Night Blooming (53 page)

The second priest shook his head. “No. I don’t recall such a man in Orders.”

“He told us to bring him here. He gave us directions,” said Fratre Gondehold.

“It may be God sent an Angel to care for His priest,” said Fratre Fustel. “Or a Saint.”

The kneeling priest nodded. “Yes. That must be how it was.” He rose and met the eyes of the monks, each one in turn. “Then we must all give thanks to God for preserving Patre Servatus for our care.”

“Amen,” said Prior Ricimar.

Only Fratre Lothar seemed unconvinced. “He might have been sending you a warning,” he said suddenly. “This was not an act of Christian charity, but one soldier challenging another.” He folded his arms. “It is what I would have done if I had killed a man by stealth and I sought to have it understood what I had done.”

“The man was a priest, not a soldier,” said Fratre Sigisteus. “Didn’t you see?”

“I did see,” said Fratre Lothar stubbornly. “And I cannot forget that the Pope was attacked in Roma. If his enemies would not stop at trying to murder him, surely they wouldn’t hesitate to kill a priest.” He shook his head. “He was probably the murderer, making sure his deed was known, so that others would know the threat.”

“Fratre Lothar, you are still too much a soldier,” chided Prior Ricimar. “This is Roma, the holy city. You said so yourself.”

“And it is,” said Fratre Lothar. “But where there are Angels, there are Devils, too.” He glanced over his shoulder and made a sign to ward off the Evil Eye.

The two priests had been whispering between themselves, and finally one said, “We will take him into our chapel and make him ready for burial. May God show you Grace for what you have done.”

Realizing that he and his monks were being dismissed, Prior Ricimar moved aside, allowing the priests to pick up the body. “May God grant Patre Servatus glory in Heaven.”

“Amen,” said the priests as they bore the body away, leaving the Frankish monks to stare after them.

T
EXT OF A LETTER FROM
R
ORTHGER IN
F
RANKSLAND TO
H
IERNOM
R
AKOCZY IN
R
OMA, CARRIED TO THE HOUSE OF
A
TTA
O
LIVIA
C
LEMENS IN
R
OMA BY HIRED COURIER.

To the Magnatus Hiernom Rakoczy in Roma, consigned to the care of the Widow Clemens in the Square of the Temple of Hercules, the greetings of Rorthger from Rakoczy’s fiscs in Franksland, near Sant’ Cyricus on the Stavelot road, at the end of May in the Pope’s year 800.

Magnatus, this is to inform you of what has transpired here since you left and to ask for your instructions in regard to them. I trust this will find you well, and the duties of the King not lying too heavily upon you.

To begin: shortly after your departure there were a number of robberies on the roads in this region. There are those who believe it is Waifar’s doing, for the robbers appear to be well-informed as to the activities of villagers and travelers. I cannot say if this is so, but I must warn you that the villagers of your fiscs fully intend to kill Waifar if ever he should be caught. I have engaged two men-at-arms to provide escorts to villagers bound to market, and travelers on the roads with valuable goods and stock.

The mariscalcus, Hradbert, has succumbed to the Bending Fever, which came upon him after he cut his leg on a harrow, and has been buried by the monks at Sant’ Cyricus; I have promoted Grandefus to his position. If you are willing, I will make this a permanent post for the young man. I have also provided housing for Hradbert’s family, and I will continue to see them fed and housed unless you tell me that I must not, or the missi dominici bring such orders from the King.

I have paid the taxes to the Grav and the King, and I will tithe to Sant’ Cyricus and Santa Julitta when the harvest is in. I have also provided a small stipend to both the monks and nuns for their maintenance and I have paid for masons to provide stones for stouter walls. The nunnery is also in need of a new barn, which I will authorize men to build unless you tell me this is not acceptable.

The orchards are coming into heavy fruit, although it is a little late for this; the late spring rains slowed the development of the fruit, and this has led to worry among the peasants, who are apprehensive that this may mean a hard winter. I see no signs of this, but nothing I say is given any credence, for I am a foreigner. I believe there will be a fine harvest and that the yield of the orchards will be bountiful, and so I shall plan. I will preserve as much of the surplus as I can, through drying or sealing in honey, and store this against leaner times.

One colt-foal died soon after birth, and his dam with him, but otherwise all mares have delivered sound foals-six fillies and five colts. Livius has another nine mares in foal and I will still breed him to mares until high summer. Incidentally, that catch-colt is showing promise, and I would recommend not gelding him quite yet; he may still be a good sire for smallish, strenghty horses suitable for travelers if not soldiers. I will select the most promising yearling colts and send three of them to Aachen to the Royal Stables, as you told me to do. I think the dark bay and the tall sorrel would be welcome additions to Karl-lo-Magne’s stud. For the third, I am inclined to send the chestnut, although he isn’t as broad as the other two, he is tallest of the three, and that should make him useful to the King’s enduring search for bigger horses.

I am going to authorize the villagers of Sant’ Trinitas to cut more trees; that will allow them to till more land as well as undertake to provide their own barrels. I have already given permission to Vulfoald to establish a cooperage, so that his village may prosper more than it has done. I hope you will concur with this decision, for Vulfoald is suspicious enough of all we do without reason—if you give him one, he will be truculent beyond anything he has been thus far.

My next report will be at the end of July, unless there is some disruption that demands a more immediate decision.

Rorthger

Post Scriptum to Atta Olivia Clemens,

I rely upon you to give this to my master when he arrives in Roma. I hope you are thriving and that Niklos Aulirios is well. And I thank you for your enduring friendship, both for me and the Magnatus, which has never wavered through so many, many years.

Chapter Six

F
IVE DAYS AFTER THEY LEFT
L
ECCO
, the travelers reached Bobbio; the monastery was a hive of activity, and the town that stood around it also thrummed with industry, all this in spite of sodden July heat that made for an enervating atmosphere. Rakoczy, astride his grey, was at the head of their train as they entered the town shortly after the end of None, when the town would ordinarily be resting; preparations for the coming festival kept the workers busy through the heat of the day and the Little Hour of Sext, striving to be ready by sundown. Beside the Magnatus, Einshere rode in preoccupied silence, his attention on some inner disturbance that had increasingly demanded his concentration. In the plausterum, Gynethe Mehaut was caught up in private thoughts as well; since her first evening in the bath with Rakoczy, she had been aware of a fascination that was more than gratitude or respect. She peeked out of the cloth covering, hoping to see Bobbio as a town before they reached their destination; she wanted something new to think about.

“So,” Rakoczy said as he turned off the road leading to the monastery onto a broad street paved with stones in the old Roman fashion, although the houses showed fine fronts and new construction. “It is just as well that I have secured a house for the night. The monks are in the midst of celebrating the Feast of Santa Maria Fructens; we would not be welcome inside their walls.”

“You mean they would be drunk,” said Sulpicius, doing his best to sound worldly.

“Among other things,” said Rakoczy, and pointed to a street where a number of tall houses stood, their fronts blank but for wooden plaques that indicated their function.

“Do you mean there might be fighting?” asked Anshelm, as if he would welcome a brawl.

“It’s possible,” said Rakoczy. “It’s happened before.”

“Where are we going?” Notrold was surly and spoiling for an argument.

“To a house I mentioned.” Rakoczy pointed ahead. “I sent a messenger ahead, ten days ago, to make arrangements. It is the House of Tullius.”

“Just after we arrived at Lake Como?” Anshelm sounded surprised. “Did you know then when we would be here? Did you send your messenger with such certainty?”

“I have traveled much in my life,” said Rakoczy. “I thought it prudent to leave nothing to chance.”

“Do you truly expect the house to he waiting for you?’ asked Theubert, staring around him skeptically. “These houses are fine.”

“I am a Magnatus and I am traveling at the behest of Great Karl,” Rakoczy reminded him. “Who can deny me with such bona fides?”

“As if that matters in Bobbio,” said Notrold.

“I have paid for the house already,” Rakoczy said, keeping his voice level, “and received a letter of accommodation. It will be sufficient.”

“More fool you, then,” said Notrold.

They drew in as a group of tanners went by, carts laden with hides stinking in the heat. There were two young children amid the tanners, apprentices most likely, their hands already darkened with the work for which they were being trained.

“They’re as rank as a battlefield,” said Einshere, the stench penetrating his reverie. “What kind of man is content to tan hides all his life?”

“The man born to it,” said Usuard, and added, “Without patronage, all men follow their fathers, or God.” He looked at Rakoczy. “How many of those tanners could find a patron?”

“Some may become religious,” said Rakoczy quietly, and started his grey forward. “The house we seek has brass shutters and a Virgin over the door.”

“I’ll watch,” said Sulpicius, making a show of watching for the house.

At the next curve of the street they came upon the house they were seeking. Rakoczy dismounted and pulled the bell-chain, waiting for the mansionarius to answer his summons; the man who came to the side-door was an angular man in a dull-green tunica with a border of keys in brown. He folded his arms. “My master is not here.”

“I am Magnatus Hiernom Rakoczy, bound from Franksland to Roma on the business of Karl-lo-Magne. I have a letter from your master Tullius, with his sigil, that will permit me and those with me to enter this house as his guests. I will produce the letter if you require it.” He indicated the collar he wore. “This should be recognizable to you. You will have a copy of it so that it may be identified.”

The mansionarius scowled. “You weren’t expected for two more days—after the Feast of Santa Maria Fructens. How is it you come today?” His accent was comprehensible, but just odd enough to be difficult to follow, a more liquid version of the Franks’ tongue, and pronounced more softly, with emphases on syllables that sounded wrong to the soldiers.

“We made good time through the mountains, with the weather so fine and our horses rested. It is good to be in so fine a town as Bobbio,” said Rakoczy, shifting his speech to match the cadences of the mansionarius; he took a step back. “Are our chambers ready?”

“I think most of them are, for which you can thank the buticularius,” said the mansionarius. “The others can be made ready by Vespers, the chambers for the soldiers.” He moved to lift the bolt from the main door. “The stables are at the rear of the courtyard.”

“Is there someone who will arrange for the paddock? Before Vespers?” Rakoczy asked as the big, metal-fronted doors swung open. “Go in, Einshere.”

“Very well,” said Einshere, and signaled to the others to follow him.

The courtyard was similar to those of Franksland, but with more flowering plants and a fountain splashing into a marble pool that had been part of the original Roman building seven hundred years ago. The second story had been added when the fortifications were put in place, and the third floor on the east and south side of the house was less than a century old.

“What does Tullius do?” Notrold asked as he went through the gate. “He must be wealthy to live like a landed Potente in this town. This is as fine as any Illustre’s house in Franksland.” In spite of himself, he was impressed by what he saw.

“He trades in spices and dyes; he supplies them to the monastery here and to the Pope, so he keeps a house in Roma, where he has gone just at present,” said the mansionarius still in the Bobbio dialect; the men accompanying Rakoczy barely understood him.

“A good line of work for a merchant; there are always those who want spices and dyes, and they are costly,” said Usuard; he had been paying attention to the travelers on the road and had begun to understand about the success of the various merchants they had encountered.

“That he is, a good trader,” said the mansionarius. He clapped his hands, and half-a-dozen slaves swarmed forward, some to take the horses, some to remove the crates and chests from the mules, some to offer cups of honied wine to the travelers.

“Are you the buticularius?” Rakoczy asked as he handed his reins and his lead to the slave waiting for them.

“No. He is out, arranging for our master’s donation to the evening’s celebration,” said the mansionarius. “I am his deputy while he is gone.”

“Santa Maria Fructens,” Rakoczy said, remembering the old pagan celebrations in honor of Pomona and Ceres that used to be held at this time of year.

“The monks will revel tonight,” said the mansionarius.

“Just as well that we arrived when we did. I have seen this Feast in Pavia. After sunset we might not have been able to get through the streets,” said Anshelm, dropping down from his big-shouldered copper-dun. “You know what they say about the licentiousness of monks. Santa Maria Fructens is the worst of all the Feasts for wildness.” He grinned suddenly.