The Burning Stone (Crown of Stars #3)

The Burning Stone (Crown of Stars #3) Page 76

Henry regarded this munificence without expression. When Conrad had finished, Henry merely raised a hand for silence. The assembly, whispering and jostling the better to see, quieted expectantly.

“Is this how you hope to expiate your treachery?”

Conrad’s nostrils flared, and his shoulders stiffened. “I didn’t join Sabella!”

“You didn’t join me!”

He regained his composure. “Yet I am here now, cousin.”

“So you are. What am I to make of your appearance? Why did you turn my Eagle back at your border, in the Alfar Mountains? Why have you troubled my brother Benedict and Queen Marozia of Karrone with your disputes? Why did you not support me against the Eika, and against Sabella’s unlawful rebellion against my authority?”

For an instant Rosvita thought Conrad would turn around right then, mount, and ride off in a rage. Unexpectedly, Father Hugh stepped forward from his place in the front ranks, near Sapientia’s chair, and placed himself between the two men.

“Your Majesty,” he began, “let me with these poor words humbly beg you and your noble cousin to feast together, for as the blessed Daisan once said, ‘The measure you give is the measure you will receive.’ Greet your kin with wine and food. It is better to enter into a dispute on a full stomach than an empty one, for a hungry woman will feed on angry words while she who has eaten of the feast provided by God will know how to set aside anger for conciliation.”

He was right, of course. She took a step forward to add her voice to his.

“What better conciliation,” said Conrad suddenly, “than a betrothal feast? Give us only your blessing, cousin, and your daughter Theophanu and I will speak our consent to be wed.”

Henry rose slowly. Rosvita caught in her breath and waited. Rashly suggested! What did Conrad hope to gain from such bluntness?

But Henry said nothing of marriage. He descended the steps with kingly dignity and raised an arm to clasp Conrad’s in cousinly affection. “The news came to us only two days ago, and it was received with many tears. Let us have peace between us, cousin, while we mourn the passing of Lady Eadgifu.”

Conrad wept manfully, and with evident sincerity. “We must put our trust in God, They who rule over all things. She was the best of women.”

Now many sighs and groans arose from the assembly, both from those who had known the Lady Eadgifu and those whose hearts were touched by the sorrow shown by duke and king. Rosvita could not help but shed a few tears, although she had met the Alban princess on only three occasions, and mostly remembered her because her fair hair and ivory-light skin had contrasted handsomely with the black hair and dusky complexion of her husband; on first arriving from Alba, Eadgifu had spoken Wendish poorly and therefore refrained from speaking much except to her Alban retinue.

One woman among the assembly was not weeping: Theophanu. She had lowered her gaze but under those heavy, dark lids—so like Queen Sophia’s—she examined Father Hugh. Her expression had the placid innocence of a holy mosaic, pieced together out of colored stone, and not even Rosvita, who knew her as well as anyone, could tell what she was thinking. Did she want to marry Conrad? Did she still hoard her infatuation for Father Hugh? Did she know the name of the maleficus who had tried to kill her?

Hugh had taken a book of forbidden magic from the young Eagle, Liath. Was it only coincidence that the unnamed magus had attempted to sicken Theophanu through the agency of a ligatura woven into a brooch shaped as a panther?

“Make way! Make way!”

Henry dropped Conrad’s arm as a small procession appeared. Everyone began to talk at once, pointing and whispering. The king stepped back up onto the first of the two steps that mounted the platform, but there he paused, waiting, and Duke Conrad turned and with a surprised expression moved aside to make room.

“Your Majesty.” Prince Sanglant pulled up his horse at a respectful distance from the throne. He looked travel-worn and unkempt with his rich tunic damp from rain and his hair uncombed, but by some indefinable air he wore as always the mantle of authority. But the Eika dogs that trailed at his heels reminded everyone of what he had been—and what he still harbored within himself. He made a sign, and his escort of a dozen soldiers and two servingmen turned aside and dismounted.

There was one other person with them: a dark young woman with a regal air and a look of tense hauteur, held distant from the crowd that surrounded her. It took Rosvita a moment to recognize her, although it should not have. What on God’s earth was the Eagle—as good as banished yesterday together with Wolfhere—doing with him? Or was she still an Eagle? She no longer wore badge or cloak, although she rode a very fine gray gelding.