read an account of the very heresy that even now pollutes the kingdom?”

“What do you mean? It’s well known that the Arethousan church remains in error on certain matters of doctrine. At least one of these—these arguments over the nature of the human and divine substance of the blessed Daisan—are part of the heresy as well. Everything I have heard indicates that the heresy comes out of the east.”

He stood in profile, visible in the twilight only as a shade, like a man caught between the living world and the dead. “I do not know where to go. I believe I have found an account written by St. Thecla herself in which she describes the flaying and redemption of the blessed Daisan, just as it is said to have happened in this poisonous heresy.”

“A forgery.” But she could barely force the words out. That such a statement should come from Hugh, of all people, set her completely off-balance. She was either a fool, or he was a consummate actor, but he seemed to her eyes, and to her instincts, to be truly distraught.

“I have labored to prove exactly that, but I fear—”

“Make way for King Henry!”

Soldiers raced to stand at attention in the spacious forecourt. Cries of acclaim rose from the city below as the king and his retinue neared the gate.

“This is unexpected.” She had to yell to be heard over the clamor.

“Come.” He drew her forward by the arm.

Queen Adelheid appeared, framed by the huge bronze doors that opened onto the entryway of the great hall, just as the first horsemen rode into the forecourt. They bore the banners of Henry and Adelheid. Behind them came the king himself and his closest companions: Duke Burchard of Avaria, Duchess Liutgard of Fesse, Margrave Villaim, several Aostan nobles, and of course his stalwart Eagle, Hathui. No man there, nor woman either, outshone Henry. He was hale and healthy, not one bit the worse for the wear after a summer campaigning in Aosta’s brutal heat. He dismounted, handed his reins to a groom, and hurried to greet Adelheid. But even as he led his entourage into the hall, he spotted Rosvita.