”She sent her brother with an army into Wendar to lay it waste. But when he came to the city which is called Gent, it is related that he boastfully stated that the greatest trouble he anticipated was that the Wendish would not dare show themselves before the walls so that he could fight them. With this boast still on his lips, the Wendish came rushing upon him and once the battle was joined they cut down his army of Arconians and Salians and Varingians with such slaughter that, as the bards tell us, the Abyss must indeed be a large place if it can contain so great a multitude of the slain.
“Eberhard, the queen’s brother, was freed from his fear that the Wendish would not put in an appearance, for he saw them actually before him, and he fled from them.”
“A history!” Liath exclaimed. She turned her gaze to Rosvita only to see the older woman staring at her with an ominous smile touching her lips. All the other clerics had ceased their writing to stare at this oddity, a King’s Eagle who could read the language of educated church people, Dariyan.
Ai, Lady. She had betrayed herself again, and this time in front of the king’s schola, his retinue of educated clerics.
“I am working on a history of the Wendish people,” agreed Rosvita without any sign of astonishment, unlike the others. “I am relating here the story of how the first Henry, Duke of Saony, became King of Wendar upon the death of Queen Conradina.”
“What will you write next?” Liath asked, hoping to distract her.
Rosvita coughed politely, and the other clerics hastily and obviously went back to their work. She set down her quill—a magnificent eagle’s feather, surely the mark of great favor from the king or his mother—beside the book. “Queen Conradina was herself wounded in battle, and thus finding herself burdened with disease as well as the loss of her earlier good fortune, she called her brother Eberhard to her side and reminded him that their family had every resource that the dignity of the rulership demanded—every resource except good luck. She gave to Eberhard the insignia of their royal ancestors—sacred lance, scepter, golden torque, and crown—and told him to take the insignia and give them to Duke Henry along with his allegiance. Soon after this she died, a brave and valiant woman, outstanding both at home and in the field, well known for her liberality—”
“Both in and out of bed,” said one of the clerics, and others laughed and then quieted when Rosvita signed for Silence.
“Eberhard offered both himself and the treasures to Henry, made a peace treaty with him, and established friendship. That friendship he kept faithfully to the end. Then, at the city known as Kassel, in the presence of all the great princes of the realm, he made Henry king.”
“Of course,” said Liath. “And now the first Henry’s great-grandson, our Henry, is King of Wendar and Varre.” She bowed slightly, backing up. “I beg pardon for disturbing you, Sister. I will leave you and these others to your work.”
She turned and hurried out the door, then leaned against the wall and thanked Lady and Lord that she had escaped their scrutiny. The faint lime scent of freshly washed plaster burned in her nostrils and with it burned a wash of envy. Had events transpired differently that dimly recalled day nine years ago, she might have taken orders herself and become a cleric. She could have sat together in the company of others like herself, and written, and read, and talked. How strange that Ivar chafed where she might have found happiness. But it was not to be.
Still, seeing the clerics made her wistful—and bold. She walked back to the stables, feeling a sudden urge to touch the book again, even if the act itself of touching the book brought her into danger.
The dim light in the stables draped like a cloak of secrecy thrown over her shoulders, giving her courage. She pulled The Book of Secrets out of the saddlebag and opened it delicately. She waited a moment, but no cold wind disturbed the stillness of the stables. Even for her salamander eyes, it was too dark in the stables to read. Instead, she simply sat touching the book, the binding, the grain of the leather, the parchment leaves and the fragile touch of the innermost book, ink on papyrus.
She laid her check against it, breathing in its dry perfume. Da’s book. All she had left of him and everything he had given to her. Ai, Lady. He had given her all that he had, literally; all the power that was in him. She had only doubted him because she hadn’t understood.
It was never safe, not for her. She no longer wondered at Da’s exaggerated vigilance, his fastidious wariness, his attention to each least detail at every monastery guest house, at every isolated inn or farmer’s shed they had bedded down in. Not any more.