Night Blooming (31 page)

“They won’t,” said Bishop Iso, letting the honey on the pears he had chosen dribble all over the last of his wheaten trencher.

“It has been a fine banquet. Archbishop Reginhalt has done himself proud.” He pointed to the High Table, where three Archbishops sat together in all their splendid regalia; they, too, were drunk, and they had reached the point of not caring that they were. “I doubt the Pope dines so well as we have.”

“Not in these days, certainly,” said Bishop Iso. “Archbishop Ebroin and Archbishop Sigiberht are also pleased with themselves, and will no doubt be claiming credit for the whole occasion.”

Bishop Dagoberht yawned suddenly and hugely. “We’ll all sleep well tonight. Thanks be to God.”

“And Bacchus,” said Bishop Iso, and drank another mouthful of beer. “Even Roman Emperors could not achieve what we have done.”

“And with God’s blessing, not His curse,” said Bishop Dagoberht. “But you are not drinking as much as the rest of us. Don’t tell me you’ve take a vow of soberness.”

“No, but I have a cause to plead before the Archbishops in the morning, and I would not like my head to be ringing.” He managed a dry smile. “Let Bishop Freculf drown himself in strong drink, I will not be so lax.”

“It will be a chore to arise at Matins,” Bishop Dagoberht muttered, and drank the last of his wine, then gestured to a scullion to refill his cup. “But with three Archbishops in attendance, and one bound for Roma in four days, we must be diligent in our observations of the Hours.”

“And the sooner this evening is repented, the sooner we can banquet again,” said Bishop Iso, biting into the honied wedge of pear. “This is very good. Optime’s orchards have been bountiful.”

“Thanks be to God. Optime has tried to keep the bounty of Franksland in Franksland against another famine. It is a most prudent thing, making stores of food. He doesn’t want his people to starve again.” He watched the scullion pour him more wine.

Bishop Gerbergius gave a wild punch at Bishop Worad and both staggered and fell, Bishop Gerbergius striking his head on the edge of the dais as he dropped. Around him the other Bishops laughed and pointed as their fellows lay, cursing futilely, between their double rows of tables.

“They will have a hard morning,” said Bishop Iso as if pleased with that certainty.

“They will,” said Bishop Dagoberht.

More fruits were being brought out, a few of them fresh, but most preserved in honey or spices; the dried plums in pepper were especially popular and the Bishops grabbed for them unashamedly. The aroma of plums, pears, apples, and quinces was intense, cutting through the odor of grilled meats. The scullions looked around to see who needed more food. The banquet was concluding, and the fire in the open fireplace was dying; on the dais Archbishop Sigiberht was nodding, almost asleep, and his two companions were weaving as they moved in their high-backed chairs. Slowly two Bishops rose, reverenced the Archbishops on the dais, and unsteadily tottered toward the door at the rear of the dining hall. One of them called out, “Thanks be to our hosts, to God, and Karl-lo-Magne for the opulence of our feast.”

“Amen,” said Archbishop Ebroin for all three of them.

Gradually the other Bishops began to struggle to their feet and take their leave of the Archbishops; four of the Bishops went to kiss the Archiepiscopal rings of their hosts, but most were content to reel out of the room to their various chilly cubicula and suites set aside for them at the Royal Residence of Attigny.

Bishop Iso rose slowly, glad he had abstained from carousing as much as the rest; he could tell that even with his reservations he was going to have an aching head in the morning, and he cursed himself for being foolish. He saw Bishop Freculf swagger from the dining hall and told himself that tomorrow he would be less confident and would feel less well than Bishop Iso would. As he reverenced the Archbishops, Bishop Iso hoped they would remember his conduct when they sat after Prime to hear the debate about the Pale Woman. But first there were the prayers of Nocturnes to recite and then a few hours for sleep before Matins. He intended to observe all the Hours no matter what the other Bishops might do.

When he reached his cubiculum, Bishop Iso found Sorra Celinde waiting for him, a hint of impatience in her manner as she greeted him. “I said we would be late,” he told her bluntly.

“So you did. But it is after Nocturnes, and the Guards have changed. That is later than I anticipated.” She sat on his bed, her arms folded and a determined expression in her soft features. “I could hear the roistering all the way from the dining hall.”

“Hardly surprising,” said Bishop Iso, tugging off his alb and looking at it; even in the poor light he could see it was smeared with grease from the meat and butter as well as honey from the fruit. “This will have to be washed. It’s too stained to wear as it is.” He fingered the messy silk. “A pity we must all wear fine clothes for these occasions. But we could not refuse. The Archbishops demand it.” His tone revealed his contempt for such excess. “The Archbishops may command us anything—more than the King does. And now this fabric is no better than a rag.”

“Then you ought to be more dainty in your eating,” said Sorra Celinde as she inspected the garment in the dim light. “You will never get this stain out.”

“Very likely not,” said the Bishop as he knelt at the foot of his bed facing the crucifix that hung on the opposite wall. He began the Nocturnes prayers, reciting the words by rote, rushing through them impatiently. “Are you ready for bed?” he asked between Psalms.

“In a moment,” said Sorra Celinde and pulled off her stolla, then pulled down her loose underdrawers. Naked, she slipped under the blanket. “There. As soon as you are done.”

“That will not be long,” he promised and went back to praying, paying no attention to her as he spoke the verses from memory.

Sorra Celinde lay in bed watching him, the sputtering lamplight making him seem to appear and disappear. She smiled contentedly, thinking that for a fisherman’s third daughter of four she had done very well for herself—certainly better than her other three sisters, all of them burdened with families and husbands. She, at least, had a powerful lover, and the assurance of a place to live until her dying day. The Bishop could be difficult, but so could all men; she had known that from early childhood. She echoed his “Amen” and lifted the blanket for him as he came back to the bed and tugged his dalmatica over his head. His breechclout came off quickly; he pinched out the last lamp and got in beside her.

“I need sleep tonight,” he said as she reached for him.

“As you wish,” she said, disappointed but accepting. She snuggled up to the Moorish pillow, preparing to fall asleep.

“Gynethe Mehaut,” said Bishop Iso suddenly. “What do you make of her now?”

“I think she is a very puzzling woman; I can understand why there is confusion about her,” said Sorra Celinde cautiously. “I have watched her as you asked, but if she has cut her hands herself, I have not seen her do it, or even so much as touch a knife but to eat.”

“Bishop Freculf does not accept that this woman is the Anti-Christ, or his messenger,” said Bishop Iso. “It is a test of our faith, putting her in our midst. God will judge us as we judge her.”

“No doubt you are right,” said Sorra Celinde, yawning.

“Bleeding at the hands. What clearer sign could there be than that? Isn’t it obvious that she is the opposite of Christ? She has nothing to claim as her kingdom. She has no disciples. She has no chrism. Yet her hands bleed, and she is female. Man came to grief through Eve; it must not happen again, or we will no longer deserve salvation, or Christ’s Sacrifice.” He stared up into the darkness. “Surely the Archbishops will see that she must be cast out.”

“You will explain it all,” murmured Sorra Celinde.

“As I must. But that idiot Bishop Freculf will dispute all this. He believes she is a messenger of Grace, and that her white skin and bleeding hands are signs of her gift.” He could feel his body tensing, and he ground his teeth. “How can he not
see
?”

“He hasn’t your knowledge, Sublime,” said Sorra Celinde.

“But he is a Bishop. Karl-lo-Magne chose him as much for his piety as his kinsmen.” He reached for her suddenly, rolling onto her and forcing her legs open. He was fully aroused, and he was determined to fulfill his need. “This may bring catastrophe upon us all.”

Sorra Celinde pretended her desire was as swift as his own, sighing and scratching at his back, but she was almost indifferent to his bucking and grasping. She was relieved when it was over, but she held him as if reluctant to be apart from him.

“How good of God to provide you to me,” said Bishop Iso as he got off her.

“I will serve you always, Sublime,” she said with complete sincerity.

Bishop Iso patted her shoulder. “Of course you will.”

When the first chime of Matins sounded, Bishop Iso stirred but did not open his eyes; beside him Sorra Celinde woke and sat up. The second chime rang, and this time the Bishop responded, sitting up and blinking. “My camisa—where is it?” he muttered.

“In the chest, on top, with your gonelle.” Sorra Celinde was already out of the bed reaching for her stolla. “If you hurry you will be among the first into the chapel.”

“And thus show my devotion,” said Bishop Iso. “You’re a clever woman, thanks to God for it.” He put on his breechclout and stumbled to the chest to take out his camisa. As soon as he had this in hand, he pulled it over his head, struggling with the sleeves, and then felt for his gonelle. “My pectoral crucifix—the silver one with the pearls. Where is it?”

“Under the lamp.” Sorra Celinde was almost dressed. She kissed her rosary and secured it around her waist. “After Prime I will wait upon Gynethe Mehaut Where shall I take her?”

“See she is fed, and keep her in readiness in case the Archbishops wish to see her. Be aware of everything she does and remember everything she says, in case they should wish you to report on any aspect of her behavior.” Bishop Iso finished dressing and went toward the door of the cubiculum. “If you have to impose your will on her, do not strike her. She should have no other wounds than those in her hands, and no bruises to cast doubts upon the bleeding.”

“I will do as you ask, Sublime,” said Sorra Celinde, preparing to leave as well. She would go to the smaller chapel with the other nuns, and she would break her fast with them. It was not part of the day she looked forward to, since the nuns were jealous of her and could often be spiteful to her. As she hurried down the corridor, she passed the cubiculum where Gynethe Mehaut was quartered; she paused, knowing the Pale Woman was still in the nuns’ chapel, and after a short hesitation, she entered the chamber. Telling herself that this was for Bishop Iso’s benefit, she conducted a quick search of the bed, the chest, and the windowsill, but found nothing other than a small crucifix and clothes. Whispering a few derisive phrases under her breath, she hurried away to answer the strident summons of the third Matins bell.

When the ten nuns entered the smaller chapel, they found Gynethe Mehaut prostrate before the altar, her pale gonella almost matching her white skin. Most of the nuns ignored her, but Sorra Celinde could not. She approached the prone young woman while the Sorrae intoned the opening prayers of Matins, and reached out to touch her shoulder. “Gynethe Mehaut,” she said, ignoring the scowl of the Priora, “I will escort you to the Archbishops after Prime. They expect you to arrive before Sept. They will hear Bishop Iso and Bishop Freculf plead your case.”

“Thank you,” said Gynethe Mehaut, interrupting her prayers long enough to address Sorra Celinde. “I will be ready. I ask you to provide me some protection from the sun when you take me to the Archbishops.”

“I will do that,” said Sorra Celinde, wondering briefly what that protection might be; this was late August, and the heat of the day struck early and lay over the land well past Vespers, enervating and demanding. A winter mantellum would protect her, or a capa, but both would leave her sweltering in short order. She went to her place in the chapel and joined the prayers of the rest of the nuns.

At the conclusion of Lauds the Sorrae formed a double line and went off to the refectory; the first pale smear of dawn lay on the eastern horizon, announced by birds and cockerels. As the nuns reached their refectory, there was a flurry of activity as the scullions tried to serve both the Bishops in the smaller dining hall and the nuns in the refectory as well as the Guards who had a dining hall adjoining their dormitory. Noise from the kitchen was constant, and the odor of fresh-baked bread hung on the still morning air, stirring hunger everywhere in Attigny.

“Pray for the salvation of all mankind and the triumph of our faith,” the Abba intoned.

“Amen,” said the nuns, and bowed their heads.

At the conclusion of breakfast, Sorra Celinde went to collect the bread and cheese from the kitchen that would be Gynethe Mehaut’s morning meal. Impulsively, she added a cup of goat’s milk to the fare, hoping it would incline the Pale Woman to think well of her. As she hurried to Gynethe Mehaut’s cubiculum, she told herself that this was a good, Christian act, one that would be well-regarded by the Bishops no matter what the Archbishops decided.

“When must I be ready?” Gynethe Mehaut asked as she drank the milk; there was a look of fatigue about her, an air of exhaustion that went beyond the body to the spirit. “I am ready whenever the Archbishops command me to attend their inquiry.”

Sorra Celinde did her best to appear compliant and pious in her manner and spoke in a low tone. “When Prime is finished, I will come for you. I will bring a capa to cover you with; you may wear the hood up when we are in the sunlight.” She studied the Pale Woman attentively, trying to discern what the Prelates might see in her; Sorra Celinde did not care whether Gynethe Mehaut was the herald of Heaven or Hell—her only concern was what effect the decision would have on Bishop Iso, so she regarded the Pale Woman with true indifference. “Will you be ready?”

“I will,” said Gynethe Mehaut, and pronounced a simple blessing on the bread and cheese before she began to eat.