Rosvita reflected gravely on Sabella, raising revolt against a king as strong as Henry. Imagine how much more likely the nobles would be to fight over a throne held by a child. No infant was safe from the intrigues of the great princes, all of whom sought power. According to the histories, Radegundis had been very young when she had married Taillefer, more pretty than well-born, for by his sixty-fifth year Taillefer could choose his wives as he pleased. No young queen without strong family connections could hope to guide her child safely through such a world, with so many dukes and counts set against her.
“In Varre or Wendar,” continued Fidelis, “the one daughter who was not pledged to the church would have inherited and held the throne, if she was strong enough. But the Salians preferred a bastard boy to a legitimate girl. With my own eyes, when I still lived at St. Radegundis Cloister, I read a capitulary from that time, stating that an illegitimate son could inherit a father’s portion. This is why the dukes and counts of Salia and the bastard sons of Taillefer—for he had as many concubines as wives—fought over the empire and brought it to ruin.”
This, thought Rosvita sadly, was the message King Henry wanted to hear: “A capitulary stating that an illegitimate son could inherit.” Yet she hesitated, for Brother Fidelis also spoke of ruin. “Then a bastard son could inherit throne and crown in Salia?”
“One did. He ruled for four years before he was murdered by the due de Rossalia under the flag of truce. And for his perfidy, the due de Rossalia was punished by the fitting justice of Our Lady and Lord: His lands were purged and plundered for twenty years by the raids of the Eika savages until no house was left unburned and all his people fled. But the throne passed to distant cousins of Taillefer, not his own seed, legitimate or otherwise, and his lineage vanished from the Earth.”
Rosvita allowed herself a deep sigh. Four years. Not an auspicious or stable reign.
“This is not what you wished to hear?” asked Brother Fidelis. She felt that he could see her expression, indeed, practically see into her very soul.
“It is not what I wish that matters. But perhaps, Brother, it is this message—of ruin and the downfall of bastard sons—that needs to be spoken to King Henry.”
“Even I, in my hut, have heard whispers of the bastard son Henry got with an Aoi woman. The birds sing of this child, and at night when I am at my meditations the daimones of the upper air whisper to each other of the child’s progress from infant to youth to man, so that I cannot help but hear them.”
Was he jesting or serious? She could not tell. Nor did he elaborate. His breath whistled, a thin sound in the quiet afternoon, as fragile as the desiccated straw that had fallen from the thatch to the cold earth below. Rosvita felt the hard pressure of dirt on her knees. One of her feet was falling asleep.
“Speak to me of your work,” he said.
And she heard in his voice the same yearning that ate away at her; a constant curiosity, like a mouse’s hunger, insistent and gnawing.
“I am writing a history of the Wendish people, which will be presented to King Henry’s mother, Queen Mathilda. She now resides at the convent at Quedlinhame where she has found peace, I trust, and where she watches over her son and her other children. Much of the history will deal with the reigns of the first Henry and the two Arnulfs, for it is by their efforts that the Wendish people rose to the power they now have.”
She thought. He breathed, patient. The task of writing this history rose before her in her mind’s eye, daunting and yet attractive exactly because it was a challenge. And this man, certainly, would understand what drove her, her curiosities, her fears, the need to investigate and discover. “I have worked as one who walks in a wide forest where every path lies covered deep in snow. I have had no one to guide me while I made my way forward, sometimes wandering devious paths, sometimes hitting the trail. There is so much you might tell me, Brother Fidelis. So much you must know! So much you must have seen with your own eyes or heard from those who did see!”
“I have little breath left to me.” So weak was this utterance that she thought for a moment she had only imagined it. “Indulge me, Sister. As a child confesses to its mother, may I confess to you now?”
She was aware of bitter disappointment. But she could not refuse him. “I have taken orders as a deacon. I can hear confessions.”
He spoke very slowly now, a few labored words with each wheezing breath. “I have sinned once, and greatly, for lying with a woman. That was many years ago, though I think of her still with affection. I have tried to be content. I have tried to still the anger that eats away at my heart. And so at last I have found peace of a kind. I have looked away from the world and seen that its temptations mean nothing compared to the promise of the Chamber of Light.” He had such a kind voice, that of a man who sees his own faults and forgives himself for them—not arrogantly or leniently but with wisdom—knowing that he, as are all humans, is hopelessly flawed. “But still devils visit me. Not in the guise of women, as they so afflict some of my brothers. Not even in the guise of she whom I recall so clearly.” Now he paused. To hear him breathe, harsh rasps torn out of a weak and failing chest, was painful. “But in the guise of scholars and magi, tempting me with knowledge, if only … if only I would …”