“I fear you have missed the hunt,” said Rosvita. What intrigues would be planted on today’s hunt, their fruit to be harvested many months from now—for good or for ill?
Villam coughed, flushed from the exertion of toiling up the hill. A big man, he had spared his horse the last steep climb by leading it instead of riding. “The hunt is ever on, Sister Rosvita. Only the prey we hunt differs from chase to chase.”
“Do you think King Henry is serious? That he intends to elevate the illegitimate child over the legitimate ones?”
Villam’s smile was slight and self-mocking. “I am not an unprejudiced observer in this matter. If King Henry did indeed designate Sanglant as his heir, against all custom, then can it not be said I have a direct interest in promoting Sanglant’s elevation?”
“How would that be so?” she asked, wondering if he would actually state outright what most people believed to be true: that he had stood by while his eldest daughter, Waltharia, carried on an affair of some months’ duration with the charming Sanglant, an affair that had ended with her pregnancy by the prince and subsequent marriage to a sturdy young man of noble birth and pleasant manners.
But for answer, he only smiled knowingly. Behind, his son Berthold, standing close enough to listen in, gave a snort of amusement. It would be well to remember, thought Rosvita, that the lad had, as well as undoubted skill at arms, his father’s ironical bent and a seemingly endless store of amiability.
“I think,” said Villam suddenly, “the king must make up his mind to marry again. Queen Sophia has been at peace in the Chamber of Light for almost two years now, and the nuns have sung prayers in her memory through two Penitires. The king is strong, but it is always to the benefit of a man to be strengthened by marriage to a woman his equal in courage and wit.”
She chanced to glance up at the son, who was obviously trying to suppress laughter. Since Villam was notorious even among the great princes of the realm for his weakness for comely young concubines, it was useful to know his children were aware of his fault and apt to judge him leniently despite it. She sighed. Now that King Henry had charged her with this errand, she knew she would be drawn more and more into the intrigues that journeyed along with the cavalcade of physical creatures and goods on the king’s progress. The prospect gave her no pleasure. It would only take time away from her History.
“He must choose carefully if he marries again,” she said, resigning herself to the inevitable.
“When he marries again. Henry is too shrewd to remain unmarried, and when a worthy alliance reveals itself, I am sure he will take advantage of it. Henry is a man like any other.” Villam stroked his gray beard while he watched hounds and then riders vanish into a stand of wood. He wore his usual affable smile, but there was a certain reticence about his expression, a distance in his eyes as he contemplated the wood below, silent trees which concealed the hunting party within. “A man like any other. Except he has only the one bastard and wishes for no other. None can fault the king’s piety.”
“Indeed not,” she hurriedly agreed. Certainly it was true.
“But it is not piety that stays him from that course.”
“You are saying, Lord Helmut, that it is memory, not piety, that restrains him from taking a concubine. The events to which you refer occurred while I was still a novice at Korvei. You think he loves the woman still?”
“No woman. I am not sure I would call it love. Sorcery, more like. Understand this, Sister Rosvita. She cared nothing for the rest of us.” That same self-mocking smile teased his lips and vanished. “And I say that not only because I am a vain man and wished for her to acknowledge my interest in her, and was annoyed that she did not. Certainly, she was beautiful. She had also an arrogance worthy of the Emperor Taillefer himself, were he to descend from the heavens and walk among us as she did then. But we were as nothing to her. Her indifference to the rest of us was as complete as ours is to—” He ran a hand along the smooth surface of the log, long since scoured free of its bark by wind and rain and sun. Picking up a tiny insect, he displayed it, let it crawl across the tips of his fingers, then flicked it casually away. It vanished among the weeds. “—this least of Our Lord’s and Lady’s creatures. Perhaps it was only a man’s vanity, but I always felt she wanted something from Henry, not that she felt affection toward him. But I have never figured out what it was she wanted.”
“Not the child?”
“Why leave the child behind if she wanted it? The infant was not more than two months old. No.” He shook his head. “Perhaps a sudden madness took her, and that was all. Perhaps, like the beasts of the field, her time came upon her, and Henry happened to be the bull at hand. Perhaps her kind do not think as we do and so we can never hope to fathom her actions and intent. Or perhaps, as some whisper, there are forces at work we are not aware of.” He shrugged. “Sanglant is strong and brave, well versed in warfare, generous and loyal and prudent. But he is still a bastard, and a bastard he will always remain.”