Night Blooming (25 page)

“Very good,” said Rakoczy, taking the earthenware bowl from Fratre Berahtram and setting to work making dressings. He worked quickly, the low light having little effect on him, for his night-seeing eyes were as keen as most men’s at midday. As he strove to treat the men in his care, he glanced occasionally at Fratre Berahtram, trying to determine what the young monk was thinking: it was apparent that the Fratre was displeased with his duties, and it was equally apparent that he would never say so.

“I should observe Compline,” Fratre Berahtram said suddenly. “It is a Little Hour, so I need not go to our chapel.” He rose and went to the other end of the dormitory and knelt before the crucifix there, his arms raised in prayer, apparently shutting out all worldly considerations as he began his Psalms; two other monks joined him, leaving the men they tended to fend for themselves until Compline was over.

Rakoczy watched this with curiosity; he found it difficult to think of Fratre Berahtram as a religious man, for in spite of all he did, his eyes held secrets that had nothing to do with worship. Putting his attention to the wounded men entrusted to him, he continued to apply herbal dressings to those whose infections could respond, to make drawing poultices for those whose infections had gone deep into muscles, and to offer syrup of poppies in wine to the men riven with pain. By the time Fratre Berahtram ended his Hour, Rakoczy had all the patients ready for the night.

“What must I do?” Fratre Berahtram asked. “You have ministered to these soldiers most conscientiously.” He indicated one of the men who was past saving, whose shoulder was an oozing mass of bone fragments and ruptured tissue. “What about him?”

“He’s dying,” said Rakoczy quietly. “When the monks come to remove the other dead man, he may well be ready to go to the chapel as well.”

“They should arrive before Nocturnes,” said Fratre Berahtram. “They make two visits a day for the dead—after Prime and before Nocturnes.” He glanced at the other men. “Have there been any changes in them?”

“It’s too soon to tell,” said Rakoczy, his face revealing nothing but concern. “By morning I should be able to know more.”

Fratre Berahtram folded his arms. “What am I to do, other than pray?”

“Give them water frequently; those who are truly awake are to receive the broth, and if they are hungry, give them the marrow—not much. It is in the large cup.” Rakoczy pointed to the vessel.

“Very well. Anything else?” Fratre Berahtram glowered at the large cup.

“Not yet,” said Rakoczy. “If there is anything that troubles you, have one of the mansionarii wake me. I will be in my chamber.” He turned away, strangely uneasy about leaving his patients in this monk’s care. He crossed the side yard, entered the castle through the garden door, and made his way to the narrow stairs leading up to the gallery along which rooms had been assigned by Karl-lo-Magne for his Court’s use. He opened the door of his chamber and stepped inside, feeling the draw of the chest on the far side of the room containing his native earth; he did not require sleep, but he longed for the annealing presence his native earth provided. He used flint and steel to light the wick of an oil-lamp. As the little scrap of light flared in the gloom, Rakoczy took down one of his books—an ancient text in the Romanized Greek of Mediterranean merchants seven hundred years before, describing medicinal herbs—and began to read, searching for a formula to lower fever more effectively than willow bark and pansy. As he studied, he was vaguely aware that Nocturnes was being sung; in a while he would have to relieve Fratre Berahtram. He read more urgently until shortly before midnight, when he returned the book to its shelf and blew out the lamp before retracing his earlier steps to the infirmary, where Fratre Berahtram was waiting for him.

“Two more are dead. The bodies will be taken in the morning.” He indicated the dead. “Lothar—the one with the shattered wrist?—he was hungry earlier.” He pointed to the cup. “I fed him, as you ordered.”

“Very good,” said Rakoczy. “Go get some rest. The bell will sound for Matins far too soon.”

Fratre Berahtram managed to make a sound like a muffled laugh, although there was no humor in it. “So it will. I will return after Prime.” He turned around and hurried out of the infirmary.

Rakoczy waited until Fratre Berahtram was gone before he went to examine the corpses, finding that one of the dead men had been hurried out of this life, for the whites of his eyes were suffused with red, a condition that he had not observed earlier. Rakoczy took a long, slow breath. “He needn’t have bothered; you couldn’t have survived,” he said as if in apology to the body. He stepped back, closing the Bellatore’s eyes with care before going to tend to the living.

T
EXT OF A LETTER FROM
B
ISHOP
I
SO OF
S
ANT’
A
UDOENUS TO
B
ISHOP
A
GOBARD AT
A
ACHEN, CARRIED BY
C
HURCH COURIERS.

To the most puissant, most Sublime Bishop Agobard, the greetings in Christ of Bishop Iso of Sant’ Audoenus on this, the Feast of the Apostle Sant’ Luchas, and a fortnight before the Feast of Toutti Santi, with the prayers that God has looked upon you with favor and given you peace and plenty in these great times. In your capacity as Bishop to Karl-lo-Magne, I seek your wisdom and assistance in coming to a most difficult conclusion, as well as your endorsement of what I must do in order to serve God and King aright.

Now that Great Karl and his Court have returned to Aachen for the winter, I make bold to approach you regarding certain matters that are needful of your immediate attention, for as great as my faith may be, I am convinced that there are considerations here that I have not sufficient wisdom to address without inspiration of the Holy Spirit which, although I have prayed for such, has not yet come to me. So I seek to avail myself of the advice of my fellow-Sublimi, and I pray that you will not begrudge me your thoughts and prayers.

I have in my charge at Sant’ Audoenus a most perplexing woman. She is not mad, but she is not free of contamination, or so it appears to me. She was entrusted to my care by Abba Sunifred of Santa Albegunda, who had received her from her parents and from Abba Serilda of Nerithe of Sant’ Osmer. No one has yet determined the appropriate manner in which this woman is to be treated. I must inform you that her skin is pale as wax, her hair equally white, and that the pupils of her eyes are red as garnets. This is distressing enough, but there is more to the problem she presents, for her hands bleed as if from points being driven through them, which wounds have not been made by any mortal hand, I can affirm this because I have appointed my own attendant, Sorra Celinde, to watch over her, and to ascertain if this young woman is in some way doing herself injury in order to present the appearance of one who has been stricken by the Will of God, or the power of the Devil. According to what Sorra Celinde tells me, the young woman does nothing to promote these wounds.

This young woman is called Gynethe Mehaut, and I implore you to grant me leave to bring her to Aachen while the full Court is there, as well as the most learned Alcuin of York, who has left Sant’ Martin at Tours to wait upon the King in Aachen. With such Sublimi as you and Alcuin, it must be that God will finally show His Will in all of this strangeness. I ask you to permit me the opportunity to submit her to your scrutiny and your judgment, for I have no guidance, either from prayer or dream, that can reveal to me all that I must know before I consign this young woman to a penitent’s cell or cast her out upon the world as a creature devoid of Grace, or consign her to death as a messenger of Hell. Among you, and your brother-Sublimi, there must be some means of achieving a decision that will be pleasing in God’s eyes. If you cannot decide, I can always bring her back to Sant’ Audoenus, until such time as God shall reveal His intention to me, and I may do as He commands me.

If this is suitable to your purposes, send me word of it with the courier who brings this message. I want to be on the road before the dark of the year is full upon us, when travel becomes more arduous and the hazards are so many that no man may be prepared for them all. I have prepared a carpentum to carry the young woman, and I have demanded of the regional Potente an escort of five armed men, with horses and mules to bear them and their supplies. The oxen to draw the carpentum will come from Sant’ Audoenus, and we will carry fodder for them along with foodstuffs for ourselves so that we will not be a burden to any Abbott or Abba who opens doors to us in our travels, or any hobu who extends hospitality to us.

May God guide you in your considerations, even as I ask Him to guide mine, and by Whose Hand I have been moved to ask this of you.

Amen

Bishop Iso of Sant’ Audoenus,

Santisimus Salvator Mondi,

Santi Agnelli, and Sant’ Fokas

Chapter Ten

E
CHOES RESOUNDED ALONG THE VAULT
above the large Roman swimming pool, the shouts of Illustri, Optime, Potenti, and Bellatori creating the cacophony, augmented by the splashes of the swimmers; to join Karl-lo-Magne in his pool was a coveted honor, and most courtiers were eager to make the most of such an opportunity. Today the pool was more crowded than usual, and the men in it more rambunctious, stimulated by warmth and rivalry. Steam rose from the surface of the water, making the large room misty, and in spite of the huge fire in the broad fireplace, the air was chill, touched by the first, early snow that was falling on Aachen, beyond the thick stone walls of the swimming pool.

Karl-lo-Magne sloshed energetically as he swam the length of the pool, well ahead of his courtiers. It pleased him to send a fine spray with every stroke of his powerful arms. Reaching the end of the pool, he stood up, the water coming half-way up his chest, and laughed. “More! You men, try harder! Swim, damn your eyes! Swim!” Then he laughed again at the efforts the rest made. He leaned back against the marble sides of the pool and smiled, thoroughly enjoying himself.

His kinsman, Einhard, reached him slightly ahead of the rest and grabbed hold of the lip of the pool; he was much shorter than his cousin, and when he stood on his feet, his head was almost completely underwater. “You carry the day.”

“Of course,” said Karl-lo-Magne, not quite as smug as he would have been a decade ago, but still satisfied that he could best the others. “We’ve raced enough for now. I have duties I must attend to, as much as I prefer to spend the afternoon swimming.” He glanced at the fire. “The bath will be warm for a while yet. If you would like to remain here, do so. I must be about my work.” With a sigh, he pulled himself out of the pool and stood up, water streaming from his body; a slave hurried over with a linen drying sheet that had been kept warm near the fire. Wrapping himself in the cloth, Karl-lo-Magne sighed again. “A man my size needs two lengths of cloth to cover everything that should be covered. God save the weaver who gives short shrift in Franksland.”

Einhard was bold enough to smile. “So there is an advantage to being smaller. I confess I hadn’t thought it so until now.”

Five other men were gathered at the end of the pool now, and another three were continuing to swim as if their race were not yet over. The steam in the room was getting a bit thicker as the water in the pool continued to get warmer. The slaves tending the fireplace poked carefully at the lower levels of burning logs that augmented the natural warmth of the water that flowed into the pool; one of them added a thick section of branch to the fire, and the other used a long iron staff to shove it down deep into the furnace.

“I will expect you all to attend on me at prandium,” said Karl-lo-Magne as he rubbed himself dry. “There is goat and geese tonight, I am told.” He thrust his drying sheet at his slave and received his camisa in its stead; the garment was made of fine wool, intended for winter wear. This he pulled over his head and tied at the neck, then reached for his clout and secured it around his loins before drawing on his leather femoralia. “That’s better,” he declared, and took his heavy woolen gonelle dyed a dark, dull-russet shade, pulled it on over his head, girdled it, then went to sit on the bench across from the fireplace to pull on his tibialia and then secure his brodequins over them. Fully dressed but for his small gold diadem, he got to his feet, and casting a last, reluctant look at his swimming pool, he turned away toward the corridor leading out of the bath complex and into the light, blowing snow. His damp hair clung to his head in a clammy embrace, chilling him as much as the warmth of the swimming pool had heated him. He ignored the slight discomfort, keeping up his brisk pace until he entered the main part of the castle, where he bellowed for his camerarius. “Roberht!”

The middle-aged man rushed up to Karl-lo-Magne, the diadem held reverently in his scarred hands. “Optime!” He reverenced the King.

Karl-lo-Magne clicked his tongue impatiently. “Yes, yes. Enough of this. I’ll put that on when my hair’s dry.” He looked about him, noticing that there was a group of nine Burgundians standing near his reception room, their wide pleated britches identifying them as much as their outlandish accents. “What do they want?”

“I wish they would tell me. They say they have to speak to you, no one else. It is most grave, and they will give no more information than that.” He handed the narrow band of gold with the three small, blunt crosses worked into its simple design to the King and was secretly distressed when Karl-lo-Magne slipped it negligently onto his arm.

“I’ll hear them. Open the doors. And bring beer and bread for them. I will have spiced hot wine and pickled fruit. Where is the senescalus? The Burgundians will need a meal when they have finished. Use the room on the west side of the reception room. That will show them dignity, but I will not have to spend more time with them. Tell Bishop Iso and Bishop Agobard I will see them when I have finished with the Burgundians.” He clapped once to send Roberht on his way, then took the side corridor to his private entrance to the reception room. As he approached his door, he signaled two of his Guards to accompany him. “Just spears. These are not dangerous men. Speak firmly and they will comply without force.”