“It’s true that my brother Henry showed partiality toward the infant, who was destined for another fate according to the custom of the Wendish people. None among you believe that Henry’s decision was made with his dying breath. The day Sanglant was born, Henry confessed his wish to his father, King Arnulf, that he desired to make this bastard child his heir. I recall it!”
She surveyed the gathering with the pride and arrogance that her long years as abbess of the holy and powerful institution of Quedlinhame had granted her.
“I recall it, for I was already invested in the church and soon to become abbess. I was present in the councils of power, and in those councils held more privately with the king. So I tell you: this request went against all of Wendar’s customs and traditions! The bastard child must be the king’s Dragon, not the king himself. As well, the child was born of a foreign woman, with no maternal kin to support him and besides that an ancient and suspicious tale of old enmity dogging his heels. He could never be trusted.”
“Yet he was best among us,” said Theophanu in her cool voice.
Her flat statement caused Conrad to begin weeping again, for all his gestures were grand ones that every soul could join with. Many wept in the hall, some louder than others.
“Arnulf knew the child could never be trusted,” repeated Scholastica. She swept her hand to include the span of the hall and raised her voice yet more, a strong soprano that carried above the grief and anger of the crowd. “Henry was obsessed with the Aoi woman, but it was obvious to any eye that she did not love him but was at work on some hidden plan. This Arnulf saw. This he strove to prevent.”
“So it comes, that my nephew is dead.”
Wichman roused from his stupor. “His is not the only death today!” Then he laughed like a man driven mad by pain.
“No, indeed, it is not. Here also died Princess Sapientia, killed by sorcery. And Sabella—my elder sister.”
Wichman coughed blood. With the sleeve of his gambeson, Conrad wiped the spume off Wichman’s chin, and called servants forward, but the other man waved away these attendants.
“I will hear all of it. I will hear!” he croaked. “Now that Sanglant is gone, there’s not one of you left who can best me in combat.”
“Let him be,” said Scholastica. Her gaze, bent on him, was not kindly. “Let him hear, if he wishes. All these claims are now thrown over. Their souls have ascended to the Chamber of Light. Let us speak a prayer in their memory.”
Rosvita wiped her brow, and even that slight movement made her shoulder pinch and smart. She murmured the responses as the abbess intoned the prayer, but her heart was numb and her thoughts strayed.
Where had Constance come from? How came it that she was escorted by Eika soldiers? Had Sorgatani survived?
Rosvita had left the field as soldiers struggled to right the wagon, and when she surveyed the assembly now, she saw no sign of Hanna’s white-blonde hair although several times she caught her breath, thinking she had found her, only to realize that the Eika had hair just as bone pale.
Where was Wolfhere? He had spoken puzzling words by the roadside, and she began to think that if she could only recall them exactly that they would answer many questions, but exhaustion muddied her mind. It seemed to her that her eyes watered, that a faint perfume like rosewater drifted off the body of the dead man, a sweet and pleasing smell. She covered her eyes, dizzied.
A hand steadied her. “Patience,” he murmured.
The voice soothed her; her thoughts cleared as Mother Scholastica called again for silence.
“Let it be known that a writ of excommunication has reached me, carried by diverse hands. The skopos who reigns in Darre has threatened to lay an anathema on Wendar and Varre if the people are ruled by a bastard half-breed, born to humankind’s ancient enemy. Now that threat is lifted.”
In the front row of benches, Lord Berthold jumped up.
“Let me speak!” he cried. “I have been in Aosta in recent months. Let me tell you the truth about the woman who named herself skopos! She is no Holy Mother. She is the same Antonia, cast out as biscop of Mainni because she soiled her hands with bindings and workings. She knew the secrets of calling the galla. With them, she murdered her enemies without regard to any innocent souls who might be devoured by the galla. She is not Holy Mother! She only called herself by that name, but no college of presbyters elected her. They are all dead!”
“Silence!” cried Mother Scholastica, truly shocked. “What are you saying?”
He roared on. The intensity of voice raised from such a mild-seeming youth was astonishing. “Darre is gone. The holy city is uninhabitable, consumed by the Abyss. It is a place of fire. Pits of steam and poison. What authority can this woman have, who calls herself skopos? With what scepter does she rule?”