Child of Flame
Page 103

Despite the biscop’s rank and wealth, her palace hadn’t the ornamentation common to the older palaces in Wendar proper. This hall had only been finished ten years ago and had about it still an unfinished look, as if its wood hadn’t yet been worn down by the use of many hands and feet, the polish of age. The pillars in the hall stared glumly at her, carved in the likeness of dour saints who no doubt disapproved of the gluttony and singing, men stamping their feet as they shouted out a chorus, dogs scrabbling under the tables for scraps, servingwomen deftly pouring out wine while at the same time dodging teasing fingers. In truth, Bayan’s Ungrian lords did behave better than their Wendish counterparts; maybe Bayan’s jesting threat had not been a jest.
Late, the nobly born went to their resting places while servants like Hanna scrambled for what comfortable pallets they could find. In a hall this large there were plenty of sleeping platforms built in under the eaves, and when Sapientia made no move to call Hanna to attend her to the chamber in which she slept more privately, Hanna found herself a snug place among a crowd of servingwomen. They lay close together, a warm nest of half-naked women covered by furs, and gossiped in the darkness.
“The Ungrians do smell. I told you.”
“Not any more than do the Wendish soldiers. Ai, God, did you see how poor Doda had to dodge that Lord Wichman’s hands all evening? He’s a beast.”
“He’s son of a duchess, so I’m sure he’ll have what he wants.” Nervous giggles followed this pronouncement. A woman shifted. Another sighed.
“Not in the biscop’s palace, friend,” replied a new voice. “Biscop Alberada’s stern but fair, and you’ll find no such wild behavior in this hall. Now I’ll thank you to hush so that I can sleep!”
But they didn’t all hush. Hanna drifted asleep, lulled by their whispering and the strange way they hissed their “p”s and “t”s, just as the folk had in that lonely village east of Machteburg where a Quman scouting party had attacked them. Where she’d seen Ivar again, seen how he’d changed so much from the impulsive, good-natured youth she’d grown up with. He had seen the miracle of the phoenix. Was it actually possible the story was true? Had God worked a miracle of healing and given Ivar and his companions, and Prince Ekkehard, a vision of truth?
She twisted the heavy emerald ring that King Henry had given her. Here, curled up beside the other women, she felt warm and safe in body at least, but her heart remained restless. She knew her duty. First and foremost she was Henry’s servant, his messenger, his Eagle, sworn to his service and to uphold whichever church doctrine he recognized, not to question the authority of those he acknowledged as the rightful leaders of the church. Yet what of her grandmother’s gods? Hadn’t they treated their followers fairly and granted them good harvests, or sometimes turned their faces away to bring bad times? What of the many other people who lived outside the Circle of Light? Were they all damned to fall endlessly in the Abyss because they held to a different faith? How would Brother Breschius, who had survived the wrath of a Kerayit queen, reply to such questions?
She fell away into sleep, and she dreamed.
There comes into the hall as silent as the plague one of the slave men kept by Bayan’s mother. His skin is so black that she can hardly see him in the smothering darkness of the hall, now illuminated only by the glowing coals of two banked hearth fires which are watched over by dozing servant girls. Yet he can see her where she lies half hidden among the other women. He beckons. She dares not refuse such a summons, just as she would never defy the will of the king. She recognizes power when she sees it.
She rises, slips her wool tunic over her shift, and pads barefooted after the slave man. He walks the paneled corridors of the biscop’s palace without a torch, yet manages not to lose his way. The rough plank floors scrape her soles, and once she picks up a splinter and has to pause, wincing, catching a gasp in her throat so that she won’t wake the soldiers who sleep in ranks on either side of the broad corridor.
The slave bends to take her foot in his warm hands while she balances herself on his shoulder, all the while aware of the taut strength of his body and the steady breathing of the sleeping soldiers around them. He probes, grips, and slips the splinter out. She would thank him, but she dares not speak out loud, and probably he does not understand her language anyway. They walk on in a silence that hangs as heavily as fog.
At last he opens a door and leads her into a chamber swathed in silk hangings, so many that she has to push her way through them until she comes free of their soft luxury and finds herself in the center of the room. It is cold here. No fire burns on the empty hearth.