“But no one faults the piety of Taillefer,” muttered Berthold, trying to write an “E” that had straight lines, “and yet his empire collapsed and no king or queen has been crowned Holy Dariyan Emperor in Darre since Taillefer. How is that explained?”
“A good question,” murmured Rosvita, aware suddenly that Cleric Monica’s hard gaze had turned their way. It was too bad, really, that the boy must marry. He would have made a fine historian.
Cleric Monica coughed meaningfully and went on with her teaching. Berthold sighed and essayed an “R.” Rosvita found her gaze wandering over the assembled children.
The great magnates of the realm were each expected to send a child to attend the king’s progress. Some, usually younger siblings, would be educated as clerics and in time join the King’s Chapel and Greater Schola. Other children might only pass through for a year or two as part of their education, to get a taste of life in the everchanging, always moving court as it traveled through the lands ruled over by King Henry.
And a few, whose parents were of suspect loyalty, might stay for a much longer time. Although no one ever spoke the word, these children were hostages, although well-treated ones.
That was not true of Berthold, of course. His father, the margrave Helmut Villam, was King Henry’s favored counselor and most trusted companion.
Of the great princes of the realm, the four margraves were usually the most loyal to the king. Of all the princes, the margraves most needed the king’s support. As administrators of the marchlands, those lands that bordered the easternmost territories controlled by the Wendish peoples and their allies, they were always at the forefront when the barbarian eastern tribes raided civilized lands for loot and slaves.
From their lands missionaries set out into the wild lands to convert the heathens. Into their lands came the most intrepid settlers, willing to risk the assaults of the heathen tribes in return for good lands to farm clear of obligation to any lord except the king or prince.
For three years the borderlands had been quiet, and because of this the margraves—or their heirs—were able to spend part of every year in attendance on the king. This spring, besides Villam, the king’s progress boasted the presence of the illustrious Judith, margrave of Olsatia and Austra.
She had left her marchlands in the capable hands of her eldest daughter and brought her two youngest children to court. One of them, a sallow girl of about fourteen years of age, sat with a slack-jawed expression, staring at Cleric Monica as if the elderly woman had just sprouted horns and wings.
Werinhar, margrave of Westfall, had sent his youngest brother to court. This young man was destined for the church, and like a good cleric-in-training he was at this moment diligently copying down Monica’s speech.
As usual it was the dukes—the most powerful princes of the realm—who posed the greatest problem. The three dukes whose lands lay in the old kingdom of Wendar remained loyal: Saony, Fesse, and Avaria. All of them had either children or young siblings here now; Rosvita had seen many young people from those families come and go in the last twenty years.
But the dukedoms of Varingia, Wayland, and Arconia lay in the old kingdom of Varre, and the loyalty of their dukes was less constant—and more suspect. So Duke Conrad of Wayland’s daughter sat at the front of the class and laboriously copied letters under the strict attention of Cleric Monica. So, half a year ago, Tallia, daughter of Sabella and Berengar, had come of age and left the king’s progress to return to Arconia. No one had thought anything of it then; it was a natural progression.
But two months ago Rodulf, Duke of Varingia, had recalled his youngest son Erchanger from Henry’s side. And now they heard daily the rumors that Sabella meant to rebel again against Henry’s authority.
Berthold snorted under his breath, amused. “Ekkehard’s fallen asleep again.”
“Ai, Lady,” murmured Rosvita. She did not at first have the courage to look. When she did, she saw that the only son of King Henry and Queen Sophia was, indeed, asleep, head basketed on an arm, tunic pulled askew to reveal the gold torque around his neck. He was snoring slightly. Ekkehard was a good boy but prone to staying up late at banquets listening to the poets and musicians rather than studying his letters, as he ought.
Monica, blessedly, had not yet noticed the boy was asleep. Most of her attention was reserved for Duke Conrad’s daughter, a slender girl who had inherited a full share of her grandmother’s blood: She was as black as a Jinna merchant. On her, the gold torque reserved for the direct descendants of kings shone beautifully against black skin.
