Night Blooming (7 page)

“It doesn’t bother me, my master,” said Rorthger. “I find it comforting.”

“Just as well,” Rakoczy murmured. “Hand me the stiff brush, will you? Mars has mud in his coat.”

“So do they all,” said Rorthger. “Are you planning to stay in tonight?”

“Probably,” said Rakoczy. “I don’t want to have to hunt livestock—these people have none to spare, and perhaps they keep them in pens with guards.”

“You will need sustenance soon,” Rorthger said carefully.

“Yes,” said Rakoczy, continuing to brush the mule. “I know.”

T
EXT OF A DISPATCH FROM
P
ATRE
L
UPUS OF
S
ANT’
B
ERTIN,
C
OELONI,
P
RAXTA, AND
S
ATTO
R
IVA TO
C
OMES
H
ARTMUT OF
S
PEYER.

To the most illustrious Comes Hartmut, in my duty to Karl-lo-Magne and my devotion to the Church, I send this report on the current state of affairs in my district, in the sure knowledge that it will serve both the King and the Pope to do this.

I have been assigned to these four villages, as Church records reveal, and I do my utmost to see to the souls of all those who live in these villages. In humility and obedience, I have prepared this account for you:

Coeloni has recently been visited by a pestilence that brings cough and fever. We have petitioned Christ to succor those who have taken ill, and most have recovered. The pestilence has not yet spread to the other villages, and to that end, we offer up thanks for the preservation Our Lord has given to us.

In Sant’ Bertin, the peasant Adalung who has prospered in recent years, has died suddenly and terribly. His widow has taken a man into her house and she has said she must have him there to protect him from Adalung’s kin, who have sworn to claim Adalung’s goods, lands, and chattel in spite of anything she may do. They say that Adalung died by her hand, and that vengeance is required of them. If it is true that she brought about his death, she should suffer for it, and the family gain all they seek, but if she is innocent, they defame her by their claims. I earnestly entreat you to put this matter in the hands of Bishop Fridugis for judgment.

Also there was a sheep born with what appeared to be a second pair of eyes and a part of a nose beside its proper head. The animal was left in the forest for the cats and wolves to fight over, for no one was willing to bring curses on their knives and axes by killing anything so unnatural. The ewe that brought forth this dreadful creature has been butchered and her meat given to the slaves. I have prayed for the end of these horrible occurrences, and I have sworn to rid the village of any such monstrosity should one be found again.

In Praxta an escort of missi dominici and soldiers passed two days along with the Magnatus they were taking to Sant’ Martin at Tours. They were generous with the people, and sponsored a feast in honor of the Apostles, which was a grand occasion, but did not become too festive, so that the Apostles would not be shamed by what transpired.

Also at Praxta, there was a mad dog, and the men clubbed it to death, but only after it had bitten four people of the village, including, I regret to tell you, my wife. All have been laid to rest at the side of the road with crosses to mark them, so that other mad animals will be warned away. I have kept watch for my wife, to be sure that her ghost does not wander, unsaved, but I have not seen her, so I thank Our Savior for preserving her and bearing her to Paradise.

In Satto Riva the orchards have been struck with a blight, so that the apples form but do not increase, leaving only small, hard lumps hanging on the trees. Some wish to cut down the orchards and burn the wood, but others believe that the bad fruit should be removed and new grafts made. No final decision has been made, but with famine only a year behind us, I cannot think that anyone would decide to take down trees. It is only the apples that have been stricken: lemons, peaches, and berries continue to thrive, and so the specter of hunger does not loom over us as it did two years ago. I have asked the monks of Sant’ Luchas to pray for us, and the Abbott has said that they would, for their orchards have also seen apples fail them this year.

At Harmut the shepherd with the largest flocks has been accused of using his daughters as his wife. This has angered his wife’s family, for they fear he will not honor her in age, and will send her back to them while he has his daughters to pleasure him and give him sons, which his wife has failed to do. We are taught that this is wrong, but in these villages, it is not so uncommon that the people understand why a man might do this. I cannot bring him to the Bishop because the villagers would rise against the Church if I did. So I must pray for his deliverance and the delivery of his wife, who may yet suffer. Perhaps if I find husbands for the daughters, all this will pass and the village will not be shamed by his actions. I have urged him to Confess to God all he has done, but he sees no error in the urges of his flesh, for he says that he is guarding himself against lust—without his daughters to assuage him he might be tempted to impose on women who are not entitled to his protection. He says that Karlus himself keeps his daughters with him, and all the world accepts it. Nothing I say can change his view of that. I know many in the village share his sentiments, and so I cannot confront him, or ask for more concessions to the expectations of the Church.

Submitted in duty on this day, the Feast of Sant’ Evurtius, Bishop of Orleanus, for your consideration and your contemplation, by

Patre Lupus,

witnessed by Fratre Boddulf of Sant’ Luchas.

Chapter Three

S
ANT’
M
ARTIN’S DOMINATED
T
OURS
, although it was a short distance from the town itself, connected by a road that bristled with impromptu businesses, like a traders’ carnival that had set down for a short while, though it had been there for decades. People traveled between the monastery and the town in ox-drawn carts, on donkeys, horses, mules, and on foot, many of them with their trades on their backs, some hoping for sanctuary, a few preying on all the rest. The abbey was a sprawling cluster of buildings surrounded by high walls that enclosed all the amenities of a small town: dormitories; dining halls; stables; barns; pigstys; a goat shed; a sheepfold; a brewery; a creamery, a bakery; a mill; an oil-press; a winepress; a tannery; a grainery; a smithy; a workshop for turners and coopers; a weavery; two bathhouses; rabbit coops; chicken coops; beehives; an infirmary; a hostel for travelers and another for refugees seeking sanctuary; four latrines; a laundry; a school; a library; an herb garden; a vegetable garden; a night garden; four ambulatories; a muniment hall; a scriptorium; a petitioners’ court; and a collegium where manuscripts and maps were copied, studied, and stored; and rising above it all, the Cathedral of Sant’ Martin itself, a strong, impressive structure with clerestory alabaster windows, a lantern that rose four stories, and chapels huddled around it like its nursing young.

Otfrid led the way through the town toward the monastery, avoiding the two big markets where many peasants and merchants gathered with their animals and families to trade or, more rarely, sell their produce and goods. The excitement today was a bit feverish, as if the weather had infected everyone; it was a hot, overcast afternoon at the end of August, hazy and strength-sapping. The city and the road buzzed and stank, the shimmering air like water about to boil.

“That is the swine-market,” Otfrid explained unnecessarily, pointing off to his right. “The cattle-market is just beyond.”

“Away from the central wells, I see,” said Rakoczy, approving of that precaution.

“The best wells are inside the monastery walls,” said Fratre Angelomus, a bit smugly. “They are pure and flow all year around. They are the blessing of Sant’ Martin himself.”

“That’s why the monastery was built there,” said Rakoczy, recalling how the Church had come to control wells and streams as part of its vigorous expansion; this served a double purpose, for it made the monasteries relatively safe from siege, as well as taking over many sites of traditional pagan worship. “A wise choice.” His smile was not entirely pleasant, for his face was reddened by his prolonged exposure to the sun; he longed for a quiet, dark cell where he could recover from his reaction to sunlight that not even his native earth in the soles of his heeled Persian boots and padding his saddle could entirely counteract, particularly in these bright days of the waning summer.

“It was the inspiration of the founder that put Sant’ Martin’s where it is,” said Fratre Angelomus, offended by Rakoczy’s too-worldly explanation.

“That was my meaning. Do you think the wells weren’t inspiring?” Rakoczy said without a trace of umbrage. “Wouldn’t God rather have His monastery be as safe as possible? And wouldn’t those wells make the monastery the safe haven it was intended to be?”

Fratre Angelomus scowled. “Don’t you accept the doctrine of divine inspiration?”

“I would not presume to comprehend the purpose of God,” said Rakoczy.

“At least you are willing to admit that,” said the monk.

“There is no reason to wrangle,” said Otfrid. During their travels, he had grown weary of Fratre Angelomus’ constant challenging of Rakoczy; it was not for them to interrogate the foreigner, only to deliver him to Alcuin, no matter what the monk thought. At first their disputes had been mildly entertaining, but now, after two months of daily exchanges, Otfrid was heartily jaded. “Our journey is almost over.” They had gone out of the town and were now on the road to the abbey, a busy thoroughfare lined with stalls filled with livestock. Among these stalls were other, more permanent buildings: inns, taverns, and brothels.

Fratre Angelomus managed to smile. “For which we must thank God and the Will of Great Karl.”

“Amen,” said Rakoczy, aware that if he failed to endorse Fratre Angelomus’ faith, he would increase the suspicion the monk already harbored toward him.

Rotgaud pointed toward the massive gates of Sant’ Martin’s, now standing open, guarded by monks holding thick wooden staves that could be used as weapons as well as walking sticks. “There is the place we must leave you, for armed men cannot enter the monastery precincts.” He motioned to the soldiers with them. “We turn back here.”

The others drew rein, almost surprised that their wayfaring was over and that they had at last come to the end of their time together. Two of the men regarded Otfrid with the respect his position demanded, but the other two did not. “We are now without work,” Adalgis complained just loudly enough to be heard over the babble from the street and the market beyond, his young face marked by dust and ambition. “We have served you well, haven’t we?”

Rakoczy, who had been expecting this, opened his wallet and pulled out twelve silver coins. “Let this hold you for a while, so that you may find suitable advancement in your next employment, and not be compelled to accept the employ of anyone with a few coins to give you. Find a lord worthy of your service.” It was more than generous, and all the soldiers knew it. Before Adalgis could snatch the money, Rotgaud motioned to them to receive the silver humbly; he took the first place in line for the largesse. “You have all done all you were asked to do, and more,” Rakoczy went on. “I thank you.”

“Very well,” said Adalgis, who had never had so much money at one time in his life. “You have used us honorably, and we are obliged to you.”

“I am not your lord, nor am I apt to be in future,” said Rakoczy as he passed out the coins. “I am a foreigner here at the behest of Karlus the King. You have ensured that I may do as he bade me.” This was the correct response, and all of them knew it.

The four soldiers reverenced Rakoczy, then pulled their mounts away from the gates of Sant’ Martin’s, urging their horses through the market throng toward the largest of the taverns.

“They may not have their coins by morning, between drink and dice and women,” said Otfrid. “But you did well by them.”

Rakoczy shrugged. “They deserved my gratitude, yet I have few means to express it: as a stranger without lands or honors to bestow, I cannot offer much more than coins for their efforts, which I have done.”

“You gave coins to peasants,” Fratre Angelomus said, as if to cheapen Rakoczy’s gift to the soldiers.

“They worked when I bade them. What more could I do?” He inclined his head toward his manservant. “I also pay him.”

Fratre Angelomus shook his head. “Not what a man of rank would do.”

There was a subtle shift in Rakoczy’s stance, a different light in his dark eyes; his compelling gaze rested on the monk. “Perhaps,” he allowed in a gentle voice that carried more authority than a shout would have; Fratre Angelomus moved back, masking his reaction by dismounting and tugging experimentally on the billets beneath the wide skirt of his saddle.

“If you tell the warder you have arrived, you will be taken to your assigned quarters,” said Otfrid. “Fratre Angelomus and I will find proper lodging in the city. In the morning we leave for Aachen, to report on our errand.”

“Then I will thank you now,” said Rakoczy, paying no heed to the monk. “You have done well, and so I will inform Alcuin.”

“You offer us no money,” said Fratre Angelomus, his features expressing his scorn more than his tone. “Yet you paid the soldiers lavishly.”

“Of course: it would disgrace Karl-lo-Magne to pay you, who are his sworn men, and I have no wish to do that It would be a most unfortunate beginning to my stay here.” Rakoczy turned to regard Fratre Angelomus. “I will give a donation to Sant’ Martin in your name, if that would please you.”

“You will do as you must,” said Fratre Angelomus, busying himself with the girths of his saddle before remounting.

“And you, good Fratre, will do as you must, as well,” said Rakoczy, nodding to Rorthger and indicating the gates. “We part here, good missi. My thanks to you for bringing me here; I wish you a swift and safe journey to Aachen.”