“You are too generous,” he said, but he took the book.
“Indeed,” muttered Sister Amabilia.
Rosvita sat down again. Theophanu, restless, was still playing with her gown, her gaze fixed on her elder sister’s face.
Henry gestured to the seat beside him, opposite Sapientia. If he was taken aback at this change, he showed no sign on his face; he seemed as pleased by Hugh’s presence as he would have been at Rosvita’s—which unpleasant thought she berated herself for immediately.
Hugh opened the book, cleared his throat softly, and began to read.
“Here begins the Life. The most blessed Radegundis was born into a family of the highest earthly rank. She came of the royal bloodline in the barbarian nation of the Athamanni, youngest daughter of King Bassir and niece of Queen Hermingard, for it was the custom of that country to set brother and sister to rule together. But the Enemy works as cunningly as any burglar who wishes to divine the treasures most worth stealing out of a house, yet work in utter darkness. This the burglar accomplishes by tossing a fine sand into each corner of the room so that she may deduce the value of the object by the sound the sand makes when it strikes that object. So, too, do the creatures of the Enemy toss a fine sand of evil suggestion among the treasures of the human heart and by this means divine what they may steal.
“In this way Queen Hermingard suddenly lost her natural feeling of kinship for her brother. Inviting him and his guests to a banquet, she had them all murdered. It happened that among his guests were several Salian lords, and when news of this treachery got back to Salia, their kin were so outraged that they gathered together a host and descended upon the Athamanni and wiped them out. Only some few of the children survived, among them the saintly Radegundis. It was her lot to be quarreled over by certain lords as part of the plunder, each of them desiring her to come into his grasp. When news of her terrible plight reached the great emperor Taillefer, he had her removed from their keeping and placed under the care of guardians at his royal villa in Baralcha.
“Here she was taught her letters and became familiar with the treatises on agriculture by Palladius and Columellina, and learned to maintain inventories, and other things suitable to a lady who will manage an estate. She would often converse with other children being raised at the villa about her desire to become a martyr. She herself brought the scraps left from table to the poor assembled outside, and with her own hands she washed the head and hands of each poor beggar child. Often she would polish the pavement by the Hearth with her own dress, and the dust that drifts around the altar she would collect in a napkin and place reverently outside the door rather than sweep it away.”
Abruptly Sapientia choked down a giggle, then blurted out, “God help us. She sounds much like Lady Tallia. Do you suppose Radegundis is Tallia’s great-great-grandmother?”
Henry, frowning, turned to his daughter. “Do not speak so lightly of a blessed saint, Sapientia. No child came of the marriage between her and the emperor, and after his death she cloistered herself in the convent for full fifty years. It is unseemly to suggest she might have lapsed from her vows.”
There was a sudden profound silence while everyone in the hall attempted not to look at Father Hugh, whose lapse so prominently showed in the swell of Sapientia’s belly. Brother Fortunatus squeaked and snorted, stifling a laugh.
Theophanu stood up and went forward. “I will read now, if you will,” she said, and for this rescue was rewarded with a charming smile from Hugh.
“Showing off your accomplishments?” said Sapientia.
The book had not yet touched Theophanu’s hand, but her cheeks flushed as if her sister had slapped her. “At least I have some!”
“Children,” said Henry sharply. He took the book from Hugh, closed it with gentle care for the binding, and beckoned to Rosvita. “If you will, Sister, read to us.”
“I don’t want to hear any more of that story.” Sapientia smoothed a hand over her abdomen, then rose restlessly and wandered over to the fire. Lords and ladies parted to let her through; a few of the wiser souls had slipped out the door, escaping the heat, but most remained. A public quarrel between the royal sisters would enliven any long winter’s evening.
A plague on all of them, thought Rosvita grimly as she went forward to take the book, and then berated herself for her ill temper. But as winter chilled the air outside, so did it chill the mind and heart, and quarrels always surfaced under the winter sky that had been lulled to sleep by summer’s warmth and cheer. Yet, in almost nineteen years Rosvita had never seen Theophanu lose her temper, not even as a small child. What had caused her to do so now, and at such small provocation?