In the Ruins

Page 118

In darkness, doubts crept into the heart.
“Enough,” he said roughly, pushing away from the tomb.
Someone at the back of the crowd snapped fire to a wick. He hoped it was done naturally and not by Liath’s sorcery, but no one muttered in surprise or made a sign against the Enemy. He saw the faces of his companions surrounding him. Liutgard of Fesse was frowning and pensive, lines graven deep around her mouth, and he supposed she was thinking of her daughters. Burchard of Avaria had his eyes shut, while Waltharia watched Sanglant expectantly. Theophanu seemed cast of the same marble as the effigies around her; Ekkehard looked bored. Gerberga, like Waltharia, studied Sanglant; meeting his gaze, she nodded to acknowledge him, to show that she had received his answer via Ekkehard. She had very much the look of her mother about her but without the cruel line of mouth that had betrayed Judith’s essential nature: every creature under her power would do exactly as she wished or be punished for disobedience. Yet Henry had often said that Judith was a good steward for Austra and Olsatia; those who obeyed her, flourished.
Wichman was scratching his neck and eyeing Leoba, who was drawn tight against the shelter of Theophanu’s presence. Wichman’s sisters, Imma and Sophie, spoke together in whispers, a miniature conspiracy caught out by the unexpected light. The church folk stood together as a united group behind the formidable presence of his aunt.
Hathui, marking his scrutiny, nodded.
Liath stood behind him and to his left. He could feel her but not see her. It was as if she did not want to be seen.
“Nephew,” said Mother Scholastica. “If you will assist me.”
She did not need his aid to ascend the steps, but she desired to show the assembly that they acted in concert. In the church they remained for the brief service of Terce, and when the monastics had filed out to return to their duties about the cloister, he retired with his aunt and his most intimate noble companions and kinfolk, just a few, not more than a dozen or so, to her study.
She sat in her chair. The traveling chair, the royal seat carried into Aosta and back again, was unfolded for Sanglant, and benches drawn up in ranks for the rest. He was only prime inter pares, first among equals. Yet Liath remained standing behind him after the others sat. She still held the book. One of its corners pressed into his back. Hathui took up a position by the door. Fulk and the rest of the guard had places outside, guarding all the entrances.
Mother Scholastica lifted an owl feather from her desk. The point had been trimmed to make a quill. She wore clothing rich not by ornamentation but because of the quality of the dye and fineness of the weave. The golden torque that signified her royal kinship shone at her throat; the golden Circle of Unity that marked her status as a holy abbess hung from a golden chain; she displayed only two gold rings on her hands, needing no greater treasure to advertise her high rank both as the daughter of a regnant and as God’s holy servant, shepherd over the most holy and important cloister founded and endowed by the Wendish royal house. She controlled so many estates and manor houses spread across so wide a region that half of Saony might be said to be under her rule.
“Very well, Nephew,” she said. “You have the support you desire. None here will speak against you, and your army. You have brought Henry’s remains home to be buried, which is the action of an obedient son and, perhaps, of a righteous ruler who has served God and his regnant honestly. In three days’ time I will anoint you. Then you will commence your king’s progress through Saony, Fesse, and Avaria so that the lords and clerics and common folk can see that order has returned to our land.”
He said nothing. She had not attacked yet. He was waiting for the first strike.
“You have proved your fertility at least twice over, according to reliable reports,” she continued, “although we know that one child is deceased and the other most likely so.”
The book, against his back, shifted so that a corner dug painfully in against one shoulder. He wasn’t sure if Liath was only startled, or if she’d done it on purpose. Twice over. He did not look at Waltharia.
“Yet there must be heirs. Among the Wendish only those who wear the gold ring—” She touched the torque that wrapped her neck. “—may become regnant. It’s true you wear the gold ring, but before this no bastard child has contested for the right to rule. Many protest that an illegitimately born child has no right to the throne. Custom argues in their favor. Yet I have studied certain histories in the last two days. One alternative is to allow you to rule as long as you designate as your heir a child legitimately born to one of your siblings.”