Night Blooming (13 page)

“Optime, a most gracious offer,” Rakoczy said carefully, “but it was Bishop Alcuin who summoned me, and I believe my first obligation must be to him.”

“Alcuin is my most trusted advisor. As such, he would be the first to recommend that I avail myself of the most useful men in Franksland. He will not refuse my request if I ask him to send you to me. He knows that I make no frivolous demands.” Karl-lo-Magne said it confidently, almost smugly.

Rakoczy could not keep from a wry smile. “You are fortunate indeed to be secure in the devotion of your subjects.”

“It is because I have done much to aid them all, and they are grateful,” said Karl-lo-Magne, so complacently that Rakoczy knew the King had not noticed the irony in his remark. “I have claimed half the world, and all those loyal to me have been enriched by it. It is not the last of what I shall do, and my faithful know that as well.”

“More spoils?” Rakoczy suggested, his amusement masking a somber intent.

“That is the least of it. I can offer more holdings, and greater advancements.” His stern tone warned Rakoczy that the King would not countenance more such observations from him.

“You have done much,” Rakoczy echoed carefully.

“As much as the Great Khan?” Karl-lo-Magne challenged.

“The present Emperor of China holds sway over vast lands, but he himself did not subdue them: that was accomplished many generations ago, by ancestors he holds in the same high regard you hold the Saints and Martyrs.” Rakoczy put the tips of his fingers together. “At least, that is my understanding. Others may give different accounts.”

“Ah!” Karl-lo-Magne exclaimed. “Then you do allow for differences in reports.”

“That I do; what sensible man does not?” said Rakoczy, whose long centuries of experience had taught him that there was little worthwhile in disputing varying accounts of events. “So must you, to continue to expand your borders as you do, for I would suppose you have often been told that advance and conquest were impossible, and yet you have done both. Anyone who seeks to go beyond old limits must question accounts.”

“Another Canny answer,” Karl-lo-Magne approved. “You are a most scrupulous man, Magnatus.”

“Surely you comprehend the need for that,” said Rakoczy, his manner deferential.

“I have long known the worth of such meticulousness,” said the King. “And to value it more with every passing year.”

Rakoczy ducked his head as a sign of respect. “Every passing year, you add to your accomplishments.” It was a courtesy to say so, and both of them knew it.

“Yet I am growing older and I must set my seal firmly if all I have done is to last beyond me,” Karl-lo-Magne grumbled. “There are men at Court who come to enrich themselves and who hope to reap a fine harvest when I die. They think to put an end to the might of my family, to usurp the power I will rightly bestow on my sons. This isn’t going to happen.”

“No, Optime,” said Rakoczy.

“How can you know my concerns? You have no children and your family is lost. Nor are you ancient yet—your hair is still dark and you walk with strong legs and a straight back—but you have been about the world. You have seen more than most of those around me, and you have straggled to preserve yourself in faraway climes, as you yourself admit.”

Rakoczy wondered what Karl-lo-Magne intended, and supposed the King was once again thinking aloud. “It is true that I have traveled far.”

Karl-lo-Magne made up his mind, saying with certainty, “I will rely upon you to tell me what your experience has taught.” He regarded the foreigner with narrowed eyes.

“Then perhaps I should tell you I am older than I appear,” said Rakoczy, and added, “As to advising you, you may not like what I say.”

“But I will listen. You may be certain of that. And I will not upbraid you so long as you are honest. So many of my courtiers protest their honesty, but they lie with full deliberation.” Karl-lo-Magne scowled down at his feet, wrapped now in heavy sheepskin tibialia that were held in place by the straps on his brodequins. “I would ask you to err on the side of truth.”

“Truth? If I do, will you believe me?” Rakoczy inquired. “I am not a Frank, and that could create uncertainty in your mind.”

Karl-lo-Magne laughed hugely. “So!” He clapped his big, hard hand on Rakoczy’s shoulder. “I like you, foreigner. I know you for a courageous fellow—killing that bear with your sword!—and not given to idle boasting. Your conduct is beyond reproach—I could wish that more of my own courtiers behaved as well as you do. You have asked me for no advancement, although I have offered you distinction. If you are greedy or false, you have concealed it well.”

“I have gold enough to meet my needs, and I am a stranger here; it would be folly to betray your hospitality,” said Rakoczy, watching the King out of the tail of his eye.

“Gold!” Karl-lo-Magne scoffed. “Shiny trinkets and festive clothing and crucifixes are made from it, and the Greeks love it as a starving man loves fat geese. Here, our wealth is silver. Still, gold is useful in its way.” He cocked his head. “Enough gold. A curious remark. What is enough gold? Can you tell me?” He stopped beside a torch-bracket in the wall, where a pitch-soaked branch was burning. “How have you determined enough?”

“Enough is sufficient for me to live well at cost to no other man for at least five years,” Rakoczy said, glad it was essentially the truth. “I have brought that much with me.”

“Do you not think it’s risky to admit so much to me? I might order all of it confiscated.” The light in his bright-blue eyes suggested that he was considering just such an action.

Rakoczy gave a calculatedly brash answer. “You would do it if I carried silver. Gold, as you say, is for Greeks, and other foreigners. The Church is fond of gold.”

“And I must deal with them all. Byzantium may think me a barbarian chieftain, but they have a high regard for any gold I may have, and they do not scorn my silver. They offer their gold to me at un-Christian rates, thinking to embarrass me. It is they who are shamed. No man who worships the Risen Christ should demand so much from those who share his faith.” He had been pulling at his beard immediately beneath his lower lip, recalling past insults from the Byzantines. With a shake of his head he recalled himself. “Still, you are—as you say—a foreigner, and what you have can be useful to me.” His glance toward Rakoczy was speculative.

Taking advantage of the moment, Rakoczy said, “I will gladly pay you in gold for two or three fiscs, in the place you choose. You will have gold, which you can use to deal with Byzantium; I will be able to make my way in the world from what the fiscs produce.” It was a bargain beneficial to Karl-lo-Magne, and both men knew it.

“Very well. I will authorize four contiguous fiscs to your usage. I will choose them in a place that isn’t too remote from Aachen so you may attend upon me when I am resident here. For that you will have to supply me with one mounted soldier, with all his equipment, and provide for his maintenance. In addition to the money for the use of the fiscs, of course.” Karl-lo-Magne smiled broadly, revealing a few missing teeth.

“Of course,” Rakoczy agreed, relieved. He reverenced the King. “It will be my honor. You will have me at your call whenever it suits you, and I will not be a charge upon you.”

“Truly,” Karl-lo-Magne said, his eyes hardening. “Some of my Potenti will not like this.”

“Because I am a foreigner?” Rakoczy suggested.

“That, and other things.” Karl-lo-Magne was becoming caught up in imagined complications. “You do not know how jealous some of my kinsmen can be.”

“It is true I am a foreigner without blood relatives in this land,” Rakoczy said in agreement. “No feuds compel me to be any man’s enemy; my father and uncles are long dead; my mother as well; no brothers seek to lay claim to what I am granted; I have no sons to provide a share of my property upon my death, no daughters or orphaned sisters requiring dowries. Surely this must mitigate my foreignness a little.”

“Dowries,” Karl-lo-Magne muttered, glowering down the dark corridor beyond the glare of the torchlight. “The fate of a man with daughters. Sons are bad enough—the clever ones may be treacherous, the foolish ones are tools of treacherous men—but daughters! Let no man have daughters, lest he give away all his holdings to provide for daughters, whose husbands will turn them against you and try to seize more than you have already given. Females are the very devil for a man with territory and wealth.” He coughed suddenly, as if he had just realized he had spoken aloud: he had never allowed his own daughters to marry, and now Rakoczy had a fair idea why.

“I may have disadvantages, Optime, but I also am unencumbered,” Rakoczy said at his most mild.

“Yes. Yes.” Karl-lo-Magne continued to stare at the torch, his gaze on something far away.

“And I am capable of doing your will without creating difficulties in obligations,” he went on.

Karl-lo-Magne nodded slowly. “At the Resurrection Mass, before all my Court I will grant you the fiscs—contiguous, near Aachen—for a year, without let or lien upon them in return for your gift of two Roman measures of gold from your stores. If at the end of that time I am satisfied that you have not brought any claims against me, and that you have kept your Word, and provided me with an equipped fighting man, I will extend your tenancy for five years, for eight Roman measures of gold. If you remain in Franksland beyond that time, we will treat again of the matter.”

“Optime is most gracious,” said Rakoczy, reverencing him again.

“Optime is nothing of the sort,” Karl-lo-Magne growled, but his blue eyes glinted with pleasure. “You have skills and knowledge I must have if I am to press eastward.” He held up his hand. “Say nothing of what we discuss to anyone, not even your Confessor, for surely he must inform his Bishop of anything you reveal, and the Bishop will impart his knowledge to the Pope.”

“You and His Holiness are allies,” Rakoczy reminded the King.

“Of course we are; of course.” He blinked twice, recalling himself to his present situation. “But a prudent man must always keep certain things to himself.”

“Does the Pope not want you to expand your holdings to the east?”

“He wants the Moors gone from Hispania, and he doesn’t want to give the Greeks anything to complain of; the Papal Court is riddled with spies for Constantinople, and everything the Pope says is heard by the Patriarch. It would please the Patriarch to be able to depose the Pope and put his own clerics on Sant’ Pier’s Seat. More than that, Byzantium has intentions for Wendish lands as much as I do, and on Moravia, if they can subdue the Avars long enough to get there.” He glared at Rakoczy. “That you must not repeat.”

“I will not,” Rakoczy assured him; he had decided that Karl-lo-Magne was testing him, telling him fairly important things that could be traced back to him if they became known.

“About the Wends,” said Karl-lo-Magne in a speculative voice. “Do you think they are strong enough to put up a defense against me?”

“Whether they are or not, they will not let you into their territory unchallenged,” said Rakoczy. “As you must know already.”

Karl-lo-Magne nodded. “Yes. I have some sense of this.” He stretched suddenly, and his shadow all but blotted out the light from the torch. “But, as you have said, there are more ways to view any report than simply on its own merits.”

Rakoczy managed a one-sided smile. “I have my own again.”

“You would do well to remember that, and to hold what I say in high regard, more than my other courtiers, for they have established themselves in my affection,” said the King, almost preening. “Another thing: I have also noticed that you keep no woman, or boy, for your pleasure.” He said it so nonchalantly that Rakoczy was immediately on guard.

“I am a foreigner and new to your Court,” said Rakoczy with an inclination of his head. “You have made me welcome, but I am not one of you, nor will I ever be. This does not commend me to those seeking alliance.” He said nothing of the women he had visited in their sleep, taking what he needed and leaving a sweet, sensual dream behind.

Karl-lo-Magne chuckled. “Adroit. You’re very adroit.” He made a gesture. “There are widows at my Court, women whose husbands bound them to them in life and death. They cannot marry again, or they will lose all support granted to them. If one of them should please you, I would be willing to countenance the union, short of permitting marriage.”

“I am in no position to seek a wife,” said Rakoczy, his manner respectful but firm. “And I am not one who takes pleasure in male flesh.”

“The Church will be glad of that—often though the clerics may choose such for themselves,” said Karl-lo-Magne. He thumped Rakoczy on the back. “Then it’s settled. You’ll get your four fiscs, you will maintain a fighting man—”

“I will maintain two,” Rakoczy corrected him. “That should still any quibbling from your kinsmen, who may believe that they are more entitled to the fiscs than I.”

“Two. Very good,” said Karl-lo-Magne. “And you will select your mistress from among the widows I will recommend to you.”

“As you wish, Optime,” said Rakoczy, offering another reverence.

“How can you say so little and mean so much?” Karl-lo-Magne marveled. “I am astonished at how well you contain yourself.”

“When a man is an exile, he learns such methods,” said Rakoczy.

“Yes. Exile exacts a price. Alcuin told me that you come from what is now Avar territory.” He yawned abruptly.

“My father ruled there,” said Rakoczy, not adding that that had been more than twenty-seven centuries in the past.

“I must assume he is dead,” said Karl-lo-Magne.

“Long ago,” said Rakoczy.

“How fortunate that you are still alive,” Karl-lo-Magne remarked in his offhanded way.

Rakoczy’s expression was bleak. “I am the only one.”

“Such is the fate of failed Kings,” said Karl-lo-Magne, then he cleared his throat and spat to keep a similar fate from befalling him.

“Amen,” Rakoczy made himself say.

There was a brief silence between them; then Karl-lo-Magne patted Rakoczy on the shoulder again. “Well, you have made a life for yourself.”