The Burning Stone

Page 82

And she did not want to, not even now.
“Count Lavastine would have taken her into his retinue, and he is no fool. Even my trusted cleric, Sister Rosvita, has taken an interest in her. No doubt others have as well.” Villam coughed, then cleared his throat. “The church is right to control such powers,” Henry mused, “yet they exist nevertheless. Given what you have seen, Sanglant …” He gestured, and the steward hurried forward with a cup of wine, which the king drank from and then offered, in turn, to his daughters, to Rosvita, and to Villam. “It may have seemed more advantageous to marry a woman connected with sorcery than one who shares a claim to the Aostan throne.”
“Why should I care what advantage she brings me? She saved my life.”
“By killing Bloodheart. You saw the worth of such power as she has.”
“Nay.” He flushed, a darker tone in his bronze complexion. In a low voice, he spoke quickly, as if he feared the words would condemn him. “I would have gone mad there in my chains if I hadn’t had my memory of her to sustain me.”
“Ah,” said Villam in the tone of a man who has just seen and understood a miracle. He glanced at Liath, and she flushed, recalling the proposition he had made to her many months ago.
Henry looked pained, then rested head on hands, as if his head ached. When he looked up, he frowned, brow furrowed “Sanglant, folk of our station do not marry for pleasure or sentiment. That is what concubines are for. We marry for advantage. For alliance.”
“How many times was it made clear to me that I was never to marry? That I could not be allowed to? Why should I have taken such a lesson to heart? She is the one I have married, and I have given my consent and sworn an oath before God. You cannot dissolve that oath.”
“But I can judge whether she is free to marry at all. Father Hugh was right: As my servant, she must have my permission to marry. If she is not my servant, then she is his slave, and thus his to dispose of.”
Sapientia groaned under her breath, like a woman mourning. Theophanu made a movement toward her, as though to comfort her, but Sapientia thrust her away and hid her face with a hand. Quickly, Sister Rosvita hurried over to her.
“We have not yet spoken of Father Hugh,” sad Theophanu in a low voice, “and the accusations I have laid before you Father. I have also brought with me—in writing—Mother Rothgard’s testimony.”
“I, too, have a letter from Mother Rothgard,” said Rosvita. Sapientia was weeping softly on her shoulder. “Is there not a holy nun in your party, Your Highness?” she asked Theophanu “One Sister Anne, by name, who has come to investigate these matters?”
Theophanu blinked, looking confused. “Sister Anne? She came with us from St. Valeria. A very wise and ancient woman devout, and knowledgeable. Incorruptible. But she fell ill on the journey and had to be nursed in a cottage for several days. When she emerged, she always wore a veil because the sun hurt her eyes so. I will send for her.”
“How do we know,” sobbed Sapientia, “that it is not this Eagle who is the maleficus? If she has bound a spell onto Hugh—? But her heart wasn’t in it. Even she did not believe her own words. “God have mercy! That he should betray a preference for her, a common-born woman, and in front of everyone, and humiliate me by so doing!”
“Hush, Your Highness,” said Rosvita softly. “All will be set right.”
“I am not yet done with these two,” said Henry. “But be assured that any accusation of malevolent sorcery in my court will be dealt with harshly should it prove unfounded, and more harshly yet should it prove true. Sanglant.” He gestured, and Sanglant knelt beside Liath.
“Eagle.” Liath flinched. The king had so completely recovered his composure that she felt more keenly the power he held over her. What soul, struggling to free itself from the eddy surrounding the dreaded Abyss, does not fear the gentle breath of God? With one puff of air They sweep damned souls irrevocably into the pit. “Liathano, so they call you. What do you have to say for yourself?”
She choked out the words. “I am at your mercy, Your Majesty.”
“So you are. Why did you marry my son?”
She flushed, could look at no one, not even Sanglant, especially not Sanglant, because that would only recall too vividly the night they had passed so sweetly together. Instead, she fixed her gaze on the flagstone floor partly covered with a rug elaborately woven in imperial purple and pale ivory: the eight-pointed Arethousan star. “I—I swear to you, Your Majesty. I gave no thought to advantage. I just—” She faltered. “I—”