The inner chamber was dim enough to need illumination: six handsome lamps in the shape of leopards with the flame licking out of their snarling mouths. The wainscoting was all of ivory, each plaque detailing a scene: battles, the martyrdom of saints, the journey of Helen and her founding of the ancient city of Dariya, stories depicting the queens and kings of Aosta and the trials of the Holy Mothers of the church side by side with heathen tales of gods and magic.
Queen Adelheid reclined at her ease on a couch, in the ancient Dariyan style, eating grapes and drinking wine while she conversed with a woman whose hair was as pale as moonlight. Rosvita would have thought her a simple churchwoman, except for the exceeding richness of her white cleric’s robes, ornamented by eagles and glittering circles picked out in red-and-gold thread on silk. A nursemaid dandled a plump baby nearby.
The two women, one young and handsome and the other impossible to put an age to, looked up at the same instant as Henry and his companions entered the chamber. Rosvita saw it at once. Even Hathui caught in her breath with an audible gasp.
Adelheid, of course, wore no gold torque to mark her royal descent. It was a Wendish and Salian custom, one that had never migrated south of the Alfar Mountains. Nor could Aosta boast a true royal lineage. In truth, any of the noble families of Aosta might claim the throne for themselves, if they were strong enough.
But the mellow gold of a masterfully crafted torque gleamed at the throat of Adelheid’s companion. The ends of the braided gold had each been formed into the face of an angel. The woman did not rise as Henry strode forward.
Adelheid did.
“Henry! I pray you, forgive me for not meeting you at the gates. My physicians—”
He kissed her warmly on either cheek before insisting she sit. “Rest, my heart,” he said fervently, seeing that she was comfortably settled before he beckoned to the nursemaid. “Here is my sweet Mathilda. How fares she?”
The sleeping Mathilda looked healthy, red-cheeked like an apple at first blush, her limbs plump and her downy cap of hair as dark as her mother’s.
“She fares well,” said Adelheid proudly. “She eats well, and grows quickly.”.
“But not as quickly as your granddaughter,” said the cleric seated on the couch next to Adelheid’s.
Henry gave the baby back into the nursemaid’s arms and examined this woman who had not shown him the least deference. King and cleric studied each other. A difficult winter and spring waiting in Wayland for the passes to clear, a grueling journey over the mountains, and a month spent in almost constant motion winning over or, at times, intimidating the Aostan nobles had not wearied Henry as much as his new bride, new child, and new throne had uplifted him. He had more silver in his hair but, like a crown, it ennobled him. A man half his age might well wish for as much vigor as the king possessed. Certainly Adelheid had never complained of his bed, and even now she gazed at him admiringly, seeing what a fine figure he cut in a rich tunic and with his hair still tousled from the day’s ride.
But the cleric had vigor also. She wore arrogance with an ease that betrayed high birth and an expectation that others would bow to her authority. And she had stillness. She sat, hands clasped in her lap, and regarded the king with a thoughtful gaze unblemished by strong emotion. If she felt fear, or anger, or joy, no hint of it touched her eyes.
“Who are you, who sits while I stand?” he asked bluntly.
“I pray you, Henry,” began Adelheid, reaching for his hand.
At the same moment, Hugh came forward. “Your Majesty, if I may be given leave—”
“Nay, Hugh,” objected Adelheid, addressing him in a most casual manner. “It must be done, and done quickly.” She turned to Henry. “We have had word from the south. Ironhead’s cousin has raised an army to avenge him. Jinna raiders have put to shore in both Navlia and Tratanto. The Arethousan emperor claims the entire province of Aelia, and the Count of Sirriki begs for our aid in fighting off the pirates who have besieged his ports. Six of the northern lords refused my summons to come to court to make their submission. Untimely rain threatens the grape harvest in Idria, and the stores of rye here in Darre have all been taken by rot. Two deacons in Fiora were struck dead by lightning. There are rumors of a heresy taking hold in the northeast. Meanwhile, Mother Clementia is dead these three months or more, and the throne of the skopos remains empty.”
“Surely the presbyters meet and hold council, as is their tradition,” began Rosvita.
“The council of presbyters may argue for months,” said Hugh quietly before bowing his head to await events.
