Night Blooming (11 page)

While they watched the Santa Albegunda travelers move to the side of the road, Alcuin whispered to Rakoczy. “In all your travels, have you ever seen anyone like that?”

“Yes, I have,” said Rakoczy. “Very rarely,” he added.

“I should hope so,” exclaimed the monk. “What a most terrible affliction! God visits strange suffering upon His children.”

“Is she a leper? So white?” the Comes asked, his voice raised half an octave in fear.

“No,” said Rakoczy before Alcuin could answer. “There is no rotting of her flesh, and no thickening of her features. The whiteness was on her when she was born, or I know nothing of the matter.”

“It may be a sign of great blessing, to be white as a newborn lamb. How remarkable.” Alcuin made a gesture of protection, just in case.

“No doubt,” said Rakoczy, a sardonic note creeping into his voice. “And that, as you say, good Alcuin, does not, perforce, mean un-Godly. Sometimes such singularity is a mark of favor.”

Alcuin nodded. “Yes. It could be so.”

Comes Gutiger shook his head emphatically. “Nothing so pale—she is whiter than a bled corpse!—can be—”

“The Lamb is white as fresh-fallen snow,” said Alcuin thoughtfully, pursuing his own ruminations. He made a gesture, and his party moved forward again. “The garments of the Angels are white.”

“But red eyes!” Comes Gutiger protested.

“Yes. That is troubling,” said Alcuin. “Well, let us pray for her preservation from all harm, and her deliverance from sin.” They were almost abreast of the carruca, and the monk averted his eyes. “How long will she remain like that?”

Rakoczy reminded himself that for Alcuin, the miraculous was an expectation of faith. “All her life, Sublime. I have never known of anyone born as she was to become as other humankind are.”

“How can that be? May not God intercede and transform her?” Alcuin asked. They were past the carruca now, and the leader of the men-at-arms held out his empty right hand in salutation; Alcuin sketched a blessing in his direction. “Surely God or one of His powerful Saints may bring about a change in her, so that she would be made like you and me.”

This was precarious ground, and required a careful answer. “Say rather how could any change come, since God has been pleased to make her in this wise,” Rakoczy corrected him gently. “I should worry for the health of anyone whose skin suddenly changed color, particularly for one born so pale. It could mean that she would have more to suffer than she has now.”

“Well, you have cared for the sick in many lands; I will suppose you have learned much.” The dubiety in his voice warned Rakoczy to change the subject shortly. “You have learned a great deal, haven’t you?” It was clearly a challenge.

“Not nearly enough,” said Rakoczy with genuine feeling, unwilling to dispute the matter. “I cannot tell when a man ails and nothing will avail him, why it has been so.”

The Comes snorted and tried not to laugh. “You aim high, foreigner.”

“Certainly. What else is worth my time, or the time of any man?” Rakoczy put a slight emphasis on the last word, and almost at once regretted it, for he was worried that this might be noticed and attributed to something more than his awkwardness with the language.

Alcuin chuckled, a sound like falling pebbles. “I should not like to debate you, Magnatus,” he declared, and ended on a cough. “And not while riding on such a dreary day as this one, for what inspiration is there in such lowering skies?”

“I should not enter into such a dispute; it would be churlish of me to compel such a contest upon you after the courtesy you have shown me,” said Rakoczy, and stared along the road so that he need not continue his attempts to avert more discord. He wished he could bring Rorthger up from his place behind the carpenta, but he knew it would not be tolerated; he settled back in his earth-lined saddle and listened to Alcuin discourse on the nature of the season while Comes Gutiger did his best to assume the look of someone interested in the subject, for it was prudent to humor Alcuin, who enjoyed Great Karl’s trust and favor.

It was growing dark and the rain had turned to a persistent, clammy mist when they arrived at Santi Raffaell and Gabraell; the warder who answered their summons on the bell outside the gate—a tertiary Fratre with a missing eye and scars on his face and hands—let them in with something approaching a flourish; the sound of chanting accompanied his welcome. “They are at Vespers, but as soon as they are finished, the Abbott will come to greet you, and the Prior. Come in, and dismount. I will summon slaves to tend your animals.” He clapped his hands excitedly. “Hurry! The Sublime Alcuin of York is here!”

Alcuin climbed out of his saddle with the slow care of a man whose knees and back were stiff. He tried to stretch and gave up the attempt, blessing himself instead. “God reward you,” he said automatically to the tertiary Fratre.

“And bring you peace,” the tertiary responded. He reached to take control of Alcuin’s mare’s reins. “You must be tired. Be welcome to this monastery, in the Name of God. There will be hot honied wine in the refectory; one of the slaves will show you the way.” He motioned to the nearest of them. “Bolbo, take these worthy travelers to the refectory and build up the fire.”

Bolbo nodded and tugged at his forelock; he would not look at any of the exalted company directly, but motioned with his arm as a sign that they should follow him.

“I’ll see your horses are stalled and cared for, and your oxen,” said the tertiary Fratre. “You have nothing to fear now you have arrived. Raffaell and Gabraell are powerful, and they protect those who come to them.”

“Of course,” said Alcuin, rubbing his hands together briskly and bringing them up to his lips to blow on them. “We will follow your slave.”

“Yes. Yes. Certainly. I will tell Abbott Ansigus that you are come shortly.” The tertiary Fratre did his utmost to smile encouragement and reverenced the group repeatedly.

“I know that man,” Comes Gutiger muttered as he fell in slightly behind Alcuin.

“What man?” Alcuin asked.

“The warder, the one with the scars.” He scowled and sneezed.

“How do you know him?” Alcuin inquired, not particularly interested.

“I think he was a soldier once,” said the Comes, his face set in hard lines.

“I should think so, by the look of him.” Alcuin ducked under the eaves of the building to which the slave had led them. “Is this the refectory?”

The slave reverenced them and went through the stout door into a vestibule with a small reception room beyond, and the dining room to one side. He pointed to the reception room, where a smoldering fire provided a modicum of heat and a group of padded benches provided easier seating than the saddles had done. There were torches and braziers to augment the fire’s light.

“Not much for talking, is he?” said the Comes.

“The slaves here are not supposed to address their betters,” said Alcuin as he removed his pluvial and hung it on a peg on the wall. “There. You see? He is putting logs on the fire. We should be cozy in a little while.”

Rakoczy, who had had little to say during the last part of their day’s journey, now tugged off his thick woolen mantellum and said, “It’s going to be a miserable night.”

His remark proved to be the truth; the monks emerged from their chapel Vespers to offer a lively banquet of roast boar and pickled beef stuffed with onions, after which all the travelers retired to a number of small, unheated dormitories, each containing four cots, for a night’s sleep made easy by fatigue; not even the predawn Matins and Lauds could disturb them. Slaves awakened them at Prime to prayers and the milky morning light diffusing through thick, dank fog that sapped warmth from their bones and cut through their garments with the keenness of Damascus steel and made ghosts of breath.

Rorthger met Rakoczy in the stable while most of the party lingered over a spartan breakfast of bread, cheese, and beer. “How are the horses?” He spoke in Persian.

“Cold,” Rakoczy answered in the same tongue. “We’ll have to resist the impulse to let them run to warm them, for they will take true chills if we do. A pity we don’t have some of those Avar trappings.” He laid his arm on the rump of his grey.

“The large triple sheepskins they put on their horses in snow?” Rorthger asked, and answered his own question. “Yes. That would be useful. For now, we could take our mantella and put them over their backs and flanks.”

“And may do so,” Rakoczy agreed. “Do you have my woolen capa readily to hand? If you do, I’ll put my mantellum from his shoulder to his tail, and wrap myself in the capa.” He reached for one of the stiff brushes and began to groom his gelding, starting on the neck and working down and back. “His winter coat is thick, that’s something.”

“But in this cold—” Rorthger said, and stopped. “It isn’t as severe as the Year of Yellow Snow, I’ll grant you that. But it is bad enough.”

“I agree,” said Rakoczy mildly. “It has been more than three centuries, yet every cold winter makes me remember it in appalling detail.”

“Do you think it will come again, such a winter as that was, lasting more than the year around?” Rorthger asked, his voice carefully neutral.

“Eventually, but not, I would guess, for many years. I have lived a very long time, and I have seen only that one instance of such all-encompassing cold; I do not suppose another such will come in the next several centuries,” said Rakoczy. He looked away toward the open door, but seeing his twenty-eight centuries of life, not the drift of fog that blurred everything with its gelid gauzery.

Rorthger opened one of the cases that lay near the stall. “Yes: you are right, of course. Here is your capa. The one with the badger-fur lining in the hood. The wool is double-thickness.”

“Fine,” said Rakoczy, and took off his mantel, exchanging it for the capa and draping the long mantellum along the grey’s back. “The saddle-pad, if you will.”

Rorthger handed it to him, and Rakoczy put it in place, the fleece side down. Then he lifted the saddle from where it rested on the support just outside the stall and settled it on the gelding’s back and reached for the girth under the horse’s belly, drawing it up to the single, large buckle at the edge of the tooled-leather skirt of the saddle. He flipped the stirrup-leathers and they dropped down into position, their large, triangular metal stirrups swinging a little. Then he took the breast-collar and buckled that across the grey’s chest “I’ll be ready to ride as soon as the rest are. Sooner.”

From where he had just finished grooming his dun, Rorthger laughed a little. “What will you tell them if they ask you about how you have used your mantellum?”

“I will say it is a custom of my people,” Rakoczy answered. “You had best use your mantellum the same way, or they may become suspicious.”

They had just bridled their horses when Comes Gutiger came into the stable, wiping crumbs from his mustache. “There you are! You didn’t join us at table.”

Rakoczy did his best to offer an ingratiating smile. “Those of my blood dine in privacy.”

“So you’ve said, so you’ve said,” the Comes agreed, looking around. “Where are the stable-hands?”

“I should imagine that they’re at morning prayers with the rest of the inmates,” said Rakoczy. “Even slaves must pray.”

Comes Gutiger made an impatient slap at his thighs. “So you won’t entrust your horses even to monks, or the slaves of monks! It’s one thing to distrust Illustri and innkeepers, but monks!”

“The habits of a long-time traveler,” Rakoczy said apologetically as he buckled the throat-latch of the bridle in place.

“Great Karl won’t like it,” the Comes predicted with something akin to smugness.

“You may be right,” Rakoczy conceded as he backed his grey out of the stall. “But this way, if anything goes awry, I can blame no one but myself.”

“They are your horses,” Comes Gutiger conceded, and went to summon slaves to groom and saddle his mount, moving away as the stable-slaves answered his summons.

“Have you broken your fast?” Alcuin asked as he came into the stable. He cocked his head at Rakoczy, adding, “Of course not.” He tapped his first finger to his chin. “You seem never to eat, and yet you maintain good flesh on your bones.”

“I am nourished, as I told you,” said Rakoczy, securing his grey’s reins to the rail near the double doors.

“Yes,” Alcuin mused. “That is apparent. And yet, I am astonished when you do not join us at table. No matter how your people do such things, all men must eat.”

“So they must. My kin have our customs, as you have yours, and I honor them no matter where I am, or in what company.” Rakoczy stepped aside as Rorthger led out his dun. “I will groom our remounts, and then we will be ready to leave.”

“Excellent,” Alcuin approved. “You set a fine example for all our party.” This last seemed to be an oblique apology for his remarks about Rakoczy’s unfamiliar dining habits.

“I have traveled a great deal,” said Rakoczy, patting his grey.

“Using your mantellum to keep off the chill is a fine notion. Sant’ Martin would approve, lending your garment to a lesser creature. Will you also cover your remount?” Alcuin was paying close attention to everything Rakoczy did.

“Much as I want to, it would not be practical. But I will hitch him to the second carpentum, and let the heat from the oxen help to keep our horses warm.” Rakoczy went to the stall where his second grey was tied and began to brush the bits of mud and other debris from his heavy winter coat. “Do we remount at mid-day?”

“I suppose we will,” said Alcuin, stretching, his joints snapping and squeaking. “That ointment you gave me has eased the worst of my discomfort.”

“Then I am well-satisfied,” said Rakoczy, continuing his task.

“I thank you for providing it, and I thank God for giving you the knowledge of such simples.” He folded his hands and did his best to smile. “The journey will soon be over.”

“I pray so,” said Rakoczy, bending to brush off the mud around the grey’s pasterns.

Alcuin studied the foreigner for a long moment. “Well, I must tell the rest to hasten.” With that, he left the stable, only to return shortly with the rest of the traveling party. “Look,” he said, pointing to Rakoczy, “the foreigner once again gives the blush to us all.”