“So many show such an interest in a common Eagle,” the king had said once, over a year ago, when she had been brought before him to face his judgment. But a child born of Taillefer’s line would surely retain some of Taillefer’s legendary glory, the corona of power that cloaked him at all times.
Henry stared at his son. “Do you mean to suggest that the Eagle you ran off with is descended from Taillefer?”
Sanglant’s answer was pitched not to carry to his father but rather to the entire assembly of nobles and serving-folk. “Who here will witness that I made a legitimate and binding union of marriage with the woman called Liathano?”
Soldiers stepped forward from their stations beside the door. “I will witness, Your Highness!” one called, and a second, and a third and fourth, echoed him. As their shouts died away, Captain Fulk came forward. His steadiness was well known, and he had gained renown for his service to Theophanu on the disastrous expedition to Aosta in the course of which they had, despite everything, rescued Adelheid from the clutches of Lord John Ironhead.
“I witness, Your Highness,” he cried, “that you freely stated your intention before God and freeborn witnesses to bind yourself in marriage to the woman Liathano.”
“Then there is no impediment,” said Sanglant triumphantly. “Liathano is the great granddaughter of Taillefer and Radegundis, born out of legitimate unions and therefore herself legitimate, not a bastard. That is why she now wears the gold torque that I once wore at my throat. In this way, I honored her royal lineage and her right to claim descent from Taillefer.” He looked neither at his mother or father as he said this, only at the crowd. Some of the assembly had stood, trying to see better, and that had caused others at the back to stand on their benches or even on the tables. The air in the hall and the very attitude of the crowd snapped with the reverberant energy that precedes a thunderstorm.
Queen Adelheid’s smile had gained a fixed look, and for an instant she looked really angry.
“This is unbelievable,” said Henry. “Taillefer died without a legitimately born son to succeed him, as was the custom in those days in Salia. He has no descendants.”
“Queen Radegundis was pregnant when Taillefer died.” Sanglant gestured toward the hapless poet who had entertained the feasting multitude with Taillefer’s exploits and noble qualities. “Is that not so, poet?” The poor man could only nod as Sanglant threw back into the hall lines that Rosvita had once read from her precious Vita of St. Radegundis, which she had received from the hands of Brother Fidelis. “’Still heavy with child, Radegundis clothed herself and her companion Clothilde in the garb of poor women. She chose exile over the torments of power.’ And took refuge in the convent at Poiterri. What became of the child Radegundis carried, Your Majesty?”
“No one knows,” said Hathui suddenly, speaking for the king. “No one knows what became of the child.”
“I know.” Rosvita stepped forward. Was it disloyal to speak? Yet she could not lie or conceal when so much was at stake. She owed the truth for the sake of Brother Fidelis’ memory, if nothing else. “I know what became of the child born to Radegundis and Taillefer, for I spoke to him in the hour of his death in the hills above Hersford Monastery. He was called Brother Fidelis, and except for a single year when he lapsed from his vows for the sake of the love of a young woman, he spent his life as a monk in the service of God. Fidelis wrote these words in his Life of St. Rade-gundis: ‘The world divides those whom no space parted once.’”
She paused to make sure that every person there had time to contemplate the hidden meaning in his words. “Truly, can it not be said that before a baby is born, it and its mother are of one body, of a single piece? What God divides in childbirth can be split asunder by the world’s intrigues as well.”
When their murmuring died away, she went on. “I spoke as well to the woman whom he married and who bore a child conceived with his seed. She is an old woman now, and she lives in hiding out of fear of those who seek her because of the secret she carries with her. I believe that her story is true, that she was briefly married to Fidelis—the son of Taillefer and Radegundis—and that her union with Fidelis produced a daughter. It is possible that the daughter lived, and survived, and in her turn bore a child.”
“She lived and she survived,” said Sanglant in a grim voice. “A daughter was born to her, gotten in legitimate marriage with a disgraced frater who had studied the lore of the mathematici. He named the child Liathano. The rest you know.”