Like many other noblewomen of the highest rank, Judith had given birth before her first marriage to a child gotten on her by a concubine or at any rate some handsome young man not of noble birth whose looks had caught her youthful fancy. That first marriage, as such marriages were, had been arranged for her by her kin to the mutual advantage of both houses. The concubine had long since disappeared. But the child had lived and thrived.
Lady bless, but Judith had petted and cosseted that boy; perhaps he would not have turned out so insufferable had he not been so handsome—those who had been at court longer than Rosvita said the boy resembled his father, in looks, at least; some said in charm as well. He had been a brilliant student, one of the most brilliant to pass through the king’s schola in Rosvita’s time there, but she had not been unhappy to see him leave. How unlike Berthold he had been in all ways except the one for which she of all people could not condemn him: curiosity.
But Hugh was gone now, into the church, and no doubt caught up in church concerns and his new position as abbot of Firsebarg. Without question his mother hoped to elevate him to the rank of presbyter, and with that honor he would leave Wendar to live in the skopos’ palace in Darre. He would have no reason to trouble the king’s progress with his presence. Thank the Lady.
“I have sent my personal physician to attend Villam,” said Judith. She shrugged her shoulders, settling the mail shirt down more comfortably over her torso. “But no, I have not attempted to intervene. That duty is for his counselors.”
Rosvita smiled wryly and humbly. By such means did God remind her not to pass judgment on others. She nodded to the margrave and excused herself. It was time to take the bull by the horns.
“What have you to say for yourself,” demanded Henry as soon as he caught sight of her. “Why have you not brought Sabella to me? Ai, Lady! That idiot daughter of mine has made a fool of herself, according to report, right in front of everyone and not even knowing she was doing so. Ai, Lord, what did I do to deserve such children?”
“I am here now, Your Majesty,” she said, trying to remain calm. Henry was so red in the face that his veins stood out and he looked likely to burst. “And though my lineage is a proud one, you must know I cannot give orders to such as Duchess Liutgard.”
He considered this for at least two breaths, which gave her time to put her hand on his elbow. The touch startled him. It was not her place, of course, to touch the king without his permission, but the gesture served to make him think of something other than his grievances.
“You are angry, Your Majesty,” she added while he was gathering his wits.
“Of course I am angry! Liutgard denies me the very person whose treason may yet cost me the only child—”
“King Henry!” She said it loudly and sharply. She knew with bitter instinct that he had been about to say something he would later regret. Something about Sanglant. “Let us go inside and see to Villam.”
Had no one thought to calm him by appealing to his genuine affection for his old friend and companion? Rosvita could not believe they were so nervous of him as that. She gestured toward the tent. He frowned at her, but he hesitated. Then, abruptly, he went inside, leaving her to follow. The Eagle—Hathui—nodded as Rosvita ducked inside. Approvingly? Rosvita shook her head. Surely no common-born Eagle, not even one as proud as that one was, would think of approving or disapproving the actions of the nobly born.
Villam had lost his left arm just above the elbow. Rosvita dared not ask how he had taken the wound. The old man seemed half asleep, and she feared even whispers would wake him.
But Henry pushed the physician aside and laid a hand—gently, despite the fury that still radiated from him—on Villam’s forehead.
“He is strong,” he murmured, as if to make it true. The physician nodded, concurring.
“There is no infection?” asked Rosvita softly.
“It is too early to tell,” said the physician. He had a light, rather high voice, marred by a strong accent. “He is, as His Majesty say, a strong man. If no infection set in, then he recover. If one do, then he die.”
Henry knelt beside the pallet. The physician dropped to his knees at once, as if he dared not remain standing while the king knelt. Henry looked up and gestured to Rosvita. She knelt beside the king and murmured a prayer, which Henry mouthed in time to her words, right hand clutching the gold Circle of Unity hanging at his breast.
When she had finished, the king looked over at the physician. “What do you recommend?”
Rosvita studied the man. She did not trust physicians. They seemed to her like those astrologi who wandered from town to town promising to tell people’s fates by reading the positions of the stars—for a substantial fee, of course: They catered to the credulous and the frightened. But this man was beardless, so he was either a churchman or, just possibly, a eunuch from the East. She wondered where Judith had found him and what trade the margrave might be carrying on with Arethousa.