Night Blooming (54 page)

“Do you want to attend it?” Einshere asked; he sounded worn to the bone, and he dismounted as if his bones were made of iron.

Anshelm chuckled. “It’s been a long, hard ride, even with the days at Lecco. I would like to go out onto the street for a while, after dark.”

“So would I,” said Theubert. “I’ve heard about these occasions, but I have never seen one for myself. The monks at Sant’ Cyricus didn’t have such celebrations.”

“And I suppose the rest of you would like to, as well?” Einshere seemed faintly disgusted. “If you must go, go together, and return before Vigil is over, or face reprimands and a beating.” Belatedly he glanced at Rakoczy. “If you don’t mind, Magnatus.”

“You are leader of these men. It is for you to decide,” Rakoczy answered as he prepared to help Gynethe Mehaut get out of the plausterum. “But I will not allow you to beat them—not for such an infraction.” Any response this might have aroused was stopped by Gynethe Mehaut’s emergence from the plausterum.

The mansionarius gasped at the sight of her and made a sign of protection. He could not bring himself to speak, but the panic in his eyes was apparent. All the slaves in the courtyard had gone still, waiting to see what the mansionarius would do; two of them turned away and refused to look at her once they realized what she was; the others watched in amazement.

“Yes,” said Rakoczy calmly. “Well may you stare. This is a most remarkable woman, summoned by the Pope himself to Roma.” He regarded the mansionarius with a steady gaze. “She must be taken to her rooms at once, and a woman sent to attend upon her. She is an honored lay-Sorra, known for her piety; you are fortunate to have her stop here.”

The mansionarius goggled, nodded, and clapped his hands fussily to keep the slaves working. “On this day, of all days, to have a tertiary nun in this house,” he muttered, and reverenced Gynethe Mehaut. “If you, and the Magnatus, will come with me?”

Gynethe Mehaut had donned a wide-brimmed hat made of straw that Rakoczy had given her at Lecco, and so the sunlight did not fall directly on her pale skin, but it could not stop the relentless heat; sweat stood out on her face, its shine making her look even paler than she was. “I would be glad of a glass of lemon-water,” she said, her voice low.

“Lemon-water for the lady,” the mansionarius shouted, then said to Rakoczy in a lower voice, “Our master took his wife and her servants with him to Roma. I can ask only one attire-woman to look after her.”

“That will suffice,” said Rakoczy. “So long as you quarter her as she deserves.”

“In the eldest daughter’s apartments,” said the mansionarius. “I didn’t understand who would use it, but the daughter married two years ago and the chambers are empty, but as suitable as any in the house.” His nervous chatter was louder as he led Rakoczy and Gynethe Mehaut into the main hall. “We will take the stairs, and I’ll show you the way. Your quarters are next to hers, if this is satisfactory?” He gave Rakoczy no opportunity to speak as he began his climb up the stairs. “I didn’t know what to expect, you see. I had your name and a copy of your sigil—well, Enzius, the buticularius, did, but he showed it to me—but I hadn’t been told about the lady. This can be hard, because of the festival.” He tried to keep his voice low, resorting to a dramatic whisper. “If anyone should find out about her…”

“The slaves know, and so I will assume all of Bobbio will by sunset,” said Rakoczy, no ire in his tone. “It is, as you say, unfortunate that you keep festival today, but so long as we remain within doors, I can see no reason for her to encounter any—”

“Misfortune,” said the mansionarius. “Yes. But many will be out, including your soldiers, and it may be difficult to keep—”

Rakoczy reached up and laid his hand on the mansionarius’ shoulder. “It is an easy matter to have everyone come and go through the rear door, and keep the front bolted. Also, I will order one of the soldiers to remain here to stand guard.”

“A sensible plan,” said the mansionarius in a skeptical voice. “It may be enough. If it isn’t, you cannot put the responsibility on me.”

“No; the responsibility is mine,” Rakoczy soothed him. “You know your town better than I, but certainly a guard will help.”

“I must ask Enzius when he returns,” said the mansionarius, babbling on in an effort to conceal his nervousness. “But if he is willing to have it so, I am content. It is fitting that your lady be kept safe.” He pointed across the corridor. “That door opens on the lady’s rooms. She will find all in order, I believe, and may repose her confidence in the slaves and servants; Tullius has us trained and maintains us handsomely, each with a cubiculum of our own and two new camisae a year, and brod-equins every two years. We are fed from his table, and we are allowed to take food to our families on Sunday. He even gives us coins at the Nativity, to put by for our families. I, myself, have three brothers and two sisters to—” He paused, abashed at having said so much. “Well. Enough of that. Why should you want to know about Tullius’ household? I will send the attire-woman up to her shortly.” He moved quickly, as if to get beyond any influence that Gynethe Mehaut might have about her person. “Your door is the next one along, Magnatus. I am going down to supervise prandium. Your soldiers must surely be hungry, and you will want—”

Rakoczy held up his hand. “Thank you, but I dine alone and will fend for myself; if you will send food up to Gynethe Mehaut, she need not disturb the household again, and those who are permitted to join the festivities may do so without a thought to our arrival.”

The mansionarius nodded repeatedly. “Just as well. Yes. Just as well. They wouldn’t like having to remain indoors tonight, I will tell you.” He watched while she entered the apartments assigned to her, then pulled open the door to Rakoczy’s quarters. “There is a door between the … you understand it was assumed the woman with you … It can be locked.”

“I will take care of it,” said Rakoczy. “She will keep to herself.”

“Not that any man would try anything with such a … but it would be safer for her if she … Tell her to keep the bolt shot on her door,” he finally managed to get out before he bolted from the room, leaving Rakoczy to take stock of it.

There was a small couch in the Moorish fashion, and next to it, a chest where a stand of oil-lamps was placed beneath a simple crucifix. An X-shaped chair completed the furnishings. In the bedchamber, a large, enclosed bed was opposite the shuttered windows, its hangings turning the bed into a closet. The only other item in the room was a night-stool with a chamber-pot set under it. Rakoczy flung back the bed-curtains, considering having a nap, but stopped almost as soon as he had considered it. If he could not find a sleeping woman to visit in dreams tonight, he would have to rest on a chest of his native earth or be exhausted in the morning. Next he made a careful inspection of the walls and finally discovered a peep-hole next to the bed; he would have to be careful what he did in that room, for it could all be reported to Tullius or the Abbott of Bobbio. He left the bedroom and went back to the withdrawing room, going to the inner door between his apartments and Gynethe Mehaut’s. For a long moment he leaned against the iron-strapped wood, wanting to sort out his complicated response to her, and decided he could not delay speaking with her. He tapped on the door.

She came to answer the summons. “Thank the Saints,” she said. “I am afraid to move in this place. Look at it!” There were Moorish hangings behind a divan, and two chests and a table on which was a small casket banded in brass. Five branches of oil-lamps hung from the beams. On the wall, four paintings depicted the life of Santa Felicita, with emphasis on her Martyr-sons. The bedroom beyond was equally grand, with shining silk around the bed, the nearest side pulled back to reveal the tall bed with three large pillows and two woolen coverlets atop the puffy mattress. Gynethe Mehaut flung out her hand, staring at the lavish display. “I don’t know if I should sleep in such a bed.”

“Of course you should,” said Rakoczy. “Your penitence won’t be compromised by a down-filled mattress. Not for two nights.”

“But these rooms,” she said, trying to mask her astonishment. “My hands … If I should bleed on the bed, it would be a shameful thing.”

“Then I will wrap your palms with double-bands.” Rakoczy was able not to laugh at this concern, no matter how unlikely he thought it was.

“I still can’t bring myself to wear the stollae or gonellae you gave me; I don’t want to bleed on them, either,” she said. “Especially the silken ones.”

“They are meant to be worn, Gynethe Mehaut, just as these pieces of furniture are meant to be used.” He did his best to reassure her. “Enjoy this while you can. It may be the finest bed you will ever sleep in.”

“No; this is very grand, but it isn’t the finest bed: that was at Lake Como,” said Gynethe Mehaut, her ivory skin suffusing with color. “No bed is sweeter than that one. I slept as if in Heaven, and dreamed of such wonderful things.”

Rakoczy tried to respond without revealing the intense desire that surged within him. “You do me honor, Gynethe Mehaut.” He tried to persuade himself that he was glad that he had not gone to her in her sleep, to visit her dreams.

“You guarded me from all evil, and you made my comfort your business. You did not scorn the way I am forced to live, and you never once made me feel—” She sighed unsteadily. “This is more luxurious, but it isn’t as comfortable.”

“If you will rest, you will find it is—” He was interrupted by an outbreak of cursing and a loud clatter as if something had fallen on the stairs. “Well, you may want to wait until your chest is brought to you, but it is so hot, you will be better for a nap.”

She shook her head. “I’m afraid to lie down. The coverlets are so white.”

“The coverlet on my bed is black wool. Would you like me to bring it in to you and take yours away?” Rakoczy offered, sensing her emotions, her ambivalence and her isolation; he wanted to take her in his arms to reassure her, but knew that would only stimulate his need of her, so he contented himself with taking her hand in his.

“No,” she said, then, “Yes. Will you?” She smiled eagerly. “Yes. That will be very good, if you will do it.”

“Perhaps I should wait until your prandium is brought up to you, and the attire-woman waits upon you. That way no one will see the change and remark upon it.” He led her toward the divans. “In the meantime, you can recline on these.”

“But they are Moorish,” she protested.

“They are as much old Roman as they are Moorish; the old Romans reclined on such couches to dine. They had luxurious habits of their own; the Moors are not alone in that,” Rakoczy said. “Think of the Caesars when you lie on one, and you’ll feel much more appropriate.”

She managed a bit of a smile. “I will.” For a long moment she was silent, her hand lying in his. “I don’t know what else to ask. You have anticipated everything.”

“Anything you like,” he said, and let her hand go.

“Perhaps later this evening you would spend a short while with me? I cannot go into the streets, but the festival should be exciting.” Her expression was wistful.

“Frenzied, more likely,” he said with a quick, wry smile. “When monks celebrate, they are apt to be fractious.”

Gynethe Mehaut shook her head. “And the town? Will the people be fractious as well?”

“It’s possible,” said Rakoczy, who expected frenetic activity in the streets once Vespers ended. “Just as well to be indoors on such a night.”

“Did you know that they would be keeping festival when we arrived?” There was a doubtful look in her eyes. “Do you want to celebrate with the people?”

“I know that Bobbio keeps the Feast of Santa Maria Fructens in July, but I don’t know their calendar,” said Rakoczy candidly.

“Surely it is the Pope’s calendar,” said Gynethe Mehaut.

“More or less. The Feasts are often kept at different times in various regions, as suits the way that their crops increase.” Rakoczy shrugged. “I hoped the Feast was over; it was in Lecco. They keep it much more quietly.”

“Was that when the priest went and blessed the trees and the villagers drank most of the old wine?” she asked. “I don’t remember any Feast like it in Franksland.”

“There are Midsummer Feasts, but they’re not quite the same,” said Rakoczy, wanting to add that the old gods of the Italian peninsula were unlike those of the Franks, but he decided not to add to her confusion. As much as he wanted to linger with her, he knew he ought to leave her before the attire-woman came and found them together, for this would create gossip that would follow them all the way to Roma, making Gynethe Mehaut’s circumstances even more precarious than they already were.

“No, they’re not,” she said, and turned away, as if aware of his thoughts. “When the attire-woman is gone, will you come again?”

“After you have eaten, I will,” he said, and went to the door. “Make sure you set the bolt in place. The attire-woman will notice.”

“Are you certain?” She shook her head. “Yes, you are. We are constantly watched, you and I, and I cannot hide what I am.

“Then we must continue to be careful in all we do.”

By sundown the whole town was alive with monks reveling. Most of them had fasted from dawn to sunset and drunk half-a-dozen chalices of wine after Vespers. Bawdy songs echoed in the streets as groups of men staggered from chapel to chapel to drink Communion wine and dance to the tunes on a bladder-pipe.

Gynethe Mehaut admitted Rakoczy to her rooms when the night was fully dark and Tullius’ house was very quiet, most of the servants and half of the slaves having gone into the streets with the Frankish soldiers—all but Einshere, who was keeping guard over the rear gate—to roister until Matins. She had donned her lightest stolla, one of white linen washed with oil of lavender and decorated with embroidery of leaves at the neck and sleeves. One of the shutters was open, and Gynethe explained at once, a bit shamefacedly, “I hoped for a breeze, to cool the room. It is still hot, and I wanted some air.”

“And you wanted to hear the merrymaking,” said Rakoczy, smiling gently at her.

“Yes,” she admitted. “Although I should be praying.”