Night Blooming (71 page)

Alcuin,

Bishop and Abbott, Sant’ Martin at Tours,

Ferrieres, Cormery, Sens, Sant’ Loup,

Flavigny, and Sant’ Josse

by my own hand and under seal

Chapter Thirteen

V
ULFOALD STOOD WITH HIS ARMS CROSSED
and his expression set in stern lines; before him three villagers grasped Waifar, forcing him down onto his knees, his arms held behind him with knotted thongs, a trail of blood running down his face from an ugly bruise above his left eye. “So,” he said as he glowered at the captive. “You weren’t content to rape and kill one of our women—you must try for two.”

Waifar spat out a tooth and stared defiantly at Vulfoald; he muttered something in the patois of his own village, words that were unintelligible to Vulfoald and his people, although his intent was plain. Finally he glowered. “They’re both wanton. The first sought me out. The second was … She lured me,” he said at last. “It is
her
doing!”

No women or girls were among those gathered in front of the village well, all of them having been sent to their houses, although a few pale faces could be seen in the narrow doorways, listening.

The largest captor gave Waifar a sharp jab in the abdomen, grinning with satisfaction at the painful grunt this elicited; he smiled as Vulfoald signaled his approval. “Say nothing against our women,” he recommended, holding Waifar more tightly. “Else I’ll do worse to you.”

“She tempted me,” Waifar muttered.

“She was milking goats,” said one of the villagers, disgusted.

“She
sought
me!” Waifar insisted.

“This is a lie. We have heard her testimony, and we have seen her injuries. She said how you knocked her over and tried to take her maidenhead by force, how you struck her with your hands and tried to choke her. The proof is on her face, and her neck, and shoulders. You held a knife to her throat, and she has the wounds to prove it; she was spared defilement when she hit you on your head with her pail. She lost all the milk, but preserved herself, as the nuns have said she must. She swore this was true—and that you were the one who attempted to violate her—before the altar at Santa Julitta, the very day it happened. The Sorrae heard her and found her truthful.” He motioned to his nephews. “Bring me my skinning knives. There is work to do.”

“I am not the one who hurt her, if she is hurt,” said Waifar, his voice rising. He huffed as another sharp blow went into his belly.

“Summon her,” said Vulfoald. “Have her point this man out as the assaulter. We shall have the right to us before we kill him.”

A boy of seven or eight whooped and ran off to one of the huts, shouting “Bleide, Bleide, come out!”

There was a long moment of silence, and then a young woman with a badly bruised countenance that was just turning from purple to green and yellow, with a number of half-healed nicks on her neck and jaw and a clump of hair pulled from her head, came painfully out of her family’s hut and walked slowly toward the well. She went up to Waifar, stared at him for several heartbeats, then screamed and kicked at him, catching him on the shoulder and the ribs.

“This is the man?” Vulfoald asked.

“Yes,” she said, her face growing red with fury. “Yes!”

“And you swear before God and on the honor of Great Karl that he forced you?” Vulfoald pursued.

“I swear. May my eyes rot in my skull if I speak lies,” she said, and kicked Waifar one last time, then turned away and walked back toward her family’s house.

“So,” said Vulfoald. “Does anyone doubt Bleide?” He looked around for any possible protest, expecting none. “Very well. We are all agreed this man must pay.”

“Shouldn’t we turn him over to the monks at Sant’ Cyricus?” asked one young man known to have weak eyes, and therefore destined for the monastery to serve the Fratri.

“What would they do? They have cells where they could keep him, but nothing more than that; they cannot mete out punishment, and they cannot give him escort to the King’s Court. They can only imprison him, and if his comrades come, they would give him up to them. Monks have no reason to fight the brigands.” Vulfoald let this sink in, and then added, “The disgrace is upon us and our village. It is for us to make him answer. Where are my knives?”

“We may have to appear before the King’s Potente to—” one of the men began and fell silent under Vulfoald’s ferocious gaze.

“No doubt there will be questions about what we do; we must expect it. The monks, at least, will need to be told at Confession, and they may have to inform the Magnatus. We will answer anyone when they come. But we must not allow this disgrace to remain, or we will be unworthy of any aid from the King or any hope of Heaven.” He pointed at Waifar. “You killed the woman Ratrame after you ravished her. For that alone you deserve death. But you attempted another such act, and that has put you beyond all redemption in this world and the next.” He looked up as his nephews approached, carrying his two skinning knives. “Hone them for me. Do it carefully.”

Waifar muttered another curse and glared up at Vulfoald. “You will be made a slave for this. They will make all your women their whores.”

“Better a slave than a Majore who failed his people,” said Vulfoald.

There were murmurs of agreement from the villagers, and one of the older men called out, “Let me make the first cut: Ratrame was my daughter.”

“You may cut, Gottmar, but not the first time; when the time comes, you may be avenged on him,” said Vulfoald, and turned slowly to face every man, one after the other, fixing them each with a hard stare. “Now, I will act for all the village.”

A few men shouted their disappointment, but most agreed with Vulfoald’s decision. “Not too quickly,” one of the men recommended. “Let him know what he has done.”

“Our women suffered, and so shall he,” said Vulfoald, and motioned to the men holding Waifar. “Tie him to a beam. Hands and feet. Where we slaughter the goats.” He saw Waifar blanch. “You deserve nothing better. If it could be done, I would see you had worse.”

Waifar cursed, and tried to kick; one of his captors pulled his bound arms up behind him until he screamed, and then he said, “Try that again, and we will put a cord around your neck, just tight enough to keep you docile.”

“Urthan,” Vulfoald admonished him. “Don’t let him trick you. He may try to have you kill him by accident, so he will spare himself the fruits of his crimes.”

“No rope around the neck, then,” said Urthan. He maneuvered his knee into the small of Waifar’s back, bending the outlaw forward so that his face was almost in the dirt. “It will be as you say, Majore.”

Vulfoald’s nephews continued to work the whetstones over the knives, the one holding the heavier, longer blade making the iron ring as he stropped the stone along its edge. “See you give a good edge,” Vulfoald encouraged them.

“You will die for this!” Waifar shouted. “The Magnatus will order you hanged.”

“What will it matter to you, if you are dead already?” said Vulfoald.

“The Magnatus took me into his house,” Waifar reminded the villagers.

“And you repaid him with treachery,” said Vulfoald. “It is known everywhere in his fiscs. You have no call upon him, either for obligation or kinship. The Magnatus may even set aside the law in our favor.” He raised his hands. “When you are dead we will put your body into the midden. It may never be discovered. It is where you belong.”

“You will all die because of this,” Waifar shrieked, becoming more desperate with every breath.

“Only after you have died,” Vulfoald reminded him, glancing up as his older nephew brought him his larger knife. He took the knife and held it up. “Make him ready,” he said with finality.

Waifar struggled, twisting in the grasp of the men who held him and spitting curses at them all; he wriggled and kicked as he was dragged upright, but in spite of all his efforts and his shouting, he was relentlessly dragged to the slaughtering beam near the goat pen, where, in spite of all his efforts to prevent it, his wrists were bound to the beam, and the beam hoisted up until he dangled a short distance off the ground. Waifar kicked and squirmed, but his feet were confined and tied to tall stakes driven into the earth beneath the frame. The men pressed more closely around him, leaving only enough room for Vulfoald to work.

“Bring salt,” Vulfoald ordered. “And mix it with dung.”

Three of the younger men went off to do the Majore’s bidding, one of them shouting, “He will pay!”

Slowly and deliberately, Vulfoald cut the sleeve of Waifar’s camisa, then, just as deliberately, sliced off a long, thin sliver of flesh and muscle from Waifar’s right forearm; Waifar screeched, straining against his bonds, blood running down to his shoulder and over his chest.

The men of the village cheered even as Waifar panted oaths.

“Now the other arm,” said Vulfoald, and repeated his actions on the left, leaving Waifar keening and increasingly pale. “Put the salt and dung on his wounds and leave him until the next Hour sounds.” He motioned to the men of the village. “Go about your work and come back when you hear the bells.”

The men obeyed even as Vulfoald’s younger nephew gave him his smaller, sharper knife. “It is as sharp as I can make it,” he said as if expecting criticism.

Vulfoald tested the blade with his thumb. “It will do,” he said, and put his hand on the boy’s head. “Pay attention to this. It is important for you to know what happens to those who transgress.”

The boy turned shocked eyes on his uncle. “Will they punish us for this?”

“They may. But that means nothing,” said Vulfoald. “If we don’t hold him to account, we will forfeit our right to Heaven and the protection of our own Saints.”

“And the old gods—what of them?” The boy lowered his head.

“They are our Saints; if you call them that, the Fratri won’t mind. If you call them gods, the Fratri will be angry.” Vulfoald looked up as three men went up to Waifar with a tub of dung mixed with salt. He motioned to them to do their task.

Waifar whimpered and fainted as the noxious mess was smeared on his open wounds. The three men stepped back and moved the tub a short distance away.

“What are you going to do now, Uncle?” asked his nephew.

“I will go attend to the ewes with new lambs,” he answered. “And then I shall help notch the ears of the goats.” It was a simple means of identification and one the villagers had used for centuries; the chore was one all villagers did every spring.

“When None sounds?” The boy shifted from one foot to the other, suddenly uneasy.

“Then we will have two more slices from that criminal, and he will have time to consider his errors.” Vulfoald spoke bluntly and without emotion.

The boy nodded and bolted for the creamery, where the new cheeses waited for turning.

Vulfoald walked over to Waifar. “I will return at None. Think of your sins while I am gone.”

Through the warm mid-day, the village kept to the routines of spring, making preparations for the second market of the year as well as going about the daily chores; the women kept to their houses, only occasionally looking out to the man on the slaughter-frame. By the time None sounded, the villagers had completed most of the work they expected to do in that time. The men put aside their tools and went to the well, gathering around Vulfoald as he returned from the goat-pen, wiping his shears on his sleeve. No one spoke as Vulfoald took his larger knife and approached Waifar, who began to scream, a steady, high sound coming out with every breath.

“You brought this on yourself,” said Vulfoald, and sliced open the hanging man’s femoralia, exposing his thigh. This time it was more difficult to cut the muscle from the front of his thigh; Waifar shook with pain before he lost consciousness. Vulfoald took his time on the second leg, tossing the flesh to the midden when he had severed it completely. “Salt and dung. Do it.”

At Vespers, Gottmar castrated Waifar and fed his penis and testicles to the hogs; by morning, the outlaw was dead. The villagers cut him down and shoved his body into the midden, pushing it deep into the steaming heart of the dung-heap; only then did the women and girls emerge from the houses, and they went to the midden, as if to assure themselves that Waifar was gone, Bleide emptied the slops onto Waifar’s exposed foot and then burst into furious tears. The villagers left her alone, knowing she was tainted and undeserving of consolation.

For the next four days the villagers went on as usual: the pigs were driven into the forest to forage for acorns; the goats and sheep were turned out into the fallow fields; the four ponies were harnessed to sledges to pull cut logs from the forest into the village where the sawyers could ready them for market. The women baked, made cheese, and worked their looms. Everything was as it had been, and the villagers were as content as they had ever been. Then, on the fifth day, the Magnatus Rakoczy rode into the village with his foreign servant right behind him. Most of the villagers came into the center of the village reluctantly; only Vulfoald greeted him, and with as little respect as he dared, hardly reverencing him at all and standing defiantly before the well.

“God give you good day, Vulfoald,” said Rakoczy. He was in a severely cut gonelle of black wool with a high neck and a broad, black leather girdle. His femoralia and tibialia were black as well. His silver collar was held with a tibia in the shape of his sigil, the eclipse.

“Why are you in this village?” the Majore demanded.

Rakoczy remained on his big-shouldered grey gelding. “Surely you know the reason: I have been told that this village has broken the law. I am required to find out the truth of it. I have to hear all sides of the events before I submit my report to the Emperor’s Court.” He seemed very tired as he spoke.

“What law do you mean?” Vulfoald asked.

“The law of Great Karl, Emperor of the Franks and Longobards, that forbids unofficial Courts of Law to be held, and unofficial sentences to be carried out. It has been declaimed everywhere in Franksland.” Rakoczy considered the men standing in the square in front of the well. “It is said that you condemned and killed the brigand Waifar.”