“Do not trouble yourself, Sister,” whispered Fortunatus at her back. “I do not think Princess Theophanu’s anger at you will last forever. She suffers from the worm of jealousy. It has always gnawed at her.”
“What do you mean, Brother?”
“Do you not think so?” he replied, surprised at her reaction. “Nay, perhaps I am wrong. Certainly you are wiser than I am, Sister.”
Servants and guards dispersed to their places, but Villam lingered and, at last, came forward, indicating that he wished to speak to Rosvita in complete privacy. Fortunatus moved away discreetly to oversee the night’s preparations.
“Do you believe their story?” Villam asked her. The lamplight scoured the wrinkles from his face so that he resembled more than ever his younger self, hale and vigorous and handsome enough to attract a woman’s gaze for more reason than his title and his estates. Hadn’t she looked at him so, when she had been a very young woman come to court for the first time and dazzled by its splendors? In her life, few men had tempted her in this manner, for God had always kept a steadying hand on her passions, and Villam respected God, and the church, and a firm ‘No.’ They had shared a mutual respect for many years.
“I cannot dismiss it out of hand, Villam. Yet it seems too impossible to believe outright.”
“You are not one to take fancies lightly, Sister, nor do you succumb to any least rumor. What will you advise the king?”
“I will advise the king not to act rashly,” she said with a bitter laugh. “Villam, is it possible you can go now and speak to Prince Sanglant?”
“I will try.” He left.
The king’s particular circle of clerics, stewards, and servingfolk had the right to sleep in his chambers, and Rosvita herself had a pallet at her disposal. Despite this comfortable bed, she spent a restless night troubled by dreams.
A pregnant woman wearing a cloak of feathers and the features of an Aoi queen sat on a stone seat carved in the likeness of an eagle. Behind her, a golden wheel thrummed, spinning her into a cavern whose walls dripped with ice. Villam’s lost son Berthold slept in a cradle of jewels, surrounded by six attendants whose youthful faces bore the peaceful expression known to those angels who have at last seen God. But the golden calm draped over their repose was shattered when a ragged band of soldiers blundered into their resting hall, calling out in fear and wonder. Ai, God, did one of those frightened men have Ivar’s face? Or was it Amabilia, after all, come to visit her again?