“He’s from Varre,” retorted Brigida. “I don’t know if my uncle Burchard would want me to marry a Varrish lord, not after what happened to my cousin Agius. And I don’t know what kind of inheritance Geoffrey would bring as his dowry.”
“Poor man. He lost his inheritance to a bastard!” The princess giggled.
Hugh looked up abruptly. “Isn’t Lord Geoffrey heir to the Lavas count?”
“Indeed not!” Sapientia smiled with the satisfaction of a slow child who has, at long last, won a footrace against its rivals. “But you weren’t at court then. Father pardoned Count Lavastine for his treachery and allowed him to name his illegitimate son as his heir.”
“His heir,” murmured Hugh with such an odd inflection that Liath actually paused to stare at him.
He knelt beside a clay bowl filled with dried herbs. A strip of linen marked with a writing she could not read lay over his thighs, and as Liath watched, his hands tied the linen strip into a complex knot.
Binding.
The word leaped unbidden into her thoughts. A fragment of The Book of Secrets—which she had herself copied out of a penitential from a monastic library in Salia—rose up from the city of memory and stirred on her tongue. She murmured it under her breath.
“‘Hast thou observed the traditions of the mathematici, that thou shouldst have power through the binding and loosing made by that woven fabric formed out of the courses of the moon and the sun and the erratica and the stars, each in relationship to the others? These are the arts known to the daimones of the upper air, and it is written, “Whatsoever ye do in word or in work, do all in the name of Our Lord and Lady.” If thou hast done this, thou shalt be judged before the skopos herself.’”
But there had been more, which she had not written down because it did not concern the astronomical arts. “Hast thou made knots, and incantations ….”
Hugh looked up at her as if he could sense her thoughts, and she flushed, afraid, when a smile touched his lips. He had not addressed a single word to her since the incident in the forest, and that was worse than anything that had come before … because she knew, and he knew, that he was only biding his time.
“That Ungrian ambassador is so uncouth.” The princess continued on obliviously, just as all the others seemed oblivious to Hugh’s actions by the fire—as if he had shielded himself from their curiosity. “The way he picks at his food as if it isn’t fit for him to eat! You don’t suppose Father means to marry the son of the Ungrian king to me, do you?”
“I think not, Your Highness.” Hugh dumped the last of the herbs into the fire and stepped away, dusting white ash from his otherwise spotless tunic. The linen strip had vanished. “The Ungrian king is newly converted to the Faith of the Unities, praise God, and I believe he wishes for a woman of Wendish kin to settle there so that she may bring her knowledge of the Circle of Unity and the example of her faith to his people.”
“That might be a useful occupation for Theophanu when she returns from her pilgrimage. Where is my milk?”
A steward fetched wine and milk. Hugh left the hall for the guest rooms beyond. With the shutters closed, it was dim and smoky within the hall. The tapestries carried on the progress by King Henry had been hung over the frescoed walls for warmth, creating an odd mosaic of images, painted and woven, all jumbled up together. Freshly cut rushes smothered the floor. Three hearthfires burned, and lamps glowed on the far table where a dozen clerics worked. The rest, even Sister Rosvita, had gone out on the hunt.
Candles sat in clay bowls on all the mantelpieces; lit this morning, they would burn all day and through the night. It was the first day of the month of Decial, called Candlemass: the shortest day of the year, the winter solstice. The heathens called it Dhearc, the dark of the sun, and on this day it was traditional to go hunting no matter what the weather was like, because on this day the sun and light, in the person of the regnant, at last defeated darkness and disorder, in the body of the wild game which would be killed and feasted upon. St. Peter the Discipla, whose feast day this was, had been martyred by being burned alive by unbelievers.
In The Book of Secrets, Da had written: “When the sun stands still, certain pathways otherwise hidden become clear and certain weavings otherwise too tangled to unravel become straight. Thereby with what power you can bind a small spell into life on other days, you can bind your wish into life in an altogether greater manner at the hinges of the year. Therefore, be cautious.”
Bind your wish. Therefore, be cautious. She crouched by the fire. Two stone posts framed the hearth, carved with the forelegs and heads of griffins, and she touched the one nearest her, tracing its lion’s claws. Tiny singed fragments of flowers lay scattered at the base and on the bricks; she rolled them between thumb and finger and sniffed. Lavender. A single apple seed lay on the flagstones. The scent from the fire was heady and thick, and she had to step back to let her head clear.
