Nay, Heribert was the cause of it all. He had turned Berthold’s heart, although it wasn’t clear with what inducements. Blessing, too, had a hand in it, however unwitting. Mathilda had many fine qualities, including Henry’s infamous temper and openhanded generosity and Adelheid’s devious mind, but she did not shine, not as Blessing did. The child was without question an abomination, intermingling the blood of three races, but she had power that could be molded and used as a tool, either by the Enemy or by the righteous.
Adelheid knew that. It was the only reason she hadn’t killed Blessing in revenge for Henry’s death.
Antonia sat down on the bench to resume her meditations, but peace had fled. It was dry and cool and the air had a dusty bite to it. No breath of wind rustled leaves. Even the poplars that lined the far wall stood in silence, although normally any least breeze caused them to murmur. There hadn’t been rain for a month although usually the dry season commenced much later in the year. These signs seemed bad omens.
Worse yet to come, as the holy prophets said, although how anything could be worse than what she had seen and the reports that filtered in from the provinces of Adelheid’s blasted realm she could not imagine.
When she rose, her knees popped, and her back hurt. These days she was always out of breath and battling a nagging cough. By the dry fountain, two clerics and one attendant waited for her. Few had survived the destruction in Darre, but that was just as well.
“Your Grace,” said young John.
“Your Holiness,” said elderly Johanna.
The servingwoman, Felicita, took her arm and assisted her up the steps, which had gotten steeper in the last month.
“We will go first to the queen’s chamber and then to my audience hall for the afternoon’s petitioners.”
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
At midday, Adelheid usually sat for an hour beside Berengaria, but she was not in the nursery today. Antonia sank down on the couch beside the bed where the tiny child tossed and turned in fitful sleep. Her face, normally pale, would turn red when she coughed. She had not spoken a word for three weeks now, and it was supposed by everyone except Adelheid that she was dying.
Had Berengaria been innocent, or guilty? It seemed she had been guilty, although it was difficult to know how a child so small could have offended God. Perhaps she was being punished for her mother’s sins, as in the ancient days of the prophets when God smote the unrighteous for their failings, great and small, old and young, female and male, and even the cattle.
So be it.
“Poor thing,” murmured Felicita. Antonia smoothed sweat-soaked hair back from the child’s face as the nurse looked on with resignation.
“Has the queen been in to see her daughter today?” Antonia asked.
“No, Your Holiness,” said the nurse. “I heard her in the corridor with her attendants, but then Captain Falco came with some news and they went away again.”
“What news?”
“I’m not sure, Your Holiness. There was some talk of prisoners, but you know how the guard do bring in all kinds of folk these days, most of them beggars wanting a loaf of bread and nothing more.”
Antonia went into the sitting room where Mathilda sat at a table and laboriously formed her letters. The girl looked up, hearing footsteps, and smiled.
“Your Holiness! Come see, I pray you. I know every one!”
She was a cunning girl, and eager to display her skill on the wax tablet although generally in the church novices were not taught their letters this young.
After every letter had undergone scrutiny and approval, and been done again, the child peeped up at her. She had big eyes and long lashes, but she wasn’t sweet, not anymore, not since the days before. As it had in the greater world, the cataclysm had shaken loose the many lesser evils that cut into a soul and thereby in those gouges gave purchase for the Enemy’s minions to claw their way inside.
“I’m better at my letters than she is, aren’t I?”
“You are very skilled at your letters, Your Highness.”
“Better than her?”
“My child, do not seek to be compared to that you do not wish to become.”
“She doesn’t like me.”
“She doesn’t like herself. She is very young.”
“She’s older than me. She can’t make letters like I can. Will Berengaria die?”
“We will all die, child. We will all come to dust someday.”
“But our souls will live.”
“Those that do not fall into the Pit.”
She shivered. “I saw it.”