Child of Flame (Crown of Stars #4)

Child of Flame (Crown of Stars #4) Page 59

“Do not trouble yourself, Sister,” whispered Fortunatus at her back. “I do not think Princess Theophanu’s anger at you will last forever. She suffers from the worm of jealousy. It has always gnawed at her.”

“What do you mean, Brother?”

“Do you not think so?” he replied, surprised at her reaction. “Nay, perhaps I am wrong. Certainly you are wiser than I am, Sister.”

Servants and guards dispersed to their places, but Villam lingered and, at last, came forward, indicating that he wished to speak to Rosvita in complete privacy. Fortunatus moved away discreetly to oversee the night’s preparations.

“Do you believe their story?” Villam asked her. The lamplight scoured the wrinkles from his face so that he resembled more than ever his younger self, hale and vigorous and handsome enough to attract a woman’s gaze for more reason than his title and his estates. Hadn’t she looked at him so, when she had been a very young woman come to court for the first time and dazzled by its splendors? In her life, few men had tempted her in this manner, for God had always kept a steadying hand on her passions, and Villam respected God, and the church, and a firm ‘No.’ They had shared a mutual respect for many years.

“I cannot dismiss it out of hand, Villam. Yet it seems too impossible to believe outright.”

“You are not one to take fancies lightly, Sister, nor do you succumb to any least rumor. What will you advise the king?”

“I will advise the king not to act rashly,” she said with a bitter laugh. “Villam, is it possible you can go now and speak to Prince Sanglant?”

“I will try.” He left.

The king’s particular circle of clerics, stewards, and servingfolk had the right to sleep in his chambers, and Rosvita herself had a pallet at her disposal. Despite this comfortable bed, she spent a restless night troubled by dreams.

A pregnant woman wearing a cloak of feathers and the features of an Aoi queen sat on a stone seat carved in the likeness of an eagle. Behind her, a golden wheel thrummed, spinning her into a cavern whose walls dripped with ice. Villam’s lost son Berthold slept in a cradle of jewels, surrounded by six attendants whose youthful faces bore the peaceful expression known to those angels who have at last seen God. But the golden calm draped over their repose was shattered when a ragged band of soldiers blundered into their resting hall, calling out in fear and wonder. Ai, God, did one of those frightened men have Ivar’s face? Or was it Amabilia, after all, come to visit her again?

Amabilia was dead. Yet how could it be that she could still hear her voice?

“Sister, I pray you, wake up.”

Fortunatus bent over her. A faint light limned the unshuttered window and open door that led out into the garden. Birds trilled their morning song.

Soldiers had come to wake the king. Henry emerged from his bedchamber with a sleepy expression. He was barefoot. A servingman fussed behind him, offering him a belt for his hastily thrown on tunic.

“Your Majesty! Prince Sanglant just rode out of the palace grounds with more than fifty men-at-arms and servants in attendance. He took the road toward Bederbor, Duke Conrad’s fortress.”

Henry blinked, then glanced at Helmut Villam, who at that moment walked into the room. “Did no one make any effort to stop him?”

The sergeant merely shrugged helplessly, but Villam stepped forward. “I spoke to him.”

“And?”

Villam shook his head. “I advise you to let it rest for now.”

“Bring me my horse,” said Henry.

Before the others could rouse, he was off. Rosvita made haste to follow him, and she reached the stables just in time to commandeer a mule and ride after him. Besides a guard of a dozen soldiers, he rode alone except for Hathui, whom he engaged in a private conversation. When Rosvita caught up with the group, he glanced her way but let her accompany him without comment.

At first, she thought he meant to pursue his son, but once past the palace gates they took a different track, one that led past the monastery and into the forest, down a narrow track still lush with summer’s growth.

The path wound through the forest. Alder wood spread around them, leaves turning to silver as the autumn nights chilled them. A network of streams punctuated the thick vegetation, low-lying willow and prickly dewberry amid tussocks of woundwort and grassy sedge. A rabbit bounded away under the cover of dogwood half shed of its leaves. The hooves of the horses made a muffled sound on the loamy track. Through a gap in the branches, she saw a buzzard circling above the treetops.

The track gave out abruptly in a meadow marked by a low rise where a solemn parade of hewn stones lay at odd angles, listing right or left depending on the density of the soil. One had fallen over, but the main group remained more or less intact.