Henry’s hands were clenched. He stared for a long while at the fine Arethousan carpet under his boots, a geometric pattern of imperial purple and pale ivory, floral circles encasing eight-pointed stars. The rug had come as part of Queen Sophia’s morning gift to Henry, for only she, daughter of an emperor and niece of the reigning Arethousan emperor, would dare to walk on purple. Some few of her possessions, as she had wished, had been sent back to Arethousa upon her death. Henry had kept this rug, perhaps against her wishes, for was it not also said of Henry that he believed he alone of all the reigning kings had the power to wear the mantle of the Holy Dariyan Emperor? Others had attempted to take on the title worn first by the great Taillefer. None had succeeded. The “new” empire, restored by Taillefer, had lasted a scant twenty-four years and had died with Taillefer. No king facing civil war could hope to make himself emperor, even with the support of the skopos herself.
“Make ready to ride,” King Henry said at last. “We leave at dawn.”
The Eagle, though he had ridden hard and through great danger, received no sign of the king’s favor. He was dismissed to get food, drink, and rest. The king retired to his bedchamber. The others went out to their own retainers, and soon the king’s retinue was in a great uproar as they prepared to march. Those nobles, like Liutgard and Judith, who had been ready to return to their estates were now—with whatever soldiers they had—turned into Henry’s army. There was no longer time for raising levies from far-off estates.
Eagles were dispatched to Rotrudis, Duchess of Saony and Attomar, and to Burchard, Duke of Avaria. Also, Eagles rode to the estates of lesser counts and lords. A great stock of grain and vegetables vanished from the monastery’s cellars into the king’s wagons, and chickens and geese were caged and the cages thrown on top of heaps of turnips and beans and baskets of wheat and barley and rye. Given the terrible news of Sabella’s revolt, not even the cellarer complained when every cask of ale left in the monastery’s wine cellar was rolled up the earth ramp and into wagons.
Just after Vespers, Villam came to Rosvita where she labored in the scriptorium, packing her notes and stylus and parchment, her quills and ink, into a chest for the journey. He appeared so close to panic that she immediately set aside her book and came to him.
“My son is missing,” he said. “Have you seen him today?”
Guilt struck at her heart. So much had happened she had forgotten about her promise to keep an eye on the boy. At once she suspected where he had gone. “I have not seen him. His retainers?”
“Six are also missing, young men of his own age, none of the older ones. The others will say nothing.” Clearly, Villam suspected the worst.
“Bring them to me.”
With grim satisfaction, Villam left. She finished packing and left the chest in the care of one of her servants. She met them before the Hearth, the only place with any semblance of peace in the entire valley. Villam brought two men: a white-haired man with the look of a faithful, battle-hardened retainer and a much younger man, not above sixteen or eighteen years, who was flushed and had obviously been crying.
Rosvita studied them both. The old man she gave up on at once. He looked like the old praeceptor, the man who had been assigned many years back to train the boy at arms and whose loyalty would be fixed to the young lad he had half raised; he could not be swayed by fear. But the younger man could.
“You do not mean to lie to me?” she demanded of the young one. “Who are you, child? Who are your parents?”
Stammering, he told her his name and lineage.
“Where is Lord Berthold?”
He betrayed himself by glancing at the old man. The old retainer glared stubbornly ahead. The young one began to fidget, twisting his hands together, biting at his lower lip.
“Look in my eyes, child, and swear to me by the name of Our Lady and Lord that you do not know.”
He began to cry again.
That quickly, as if to spare the young man the shame of lying or of betraying his master, the old armsmaster spoke. “He knew nothing of the expedition. I advised against it, but, once determined, Lord Berthold would not be swayed.”
“Yet you did not go with him!” Villam lifted a fist as if to bring it down, hard, on the Hearth, and only at the last instant remembered where he was. He slapped the fist against an open palm instead. It was getting dark. Her ability to read the subtleties of their expressions was already lost to her. Two monks entered the chapel, brands burning in each hand; they began to light the sconces. Soon the office of Compline would be sung and the monks would take themselves to their beds for the night.
