“You must confide in us at once.” said Sapientia, coming forward to take Rosvita’s hands in hers. “We will do all we can.”
Theophanu simply lifted a hand in assent. “I have a brother, named Ivar, who has just been sent into orders. He is to become a monk at the monastery ruled over by Mother Scholastica, at Quedlinhame. I had hoped you might show some favor to me and my family by asking your Aunt Scholastica to watch over him in his early days there. He is very young, perhaps two or three years younger than you, Your Highness.” She nodded at Theophanu. “And I believe from the tone of my father’s letter that it was not Ivar’s intention to enter the church.”
“He is a younger son,” said Sapientia. “What else might he have wanted?”
“I cannot know his mind. I have only met him twice. He was born at least ten years after I left home to become a novice at Korvei. He is the child of my father’s second wife, who is a daughter of the countess of Hesbaye.”
“Ah, yes, she had three daughters by her third husband.” Sapientia released Rosvita’s hands and paced over to the dry fountain. Four stone unicorns, rearing back on their hind legs, regarded her calmly, their stippled surface streaked with old water trails from the spray that had coursed out from their manes and horns. Damaged by winter storms, the fountain had not yet been repaired. Father Bardo had apologized most profusely when the king and his court had arrived at Hersford Monastery to find the garden’s charming centerpiece not working.
It was a warm day for spring, going on hot. Without a cooling spray to refresh the courtyard, Rosvita felt the heat radiating up from the mosaic tile that surrounded the broken fountain.
“Her daughter, who is now the wife of Helmut Villam, spoke in my favor last night,” Sapientia continued, then laughed. “It will be interesting to see who buries more spouses before they themselves die, Helmut Villam or the countess of Hesbaye. But Villam is on his fifth wife now, is he not? The countess’ fourth husband is still alive. She will have to send him away to war as she did with all the others.”
“That was a tactless thing to say,” said Theophanu. “It is no wonder Father won’t send you on your progress.”
Sapientia whirled away from her contemplation of the fountain, took two strides to her sister, and slapped her.
“Lady preserve me,” Rosvita muttered, hastening forward.
Theophanu neither smiled in triumph nor cried out in pain; her face was as flat as polished wood. “Their loss should not be fodder for your amusement.”
“Now, now,” said Rosvita, hurriedly placing herself between the two young women. “Let us not argue and strike out when we feel the heat of our passions on us. ‘It is well to speak first,’ as the blessed Daisan said when his disciples asked him what to do when false accusations of sorcery were laid against them.”
“‘For the truth shall make us free,’” finished Theophanu.
Sapientia burst into noisy sobs of thwarted anger and fled the garden. From a half-hidden bench a maidservant jumped up and followed her inside.
“I am not sure it is wise to bait your sister in this fashion.”
“If she would only think before she speaks—” Theophanu broke off, turned, and took several steps forward to greet the man who emerged at that moment into the courtyard. Like the two young women, he wore a gold torque, braids of solid gold twisted into a three-quarters circle, around his neck. Theophanu knelt. “Father.”
He laid a hand on her dark hair.
Rosvita knelt as well. “Your Majesty.”
“You must rise, my most valued cleric,” said the king. “I have an errand for you, which I am assured only you can accomplish.”
Rosvita rose and faced King Henry. As a young man he had been, like his elder daughter, rash at times; now, as always these days, he wore a grave expression that contrasted well with the bright lights of his silvering hair. “I am your servant, Your Majesty.” She could not quite restrain a smile. “Your praise honors me.”
“No more than it should, my friend. You will indulge me, I hope, by carrying out this errand at once.”
“Of course.”
“Father Bardo tells me there is a hermit, a holy monk, who lives in a cell in the hills above the monastery. He is old and was once, I am told, a scholar.”
Despite herself, Rosvita felt her heart beat faster. An old man, and a scholar as well! Always there were new things to be discovered from the testimony of such people.
“He is known to be well versed in the laws of the Emperor Taillefer, to have knowledge of capitularies of those times that have been lost to us. But he is reluctant to break his contemplation, so says Father Bardo.”
