“Then ought we to ask him to break his contemplation, Your Majesty?”
“There are some things I need to know about inheritance.” His tone, barely, betrayed agitation. Theophanu looked up sharply at her father, but said nothing. “As for you, Rosvita, Father Bardo says this holy monk has heard of your work compiling a history of the Wendish people for my blessed mother and might be willing to speak with you. Perhaps his curiosity outweighs his serenity.” He said it with the secular lord’s fine disregard for the pursuits of those sworn to the church.
Or his meditations on the Lady’s and Lord’s Holy Works had not yet quieted his passion for learning. But Rosvita did not voice this thought out loud.
“You are thinking the same thing,” said the king, with a smile.
“I am, indeed.”
“Then you must speak your mind freely in front of me, or how else will I benefit from your wise counsel?”
Now, Rosvita did smile. She had always liked Henry, as much as one allowed oneself to like the heir and later king; in recent years, however, as he had drawn her more tightly into his orbit, she had also come to respect him. “Then I must ask you if there is some certain thing you are hoping to discover from such an interview.”
The king lifted his hand from Theophanu’s head and glanced around the courtyard. Behind a hedge of cypress, Rosvita saw two courtiers waiting in discreet attendance: One, the elder man, was Helmut Villam, the king’s constant companion and most trusted adviser; the other was hidden by the leaves.
“Where is your sister?” Henry said to his daughter. “I was told the two of you walked here together.”
“She has gone inside.”
“If you will wait, then, with Villam, I would have you come riding with me.”
“I will attend you, Father.” She rose and retreated obediently to stand with the others. Rosvita caught a glimpse of Berthold Villam. Evidently he had slipped out after her to find out what all the fuss was about. The other person in attendance, now visible, was the formidable Judith, margrave of Olsatia and Austra. Behind the margrave hovered several servants.
The spring sun, glaringly hot in the enclosed garden of stone and hedge and roses, suddenly vanished, cloaked by a cloud.
“You know what is whispered,” said Henry. “What none of them will say aloud.”
The dukes and margraves, counts and biscops and clerics and courtiers who populated the king’s progress spoke freely and volubly of the great concerns of the day: Would Henry’s sister Sabella break into open revolt against him? Was this to be a summer of raids along the northern coast, or would the Eika land, as was rumored, with an army? What did the skopos in Darre mean to do about the whispers of heresy taking root inside the church?
But on one subject they were silent, or spoke in circles that surrounded but never touched the heart of the issue. In the terrible arguments that had raged yesterday afternoon and in the tense feast that had followed, where whispers and glances continued the dispute, one name had not been spoken so that it could be heard.
“Sanglant,” she said, pronouncing it in the Salian way: sahnglawnt.
“And what is it they say about Sanglant?”
“They speak not of Sanglant but of you. They say your sentiment has overreached your reason. They say it is time to send Sapientia on her progress so she may be judged worthy or unworthy of being named as your heir. And if not Sapientia, then Theophanu.”
“Theophanu is not as well liked.”
“Not in general, no.”
“Yet she is the more capable, Rosvita.”
“It is not my place to judge such matters.”
“Then whose is it?” He sounded impatient now.
“It is yours, Your Majesty. Such is the burden laid on the sovereign king by Our Lady and Lord.”
He arched one eyebrow; for an instant she saw how much Theophanu resembled him, in wit and intelligence if not feature. The church bell began to toll, calling the monks to the service of Sext. She smelled charcoal in the air and the stench of meat being seared over hot coals in preparation for roasting and the night’s feast. After a long pause, Henry spoke again. “What do they say about Sanglant?”
Better to tell him the truth he already knew but chose, out of sentiment, to ignore. “That he is a bastard, Your Majesty. That he is not a true man. Whatever other fine qualities he certainly has, and which are fully acknowledged, can never compensate for his birth and his mother’s blood.” She hesitated, then went on. “Nor ought they to.”
He looked annoyed but he did not respond at once. The bell fell into silence; she heard the whisper of monks’ robes as the last stragglers made their way to the chapel within the cloister where they would pray.
