Sapientia was taken inside the walls of the convent with only two attendants and Sister Rosvita to act as witnesses, as well as the physician who, being a eunuch, was considered as good as a woman. Everyone else waited in the hall, what remained of an old palace from the time of Taillefer, now under the management of the convent sisters. Henry paced. Hugh sat in a corner and idly leafed through the book.
“She’s small in the hips,” said Hanna nervously, remembering births attended by her mother. Not all had happy outcomes.
“Look here.” Hathui examined the carvings that ran along the beams in the hall. Blackened with layers of soot, cracked from the weight of years of damp and dryness, they depicted the trials of St. Hippolyte whose strength and martial courage had brought the Holy Word of God to the heathen tribes who had lived in these woodlands a hundred years before. “A good omen indeed for the child who will prove Sapientia’s fitness to rule and also ride as captain of the Dragons when he grows up.”
Hanna surveyed the old hall. Servants swept moldering rushes out the door. Ash heaped the two hearths and had to be carried away by the bucket load before a fresh fire could be started. Even with all the people packing into the hall, the cold numbed her. At a time like this, the stables provided better shelter. She could still hear, like an echo, the soft cries of the sister cellarer of the convent bemoaning the loss of so many scant provisions—it took a vast amount of food and drink to satisfy the king and his company.
“Why didn’t the king want Princess Sapientia brought to bed at Thersa? Everyone is saying that Thersa is a grander place by far, and the steward there more able to supply the court.”
“Look here.” Hathui took a few steps away from the younger clerics who, clustered nearby, were muttering among themselves. She wet her fingers and reached up to brush away grime and dust from one carving. Deep in the wood a scene unfolded down the length of the old beam. A figure draped in robes advanced, spear in one hand, the other raised, palm out, to confront the tribespeople retreating before her: a stylized flame burned just beyond her hand. Behind her walked many grotesque creatures, obviously not of human kin, but it wasn’t clear whether they stalked the saint or trod in her holy footsteps, seeking her blessing.
As the clerics moved away, Hathui dropped her voice. “It’s better not to speak out loud of these matters. Henry’s bastard son Sanglant was born at Thersa. So Wolfhere told me. The elvish woman who was the prince’s mother was so sick after the birth that some feared she would die. The court couldn’t move for two months, but when she did rise at last from her bed, she walked away never to be seen again. They say she vanished from this earth completely.”