The Burning Stone
Henry’s mouth twisted. He lifted a clenched hand, held it at his heart, and stared unseeing at Hugh’s golden head. But he made no reply, only turned to look at Biscop Constance, as if expecting her to pass judgment.
Constance shook her head in the way of a woman who doesn’t like what she is hearing. “But why would Princess Theophanu and in particular Sister Rosvita accuse you, Father Hugh, rather than the Eagle, Liathano? Sister Rosvita is both wise and cunning. Why does she speak against you? There is also the matter of this Sister Anne from the convent of St. Valeria who vanished without a trace.”
Something sparked in Hugh’s expression, a lightning flash of anger as swiftly gone. “Sister Anne of St. Valeria Convent vanished when Liath returned. Who can say if she found the good sister a threat and disposed of her? I cannot, but I fear the worst.”
“Sister Anne had the panther brooch in her possession, and it vanished with her,” retorted Constance. “Surely it would be in your interest, Father Hugh, to make sure such a ligatura disappeared, so its existence would not condemn you.”
Helpless! The humble word stuck in Ivar’s throat like a stone. He knew with sudden sick certainty why Maigrave Judith looked so cool and calm. He knew as if he had seen it through the veil of time, through the forbidden arts of the sortelegi who seek knowledge of future events, how the rest of the council would unfold. Sister Rosvita always traveled with the king. Her voice carried weight. Why had she been sent south to Aosta with Theophanu?
It was all so clear now. Hugh would win again.
“He’s lying!” Ivar thrust his way forward until he stumbled out where everyone could see him. “I was there in Heart’s Rest! He abused her beyond what is rightful. He trapped her, stole her books so she couldn’t make the debt price and only because he wanted her for himself. He wanted her, not the other way around. Everyone in Heart’s Rest knew he coveted her since the day he first saw her.”
Ivar saw the king’s face in that moment when Hugh spoke the fateful words. An instant only, but a cold fear swept through him and out of an old memory borne forward on that wind he recalled a line from the Gold of the Hevelli.
“Her doom was laid down like the paving stones of a road before her, where her feet were meant to walk.”
“Why else would Sanglant have ridden away from everything I offered him?” murmured Henry.
“He loved her, too, poor boy,” said Hugh, looking up at Ivar with such sincere sympathy on his face that Ivar faltered. “He, also, was one she snared.”
Wasn’t it true that Liath had only seemed to love him? That she hadn’t honored the pact they made at Quedlinhame? She had said that the man she loved was dead and that she would never love another, and yet had turned around and ridden off with the prince.
But even if he hated Liath for abandoning him, he hated Hugh more. He hated Liath because he still loved her. Hugh had never offered him anything but scorn and insult. “I called her a sister,” he said hoarsely now. “And I would have married her if I could have, but not because she cast a spell over me.”