Night Blooming (12 page)

One of the men-at-arms cursed and was immediately hushed by a monk. Comes Gutiger was already hectoring the stable-slaves to redouble their efforts. “It will be mid-morning before we leave at this rate!”

“Speak lightly,” Alcuin admonished. “It is not your place to hound these slaves.”

Comes Gutiger kicked at the ankle of one of the slaves. “Hurry!”

“Comes!” Alcuin said sharply. “If the slave must be beaten, it is for the Prior to do it, not you.” He went to supervise the yoking of the oxen, checking the carpenta at the same time, urging everyone to work with dispatch. “Do not be laggard. We are to reach the court of Karlus today. We do not want to arrive at an unseemly hour.”

The slaves redoubled their efforts and worked in determined silence while the rest of the company came from the refectory and made the habitual inspection of their tack before instructing the slaves which horses to saddle and which to tie to the carpenta. The oxen shuffled and were given handfuls of grass for cuds, then led out into the narrow courtyard in front of the stable; shortly thereafter, the horses were ready and the missi dominici ordered the riders to mount and the drovers to take their places in the carpenta.

The party left the monastery as the monks were beginning Terce, their prayers preparing them for their day’s labors. The chanting followed Alcuin’s company a short way down the road, and then the fog muffled even that reassuring sound as they proceeded on toward Aachen.

It was approaching mid-day when there was the first intrusion on their journey: somewhere deep in the trees came the sound of galloping horses, the breaking of branches, and the baying of hounds.

“The hunt is out,” said Alcuin, and said to Comes Gutiger, who rode on his right side, “A pity that we cannot join them.”

“It is, it is,” said the Comes, his rough features brightening at the sound of the chase.

“What do they hunt, do you think? Stag? Boar? Bear?” Alcuin grinned. “If they find game, we will have a feast tomorrow!”

“And sport today,” said Comes Gutiger, clearly disappointed that he could not join the hunters.

Riding behind Alcuin and the Comes, Rakoczy looked about uneasily; he could hear something not a horse running nearby, and that troubled him. He reined in and let Rorthger catch up with him. “Is my spear ready to hand?”

“Which one?” Rorthger asked.

“Make it the heavy one. Can you take it from our supplies? It may be unreachable, but I hope it is not.” He paused, paying keen attention to the noises coming from beyond the trees. The hounds were nearer; but the mist was still thick, and he could not make out precisely where they were, for the woods echoed and distorted sound.

“I’ll try,” said Rorthger. “I can get your Byzantine long-sword.”

“Better than nothing,” said Rakoczy. “If you will fetch it?”

“At once,” Rorthger declared, and rode to the third carpentum, signaling the drover to let him climb aboard. After a nod from the drover, Rorthger swung out of the saddle and onto the narrow rear platform of the carpentum, secured his dun’s reins to the square-bodied wagon, and climbed through the rear door, to emerge a few moments later with a Byzantine long-sword in his hand. He loosened his horse’s reins, mounted up again, and rode up to where Rakoczy was, at the edge of the roadway. “Your sword, my master,” he said, and handed it to him by the quillons.

“Thank you, old friend,” said Rakoczy, and gave the sword an experimental swing, reminding his hand of its heft.

“It’s just the hunt,” said Rorthger, puzzled by Rakoczy’s edginess.

“It is the hunted that concerns me,” Rakoczy countered. “I am certain that whatever they’re chasing could break onto the road at any time.”

“And you want to be prepared,” said Rorthger. “Do you think it is boar?”

“Possibly,” said Rakoczy, and noticed the men-at-arms exchanging suspicious glances. “They’re troubled, too.”

“About the game or about your sword?” Rorthger asked, his tone sharp.

“Both, I would guess,” said Rakoczy, holding his grey at the edge of the track.

“Magnatus,” called out Alcuin, “what are you doing?”

“I am keeping watch, in case the game they are chasing should come this way,” Rakoczy answered. “It would cause much disorder to have a stag run into our midst, or a boar.”

“The missi dominici can do this,” Alcuin reminded him.

“So can the men-at-arms, but they need not; I have some experience in dealing with hunts,” he said, and thought that often as not he had been the prey, not the hunter. He continued to listen, aware that the hunt was coming closer.

“Very well,” said Alcuin, a querulous note in his voice. “In such fog we need all the eyes we have.”

“Amen,” said Rakoczy.

Rorthger swung his dun back toward the rear of the party, where the other servants rode. He brought his horse into line with the others and said, “My master has need of my assistance.”

“So it seems,” said one of the other servants, and added, “Foreign ways.”

“That they are,” Rorthger agreed, unwilling to be offended by the remark.

The noise in the forest increased, and the horses became fretful, tossing their heads and sidling, needing to be urged forward with spurs and the pressure of legs.

Rakoczy, who was nearer to the screen of brush and trees than the rest, held his grey firmly, ready to pull the gelding’s nose down to his toe if the horse should try to bolt. The grey minced along, eyes rolling and sweat frothing around the breast-collar.

Suddenly the sounds became loud, and a moment later, a bear came running out of the misty trees, its tongue lolling, panting heavily. At the sight of the travelers, it stood upright and advanced on the group, its forepaws swiping the air in front of it; the party on the road was thrown into disorder: horses reared, squealing in fright, and even the stolid oxen broke into a lumbering run, pulling the carpenta bounding behind them.

Holding his grey as steady as he could, Rakoczy set the gelding running at the bear, his Byzantine sword swinging up from beneath as he passed dangerously close to the infuriated creature. The long, blue blade caught the bear just below the ribs and sank deeply in. Rakoczy wheeled his gelding and rode a short distance away while the bear staggered, bellowed, and fell forward, forcing the sword through its body and out its back.

Alcuin managed to halt his mare and bring her back toward the dying bear. “Very impressive,” he said to Rakoczy, wheezing a little from his unexpected tussle with his mount.

Whatever response Rakoczy might have made was silenced as the brush at the side of the road was trampled down; a huge bay stallion rushed onto the road, his rider whooping and laughing, brandishing a long hunting spear and swearing merrily. Almost immediately there were a dozen more huntsmen around him, paying little heed to Alcuin’s party.

The man on the bay stallion was proportionally as large as his horse: tall, broad-shouldered, big-bellied, with white hair and beard, he swung his horse around and went to look at the fallen bear. “With a sword!” he exclaimed in a high voice. “Who has done this?”

Alcuin maneuvered his mare through the crush and reverenced the big man from his saddle. “It was the foreigner, Rakoczy, there on the grey, Optime Karlus,” he said.

“Rakoczy!” the King summoned. “You did this?” He pointed to the bear.

Rakoczy dismounted and reverenced the King. “I did,” he said.

“Fine sport! A true eye!” Karl-lo-Magne swung out of his saddle and strode over to the bear: Rakoczy stared, for although he had been told the man was tall, he had not expected someone who was head and shoulders above him. “It may be you are wasted on the clerics,” he said, and laughed at his own remark; the huntsmen with him joined in his laughter.

Alcuin spoke up at once. “Wherever you need this foreigner to be, that too, shall be my desire. I will relinquish my claim upon his talents at a word from you.”

“Generous, Flaccus,” said Karl-lo-Magne, using one of his court nicknames for the Bishop. He looked at his companions. “Have the carcase fetched and dressed. We dine on bear tomorrow. And see that the foreigner gets his sword back.” With that he got into the saddle again. “I will receive you as soon as you reach Aachen,” he said to Alcuin. “Make sure the foreigner is with you.” He did not wait for an answer or a reverence; he set his bay stallion bounding down the road, his companions trailing after him.

Alcuin rode up to Rakoczy. “You have impressed Great Karl—not an easy thing to do.”

“It wasn’t my intention,” said Rakoczy, looking down at the dead bear.

“Don’t tell him that,” Alcuin recommended as he began to restore order to his missi dominici and the rest of his escort.

Rakoczy nodded his acknowledgment as he once again took his place in the group, all the while listening to the fading hoof-beats of Karl-lo-Magne and his huntsmen.

T
EXT OF A LETTER FROM
F
RATRE
B
ERAHTRAM TO THE
C
OMES
G
OSBERT.

To the most illustrious Comes Gosbert, currently attending on King Karl-lo-Magne at Aachen, the most respectful greetings of Fratre Berahtram of Sant’ Zaccharius monastery near Sachenwasser.

Great Illustre, I make bold to send this to you, in the hope that I may recommend myself to your service. I have been a monk since the age of seven, and my Abbott will tell you that I have carried out my duties and submitted myself to the Rule in an exemplary fashion. I have learned to read Scripture in Latin and Greek, and I am able to frame letters in Latin, Greek, Frankish, and the vulgate of Longobardia. Also, I have been taught to draw and interpret maps, which may add to my usefulness.

I will not dissemble: though I am a poor monk, with no family to prosecute my interests, I still seek to achieve a good place for myself in the Church, and to that end I hope one day to become a Bishop. Working for you would increase my notice, and would make it more likely that the King would secure such an appointment for me. Many worthy monks have hoped that their reputations would be enough to advance them, but they are still at their labors, with no likelihood of change.

If I could place myself in your service, my Abbott, Rokinard, your cousin, believes I might find the avenue to the goal I seek. Therefore I have dispatched this to you, along with samples of my writing and translating so that you and your clerks might decide if I have enough to offer you.

I pray God sends you to know the right,

Fratre Berahtram

At Sant’ Zaccharius, the 10
th
day

of November in the 796
th
Year of Salvation

by the Pope’s calendar

Chapter Five

I
T WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT
when the banquet finally came to an end. Karl-lo-Magne rose from his elevated chair and lifted his cup one more time, his threadbare velvet mantellum glistening where the light from the braziers struck the gold thread shot through it. “God send you safe sleep and salvation,” he intoned, and drank a single mouthful; unlike most of his court, the King was rarely drunk, and never at such large and volatile gatherings as this one, which was to mark the beginning of the Holy Days of Nativity, and which was a solemn occasion at Court: Bishops and Bellatori, scholars and Illustri, Comesi and Magnati gathered together for the feast at the dark of the year at the behest of Karl-lo-Magne, who wanted his vassals to renew their oaths of fealty on the Holy Nativity that also began the Pope’s New Year. “Thank you for your attendance. The slaves will light you to your beds.” Obediently the courtiers got to their feet—some more steadily than others—and made their way toward the several doors that gave onto the dining hall, where slaves with rush-lights stood; other slaves began the tedious chore of cleaning up the debris left behind, one of them being bold enough to mutter a profanity under his breath.

Outside a cold wind slapped at the buildings, dispersing the smoke from the myriad chimney-pots toward the stars in the south. Guardsmen patrolled the walls and manned the gates, wrapped in mantella lined in fur, and shivered still. The shouts of the guests calling for rush-lights and slaves echoed along the stone corridors; from the chapel came the droning prayers of Nocturnes.

“Rakoczy,” said the King as he caught up with the foreigner on the gallery above the main courtyard, “I didn’t see you eating tonight.”

The foreigner set his stride to suit Karl-lo-Magne’s, although he did this as inconspicuously as possible, not an easy thing with such a disparity of height. “As I told you, Optime, I eat in private. Among my people anything else is … insulting.” He pulled his black wool, ermine-lined mantellum more tightly around him. “I mean you no disrespect.”

“No doubt the custom prevents poisoning,” said Karl-lo-Magne, nodding to himself. “You also had none of the wine.”

Rakoczy reverenced the King. “Your pardon, Optime: I do not drink wine.”

“So prudent,” Karl-lo-Magne marveled. “Would that more of my Court shared your aversion.” He strolled along, seemingly content to remain in Rakoczy’s company a while. As they reached the junction of two corridors, he halted and turned to the foreigner. “You have been here six weeks—time enough to have formed an opinion. What do you think of Aachen?”

“It is a most impressive place,” said Rakoczy, knowing this was the answer the King sought.

“But not the most impressive you have seen,” Karl-lo-Magne remarked a bit too casually.

Rakoczy had seen pyramids and temples, palaces and China’s Great Wall, Rome at its most glorious and the pantheon of Athens when Socrates taught there, the stupas of Burma and the ruins of Carthage. He considered his answer carefully. “In this part of the world, only the mountains are grander.”

Karl-lo-Magne tapped his nose. “A very canny response. You are a fellow to reckon with.” Mulling this over, he went a short distance in silence; as he reached the end of the gallery, he stopped. “Now that you have seen my Court here, are you content to remain at Tours, or would you be willing to take up your work for me, to assist me in all I may need of such a learned man as you are?”