“Have you told Brother Fortunatus this news? He’s still waiting to meet with the lay sister from St. Ekatarina’s.”
“We informed him last night, Sister. He hoped to meet with the lay sister just before Lauds.”
“I thank you, Sisters. You did well.” Ruoda grinned, as if expecting the praise, but Heriburg dropped her gaze humbly. A gem, and a jewel, as Mother Otta often said of her best novices, worthy to serve in the regnant’s crown. “Now back to your work. It will not do for everyone to see you gossiping here with me.”
Farther on stood the stool and sloping writing desk set aside for her personal use. With a sigh of relief and hope, she settled down, trimmed four quills, and studied the words she had written out that morning, copying from her wax tablet: the final days of Arnulf the Younger.
At that time, having taken both Wendar and Varre fully under his control, he was called by his army Lord, King, and Protector of all. His fame spread to all lands, and many nobles from other realms came to visit him, hoping to find favor in his sight, for truly it could be said of him that he denied nothing to his friends and granted no mercy to his enemies. Having at last subjugated the eastern tribes and having thrown the Eika raiders back into the sea, he announced his intention to make a pilgrimage to the holy city of Darre for the sake of prayer.
Yet within a week of this announcement, his infirmities so disabled him that he was forced to retire to his bed.
He called together the leading nobles of the realm and in their presence designated his son Henry as regnant. To his other children he granted honors and lands of great worth as well as a share of the regnant’s treasure, but Henry was made ruler over his sisters and brothers and named king of Wendar and Varre and the marchlands.
After his will had been made legal and all in attendance had acclaimed Henry as king, so passed away that great lord, who had by his efforts united Wendar and Varre and, being first among equals and matchless in all those virtues governing mind and body, stood as the greatest of all regnants reigning in all the lands. He reigned for eighteen years and lived to see the age of four and fifty. He was buried in Quedlinhame before the Lady’s Hearth. That day, many wept and all mourned.
She wiped away a tear. The memory of that bitter day, which she had witnessed as a young woman, still had the power to move her. She rubbed the parchment with pumice before taking up knife and quill to begin writing.
Here ends the First Book of the Deeds of the Great Princes.
She had to scrape away the last letter and write it again, but at last, with a quiet chuckle, she sat back and surveyed the final sentence. Hard to believe that this portion was, at long last, concluded. Yet truly, there would be no rest for the wicked: she still had to write the second part, her chronicle of Henry’s reign so far. Sometimes it seemed the work would never end. There was always more to tell than space to tell it.
She dabbed her quill in the ink pot.
Here begins the Second Book—
“Sister Rosvita.” Fortunatus came up behind her. He bent as if to examine the parchment, keeping his voice low. “Paloma did not meet me this morning. She has been patient, but I swear to you that yesterday when I met her, she was frightened. I convinced her to remain one more day…. but now I fear—” He broke off as a man wearing the red cloak of a presbyter walked into the scriptorium, marked Rosvita, and headed along the aisles toward her.
“We’ll speak later, Brother.”
The vault of ceiling made the scriptorium an airy place, filled with light. Watching Brother Petrus approach, Rosvita had leisure to examine the painted frieze at the far end of the room: martyrs and saints receiving their crowns of glory from the angels.
“Sister Rosvita.” He inclined his head. She hid a smile, regarding him somberly. She had the king’s confidence, the respect of the schola, and the ear of the queen. A presbyter like Petrus, however nobly born, did not wield as much influence as she did, and he knew it. “I have been sent by Lord Hugh to request your presence in the skopos’ chambers.”
Rosvita sighed, setting down her knife and handing the still wet quill to Fortunatus. He could only nod, frustrated and helpless, as she left him in charge of her history.
They crossed out of the regnant’s palace and into the gilded corridors of the skopos’ palace, dense with silence as a mere handful of presbyters, clerics, and servants hurried along the halls on their errands. No wall here was untouched; murals, friezes, paintings, or tapestries covered every wall. Columns were inlaid with tiny tiles or painted bright colors. Sculptures filled the courtyards and lined the colonnaded arcades down which they walked, in blessed shadow, while the sun beat down on empty graveled pathways beyond. This time of year, even as afternoon drifted toward twilight, no one walked under the sun because of the heat.
