Where was it stored? She searched, in her mind’s eye, in the city, found the level, the building, the chamber, where Eustacia’s chapters resided, those she had copied out years ago at the biscop’s library in Autun.
“Concerning the River of Heaven, many writers have offered explanations for its existence, but we shall discuss only those that seem essential to its nature. Theophrastus called it the Via Lactea, the Milky Way, and said it was a seam where the two hemispheres of the celestial sphere were joined together. Democrita explained that countless small stars had been compressed by their narrow confines into a mass and that by being thus close-set, they scatter light in all directions and so give the appearance of a continuous beam of light. But Posidonos’ definition is most widely accepted: Because the sun never passes beyond the boundaries of the zodiac, the remaining portion of the heavens gets no share in its heat; therefore the purpose of the River of Heaven, lying obliquely to the zodiac as it does, is to bring a stream of stellar heat to temper the rest of the universe with its warmth.”
“Eagle! No need to stand outside. There’s a fire and supper within!”
She shook herself free of musing and went back inside. A longhouse with stables at one end and living quarters at the other, it was as warm and welcoming as its mistress.
“I admit to you, Mistress Godesti, that I have not always met with as warm a hospitality as you grant me, now that I ride on King Henry’s business here in Varre.” Her family had been at their meal at dusk when Liath had ridden in to this hamlet, but they had saved a generous portion for her.
The woman grunted and gestured to the children of her household to go back to their beds. A single lantern and the hearth lit them, all they could spare on a winter’s night. Her elder daughter hovered by the fire, pushing sparks and coals back within the brick circle; another girl ladled out stew. “Many resent the rule of King Henry, here in Varre,” she replied in a low voice.
“You do not?”
A son set down the bowl of stew and mug of warm cider before Liath as his mother spoke. “I fear war if the great lords fight among themselves. So do we all. But I fear a bad harvest more. And I fear the invisible arrows of the shades of the Lost Ones, those who lingered behind when their living cousins left this world. They plague us with illness and festering.”
“The shades of the Lost Ones?” Liath asked. This hamlet lay on the edge of forest, and everyone knew that many strange and ancient creatures preferred the shelter of trees.
“Go on, eat now. I would be a poor host if I were to make you talk instead of fill yourself up. We have nothing to complain of. This has been a good year for us, ever since our new master took control of these lands.”
“Who is your master?”
“We tithe to the abbey of Firsebarg.”
Liath choked on her cider, coughed, and set down the cup hastily. “I beg your pardon. It was hotter than I expected.”
“Nay, I beg your pardon, Eagle. Careful of the stew.”
Liath recovered her breathing and, now, blew on the stew, anything to distract herself. Would she never be free of reminders of Hugh? “Firsebarg is many days’ journey north of here, isn’t it?”
“It is, indeed. It happened in my grandmother’s time that these lands were given into the care of the monks by a grieving lady, in memory of her only daughter. For the same reason my brother gives an extra tithe in memory of his dead wife so that the monks will pray for her during Holy Week. As for the rest of us, we pay what is due twice a year, without fail, and the abbot has always been merciful when crops were bad.”
“And this year?”
“Nay, this year was no trouble at all with our new lord abbot. They say he’s a good Father, for all that he’s Wendish. He’s generous to the poor, feeds seven families every Ladysday in honor of the disciplas of the blessed Daisan, and lay hands on any who are sick. His rule is strict, but kind, they say. The harvest was very good this year, for the weather was perfect—the proper portion of sun and rain, and no bad storms though we heard hailstorms wiped out the barley crop west of here. It must be God’s favor, don’t you think?”
Or weather magic. But Liath didn’t say that aloud. Instead, she changed the subject. Just as Da always did, she thought wryly and with no little disgust. How many such little habits had she learned from Da, both for good and for ill? “Is there any resentment here, Mistress, that King Henry defeated Lady Sabella?”
“Defeated her? We heard no such tidings. When did he fight her?”