Night Blooming (39 page)

“Thank you, Holiness,” said Fratre Berahtram, trying to sound humble and pleased at once, though he was neither.

“When all of this problem is sorted out, and I am once again in Sant’ Pier’s Seat, I shall reward you more appropriately,” the Pope went on, his fingers moving nervously in the folds of his long dalmatica. “You have a talent for tending those afflicted in their bodies, no doubt. Your patron Saint must be a powerful advocate for you before God.”

This kind of pronouncement did little to end Fratre Berahtram’s frustration. He wanted to say it was the potions and unguents Magnatus Rakoczy had given him that had healed him, not any patron Saint, but he could not admit that the responsibility—and therefore Pope Leo’s gratitude—belonged to another. After all, he, Fratre Berahtram, had tended the injured man; and it had been he, Fratre Berahtram, who had been summoned to Paderborn, not Magnatus Rakoczy. Surely God intended that he should receive the esteem reserved for the man who had saved the Pope, not the man who had made the medicaments that he had used. “You are all charity, Holiness,” he said, hoping his silence would be taken as awe instead of the calculation it was.

“Yes, yes,” said the Pope ruminatively. “You are an example that more religious should follow. I will let the King know of my high regard for you, and between us we should arrive at some suitable recognition for you.” He looked up at the sky. “So few clouds today.”

“May God be thanked,” said Fratre Berahtram, uncertain what was expected of him. His stomach growled, missing the prandium that was just concluding; Pope Leo had not been hungry, and so he, too, had to fast.

“Truly. Every day. I hadn’t realized until I was spirited out of Roma, how thankful I could be.” He smiled a little, one scar pulling down a corner of his mouth. “It has been a most instructive experience, surviving to come here. I have a new understanding of the Power of God.” He coughed. “And I am every day reminded of the Power of Karl-lo-Magne,” he added.

So Pope Leo was in one of his cheeky moods again, thought Fratre Berahtram, frowning at this realization. He had yet to gauge a proper response to these Pontifical sallies. “As the Saxons are learning,” said Fratre Berahtram.

“I am grateful, also, that he has sent his couriers to Roma to inform the Cardinal Archbishops that I am alive and whole, and in his care,” said the Pope. “It will cause the Byzantine faction some disquiet.”

“No doubt,” said the Fratre. He was grateful when the bell sounded for None. “Holiness?”

“Yes. If you will walk beside me as far as the chapel, you will increase my obligation to you.” He did not hurry, knowing it would be folly to arrive at the chapel out of breath; better to be late than seem to be ailing. “I am told the Saxons have burned another monastery and killed all the monks.”

“That is what the courier said,” Fratre Berahtram murmured.

“A great tragedy, not only for the monks, but for those pagans, if only they realized it. They are the ones who have suffered the most. They sin against the True Faith and will suffer for it when Christ comes to reign in Glory.” They were almost to the garden gate. “The courier reported much fighting. Do you think anything will happen to Great Karlus?”

“God has preserved him so far, and he has sons to carry on his work,” said Fratre Berahtram as he opened the gate.

“Yes. So he does.” Pope Leo went through the gate and along the wall toward the chapel. “We must pray for him, asking that God’s Strength and Mercy be upon him. Without him, the Church would surely be in Byzantine hands by now, and the promise of salvation lost forever.”

Being able to think of nothing else to say, Fratre Berahtram cried, “Amen.”

“Truly. Amen.” The Pope was flagging a bit, his steps growing shorter and slower. “Do not rush, Fratre Berahtram. They will wait for me.” He lifted his hand to the Bishop who stood in the chapel door waiting for him. “There, you see? They haven’t started yet.”

“They wait upon you, Holiness,” said Fratre Berahtram, knowing what was a proper response, “out of respect.”

“Bishop Agobard is a most prudent man,” said Pope Leo, smiling slightly; the cicatrices across his face felt like hot wire. “Karl-lo-Magne is fortunate to have him as an advisor, just as he is fortunate that God sent him Sublime Alcuin.” He almost stumbled but caught himself before Fratre Berahtram had to steady him. “Don’t fret, good Fratre. You have brought me back to the world and I intend to stay here until God is finished with me.”

“May God be praised,” said Fratre Berahtram, feeling a bit foolish.

“Perhaps,” said the Pope, “Bishop Agobard could name you his successor. Would you like that, or would you prefer to remain among the sick and injured, to do cardinal Acts of Charity?”

Somehow Fratre Berahtram managed not to grin or whoop. Finally to get away from stinking infirmaries, from the howls and demands of the dying! His stock of medicaments was running precariously low, and he dared not approach Magnatus Rakoczy for more, knowing he would be exposed if this became known. He pretended to consider the matter. “God called me to tend the afflicted, and now, through you, He calls me to other work. I will do as you wish, Holiness, certain that you speak for God in the world.”

Pope Leo cocked his head to look at Fratre Berahtram. “Very well,” he said at last. “When the King returns, I will speak with him and Bishop Agobard about changing your station.” He patted the Fratre’s arm. “If you will escort me back to my apartments when None is finished, you will have until Vespers for your own.”

“You are very good, Holiness,” said Fratre Berahtram, reverencing the Pope. He hoped he could find some meat left in the kitchens; probably most of the scullions would have devoured anything not eaten in the dining hall, but they were supposed to set aside a portion for charity, which, if anyone deserved, it was he.

The chapel was cool and dark; the monks, priests, and Bishops sat on benches according to their rank; they rose for the Pope and reverenced him, then, when he had taken the sedes before the altar, sat again and began their devotions in near-silence. The men in the chapel all tried to demonstrate their piety so that the Pope would look upon them with favor and remember them when he returned to Roma.

In his place toward the rear of the chapel, Fratre Berahtram exulted, praying to express his gratitude for the advancement that the Pope had promised him, for promise such a pledge must be. He asked God to return Karl-lo-Magne quickly and safely, not for the King’s benefit, but so that he, Fratre Berahtram, might finally be given the advancement he had so truly earned.

It was three days later when Karl-lo-Magne clattered through the stockade gates of Paderborn just after mid-day, accompanied by a dozen Bellatori, a trio of Potenti, and a Comes to announce that he had beaten back the Saxons and exacted revenge for the murder of the monks. He was grimy, sweaty, and his knuckles were skinned, but he grinned hugely as he got down off his horse and roared for a cup of honey-wine. “We must drink to celebrate our triumph!”

Immediately the soldiers garrisoning the castle gathered around him, shouting their approval and demanding to know more. One Primore took advantage of his advanced rank and pushed through the milling crowd to the King’s side. “What has happened?” he bellowed.

Karl-lo-Magne, standing head and shoulders above almost all of the men, laughed immensely. “We caught the greatest part of their hosts unaware—men and women, the aged and the young—and we surrounded them. We had the advantage in surprise and weapons and we made the most of it; we surrounded their camp and charged from all four sides. They tried to fight, but we overwhelmed them, killing those who lifted arms against us, taking prisoners and slaves from the rest; it was over in less than half-a-day. A hundred of the men will be made into eunuchs and sold to the Moors, who always want fair-haired eunuchs. They will not stand against me again, and they will have no sons to oppose me.” He clapped his hands, and the men around him rollicked. “We have brought back women, young women, for the delight of you—my trusted soldiers. You may make wives or concubines or whores of them. That is up to you. But I will not have them giving birth to any but Franks, so that we will finally have an end to this infernal rebellion.”

A mansionarius hurried up, a large pitcher in his hands. “Honey-wine, Optime. Honey-wine. My deputies will bring cups in a moment.”

Karl-lo-Magne stretched out and seized the pitcher. “Bring a second one for my men,” he ordered. “This is mine!” He raised the pitcher and drank from its lip, swallowing eagerly until the pitcher was half-empty. “A worthy beginning to what must be a feast!”

The mansionarius beat a hasty retreat to comply with the King’s orders and to alert the kitchen that they would have to make ready for a major celebration. Behind him he heard Karl-lo-Magne shout, “Day after tomorrow! I want all my Bellatori here, and all the Bishops who can get here! Send couriers at once!”

There was a sudden flurry as the couriers detached themselves from the crowd around the King and hastened off to the stables, an under-senescalus in their midst, issuing assignments to the couriers as they went.

Comes Godefrid, who had ridden in immediately behind Karl-lo-Magne, yelled, his roughened voice not as easily heard as Karl-lo-Magne’s strident cries. “We captured over three hundred horses, almost all of them sound. And we have yet to count the swords and spears, or the shields and axes and daggers.”

This, too, was excellent news, and the men hooted and clamored enthusiastically. The Bellatori had dismounted, and now the Potenti joined them, thrusting their reins at grooms who stood at the edge of the throng, hands outstretched. Gradually the grooms were able to extricate the horses from the crush and lead them away toward the stables.

Karl-lo-Magne was taking another drink, his face beaming. “We will celebrate our victory and the victory of the Pope!” he announced. There was a brief silence as the men recalled that the Pope was a resident of the castle, but it quickly gave way to more hearty demonstrations as the mansionarius returned with two large pitchers and a parade of scullions behind him carrying trays of cups. The confusion increased in the frenzy to be first to drink with the King, and a few times men exchanged blows before Karl-lo-Magne called them all to order again. “We must thank God that the Saxons have paid for their desecration of our monasteries. It is good that the Pope is here to see the men who have delivered his Church from defilement.” He held up his pitcher, which was now almost empty. “Where are my daughters? Let them come to share my joy! Where is my wife?”

The mansionarius looked about in dismay. “They must know you have come, Optime,” he said uneasily. “Your daughter Gisela is at prayers.”

“She’s an Abba. She ought to pray,” said the King, dismissing this. “Where are the others? Gisela may join us after—what Hour is it?—None?”

“Yes, Optime,” said the senescalus as he came back from the stables. “Your couriers will be away shortly. I have dispatched nine of them.”

“Good,” Karl-lo-Magne approved. “Very good.” He drank a little more; his pitcher was almost empty. Seeing this, the mansionarius signaled one of his scullions to go and fetch another two pitchers. “What is there to eat now? It is late for prandium, but there must be something they can put on a spit for us.”

“Of course, Optime,” said the mansionarius, looking helplessly at the senescalus.

The senescalus of Paderborn took over. “There are geese and ducks that can be prepared quickly. And two stags are hanging, dressed, in the slaughter-house. They will take longer to prepare, but if you will be content to have the birds first, you need not be famished for long.”

“Excellent, Recho,” Karl-lo-Magne shouted. “Be about it at once. You!” He pointed to the mansionarius. “You go and tell the cooks to ready the geese. We’ll need at least twenty of them. And more than that number of ducks. Don’t dawdle, fellow. Go!” He did not wait to see if he would be obeyed; he swung around, still relishing his success. “The rest of our army will be here in time to banquet in two days. Make sure that Catulf and Gersvind are summoned to attend: they will have much to do between now and then, and their service should be rewarded, along with Fratre Berahtram’s.” The mention of the two most respected Jewish physicians in Paderborn brought cheers from the men, most of whom had been treated by them at one time or another. “I wish that foreigner Rakoczy were here; he would be useful.”

“Your missi dominici could fetch him in … perhaps twenty days, if the weather holds and they ride hard,” said Recho, preparing to dispatch the pair currently at Paderborn.

“No, no,” said Karl-lo-Magne before he drank the last of his honey-wine and held out the pitcher to trade for another. “In twenty days I may be ready to return to Aachen, and then he would have been summoned for nothing. No, let him remain at his fiscs for the time being.” He moved through his men. “I would like to have a swim. A shame we haven’t a pool here.”

“There is the river,” Comes Godefrid reminded him.

“Not the same. The river would have to be guarded, and that spoils the sport.” He drank from the second pitcher, but less eagerly than he had from the first. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he gestured to Recho to come nearer. “Put the kitchen to work. We’re all hungry and if we don’t eat something soon, the men will be wild as Avars.”

“At once, Optime,” said Recho, reverencing the King before rushing off to speed activity in the kitchen.

Karl-lo-Magne raised his free hand and motioned his men to follow him. “To the dining hall. There will be bread, at least, and new butter.” All but crowing he led the surge into the central building, going directly to the dining hall. He took his place on the dais in the center chair and signaled to Comes Godefrid to sit on his left. “The Pope should join us. He may have my right hand. The other chairs are for my daughters and my wife.”

Comes Godefrid reverenced the King and hastened up to the High Table, saying, “You show me much honor, Optime.”

“You fought well, Comes,” said Karl-lo-Magne. “It is fitting that you, being near-kin to me, should have this favor.” He slapped his big hands on the table, the loud thump signaling for silence where the men were jostling for places to sit on the benches at the three long tables. “Do not fret about your ranks. Seat yourselves among your comrades and enjoy their company.”