Prince of Dogs (Crown of Stars #2) 46

Sapientia was taken inside the walls of the convent with only two attendants and Sister Rosvita to act as witnesses, as well as the physician who, being a eunuch, was considered as good as a woman. Everyone else waited in the hall, what remained of an old palace from the time of Taillefer, now under the management of the convent sisters. Henry paced. Hugh sat in a corner and idly leafed through the book.

“She’s small in the hips,” said Hanna nervously, remembering births attended by her mother. Not all had happy outcomes.

“Look here.” Hathui examined the carvings that ran along the beams in the hall. Blackened with layers of soot, cracked from the weight of years of damp and dryness, they depicted the trials of St. Hippolyte whose strength and martial courage had brought the Holy Word of God to the heathen tribes who had lived in these woodlands a hundred years before. “A good omen indeed for the child who will prove Sapientia’s fitness to rule and also ride as captain of the Dragons when he grows up.”

Hanna surveyed the old hall. Servants swept moldering rushes out the door. Ash heaped the two hearths and had to be carried away by the bucket load before a fresh fire could be started. Even with all the people packing into the hall, the cold numbed her. At a time like this, the stables provided better shelter. She could still hear, like an echo, the soft cries of the sister cellarer of the convent bemoaning the loss of so many scant provisions—it took a vast amount of food and drink to satisfy the king and his company.

“Why didn’t the king want Princess Sapientia brought to bed at Thersa? Everyone is saying that Thersa is a grander place by far, and the steward there more able to supply the court.”

“Look here.” Hathui took a few steps away from the younger clerics who, clustered nearby, were muttering among themselves. She wet her fingers and reached up to brush away grime and dust from one carving. Deep in the wood a scene unfolded down the length of the old beam. A figure draped in robes advanced, spear in one hand, the other raised, palm out, to confront the tribespeople retreating before her: a stylized flame burned just beyond her hand. Behind her walked many grotesque creatures, obviously not of human kin, but it wasn’t clear whether they stalked the saint or trod in her holy footsteps, seeking her blessing.

As the clerics moved away, Hathui dropped her voice. “It’s better not to speak out loud of these matters. Henry’s bastard son Sanglant was born at Thersa. So Wolfhere told me. The elvish woman who was the prince’s mother was so sick after the birth that some feared she would die. The court couldn’t move for two months, but when she did rise at last from her bed, she walked away never to be seen again. They say she vanished from this earth completely.”

“But where could she have gone?” demanded Hanna. “Where else is there to go, for a creature such as that? To the island of Alba?”

“It’s only what I heard. That doesn’t mean it’s true.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not true,” replied Hanna thoughtfully, examining the next carving. The same figure—she recognized the robes and the mark of fire before the saint’s hand—approached an archway out of which emerged a man-sized creature with a circle of stylized feathers behind it that appeared to be wings; it also wore a belt of skulls. Following to the next scene, Hanna saw the same archway, made small now, standing among a circle of standing stones which were, apparently, in the act of falling to the ground, their power banished by the saint’s holy courage.

“How was St. Hippolyte martyred?” Hanna asked.

Hathui smiled grimly. “Crushed by rock, as you see here.” She indicated the last carving. They stood now at the far end of the hall. At the other end, fire flared, and Villam at last entreated Henry to sit down and take some wine.

The princess labored long into the night. At dawn on the next day, the Feast of St. Sormas, thirteenth day of the month of Avril, she bore a healthy girl child.

And there was great rejoicing.

Henry called Hugh before him. “You have proved yourself a good adviser to my daughter,” he said, presenting him with a fine gold cup out of his treasury. “I have hopes now for her ability to reign after me.”

“God has blessed your house and bloodline, Your Majesty,” replied Hugh, and though the compliments came many over the rest of the day, by no act or word did he display any unseemly pride in an event he had helped bring about. Nor did he appear conscious of the new status this safe birth brought him.

That evening, at the urging of Sister Rosvita, he read aloud from the Vita of St. Radegundis, the happy tale—somewhat startling to find in a saint’s life—of how the saintly young woman, so determined in her vow to remain chaste and thus closer to heavenly purity, was overcome by the great nobility of Emperor Taillefer. Wooing her, he overcame her reluctance. Her love for his great virtues and imperial honor melted her heart, and they were married as soon as she came of age.