Night Blooming (4 page)

Inside the convent the Superiora and Priora met in the narthex of the chapel while the gathered nuns began to chant the salutation of the Angel to the Blessed Virgin. “What did he say?” Superiora Gundrada whispered.

“He will consider the reports,” said Priora Iditha.

“But he has made no decision?” Superiora Gundrada persisted.

“Not that he imparted to me.” The Priora frowned. “I don’t know what we’ll say to the Abba when she returns.”

The Superiora shook her head. “She will not be pleased.”

“Then let her pursue the matter—he is her kinsman.” The Priora was annoyed. “If he will not tell her what he thinks, then we will have to continue to house her, and who knows what that may do. Once word gets out about her—”

“Will that happen?” the Superiora asked.

“The servants talk, the slaves talk. How are we to deal with that?” Priora Iditha looked long and steadily at the Superiora. “I haven’t satisfied myself that we should keep her here. There must be somewhere she can be sent, where she will be away from danger, and we need not fear her.”

“You do fear her, then?” the Superiora inquired distantly, as if none of this had anything to do with her. “She is such a submissive child.”

“Anyone would, seeing her. Her eyes alone are enough to set sensible men into a frenzy.” Priora Iditha folded her arms. “I cannot think that the Abba would want us to have the risk Gynethe Mehaut entails for us.”

“That’s as may be,” said the Superiora. “The Bishop will decide.” She held up her hands, extending them in prayer.

“Your piety is beyond question,” said Priora Iditha rather dryly. “But not all the Sorrae are as diligent as you are. Some are not here in the full flower of faith, but for other reasons.”

“True. And we keep safe custody of them,” said the Superiora with a touch of unpious pride.

Priora Iditha decided not to pursue the matter. She moved away from the Superiora, going into the chapel to join in the chants of the nuns; after a dozen heartbeats, Superiora Gundrada followed after her.

Midway through the next morning Abba Sunifred returned to the convent, escorted by six of her father’s mounted comrades, who led two mules carrying two boars and three deer ready for the spits in the kitchens. The soldiers saw her into the outer courtyard, handed the mules over to the convent slaves, and departed without dismounting. The Abba watched them leave with a wistful look in her ruddy face. Then she signaled to the slaves. “We will have venison tonight. The pork will go into salt and smoke, against lean times.”

“Yes, Abba,” said the head slave, having the right to speak to her.

“And summon the Priora to me. I will be in my apartments.” She strode off, her step energetic, her meaty cheeks flushed, and not from the warmth of the day but from the fading exhilaration of the hunt. She hummed as she went, the melody one she had heard the soldiers sing.

One of the slaves hurried off to do her bidding, while three others took the fresh-killed game from the baskets on the mules, and a remaining slave led the mules into the stable; four novices bearing short sticks followed the slaves to be sure they did their work as they should.

A short while later, Priora Iditha stood outside Abba Sunifred’s door, asking humbly to be admitted; the Abba’s maidservant opened the door for her. “She is in her reception room.”

“Very good,” said Priora Iditha, knowing the Abba’s apartments had only three rooms and the Abba only received visitors in the reception room. She followed the maidservant into that chamber and knelt to the Abba. “May God show you favor.”

“And you, Priora,” said the Abba. “Take a seat and tell me what has happened since I have been gone.”

Although this report was customary, Priora Iditha hesitated before giving it. “One of the slaves ran off,” she began when she had gathered her thoughts. “Sorra Atula has put more hives in the apple orchard. Sorrae Eldalinda and Richilda have taken over the milking of the ewes since Sorrae Madelgard and Ercangarea have taken fevers and are laid in their cells to recover; Superiora Gundrada will report to you on their condition. And your kinsman, Bishop Freculf, came to see Gynethe Mehaut. He read two of the accounts we have of her and said he will make a decision about her in the next days.”

“Good, good,” said Abba Sunifred. “May God guide him a right.”

“Amen,” said Priora Iditha. She knelt and kissed the Abba’s hand. “May God keep you to be our male mother, as the Apostles proclaim.”

“Amen,” said Abba Sunifred, then added, “And the sooner we are shut, of her, the better.”

Priora Iditha was shocked. “She came to us for succor and the protection of her soul.”

“Perhaps. My kinsman shall decide that.” Abba Sunifred crossed her arms. “She is too … too perplexing a presence. She should be with those who are better prepared to deal with her than we are.”

“If the Bishop decides she must remain here, what will you do?” the Priora asked, an edge in her voice as she rose to her feet.

“I will obey him, of course, as a dutiful Abba must.” There was a glint in her blue eyes that suggested the Bishop would be wise to order Gynethe Mehaut removed from Santa Albegunda. “We have already had pilgrims ask to see her, and this is not beneficial for this convent or for the maid herself.”

“That is true,” the Priora agreed, for she had been troubled by the rumors that were already flying about the white-skinned, red-eyed woman who had been taken into the convent; in time this would only get worse.

“Then you will speak with my kinsman when he comes again, to remind him of the danger we may face in regard to this woman,” said Abba Sunifred. “He will deal with her for her good, and for ours.” This time she signaled to Priora Iditha to leave her.

The Priora abased herself and left the apartments, apprehension growing with every step on behalf of Gynethe Mehaut, who had come to them for their guardianship and was becoming a piece in a game. She turned toward the chapel, gathering her thoughts and praying for the wisdom to tell the young woman to prepare for changes in her life without causing her distress; the nearer she got to the chapel, the more futile her prayers became, so that, in the end, she dared not speak with Gynethe Mehaut at all, postponing the conversation until Compline, after which Gynethe Mehaut would walk in the herb garden, among the night-blooming flowers, where Priora Iditha could meet her and be assured of their privacy.

T
EXT OF A LETTER FROM THE SCRIBE
A
RDULF ON BEHALF OF
H
ARTGAR,
G
RAV OF
S
OLIGNAC, TO
B
ISHOP
W
OLVINUS AT
B
OURGES, CARRIED BY COURIER UNDER ARMED ESCORT.

To the most puissant, most pious Bishop Wolvinus at Bourges, the greetings of the Grav of Solignac, Hartgar by name, advanced by the mandate of Karl-lo-Magne to the position left vacant by the death of Rihwin from fever. I take leave to address myself to the missive you had carried to Rihwin on behalf of the people of Bourges.

I regret to tell you that although the famine that has struck so much of Karl-lo-Magne’s lands is passing at last, in this region, at least, it is not yet over. Farmsteads stand abandoned, and many fields lie fallow out of their season. Pigs and cattle are scattered in the woods, and sheep are gathered into flocks by anyone with purpose enough to venture into the deep meadows and higher peaks. I say this in preparation for my necessary denial of the aid you request of this region. Perhaps one of the Abbotts will have food to spare from monastery fields, but I must tell you, though I take no pleasure in it, that we, here, do not have enough to feed ourselves, let alone your people.

Further, I must ask you for your prayers on behalf of those still living. The fields will not support us again for at least a year, and in the meantime, fever has come into the region, scything down those that famine has spared. Every day the funeral bells toll, and families are consumed with new grief. Surely your supplication to Heaven will bring us surcease of the suffering we have endured. This may appear a poor exchange, for we ask prayers of you when we cannot do anything to relieve your hunger, but I fear that without the prayers of such mighty men as you, Heaven will remain deaf to our cries and this region will be lost to the King and the Church. Since neither of us wants that, I beseech you to do your utmost to petition God for an end to our plight.

It is no easy thing, Sublime Bishop, for a Grav to admit so much to anyone but the King Himself, and in doing this, I rely upon you to guard what I have said from the eyes of the world, as I would do for you, should you make such a request of me. It is mete that you and I share confidences, as is the Right of our place in life, but few are entitled to know these things, and we must be mindful of this at all times. There are enemies of the King who would use this against his rule, inciting the farmers and artisans to rise up against travelers and the Potenti who govern them, which you can desire no more than I do.

Until such time as our hardships are lessened, I must continue to withhold aid to you, for we cannot give what we do not have. In time, as the conditions here improve, I will strive to see that you are provided with grain and wine and oil. Once the flocks are flourishing again, I will order that you be provided with cheese, salt-meat, and leather, but that is at least a year away, if God is good to us once more. I swear on my sword, Greytooth, that I will do this in spite of all Hell has to throw at me.

The courier who carries this and his escort will return to me when they have presented this to you. I have told them to wait upon you for no more than two days, so if you wish to send a response with them, you must attend to it promptly or entrust it to another courier. If you decide to postpone your answer to me, I ask that you tell my courier so that he may depart without failing in his duty to me. I await your reply in the full certainty that you will uphold my decision and will support our labors with your prayers.

At midsummer, the Feast of Apostle Thomas, in the Pope’s Year 796.

Hartgar de solignac

By the hand of Ardulf, scribe, monk of Sant’ Ambrose

Chapter Two

U
NDER THE TREES THE MID-DAY HEAT
was less smothering than it had been in the open, but the horses and mules were lathered and plodded along the rutted, dusty road as if they had spent the morning in a hard canter instead of at the same steady walk; the armed soldiers who had joined the missi dominici and the two men with them only three days ago were drooping in their saddles. Four mounted Wendish soldiers had been turned back at Erfurt, and just now the new escort of six could envy those soldiers, who undoubtedly had sheltered for the worst of the day. Even the breeze moved in a desultory way, hardly doing more than tweaking the leaves as it passed on in an exhausted breath.

Hiernom Rakoczy showed no sign of discomfort, although he was glad to be out of the direct sunlight; not even a hint of sweat on his upper lip or forehead marred his neat appearance, from his black linen gonelle to his thick-heeled Avar stirrup-boots in red-tooled leather. He might have entered the presence of the Pope Himself without offending. He was an impressive figure in the saddle: slightly taller than the soldiers and Otfrid, he had a presence about him that did more than his height to invest him with quiet authority. Just behind Rakoczy rode his body-servant, called Rorthger, a straight-backed man of middle years with tawny hair going to grey, and eyes of ice-blue. His garments were nearly as fine as his master’s, and his dun horse was of equal quality to Rakoczy’s grey.

“We must be careful here,” said the leader of the escort. “There are robbers in these woods. We must be wary.”

“Should we draw our swords?” Rakoczy asked, apparently untroubled by this announcement.

“Not yet,” said Otfrid, the military man of the missi dominici who accompanied Rakoczy. “If we have them in our hands, we may become lax, and then we can be more easily surprised. It has happened before.” He indicated Fratre Angelomus, his comrade. “Let us hope his prayers can shield us. His patron is Sant’ Michaell, the Archangel, God’s Warrior.”

“Of course; I do not count anything to Sant’ Michaell’s discredit, for he is a most puissant force,” said Rakoczy quietly, aware that everything he said would be repeated and scrutinized. “But in addition, let us be ready to do what we may to protect ourselves, to be worthy of such a patron.” He reached up to his shoulder to touch the hilt of the long Byzantine sword slung across his back. He had a short-sword hanging from his wide leather girdle that also carried a dagger, a wallet, and small sack of Roman stars of bent, sharpened iron that could be scattered on the road to cripple any charging animal or man.

“The soldiers know their work,” said Otfrid. “Let them do it.”

“So long as we can fight together,” said Rakoczy, his judgment reserved for the time being. “It would do no good for any of us if they are unwilling to stand with us.”

“These men are fine fighters,” said Otfrid a bit stiffly, as if he felt he had to defend his Franks. “As fine as any under Karlus.”

“Then I rejoice for him,” said Rakoczy dryly. He thought back to the Emir’s son, who had sent his finest soldiers after him and had failed to run him to earth in spite of all their efforts. There were other soldiers he had seen and had fought with and against over the centuries, including his own men, nearly three thousand years ago, and the memories of their valor, pride, and fear held him for several long moments. He had long since stopped thinking of soldiers as glorious; he now regarded them with a combination of dismay and sympathy. Shaking off the images that filled his memory, he forced himself to concentrate on the wood around them, on the oak and larch and yew, on the brush and thickets among the trees. The smell of green growing things filled the air, along with the occasional perfume of ripening fruit. He gathered his reins more firmly into his left hand, leaving his right free. He might have done the same with the left, but soldiers were often superstitious about left-handedness.