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.