Child of Flame (Page 248)

Villam, too, admired the walls, but he hadn’t done speaking. “A good harvest, a mild winter, the Jinna bandits beaten back out to sea—all these will pacify the Aostan nobles more than any battle can.”

“So we must hope,” replied Rosvita, “because if reports are true, the southern counties will not yield easily. Is that the queen come to welcome us?”

Henry looked eager, seeing the crowd of folk gathered at the gate, but he was quickly disappointed.

“Clerics all,” said Villam, surprised enough to show it.

Hathui rode forward to meet the welcoming party halfway. Presbyters in red cloaks and clerics garbed in robes of white sang a hymn of praise in strong voices. Incense rose in clouds from gold thuribles; even at this distance, the heady scent made Rosvita dizzy, or perhaps that was just the scorching heat of the summer sun. She had grown accustomed to wearing a broad-brimmed hat, like those Aostan clerics favored, but it was so hot that even such shade gave trifling respite from the heat. Fortunatus had remarked several times that it was so hot that not even flies troubled them.

The Eagle returned, escorting a single man resplendent in rich vestments surmounted by a scarlet cloak trimmed with gems at the collar. The blazing sun was not more golden than his hair. He knelt in the dirt before the king.

“Your Majesty, Her Most Blessed Majesty Queen Adelheid has sent me to receive you into the city and to escort you to her. She awaits you in the Ivory Pavilion.”

“I had thought she would greet me herself, at the gates of our city,” said Henry in a dangerously low voice. “I did not march the breadth of Aosta on her behalf only to be brought before her like a mere prince come to pay my respects.”

Hugh wore no hat. Sweat gleamed on his brow, but he looked otherwise cool and collected as he lowered his voice to speak in a voice meant to carry no farther than the king and his closest companions. “The queen is well, my lord king, after the rigors of birth, but her physicians still confine her indoors in this heat. She had a pair of fainting spells some ten days after the birth, and they fear the sun might cause another.”

Henry had the grace to change color, and his mouth, tightened into a line of annoyance, shifted subtly to mark concern. “Escort me to her at once.”

They rode into the city to the accompaniment of cheers and garlands, thrown by the populace. Clearly, Adelheid had won their love in the month Henry had been gone. They blessed the Wendish king, foreigner though he was, for freeing them from Ironhead’s tyranny.

But Villam leaned toward Rosvita, speaking in a low voice. “Do you see how they call for ‘Father Hugh’? Look at their faces. The flowers are for the presbyter, not for the king.”

Yet Hugh walked humbly enough beside the king, leading Henry’s horse as though Hugh were the king’s servant. He was, amazingly, barefoot, in the guise of a humble frater—except, of course, for the richness of his clothing.

“Do you think so?” whispered Rosvita. How could she tell, as garlands fell onto the avenue, a mass of lilies and roses, poppies and narcissus, to make a sweet carpet for the triumphant king? Villam cocked an eye, looking skeptical. When had he grown so suspicious?

The northern road struck straight through the city to the heart, where the twin palaces lay. Along the lower southern slope of Amurrine Hill, huge walls almost obscured the hill itself, but to the northwest a rocky escarpment fell away below the high parapets to the river beneath. The road ramped up, buttressed by a complicated series of arches, and they dismounted in the forecourt and gave their horses over to grooms.

In the month they had been gone, all trace of Ironhead, his whores, and his furnishings had been swept out of the palace. Arethousan carpets ornamented the corridors. Brass hooks set into the walls supported oil lamps fashioned into the shapes of animals: roosters and eagles, griffins and dragons, a pair of phoenix, and a flock of golden swallows. Every shutter had been taken down, every room and chamber thrown open to the light. A crowd of servants beat dust out of tapestries. A trio of girls polished the brass fittings on the doors.

The Ivory Pavilion was not the grandest hall in the palace, but the intimacy and richness of its furnishings gave it a grandeur that many a vast hall could not rival. Narrow window slits allowed a breeze to work through the chamber, but otherwise the thick stone walls as well as the shade of cypress trees in the gardens set to either side of the old building allowed the inhabitants some respite from the heat. They entered through a porch screened off by doors so cunningly carved in a pattern of intertwined roundels that those within could look out upon any courtiers who waited beyond, hoping for admittance.