“No doubt you are correct. I will join you at the pen as soon as I have taken down the tent and packed it. If I can obtain a little blood without risk, I will. Otherwise, I will wait.” Sandjer’min made a gesture of acquiescence. “Thank you. I do appreciate your aid. To start with, you may choose the ass from which I will take blood. A dark-coated one is preferable, so the blood will be less noticeable on the coat.”
“I’ll select a strong one for you, and be sure it is among those that are remounts for tonight,” said Ruthier, relieved that Sandjer’min had decided to feed. Then something occurred to him. “And I will let it be known that you will be treating the ass with the bothersome ear, so there will be no questions about your presence in the pen.”
“Who is keeping watch with you?” Sandjer’min asked. “The duty has changed every day.”
“Except for me,” said Ruthier. “Yes, it has.”
“Then who is guarding the animals this morning?” He paused, then added, “How will you distract them?”
“Olu’we and Baccomeo have that duty,” Ruthier answered, glanced through the lifted flap to the refulgent sunlight. “We are allowed whips to keep the animals in check. I may think of some way to use mine.”
“To keep the animals from straying; yes, I know. You may also use them to gather small game in one place—not that there is much small game to hunt in this stretch of the desert.” Sandjer’min looked out at the shattering brilliance, then averted his eyes, for even with his native earth in the soles of his solers and in the nearby chest that served him for a bed, the force of the sun was painful for him. “Be alert.”
“Is this company still being followed?” Much as it troubled him to think they might be, he wanted to know rather than guess.
“We are. Two men, one of them is Islamic, for he stops to pray five times a day. I saw him from the low ridge we crossed at day’s end yesterday, as we were beginning our travel. His companion does not pray, but waits for the other man. They are about a league behind us, and keeping pace with us.”
“Wouldn’t that be the case whether they were following us or not?”
“If they hadn’t made a point of staying at the limit of sight, I would agree, but as it is, I must assume they are watching us, since they are at such pains to keep their distance.” Speaking of the two men gave him a sense of malaise. “They would be easily seen if they came closer, but at a league, they are largely beyond our sight; they can follow the prints of our animals, unless the wind is high enough to carry them away quickly.”
“And you saw them this morning?”
“As we made camp. They were on the crest of the northerly dune, but dropped down onto the far side as soon as we began to raise our tents. The one man was doing his dawn prayers just before they moved out of sight.” He got up from the mat and went to the large jar of water so that he could refill the bowl.
“Might they be travelers bound for the Gold Camp who do not want to travel with unknown persons? They may have some private purpose for keeping their distance.” He had thought of all these possibilities, and hoped that one of them would persuade Sandjer’min that he was being overly circumspect.
Sandjer’min answered promptly, “No, I don’t think so. If they were, they would be likely to make an effort to catch up with us so that they could have the safety of our numbers in their journey, but they have made every effort to stay behind us.”
“If one of them follows Islam, perhaps he isn’t eager to travel with Christian pilgrims?” Ruthier suggested.
“Perhaps.” He paused thoughtfully. “They have a horse and two camels.”
Ruthier nodded. “Yes, they might seek to join us, if they didn’t wish to avoid Christians. That isn’t very wise: we joined this company, and neither of us is Christian,” he said, and stepped out of the tent, shielding his eyes with his hand. Wading through the sand that rose to his ankles, he passed through the cluster of tents to the improvised enclosure where the asses, camels, and horses were penned. He stopped at the sacks of fodder and picked up one of the whips lying beside the sacks, then looked for the two guards. As he approached the nearer one, Olu’we raised his hand in greeting; he did not raise his voice for fear of disturbing the sleep of the company of pilgrims. When he was near enough to be heard speaking quietly, Ruthier said in Coptic, “How are they, Olu’we?”
“They’re brushed and they’ve been fed. We’ll have to water them in a while, but so far, all is well.” Olu’we lowered his voice. “A pity we haven’t any shade.”
“For all of us,” Ruthier agreed. “We can put up the sail if the wind gets worse—give them some protection.”
Olu’we held up his open hands in prayer. “May we be spared wind.”
“Any sign of trouble?” Ruthier asked.
“Baccomeo killed a scorpion a little while ago, but nothing more than that. I think I heard a jackal just after sunrise, but I’m not certain.”
“Who takes the afternoon watch?” In their days of travel, they had yet to find the most useful combination of guards.
“Almeric and Ifar,” said Olu’we with a frown.
“A pair not to your liking?” Ruthier ventured.
“Almeric does well enough, but Ifar claims disinterest; he doesn’t know much about camels and asses. Nor very much about horses. He won’t wield a brush or a rake, and he is afraid to lift a hoof.” Olu’we shrugged. “Vitalis doesn’t know that much, either, but he does his best, and he doesn’t complain.”
“Then perhaps tomorrow, you should be on duty when Vitalis is and Ifar can do his watch with someone else, for the benefit of all.” Ruthier stretched and stared out at the vast expanse of sand; in the distance, three columns of swirling sand undulated on the wind, like ghosts of long-vanished dancers, or djinns. He turned back to Olu’we. “I’ll walk the edge of the pen, and then you may walk the tents.”
Olu’we placed his hands over his heart and bowed enough to show respect. “As you command.”
Ruthier made his way around the posts and ropes that marked the pen, taking time to examine the conditions of the posts and ropes for signs of wear or deep abrasions, as well as the behavior of the animals inside. One of the asses—the dark one he had mentioned to Sandjer’min—kept flicking one ear, and shaking his head; even if he did not need attention for his ear, Sandjer’min would have a look at him before they moved on in the evening. Pausing to take stock of their current location, Ruthier could not keep from looking back the way they had come the previous night, wondering if he might see the two men, two camels, and the horse that Sandjer’min had been able to make out; after a short while, he conceded to himself that vampires could see better than ghouls, especially in the dark. The air was dry and carried a faint odor of dust and dung; the sand was humming as it skimmed along on the low wind.
Watching Ruthier approaching, Baccomeo rose from where he had been seated next to a heavy post, saying, “Nothing has happened. There is no sign of other travelers. I will walk patrol again shortly.”
“No need; I’ll attend to it. You can use the time to clean tack.” The suggestion was given sedately enough, but Baccomeo knew it was a necessary chore and one he was expected to do.
“Certainly.” He looked toward the stack of goods lying under a taut tarpaulin.
Satisfied that he had done what he could, Ruthier nodded toward the make-shift pen. “The animals are resting and there is just enough wind to keep flies away.”
“Most of them are dozing, as you see,” said Baccomeo, doing his best to impress upon Ruthier his alert observation.
“That’s probably a good thing, under the circumstances,” said Ruthier, and resumed his walk along the fence.
The day was uneventful; the animals were watered before Olu’we and Baccomeo were relieved by Almeric and Ifar, who spent the afternoon idling at the edge of the pen while Ruthier patrolled the tents. Aside from hearing Sorer Imogen praying, there was no indication that all the occupants were not asleep. By the time afternoon faded to d
usk, the animals had been fed and watered and the pilgrims were breaking camp, their tents taken down, packed, and loaded while Florien and Salvatore took their turn at making a quick meal to sustain the pilgrims through the night. It required only a little while for the fire to flare and the cauldron to be brought, along with a flat metal griddle.
Ruthier went back into the group of tents, now coming down and folded into great canvass sacks, he called out to Sandjer’min for the benefit of the pilgrims, “One of the asses is having trouble with his ear. You’ll need to have a look at it.”
“What kind of trouble?” He stopped his work to stand up.
“He flicks his ear and tosses his head.”
“Ah. I will need to get into the red-lacquer chest. I have something that should ease the ass’ discomfort.” He stopped gathering his goods together and went to free the chest from its netting. Removing a jar of ointment, he said, “Which ass is suffering?”
“One of the dark ones. He is going onto the remount line tonight.” He noticed that three of the pilgrims had stopped listening to their exchange, and was pleased.
“A good precaution. An insect has probably laid eggs in his ear,” said Sandjer’min while he returned the red-lacquer chest to its netting and set it with the rest of his belongings to be loaded onto camels and asses.
“Are you ready, my master?” Ruthier asked as he watched Sandjer’min finish with his chests; he could see that some of the pilgrims were listening. “He’s one of the larger asses, about twelve hands.”
“I’ll look for him.” He followed Ruthier to the large pen, noticing that Salvatore was already putting pack-saddles and halters on the asses and saddling the horses; Sandjer’min stopped and glanced at Ruthier. “Now may not be a good time, after all. I’ll try again at midnight when we stop. We can hope the wind drops before then. Show me the ass with the ear-trouble, and I’ll remember him.”
Ruthier frowned. “I can volunteer to help Salvatore, and you can have a little time to—”
“I think not, unless there is no one to observe what I do,” said Sandjer’min. “Best to treat the ear for now.”
“Very well, but if you can…” said Ruthier, and made his way through the animals to the dark-haired ass who was still shaking his head. “Shall I get you a rush-lamp?”
Although Sandjer’min did not need the lamp to see, he said, “It would be wise.” He did a quick perusal of his surroundings, and allowed himself a little hope; so far no one he was aware of was watching him.
From the sacks and chests piled next to the tarpaulin-covered tack, among the containers of their animals’ feed, Micheu de Saunte-Foi paused in his loading of the pack-camels’ saddles and settled into the deepening shadows to watch what Sandjer’min was doing, his gaze speculative. He frowned as the sunset faded into night.
Ruthier trudged off toward Salvatore, who had half a dozen rush-lamps hanging from a rope strung between the two tallest poles. “My master is treating the dark mule with ear problems with one of his medicaments, and needs a lamp. Can you spare one?” He spoke in the Venezian dialect. “The night closes in quickly in these climes.”
“That it does.” Salvatore was adjusting the girth on Sieur Horembaud’s frisky mare; he stepped back, and said, “Take one. The poor ass needs something to ease his discomfort.” He watched as the girth seemed to loosen when the mare let out her breath. With a sudden, triumphant grin, he reached forward and tightened the girth. “There!”
“My master will saddle Melech when he’s through with the ass,” said Ruthier as he claimed the rush-light and went back through the misassorted herd.
“It is as I thought,” Sandjer’min said. “I’ve cleaned out the eggs and I’ve put the ointment in; it has something to dull the pain, and that will relieve him. I’ve also taken about a cup of blood from him, enough to hold me for a day or two. Thank you for distracting Salvatore.” He held out the jar. “You should probably keep this; the site of the infestation will need to be treated twice a day for the next three days.”
Ruthier took the jar and slipped it into the large leather wallet on his belt. “Is there anything else?”
“Not just now. I want to see how Torquil is doing, and then I’ll saddle Melech and prepare to begin our night’s journey.” He nodded to Ruthier and left the crowd of animals, going toward the place where the pilgrims were beginning to line up in their order of travel to make the final packing of animals easier and more rapid; an odor of cooking came from the campfire, where Sorer Imogen led the pilgrims in prayer. He saw that his chests and sacks were already on one of the pack-camels holding Torquil’s sling, and that Bondame Margrethe stood next to it, attempting to get Torquil to take a little food. “How is he doing?”
She looked up at Sandjer’min, her face showing her distress, and something more disturbing; she breathed a little faster and struggled to answer his question. “He’s hardly taken anything. I managed to get some water into him, and a little of the syrup of poppies, but he won’t eat any of the flatbread, or the mashed figs you prepared this afternoon.”
“Then don’t force him. Water is more important than food just now. Did you try the salt-fish? He may need that because of the heat during the day. It depletes the body of salt.”
“I haven’t, but I will,” she said, little hope in her tone; she took a sliver of fish from the small tray she held, and laid it across Torquil’s lips; nothing happened.
“Leave it there for now, and give him a little more water; he may yet swallow.”
“I’ll do it,” she said, doing her best to pour a few drops of water over the fish, but though Torquil swallowed the water, he would not open his lips for the fish.
“Wait a bit and try again,” he recommended, and suddenly he felt the force of her despair; she had resigned herself to Torquil’s death, and was waiting for him to give up his body’s fight. “He is exhausted, and not eating is making him worse.”
The shelter-flap rose, snapping, and then luffed like an ill-tautened sail, and the sling fluttered; both Sandjer’min and Margrethe stared at it, exchanging uneasy glances until the wind dropped as suddenly as it had risen, and the flap settled back in place.
“If you think it will make a difference for him to have so little,” she said as if in a dream. “He does not want it, and I cannot make him want it.” Again she turned her pale eyes on his. “I feel the life drain from him, and I can do nothing.” It was a plea for approval, for support.
“You’re doing all that can be done, Bondame,” he said to her with all the gentleness he could summon. “There isn’t much hope, but you can be assured that you have not failed in your care for him.”
“Then you think he’ll die, too,” she said with guilty relief.
“I’m afraid so, as everything must. But that is not cause to neglect him.” He touched her shoulder, lightly, for reassurance.
“I’ll try to watch him more closely tonight,” she promised. “You’re right: he shouldn’t be neglected.”
“Are all your things ready?” Sandjer’min asked, not wanting to say more about Torquil’s worsening condition.
“Yes, I think so. Sorer Imogen hasn’t finished her prayers yet, and I don’t think she has closed and strapped her chest, but Heneri and I are ready to leave as soon as the order is given.” She folded her hands and said quietly, “Taking care of Torquil, knowing it is futile without a miracle, I have come to wish I could believe our travels will deliver my husband from his affliction, but the farther we go, the less I have hope that it will.” As soon as she had spoken, she wished she had not: revealing such thoughts to a foreigner was against her pilgrimage vows.
“Will you turn back?” Sandjer’min asked.
The kindness in his voice compelled her to answer him. “No. Sorer Imogen would never agree, and when we returned to Creisse, she would most certainly denounce me for failing in our mission; she thinks me lax enough already for not praying whenever I can. She is expected to report on Heneri as well, but she has sa
id she will not speak against him for the good of the family; she has no such compunction with me, for I have not produced a child for Creisse, and have only my vows to Dagoberht to bind me to his House. She has warned me that she will appeal to the Bishop to have me sent home to England if I fail in this pilgrimage, and the Bishop will probably do so.” She turned to meet Sandjer’min’s dark eyes, her anxiety returning. “Say nothing to Frater Anteus, will you.”
“If that is your wish,” he assured her.
“I don’t plan to Confess my doubts.” This was a bit more defiant, and her gaze slid away from his.
“I would say nothing in any case, since I am not of your religion.” He said this dismissively, as if it were of little importance, yet he was aware of Margrethe’s precarious circumstances.
“But you were in a Coptic monastery when we came upon you,” she said, implying a question she had wanted to ask since she had first met him.
“I was there to study and to share information with the monks in the scriptorium; Aba’yam encouraged me,” he said with an attempt at tranquility. “I’ll tell you more when we camp again; for now, I have duties to attend to.”
“Yes.” She blushed, and wondered why she had so forgotten her duty as to speak so candidly with him. “I’ll do my best to get Torquil to take some food.”
“I have no doubt of it, and I thank you for your diligence,” he said, and walked away from the sling and the increasing activity to the gathered animals, where he found Melech, gave him a cursory brushing, then saddled and bridled him before leading him out to the right-hand head of the pilgrims’ train.
A short while later, Sieur Horembaud rode up, his expression harried. “Vidame Bonnefiles is unhappy in his position, and asks to trade with you. He says it is demeaning to be led by a foreigner who isn’t Christian.”
“Is that what you want?” Sandjer’min inquired calmly.
Night Pilgrims Page 18
