The Burning Stone
Page 110

There was a pause while the king watched his court hoist their cups in anticipation.
Brother Fortunatas, behind her, muttered to Amabilia. “Have you laid a wager yet? Which worthy prince will the king choose? The civilized Salian or the half-barbarian Ungrian?”
“It is sinful to lay wagers,” announced Brother Constantine in a low voice, “and more sinful for clerics to do so than ordinary folk, for God have forbidden us to take on ourselves what only the angels may know.”
“I say he will favor the Salian prince,” murmured Sister Amabilia, ignoring Constantine as usual. “That will give him an alliance with the Salian king in case the Varren lords rebel again.”
“With Sabella in prison? Nay, my dear Sister, he will choose the Ungrian, and if I am right, then I think you will give me those last two honey cakes you have on your platter.”
“Gluttony is a sin,” interposed Constantine primly.
“You think he will favor the Ungrians? But King Geza didn’t even offer his own son but only his younger brother as bridegroom!”
“A younger brother who is an experienced war leader, and who has fought the Quman and other barbarian tribes. With success. Whom better to ally with Sapientia, if she becomes Margrave of Eastfall? Someone who understands the situation there.”
“I accept the wager,” said Amabilia, “but what will you give me if I am right?”
“I’ve already eaten all my honey cakes. What else could you possibly want?”
“Your owl quill, Brother. That is the only thing that will content me.”
Hush, my friends,” said Rosvita, but with a smile. Princess Theophanu’s expression remained as bland as those on the sculptures from the Octagon Garden. Her gaze was fixed on her father, who extended a hand to Sapientia and bid her rise.
Sapientia was flushed. Somehow she managed to keep silent while her father spoke. His voice carried effortlessly to the four corners of the hall and even outside where servants and hangers-on thronged at the doors to listen.
“Let the Salian ambassador ride west with one of our Eagles and bring presents to our brother, Lothair, as a sign of our good will and our mutual love. Let the Ungrian ambassador ride east with one of our Eagles, and let him give this message to King Geza: Let your brother, Prince Bayan, meet my daughter at the city of Handelburg not before Matthiasmass and not after the Feast of St. Valentinus. Let them be wed in the presence of Biscop Alberada, who rules over the souls of the marchlanders and those of the pagans who still live in darkness. After a three-day feast in celebration, let them then proceed to the Eastfall, there to protect and defend the people of Eastfall against the depredations of the Quman raiders. Such is my will.”
Theophanu hissed a word, but it was lost in the hubbub that arose, cups lifted, a shout rising from the lips of every person there. Sapientia was still flushed. She glanced toward the Salian ambassador, then the Ungrian one. She did not look displeased. She looked happy.
“Betrothed at last,” said Theophanu, taking the cup from Rosvita and draining it. She called for a servant, who filled it again. “Will you drink to my sister’s good fortune, Sister?”
“Assuredly.” Rosvita drank gratefully. It was hot and stuffy in the hall, and she wished suddenly to be walking alone in the Octagon Garden, where she could hear herself think. But she had no time to think. Theophanu had not done speaking, her voice pitched so low that only Rosvita could hear.
“If Henry means her to rule after him, then why did he betroth her to a foreign husband who cannot expect to receive much support from Wendish courtiers? They say the Ungrians still sacrifice horses at the winter solstice, even if they pray to God the rest of the year. Is that the man my father means to be the next king consort?”
“We know little about Prince Bayan except that he is a renowned fighter who has won many battles,” replied Rosvita reflexively.
The Ungrian ambassador called for another toast. He had cast aside his fur cloak and now, with his odd mustaches and thin beard, looked incongruous in his elegant yellow silk tunic. The Ungrians had been raiders like the Quman not two generations ago. They had not lost their barbarian look, not quite, even if they mimicked the sophisticated Arethousan way of dressing.
“They are all blind,” said Theophanu sharply.
“Who is blind?” asked Rosvita, taken aback by the unusual passion in Theophanu’s voice. “What is it they are not seeing?”
“It matters not.” She smoothed her expression and took the cup from Rosvita, but she only sipped at it. “Not if you don’t already know.”