Child of Flame

“I’d have given her back unharmed!”

Seeing that Hugh had no helmet, the king pulled off his before leaping forward. Hugh was ready for him. He hadn’t the breadth of shoulder of a man always in armor, but clearly he had trained for war. And why not? Abbots and churchmen often led contingents to war. Such a man must be ready, even in the midst of prayer, to answer when the regnant called.

The king had far less grace than a bull. He had strength, exasperation, and experience as he thrashed and struck, but there came no physical pleasure in watching him at work. As elegant as an ax, his whore had said of his lovemaking, all pumping and grunting. Watching him fight, Liath could well believe it.

Watching Hugh fight, she saw how Hugh measured his opponent and worked him patiently, saw the grace of his movements, never too subtle or too bold. Sweat broke first at the back of his neck. Somehow, she remembered that: how he would get a sheen of sweat there and down between his shoulder blades. How his hands would get moist. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead. His gaze never left his opponent; like a lover, he had eyes for no one else.

Not even for her.

She found her hands at her own throat, and she was trembling hard, choking, shaking all over. The dance of swordplay went on regardless, bruises traded, a cut lip, hair gone damp with sweat. The king had a scar on one cheek that flared vividly the more he sweated. He had a look about him that suggested he didn’t fight so much for love of fighting but rather because he wanted to win. Hugh was overmatched, both in size and in prowess, but since Hugh didn’t care about winning, he could focus all his efforts on defense.

Her hands fell to her side. Strange that she had reacted like that. She had nothing to fear. Eventually the king stepped back and, panting, tossed his padded sword aside. He wiped sweat from his brow as he chuckled.

“Well fought, Counselor. I’ll make you a fighting man yet.”

“Alas, it cannot be, my lord king, for God has chosen me for other work. I must go back to attend the Holy Mother.”

“And I must go to the barracks to inspect the new troops. You’ll attend me at the feast tonight.”

“As you wish, my lord king.”

The king called his captains together and they strode off the field.

Hugh lingered to speak to a steward, making sure that provision had been made for the injured man’s care.

The courtyard cleared, leaving Hugh alone with Liath. Two servants loitered under the colonnade, ready to hurry forward at his command. He mopped his face with a cloth and joined her in the shadow of a fig tree.

“You’ve come to get the book. I’m surprised you came alone. You have no reason to trust me.”

No, I don’t, she thought fleetingly, but her voice said, “The book.”

He gestured, inviting her to walk with him. “I’ve found an old scholar here who is familiar with the writing in the central portion.”

It had been so many months since he had stolen Da’s Book of Secrets from her that it took her a moment to understand what he meant. Da’s book was actually three books, bound together. The first book, written on parchment, contained a florilegia on the topic of sorcery: quotes and comments copied out of other books by Da over the years. The third book, written in the infidel way on paper, was a copy of al-Haithan’s astronomical tract On the Configuration of the World. She had never been able to read the middle book. Written on papyrus in a language unknown to her, it remained a mystery. A different hand than the original had penned in a few words in Arethousan as a gloss to the text, and some of these she had puzzled out, because Hugh had taught her a little Arethousan.

Hugh had taught her, in those terrible months when she had been his slave in Heart’s Rest.

She stopped dead under the colonnade, shivered convulsively as the memory of that winter night shuddered through her body. Had she gone utterly mad to walk here beside Hugh as though he were an ordinary man? He took two steps more, noticed that she had halted, and turned back quizzically to regard her. Seeing her face, his expression changed.

“I beg your pardon. I have been too bold. One of my servants will show you safely out of the palace. Please believe you have nothing further to fear from me.”

“I don’t fear you, I hate you,” she wanted to say, but her voice said, “What do you mean?”

He looked away diffidently. “It is impossible to believe what I read in that ancient text. Nothing I ever expected, for I admit I had thought, and hoped, that I would find written there an ancient study of sorcery, mastery of knowledge long since hidden from us.”