“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.”