“Even in the kitchens they’re saying no one died last night,” Aurea commented as she helped Rosvita with her robes. “The local folk say that when a dawn comes with no dead, then the fever is spent and autumn will follow soon.”
“That would truly be a blessing.” Rosvita sat patiently while Aurea brushed out her tangled hair, braided it, and pinned it up at her neck, a cloth cap sewn with a net of jewels tucked up and over her hair. Fortunatus, obviously agitated, crept back in and seated himself on the bed again, since Rosvita had taken the only chair. “What troubles you, Brother?”
“Messages. I saw an Eagle ride in. She’d come from the north, from Princess Theophanu, but instead of being taken to Queen Adelheid, she was led away to see Presbyter Hugh.”
“Perhaps the queen was asleep. She’s been up many nights with the infant.” She hesitated, seeing his distressed expression. “Surely there’s no rumor of any unseemly intimacy between queen and presbyter.”
“Nay.” His grin flashed, and a familiar spark of mischief lit his expression. “None but what you’ve just whispered yourself.”
Ruoda could not have been above eighteen years, but she had never learned to school her tongue. “They’re a handsome couple, when they hold court together as they do now, with King Henry out on campaign in the south.”
“Queen Adelheid is devoted to the king!” protested Heriburg indignantly.
“Truly, and so would I be if he’d given me back my throne, and fathered my child.”
“Hush, infant,” said Fortunatus as mildly as he ever could. Like Rosvita, he liked the bustle and hubbub now that their numbers had increased again. He turned back to Rosvita. “Not one soul in Darre has a bad word to say about Presbyter Hugh. Why should they? There’s no man with gentler manners or a more noble bearing.” Did sarcasm twitch his lips as he spoke? For once, she couldn’t tell.
“He is handsome,” said Aurea unexpectedly. She did not usually offer an opinion, nor was Rosvita accustomed to asking one of her. “But I haven’t forgotten that time at Werlida, with him and that wicked Eagle and good Prince Sanglant caught between them. Like my mother said, wolfsbane is a lovely flower to look at, but it’ll kill you the same as rotten meat.”
“A fine expression,” murmured Fortunatus with a chuckle, looking at the servant woman as if he’d never noticed her before.
She flushed. Aurea was old enough to be steady yet still young enough to think of marrying, if she found a husband who could offer her the security to make it worth her while to leave the king’s progress. So far she had not. And Brother Fortunatus certainly was not going to be the one to offer. Rosvita wondered if she would have to let the young woman down gently. Here in Darre, with such a high concentration of presbyters, she had seen mistresses aplenty, set up to live in small houses close by the Amurrine Hill. It was easier, in truth, for women to resist the whisper of temptation, since they had been granted hearts less susceptible to rash impulse. Even so, too many clerics turned their ears to the seductive voice of the Enemy.
Humankind was weak, despite what the blessed Daisan had preached. It was always a struggle.
“I pray you, Aurea, I would have bread, if there is any.”
“Of course, my lady.” Still red, and with a hand on her cheek to cover her blush, Aurea left the chamber.
“Sister Gerwita, now that I am better, I would like Brother Eudes and Brother Ingeld to attend me today as usual.” The young cleric nodded obediently and hurried out. Rosvita regarded Heriburg and Ruoda in silence, and they returned her gaze steadily. They were so young, but they had come from Korvei, chosen expressly by Mother Otta to be at Rosvita’s service. She sighed, understanding the need for allies, and returned her gaze to Fortunatus. “Go on, Brother. I trust we are alone now and cannot be overheard.”
He glanced again around the room, as if expecting to see a spy hidden in one of the corners, but, like Rosvita, he trusted the two girls. Enough light crept in that the painted walls swam into view: geometric borders framed by flowers and, within these, a series of murals depicting the deaths of the martyrs: St. Asella walled up alive in an anchorite’s cell; St. Kristine of the Knives; St. Gregory torn apart by dogs; the hundred arrows that pierced St. Sebastian.
“Do you remember the convent of St. Ekatarina?” he asked.
“How could I forget any of the things that happened there? Queen Adelheid trusts Hugh now because of the aid he gave us.”
“Sorcerous aid.”