Night Pilgrims

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “No, it isn’t. But Vidame Bonnefiles has been complaining about our present arrangement, and some of the company are taking his part. He says that you might be taking us on the wrong road.” He shook his head ferociously. “He’s a fool, and of an envious character. No wonder he was sent on this pilgrimage.”

  “Would you like me to change places with him for tonight?” he offered, thinking being at the rear of the train would provide him an opportunity to watch for the two men following them. “You have Firouz to guide you, who knows the way better than I. I’ll trade places with the Vidame.”

  Sieur Horembaud’s breath hissed through his clenched teeth. “I would not like it at all—Vidame Bonnefiles would see it as capitulation, and who knows what he might demand next?—but it would probably be wise, for it would silence the rest in the company’s complaints.” He glared at the head of the line of animals. “If this were a company of soldiers and not pilgrims, problems like this would not arise. But since they are pilgrims…” He made an exasperated gesture as words failed him.

  “Since they are, I will trade places with Vidame Bonnefiles,” said Sandjer’min. “For tonight.”

  “Good. Frater Anteus warned me that Vidame Bonnefiles was displeased, and was stirring up trouble. I want to stop it while it can be done with little rancor.” He brought his mare up to Sandjer’min. “What do you think of this concession?”

  “It is more a question of what you think; you are the leader of this group and they have placed themselves in your hands,” said Sandjer’min at his most neutral.

  “If I can make Bonnefiles agree that this is not a permanent change…”

  As Sieur Horembaud’s voice trailed off, Sandjer’min added, “And when another pilgrim—Micheu de Saunte-Foi, or Nicholas Howe, perhaps—demands the same right, what then?”

  “Then I will explain why it will slow us down,” said Sieur Horembaud, enjoying his own cleverness. “Everyone wants to make good time, with good reason. I can ensure it that we don’t travel as far tonight as we have previously, and in such a way that the cause for it belongs to Vidame Bonnefiles.” He crossed himself suddenly, and said, “Saunt Michael between me and the Devil.”

  Sandjer’min studied Sieur Horembaud’s face. “Amen: but why do you ask this?”

  “Of Saunt Michael? Because I seek to do ill to a fellow-pilgrim, and knowing that, I am ashamed. To make it appear that any delay is Vidame Bonnefiles’ fault is to bear false witness through omission, and a sin I will have to Confess. If this were the army, no one would be troubled by—” He rubbed his beard. “I cannot always abide by what I have vowed to do, and that will count against me when we Confess at the conclusion of the pilgrimage, when we are once again in Alexandria.”

  Sandjer’min took a little time to think about the implications of such a Confession, and finally said, “Do you think Vidame Bonnefiles will admit to vanity and envy when he offers his Confession upon your return?”

  “I don’t know.” His expression was glum.

  “Then do as you think would benefit the greatest number of your company, and apologize to those you must disappoint,” Sandjer’min suggested.

  “I have already given Vidame Bonnefiles my Word, so tonight he will occupy your place and you his.” He straightened in the saddle. “Tomorrow night, you shall be back in your position.” He tapped his mare with his heel and was about to turn away, but stopped. “How is Torquil?”

  “Much the same.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” said Sieur Horembaud, looking as if he would like to say something else. “I will want a report when we make our midnight stop,” and before Sandjer’min could respond, he was off to the head of the caravan-line.

  * * *

  Text of a letter from Chretien Ormerusge, Hospitaller clerk, in Alexandria, to Frater Wilges, Hieronymite monk at Saunt-Huon monastery in Genova, written in Church Latin on vellum and delivered two months after it was written.

  To the most devoted Frater Wilges, keeper of pilgrimages for Saunt-Huon’s, this report from Chretien Ormerusge, Hospitaller clerk in Alexandria, on this, the 10th day of May in the Lord’s Year 1225.

  Most pious Frater Wilges,

  Allow me to present to you this record of pilgrimages originating in and returning to Alexandria in the last six months, as is our custom:

  Since the Nativity, two bands of pilgrims have set out, both seeking the Chapel of the Holy Grail. The first had twenty-nine pilgrims led by Templar Drapier Teodosio da Rovigo, all men of military backgrounds, all pledged to bring the Holy Grail to the Pope for the Glory of the Church and Christendom; two reports from well up the Nile have marked their progress; as of the end of March, they had reached Edfu and had secured passage across the desert in the company of a large band of traders. The second was a smaller and more mixed group, led by Sieur Horembaud du Langnor, whose company includes merchants, various penitents, and three women. The last report on his progress indicates that four more have joined the pilgrims at Sese’metkra, a village far to the south where the Coptic Christians have a monastery, two of whom are monks from that monastery. The report does not indicate if they plan to cross the Nubian Desert or keep to the river all the way to the Land of the Grail; the river is longer but not so hot as the desert becomes under the summer sun.

  Of those pilgrimages returning, seven have thus far reached us in Alexandria: the first, which set out in the middle of August, a company of thirty-six, mostly clerics, of whom eighteen have returned, two of whom are now blind; they reached the foothills of the Ethiopian Highlands and were advised to turn back by priests at the Chapel of the Book, and did so. The second company set out at the start of September, twenty-six in number, planning to travel on the Nile the whole of the distance, and turned back at the Third Cataract when they lost three boats to hippopotami attack, which reduced their number by eleven; the survivors traveled on foot as far as Anibe, where two of their number succumbed to Nile Fever, and a third was taken by slavers. The third company, of forty-one, left two days after the second, and was set upon by bandits, and only nine of the company were able to return; we have received ransom demands for two of those who were captured. The fourth company, of twenty-nine, left at the middle of the month, composed of tertiary monks and four novices; aside from the report received in February which placed them at the Gold Camp in the Nubian Desert, only two have returned, both novices, and neither has yet been able to speak of what happened to the company; for now we remember them in our prayers. The fifth company, thirty-eight in number, merchants and military men, set out at the end of September, reached the Land of the Holy Grail in the mountains of Ethiopia, and have reported to us on the amazing churches they saw being built into the ground; four of their number succumbed to sun and heat, two were the victims of snakebite, and another four stayed behind to join in the building of the great Church of Michael the Archangel. The sixth company, of forty-five, composed of twenty-nine men, and sixteen women, all penitents from Roman Church lands, left Alexandria in the third week of September, and returned only three days ago, so there is no account yet on what befell ten of the men and twelve of the women who are not with them, although there is some reason to think they were set upon by slavers; the ones who have returned are presently in the care of our physicians, and will make their reports in the next ten days. The seventh company, a group of thirty men of diverse heritage and place, set out in early October, and returned two months ago, having agreed to abandon their pilgrimage at Esna, where nine of their company were taken by bandits to be sold or to be held for ransom; three from that company have declared their intention to join a larger company of pilgrims and make a second attempt at reaching the Land of the Holy Grail, and are prepared to wait until companies of pilgrims are again making ready to travel southward.

  Submitted with such letters and reports as are entrusted to us for family, business, and religious associates, which you are mandated to deliver to their intended recipients.

  Chretien Ormerusge


  Hospitaller clerk

  3

  Margrethe was shaking and she seemed unaware of the tears on her face. Very slowly and carefully she laid Torquil’s hand by his side and reached out to take the bandage from his eyes. She crossed herself and wished there were a priest among the company to say the prayers for the dead over him, thinking as she did that he had wasted from hunger as much as he had been consumed by putrescent fever. But, she reminded herself, Torquil was an excommunicant, and could not receive such rites, a realization that made the gentle susurrus of Sorer Imogen’s prayers from the other side of their pavillion seem oddly futile, a call to something that could not hear her over the wind. It was mid-morning and the pilgrims’ camp was quiet; aside from the three servants watching the animals, Ruthier, and Sandjer’min, the others were inside their tents, trying to sleep in the rising heat. Margrethe occupied herself trying to decide how to inform Sandjer’min of Torquil’s death when he returned from his tending to one of the horses’ swollen pastern joint. She was worried that she felt so little emotion, and decided in a remote way that it was because she was being spared the distress of this loss by her Good Angel. “Such a lonely place to die,” she whispered, remembering the vista of trackless sand interrupted by escarpments and outcropping rocks that she had seen at dawn, and again prayed that Torquil would not have to lie in such utter desolation.

  The company of pilgrims was still a day away from the Gold Camp, according to Firouz; their tents were set up in the lee of a shoulder of rocks carved into fantastical shapes by the wind, which crooned over them now, continuing its sculpting. Crossing herself a second time, Margrethe got to her feet and went to the thin mattress that was laid down for Sandjer’min’s use on a chest of about the same size; it was half-way between dawn and noon, and she wanted to rest before the company began what obsequies they could for Torquil. Just touching the rough cloth of the mattress brought Sandjer’min vividly to mind, almost as if he himself were there to comfort her. To her surprise, she found herself rapidly drifting into sleep; she made herself sit up, remembering that there was no one but herself to honor Torquil by keeping vigil; she continued to tremble as she tried to pray, listening to the rising wind and the hum of the flying sand.

  A short while later, the tent-flap was raised and Sandjer’min stepped inside, taking care to close the flap against the drifting sand moved along by the wind. The first thing that caught his attention was that there was only one person breathing inside the tent. A swift glance in Torquil’s direction told him that the former Templar had succumbed at last to the putrescence of his burns; he swung about and saw Margrethe seated on his bed, her face dazed and her eyes filled with banked despair. Wanting to provide her solace, he went to her, taking her hands. “My poor Bondame,” he said quietly.

  She stared up at him, her silent tears returning. “He just … left. There was no struggle.”

  “How long ago?” Sandjer’min asked; he released her hands and went to Torquil’s pallet, leaned down and touched his neck. “Not very long, I gather?”

  “No, not very,” she said as if she were speaking of something in the distant past. “You were expecting it, I know.”

  “Yes: his flesh is still warm, and no longer from fever, or the heat of the day. The limbs are not yet rigid, so he cannot have been dead for more than the time it takes to recite a dozen Psalms,” he said, and sat next to her on the hard mattress; he felt her shivering, and he took her hands again and this time he did not release them. “You cared for him well, Margrethe; now you will grieve for him.”

  “Grieve? He is not kith or kin of mine. I have only known him since we left Alexandria and most of the time he was … hurt.”

  “All the more reason to mourn,” Sandjer’min told her. “To aid him and not to know him can bring terrible sorrow.” A shadow passed over his face as he said this; she glimpsed something in it that made her tremble.

  “I wonder if I did aid him; he died, didn’t he?” She gave a very little shake to her head. “I wanted to—to see him healed; I did, but he was so…”

  “He was too much injured to live,” said Sandjer’min, the kindness of his manner lessening the brusqueness of his words.

  “And yet you tried to save him, as well,” she said as if trying to solve a riddle. “And you are not overcome by his death; you show no signs of sorrow.” This last was nearly an accusation; she modified its impact. “Or you do not seem to.”

  He took a moment to respond; when he spoke it was in a soft, steady voice that had no trace of fear in it. “I have seen death often in my travels, in many forms, and it no longer is a failure to me that we should die; everything, everyone dies. In time all of us will be gone.” He deliberately blocked the wave of memories of wars and famines and plagues and disasters that welled within him—for now, he put his whole attention on Margrethe. “I feel his death in the way those of my blood do.”

  His last remark struck her as strange, but he was a foreigner, she reminded herself. “You treated him. Didn’t you intend to make him whole again?” Her voice was steady, but the stuporous shine was still in her eyes.

  “I doubt anyone could have done that; I did what I could to lessen his agony, and you made him as comfortable as he could be. Had he recovered, he would probably have not been truly restored to health, and there would have been scars and some blindness.” He had taken such a stance before, not just in this century, he added to himself; in all his years at the Temple of Imhotep he had never seen anyone, no matter how carefully tended, survive such burns as Torquil’s.

  She nodded, barely moving her head. “When we first set out from Alexandria,” she said, “he was so fair and gallant. He had a laugh that rang. But the sun burned him for many days, and he … wilted. At first he said the red would pass because he had been burned before, but as the days went on, he became worse and worse—”

  “It was reckless to ignore such burns, especially in one with light-colored hair and such fair skin—the burns go more deeply into the flesh than for those with darker skins.” He wanted to offer her consolation, and felt his way cautiously; he could see that she was appalled by the finality of Torquil’s death and was searching for some way to accept it without adding to the guilt that possessed her.

  “God could have worked a miracle, even for an excommunicated Templar.” Her fingers tightened on his, and she started to weep once more, just as silently as before. “Sorer Imogen prayed for him and is still praying. Surely God heard her, and refused her supplication.”

  There were a number of responses he considered and rejected, and finally said simply, “According to your priests, God has His reasons,” though he had long since ceased to believe in deities of any kind, even his own forgotten gods.

  “If he hadn’t been excommunicated, he might be called a martyr, to remain on pilgrimage in spite of his burns,” she muttered, thinking aloud.

  “Surely God will judge Torquil mercifully; that’s what your religion teaches you, isn’t it? that God is merciful?”

  She went on as if she had not heard him. “Unless Torquil is bound to Hell, where the reasons are the Devil’s, and the judgment is cruel. Only Our Lord is proof against the Devil.” She pulled at the broad cuff of her blue habit’s sleeve. “If only we had a priest to pray for him, a real priest, not a defrocked one,” she said, shuddering more noticeably.

  “Sorer Imogen might pray for him now he’s dead, don’t you think?” Sandjer’min ventured, seeking to ease Margrethe’s heartache.

  Margrethe shrugged. “She might, but…” She made herself sit straighter. “It’s so sad that he came all this way, and suffered so much, and wasn’t able to reach the Chapel of the Holy Grail so that he could return to the Templars and his Church. The Devil has taken him for his own, and there is nothing more to do.” She leaned against his shoulder. “You want to console me, and it is good of you, but you don’t understand our religion and the purpose of a pilgrimage. For Torquil, he was sworn to pray at the Chapel of the Holy Grail, but he
’s dead and his excommunication cannot be lifted now. He is not restored to Grace. He must face eternal fire for … for…” The enormity of Torquil’s expiration and its implications overwhelmed her, leaving her feeling as if she were the one abandoned in the desert, lost and unsought. In desperation, and before she could stop herself, she turned to Sandjer’min and pressed her mouth to his, sinking into the kiss as if into salvation itself.

  Her passion, as unexpected as it was intense, awakened his, and he loosened her hands so that he could more fully embrace her, drawing her more closely against him; her pulse was loud in his ears. He could sense her need and her desolation in every lineament of her presence; both sharpened his loneliness, and desire stirred his esurience. “Margrethe,” he murmured as she pulled back from him.

  Her cheeks were reddened and she could not bring herself to look at him; she whispered as if she feared immediate discovery and castigation. “I didn’t mean to … Not with Torquil … You must be disgusted…”

  He took her face in his hands and turned her toward him, his voice low yet deeply melodic. “You do not disgust me, Bondame, you honor me.” When he saw how startled she was to hear this, he kissed her, very lightly, on the lips. “I mean you no harm.”

  “Then you should chide me,” she said somberly. “I deserve your rebuke for what I’ve done, and in the presence of the dead.”

  “Why? You want to do homage to life; I understand that.” He held her eyes with his own.

  “But this is not the way. I would have to Confess for a week, and beg my bread for a month if we were to do anything so grotesque as…”

  “Nothing you could ask from me, or that I can offer you, would deserve such harsh condemnation,” he said even as he released her. “I mean you no disrespect, I mean Torquil no dishonor.”

  “I must maintain my virtue. I cannot want you,” she said in an undervoice, as if reciting an unwelcome lesson. “I should not have … Pilgrims must not tempt others to sin, and I have almost done so. I must beg you to forgive me.”