Night Blooming (46 page)

At the gates of the town, the road became a muddy morass, keeping the travelers to a slow, messy walk; the mule pulling the plausterum labored to drag the wagon through the paste-like ruts. Mud spread up the animals’ legs and onto their bellies and flanks, leaving smears on the tibialia and brodequins of the men, and on the heavy cloth covering the plausterum. As they slogged toward the south, they could see Attigny behind them for almost half the morning before they had gone far enough to have it sink below the horizon.

By mid-day they were into the forest and the rain had got heavier, dripping sullenly through the leaves and puddling in the long grooves made by other wagons bound for the Rhone Valley.

“I don’t think it’s going to let up,” said Magnatus Rakoczy from his place in the middle of the soldiers and immediately ahead of the covered plausterum.

“Of course not,” Notrold jeered. “What else would you think?” He gave the leader a contemptuous glance.

“I think,” said Rakoczy with a firm nod, “that we would do well to find shelter and prepare prandium for all you. Otherwise you will be too hungry to keep on.” It was less than the truth, but he knew the men would agree to such exaggerated apprehension.

“I could do with some cold vension,” said Sulpicius, looking to his comrade for support. “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

“Who isn’t?” Notrold interjected.

“I am,” Anshelm said, but he looked around in growing disgruntlement at the road and the damp. “Where can we stop?”

“There is a chapel ahead on this road, or there was two years ago,” said Einshere. “It has a small chamber attached to the chapel; we could eat in it. No monks maintain it, but unless something has happened, it should be shelter.”

“Does it have a fireplace?” Rakoczy asked. “You could make a rich stew in the cauldron.”

Usuard sneezed. “It would be good to be out of the rain.”

“I don’t recall a fireplace, but we could lay a fire in the shelter of the roof,” said Einshere.

“A foolish notion,” said Notrold. “Best to go along to the next monastery or nunnery. There must be one up ahead. This is an important road, and there must be places for travelers all the way down its length.”

“Certainly there must be,” said Pepin of Corbie, “but where?” He gestured at the road ahead. “Nothing but trees as far as we can see.”

“And any respite could be a trap,” said Anshelm, as if he anticipated such an eventuality.

“So it could,” said Einshere, sounding very tired. He looked at Notrold, then turned away.

Rakoczy thought to the many times he had traveled and the men in whose company he had been; these six were no worse than most and better than some, just as the road, while difficult to use, was an improvement on a host of others he had journeyed upon since the Romans stopped building and maintaining their roads, more than five hundred years since. They would have to cross rivers, and that bothered him more than the pathways through the forest did, just as the rain gave him a special discomfort that none of the rest had to endure; at least the running rainwater was not as uncomfortable as a river was. Still, he reminded himself, it was preferable to intense sunlight.

“Something troubling you, Magnatus?” Theubert asked; he was riding on Rakoczy’s left and had made a point of trying to engage his patron’s interest. “Are you worried about what may lie ahead?”

“No,” said Rakoczy. “Only I find the rain a bit … dreary. Weather of this sort wears on me.” He raised his head and settled more squarely into the saddle.

“It has been a wet spring,” Notrold said in an accusing tone.

“That it has,” Rakoczy said at his most bland.

Usuard did his best to be part of the discussion. “The farmers will be glad of the rain; it makes their crops grow well.”

“If the rain continues,” said Notrold. “If it ceases we may still lose crops.”

Theubert glared at Notrold. “All this is possible, but so far the signs are very good.”

Einshere held up his hand. “Halt,” he said.

The company did as he ordered, going silent as well. As if responding to Einshere, the woods around them quieted, too; only the leaves of the trees worried together, as if apprehensive about what was happening beneath them. The silence increased, the soft patter of the rain sounding louder than a downpour.

Then the mule drawing the plausterum let out a stentorian bray; the pack-mules joined in while the horses whinnied and piaffed nervously; birds took noisy flight in all directions, and ahead on the track, a small herd of bison appeared, shaggy heads lowered as if weighted down by curving horns.

“They have young with them,” whispered Sulpicius.

“Yes; that makes them doubly dangerous,” said Rakoczy in an undervoice.

“We should get into the trees. They can reach us too easily on the road.” Einshere looked around as if hoping to see a path away from the road.

“If we move, the bison may charge,” said Rakoczy.

“That’s so,” said Pepin, and jobbed the reins anxiously in a sign of disquiet; his dun, unable to wheel and run, flung up his head and took a step back, into the side of the mule pulling the plausterum, in an effort to get away from the bison up ahead. The mule laid back his long ears and bit the dun on the rump; the dun lashed out with his rear hooves, catching the mule just above the breast-collar. The mule swung around as far as his lead would allow and tried to rear, slipping in the mud. Pepin struggled to hold his horse, trying to keep him from sidling into one of the remounts. Usuard, who held the mule’s lead, struggled to keep hold of the braided leather rope while the mule thrashed, half-fallen and held up by his harness and the lead.

“What is going on?” Einshere looked from the bison to the trouble among his company. He was frightened by this sudden eruption of chaos.

Farther down the road, the bison, alarmed by the upheaval among the men and their mounts, prepared to defend their young. The adult males turned to face the disruption, their cows and calves behind them. One of the larger bulls began to paw, leaving gouges in the thick mud; he bellowed a challenge.

Four of the horses were shifting around, bouncing on the uneven footing, the remount horses pulling on their leads in an effort to get away from the confusion. One of the pack-mules was trying to shake off his load and bolt; Rakoczy took the lead from Pepin and maneuvered his grey in close to the mule so that he could shorten the lead enough that the mule could not turn or toss his head. The mule pulled back but managed to scramble to his feet, more incensed than afraid, and let out another bray, echoed by three lesser squeals from the other pack-mules. This was too much for the bison; the lead male rushed at the mounted party, snorting and trying to ran in the mud; his efforts would have been comical had hot his intention been so deadly.

“Get off the road!” Notrold shouted as the men and horses made for the narrow verge and a safe retreat into the trees.

The mule pulling the plausterum would not budge. He spread his legs and almost sat down like a dog to keep from being dragged away to safety; his neck stiffened as the lead grew taut. Rakoczy reached for his sword and used the flat of the blade to smack the recalcitrant creature on the rump; the mule kicked out at the wagon and brayed again.

The bison scrambled, floundered, and fell, landing hard on his side and thrashing; he bellowed in ire and frustration as he struggled futilely to rise. Pepin, seeing this and feeling a desire to make up for his earlier mishap, released the leads he held and, pulling his spear from its sheath, rode toward the volutating bull, preparing to dispatch the bison in a single thrust. He paid no attention to the warning shouts of his comrades, putting the whole of his concentration on the thrashing bison. “I will take care of—” His confident beginning ended with a shriek as the bison wallowed toward Pepin, catching his horse on his horn and opening up a huge rent in the gelding’s chest The horse screamed and dropped down onto his knees, flinging Pepin out of the saddle and into the path of the bison’s horns. Now the bison had got onto his rear legs and began to lever himself up from the mud, slipping on the fountaining blood from the dying horse. The bison snorted, shook his head, and bent to gash Pepin a second time. Farther down the road, the rest of the bison herd moved on, seeking to protect their new calves from the upheaval.

Pepin howled briefly, then gasped as the sharp front hooves scraped into his side.

Rakoczy raised his sword, then leaned down in the saddle to speak to the woman in the covered plausterum. “I’m going to hand you the lead for your mule. Hold it firmly. The worst that will happen is that you will turn in circles.” He lifted the front flap and handed the lead to the white hand that she held out. “And I’m giving you the lead on my remount. Tie it to the rear of the plausterum.”

“I will,” she said, and took the second lead. A moment later the flap dropped.

The bison was pawing at Pepin’s chest the sound of splintering ribs unnaturally loud; Pepin’s gored horse finally collapsed, his neck landing on Pepin’s legs, pinning him in front of the bison. Pepin moaned, the sound bubbling, as steam rose from the pink, foamy rents in his side.

Rakoczy swung his horse around and holding the grey gelding with his legs, he started the grey down the road toward the bison. He readied his sword and began to shout. He was distantly aware of the men of the escort back in the trees and realized he could not rely on them to take any needed action, so he swung his sword and howled loudly, holding his horse firmly on course at a slow trot toward the bison. As he neared the big animal, he shouted more loudly and swung his sword in a circle over his head. The bison shook his head, pawed nervously, then turned and ambled after the rest of his herd. Rakoczy drew in his grey and swung out of the saddle, sheathing his sword as he hurried toward Pepin and the dead horse.

Pepin sighed, blood running from his mouth. His eyes fluttered as Rakoczy dropped to his knee beside him. “It’s…”

“No,” said Rakoczy. “Don’t talk” He could tell from the man’s blood that he would not last much longer, and given the extent of his injuries, survival would not be possible.

Pepin managed a faltering sigh, and his eyes rolled back, the wounds in his side ceasing to bubble.

Rakoczy got to his feet slowly, pulling the horse’s head off Pepin’s legs before lifting him into his arms and carrying him back to the plausterum, leading his grey as he tried to make his way through the ruts. There was blood on his tibialia and femoralia, and the hem of his capa, and his hands were red.

There was a cry of a bird, and it was answered by another.

Usuard was the first to emerge from the trees, his horse still held on her lead, and a pack-mule close behind, although the lead was broken. “Magnatus?” he said uncertainly as he came up to Rakoczy.

“We should carry this man to a chapel or monastery. He’ll need proper burial.” Rakoczy went to the rear of the plausterum, calling out as he did, “Gynethe Mehaut, will you allow me to put this man in with you? He’s dead. He won’t harm you.”

“But he is bloody,” she said uneasily.

“Blood is a living thing; this man isn’t alive. You have nothing to fear from him. Just let him lie in the rear of your plausterum.” Rakoczy looked directly at her as he lifted the covering of the rear of the wagon. “You understand how important even a small act of compassion can be.”

Her red eyes met his dark ones. “Very well. Put him in the rear, there.” She indicated the place at the back of the plausterum where there was a stabilizing board. “I will use a belt to secure him on the board. Until he is given to monks for Christian burial, I will let him have the protection of my plausterum.”

“Very good, Gynethe Mehaut,” said Rakoczy, and lifted Pepin as if he weighed no more than a saddle or a sack of grain into the position Gynethe Mehaut had indicated.

Einshere rode out of the woods, his spear clutched in his raised hand. “Is he—”

“Dead,” said Rakoczy. “Gored by the bison.”

“He died trying to protect us all,” said Einshere, and raised his voice. “The rest of you! Reassemble on the road at once!”

His orders were obeyed slowly, three of the soldiers unwilling to look at the body stowed on the back of the plausterum. There was a mutter of plans while the men reassembled in their places with their remounts in tow. One of the horses was missing, and Anshelm looked embarrassed as he confessed his remount had got away from him.

“Then it is just as well that we have Pepin’s remount with us still,” said Rakoczy, giving a long, hard stare to Anshelm. “If you will be careful of this horse, you will have a second—”

Einshere did the unthinkable and interrupted Rakoczy. “We must move on. The bison may circle back, and we have already lost one of our number to them.”

“And we’re not half-a-day from Attigny,” muttered Notrold, staring at the rear of the plausterum.

“What do you mean by that?” Einshere demanded. “You! Tell me.”

“Only that this trouble came after we began our escort of the Pale Woman; nothing more than that,” said Notrold resentfully. “You can’t deny that this was more than an accident.”

“No; Pepin was reckless enough to attack an angry bull. How could he have been so foolish?” Einshere said in a tone that dared the other to challenge him. “If he had been content to withdraw into the trees and let the herd pass by, he would not be lying in the back of the plausterum, waiting for the grave.”

“So
you
say,” Notrold mumbled, glancing toward the plausterum again.

“You saw what happened,” said Einshere as forcefully as he could; he glanced at Rakoczy. “You have done much for us this day, Magnatus.”

Sulpicius did his best to ease the growing tension. “Let us all thank God that nothing worse happened than what we have endured.”

“Amen,” said Theubert, making a sign to ward off all evil.

“You don’t have to worry about that, about protection from malice,” said Notrold. “It’s this mission. You should keep in mind who rides in the plausterum. The Pale Woman, with her hands wrapped in linen. No one can doubt that she has brought this—”

Rakoczy interrupted him. “No. You don’t know that she has done anything. That is for the Pope to decide. You look at Pepin dead and you assume it was worse than what could have befallen us, but you cannot be certain: it may be that she has saved us from worse than the loss we have had. Without her presence, we might have had far more destruction to deal with. If the herd had charged us, more than Pepin and his horse could have been lost.”