PROLOGUE (41 page)

Here in the bitter cold of the winter cathedral, tears stung at his eyes, but he blinked them back, fighting them. Only men were allowed to weep, but never dogs. Men might weep honorably in grief, in anger, or in joy. He no longer deserved such distinction.

With the tears came the cloud, a gray haze covering his vision, a roaring in his ears as clamorous as a thousand Eika howling, as maddening as a swarm of bees, as seductive as the din of battle to one confined. But that cloud was madness. He must fight the madness.

Slowly, struggling with each breath, he formed an image in his mind like to the images he saw on the windows, painted scenes from the Life of the blessed Daisan to uplift and illuminate the worshipers. He formed no holy image but rather a common one, a scene he had been struggling to build for days now, or weeks, or months; he didn't know how long it had been, only that it was winter and once, long ago, when he was a free man and captain of the King's Dragons, it had been spring.

He built in his mind's eye a manor house such as his Dragons often lodged at as they rode here and there in the kingdom, defending King Henry and his sovereignty. In this season, in winter, fields would be stripped clean of their harvest, some few budding with winter wheat. The vines and orchards would be bare; barrels of apples would line the cellars; cider would be brewed. The extra animals would have already been killed and their meat smoked or salted away against winter's barrenness and the quiet hunger of spring.

This manor house he built was no lodging place. He constructed it, in his mind, as his own, his refuge
—
his
land, not another's. He had nothing of his own save his status as the king's son, his sword and spear, his shield and armor, his clothing and tent and, over the course of years, a number of horses. All else he received because of obligations owed to the king or, now and again, certain gifts from certain women. But he was careful in his affairs as in all else,
obedient to his father's wish that he choose wisely and discreetly and never ever indulge himself where his interest might cause trouble farther down the road.

None of this he had now, of course, not even the gold torque he had once worn around his neck, symbol of his royal lineage. That torque now adorned Bloodheart's arm, symbol of his victory, and Sanglant wore an iron collar such as all of Bloodheart's dogs wore.

He must not think of his humiliation. He must think of other things or else he would fall into madness. He walked, in his mind, across fields and forest and pastureland.
His
lands. Through these lands he would walk, no longer outfitted for war, no longer dressed in a Dragon's tabard and armor, no longer wearing the Dragon helm that marked him as captain.

No longer a Dragon.

In this place, he was outfitted like any other noble lord, with a retinue, with servants and field hands. The outbuildings would include a stable, of course, for his horses, a byre, beehives, a forge, a weaving house.

Like any other noble lord, he would be married. This was more difficult to imagine. All his life he had been told, repeatedly, that the king's bastard son
could
not marry. Only legitimate children married. For an illegitimate one to do so might set in motion endless intrigues whose fruit would be as sour as discord. Indeed, no one had expected him to live long enough to chafe against the prohibition; he had already served as captain of the King's Dragons longer than any other man before him except wily old Conrad the Dragon.

But the lord of a manor must wed, and must beget children to inherit from him and his lady. He had always been an obedient son. Now, among the dogs, wreathed by iron and no longer by gold, he need not be.

What woman in Henry's progress, what daughter of a noble lady, might be suitable? Whom would he choose? Who would choose him?

But when he skirted the kitchens where servants prepared the evening's feast, when he passed through the broad-beamed hall, striped with afternoon's light through the narrow windows, when he crossed under the threshold and out into the garden where a lord might find his lady
‍
wife picking herbs for healing simples or dictating a letter to her dene, he saw no noblewoman from the king's pro? ress waiting for him. No count's or duchess' daughter smiled up at him, greeting him with affection When he opened the door that led into the bedchamber Se
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Liath.

TIP II was bitter cold, and out here by the dying fire the wind cut and burned Liath until she shuddered under its bite. But she dared not go inside where the nobles sat at table, carousing long into the night in observance of the Feast of Saint Edana of the Bonfires, whose saint's day was celebrated with much drink and good cheer. Hathui had returned from Quedlinhame, and
she
could attend the king. Better for Liath to remain outside, as far away as possible, even shivering in the breath of coming winter.

Out here the stars shone with brilliant clarity. The waning crescent moon had not yet risen. This sky was perhaps her favorite, winter's sky. The Child and the Sisters, second and third Houses of the zodiac, rode high in the heavens; the Crown of Stars, just outside the grasp of the Child, stood almost at zenith. Below, the Hunter guarded them from the
Gulvre,
whose yellowish eye gleamed directly overhead. But it was not the Hunter who was fated to vanquish the dreadful
Guivre
but rather his unseen companion, the Huntress, valiant Arteme. In Andalla one could just see her where she rested among the southern stars, and Liath had even once glimpsed her golden boot, known to the Jinna as the star Suhel, the handsome one. Here in the north only her Bow and its fire-tipped Arrow star, blue-white Seirios, could be seen above the horizon.

She searched for the planets and found three. Wise Aturna, eldest and slowest of the wandering stars, moved through the Sisters, the third House, and stately Mok through the Lion. Red Jedu, the Angel of War, shone in sullen grandeur in the Penitent. A baleful influence, according to the astrologi. But Da scorned the astrologi. He called them street merchants and ignorant tinkerers and claimed they knew nothing of the
true
knowledge of the heavens. That knowledge hadn't saved him.

She shivered again in the wind's chill and put more sticks on the fire, building it until flame licked and popped up a lattice of branches. Smoke stung her nose and eyes. She chafed her hands to warm them and tugged her cloak more tightly about herself, prepared to wait out the night. The stables were close by, but even there among the horses and servants she could not feel safe. In any enclosed place
he
might corner her. Only out here, under the winter sky, did she have room to run.

The debate entertained Rosvita and to some extent surprised her. The subject was well worn, of course: s
it better to be useful or to be good?
From his earliest days as sovereign, King Henry had encouraged such debates; his younger sister Constance, now Biscop of Autun, had excelled at them during her time at court.

No, indeed, this time it was the participants who surprised her. For once, Princess Sapientia showed wisdom and kept her mouth shut, letting others argue while she sat in the chair of honor at her father's right side and basked in the attention of the courtiers. Her younger sister Theophanu sat beside Rosvita in silence, her expression as smooth as cream; she, too, kept quiet, although she never spoke recklessly under any circumstances. Henry's youngest child, Ekkehard, actually listened to the debate, mouth half open. Like his elder sister Sapientia, he stared wide-eyed and worshipfully at the younger of the two debaters. Ekkehard had been seized with one of his admirations and this time Rosvita could not deplore his choice.

Three years ago she would have, had Ekkehard stared in this way at this particular man. But Hugh, abbot of Firsebarg and the bastard son of Margrave Judith, had altered so greatly in the five years he had been absent from the king's progress that it was only by his lineaments, his actual face and hair, that she knew him.

"The Rule of Saint Benedicta commands abbot and abbess to do good rather than to govern," said Hugh in response to Cleric Monica
—she had for many years now taught all the young folk in the king's schola, where he had once been a pupil.

"But if our stewardship is given us for the profit of many, then must we not learn to govern in order to benefit our subjects most usefully?" A vigorous elderly woman who had disliked Hugh when he was her student, Monica was softening as the debate wore on. Rosvita recognized the gleam in her eye and the quirk of her lips with which she favored only her most exemplary students. Hugh had been brilliant, but he had also known he was brilliant and wished others to acknowledge it, and that sort of arrogance had never been tolerated by a teacher such as Monica.

Now, however, Hugh smiled gently. "But of course," he said mildly, "I must bow before the wisdom of my preceptor. Is it not true that the teacher is an artist who molds her students as clay is fashioned into vessels of glory? A good student will imitate his teacher's example and strive to become her image in excellent and sublime qualities. We learn to govern, and the first person we learn to govern is ourselves. Then virtue without creates virtue within, and thus we become both good and useful."

How had Hugh, as brilliant and handsome and arrogant as he had once been, become so gracious, witty, and charming, if no less beautiful in form? His voice was moderate, his gestures composed, his manners amiable and elegant. Only this morning, when the king's progress had left the manor house at which the king had rested overnight, Hugh had distributed bread with his own hands to a family of beggars standing alongside the road. By no sign did he betray that he had any interest in Princess Sapientia except that of a well-mannered courtier privileged to ride with the king's progress.

" 'Virtues alone make one blessed.' " Monica smiled sweetly on him and began to quote at length from the
Commentary on the Dream of Cornelia
by Eustacia.

"Good and useful, indeed," whispered Theophanu suddenly to Rosvita. "I observe that my sister is now pregnant by him, so we must presume he has learned both lessons well enough."

"Theophanu!" breathed Rosvita, shocked. Belatedly, she added, "Your Highness."

Theophanu said nothing else.

Monica declaimed at length on the virtues as written in the
Commentary.
" 'Thus do the virtues come in tour types, and these types are distinguished each from the other in regard to the passions. For the passions are these, Fears and Desires, Griefs and Joys, Anger, and Envy. The political virtues of prudence, temperance, courage, and justice mitigate the passions. The cleansing virtues put the passions aside. The purified and serene mind has forgotten the passions, and to the divine Mind whose virtues are exemplary, the passions are anathema.' "

Torches and candles flickered; the hearth fire burned steadily, stoked by servants. King Henry smiled softly on the two debaters, although these past months at odd moments he could be found staring off into nothing, attention lost to the matters at hand. Now he yawned, finally, and signed to his servants that his bed should be made ready. Rosvita, finishing her wine, toyed with' the cup. The others made ready for sleep; Theophanu did not move.

"You do not like him," said Rosvita at last.

"You did not, before he left."

"I did not," agreed Rosvita. "But he is much changed." She watched as Father Hugh retired discreetly to the back of the hall while Sapientia waited for her camp bed to be set up behind a screen next to her father. Hugh's move-irients were decorous and graceful, and if it were true that virtue radiated more brightly in beauty of form, then he was virtuous, indeed. "Ai, Lady," she murmured to herself, catching herself looking at him. She had thought herself long past such half-formed yearnings, but perhaps her mind was not as serene as she hoped.

"He's very handsome," said Theophanu suddenly, standing. "Does the Psalm not say, 'The Lady desireth your beauty'?" Then she walked away to her own camp bed, modestly placed behind a curtain away from her sister.

"This bodes ill, I fear," said Rosvita to herself as she set down her winecup. She rose. Did clever Theophanu dislike Father Hugh, or was she envious at her sister's good fortune in finding such a courtier? In finding, to be blunt, such a lover? Indeed, how could Sapientia have resisted him, even though she knew he was a churchman and that it was wrong of her to desire him and wrong of him to accede to such a seduction? She was a royal princess, after all, and it was necessary for her to get with child in order to prove she was worthy of the throne. One might say, as had Theophanu, that he was only doing his duty and being useful.

One by one, torches were extinguished as nobles and servants found sleeping space in the hall of the hunting lodge where they had arrived this afternoon.