Night Blooming

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Just as well. The animals are worn out by the heat,” said Rakoczy.

  “We should arrive by late afternoon,” said Fratre Angelomus, with an emphasis that showed he was trying to summon up confidence in his statement. “If nothing impedes our progress.”

  “The animals aren’t the only ones needing food and drink. We could do with a meal, as well,” said the leader of their soldiers. “It has been a long morning.”

  “It is summer,” said Rakoczy, his half-smile enigmatic. “The days are long and the nights are short.”

  “And the Angels watch over us. Amen,” said Fratre Angelomus, clearly on edge as they moved deeper into the trees. He knew how dangerous the forests could be, and summer was slightly less risky than winter, if only because the animals of the forest were not as hungry.

  Beyond the little glen, the road was narrowing, now hardly more than a goat-track; the trees crowded in around them, and the sounds of birds became unnaturally loud. The horses and mules continued on steadily, making their way at the same pace as they had traveled since dawn, but now the men riding and leading them chafed at their slow progress, as if afraid of interlopers, or the many denizens of the forest.

  “There may be bison ahead,” said one of the soldiers. “There’s dung on the trail, and we’re not prepared for hunting them.”

  “Then let us be wary. They often rest through the heat of the day. It would be unwise to surprise them,” said Otfrid. “They have charged larger groups than this one, and, as we’re not equipped to kill and dress them, it’s best to avoid them, and the elk.”

  “We’ll be careful,” said the soldier who was second to the lead.

  The shrill cry of a hawk came from beyond the treetops and was met with a flurry of activity in the undergrowth, and a badger bustled across the road a short distance ahead.

  “Out in the daylight—an ill-omen,” said Otfrid, watching the animal vanish into the undergrowth.

  The birds went silent, except for one high, piping cry of alarm.

  “How many rivers do we have to cross before we reach the inn?” asked the soldier at the rear.

  “Only four streams and a rill or two,” said Otfrid. “The widest of the rivers is bridged; the others can be forded, but one not so easily as the rest.” He glanced at the mules and the packs they carried. “It may be difficult for those creatures; the ford at Sant’ Wigbod is deep in summer, when the melting snows from the mountains feed it. Three mules. They may be a problem.”

  “How soon do we reach that ford?” Rakoczy asked, as if he were merely curious. The thought of going through running water in daylight made him feel a bit queasy, and he knew he would have to prepare himself for the ordeal. At least his soles were generously lined with his native earth, which would afford him some protection, but with the combination of sun and running water, he would be uncomfortable, although not as miserable as he had been the first time he had gone to Britannia, when he had been all but incapacitated by the combination of tide and daylight and had been ordered back to Gaul to recover.

  “We will come upon it by mid-afternoon, shortly before we arrive at the inn. It will be our last crossing today,” said Otfrid. “There are peasants nearby, and they might ferry your chests over the river on rafts if you can recompense them. They will not give their time for love of God or of Karlus.” He almost sneered. “They are lazy in summer, and may not want to be of use to us.”

  “It would be prudent to carry the chests on rafts,” said Rakoczy, knowing that water could leech the potency of his native earth contained in the chests more quickly than anything else. “I will pay them in silver or gold for their service.”

  “Pay them in any way you can,” Fratre Angelomus said forcefully. “You come on Great Karl’s order, and they must honor his summons even as you have done.”

  The lead soldier held up his hand to signal the company to halt. “A bear is nearby,” he announced, his warning punctuated by a chorus of uneasy whinnies from the horses.

  “If we make noise, that should be enough to get the animal to move off,” said Otfrid, and began to clap his dagger on the rim of his oblong shield.

  “Unless it is a sow with cubs,” said Rakoczy. “Noise is a good tool, but let us not rush. That could startle the animals we would rather not disturb.”

  There was an uneasy moment, and then two of the soldiers began to sing raucously, about the women of Italy. The others, including Fratre Angelomus, joined in. Rakoczy, who did not know the couplets, did not sing with the rest, though he was glad to hear the others. He gave added attention to the brush ahead, and was relieved to hear the crash of animals clambering through the undergrowth. He looked about, knowing that the trees provided an impenetrable barrier beyond ten strides; he saw shadows moving at the limit of visibility and identified them as a herd of elk. At another time he would have encouraged the men to hunt in order to bring meat to the table of whomever would be compelled to play host to them at the end of the day—innkeeper or local Potente—but it would take too long and be too exhausting in this heat.

  The first two streams were so shallow their water hardly rose higher than the pasterns of the horses and mules, but the one after was deep enough to be bridged; the stone pediments on either side of the stream supported heavy oaken beams with rough planking for a road surface. The little party had to cross one at a time so as not to overload the bridge.

  “They say there was a stone bridge here, in the days of the Romans, and that the Legions crossed it many times,” Otfrid informed them as Rakoczy came over to the western bank. “All of it was stone, and it arched, as the great bridges do.”

  “It certainly looks like it,” said Rakoczy, who had seen many of these bridges built, six and seven centuries ago. Now there were only cobbled-together remnants of what had been left behind, no longer the structures the Romans had made—although Karlus was known for his ambition to re-create what had been lost, and had devoted much of his time and fortune to improving the roads in his territories. “It is never easy to keep up bridges.”

  Rakoczy and his manservant were fourth and fifth over the bridge, and when they had reached the other side, Rakoczy put one hand to his brow, the last vestiges of the vertigo that seized him when crossing running water fading. “That stream is quite deep,” he observed.

  “Yes. It comes fast from the mountains,” said Otfrid. “The peasants avoid it, saying it likes drowning them.” He shrugged. “Peasants always believe such things. They pray to Christ and they pray to the gods of the fields and mountains, as if they were equal.”

  “We have tried to show them how powerful patron saints are, and how they favor those who do them honor,” said Fratre Angelomus, “but they will persist in their errors.” He pointed to a cluster of huts a short distance from the road. “You may be sure that the men who live there give as much to the forest spirits as they do to the monastery that protects them.”

  “Old ways die hard,” said Rakoczy, remembering the chalices of blood in the mountains of Spain.

  “Old ways endanger salvation,” said Fratre Angelomus austerely, crossing himself and waiting for Rakoczy to do the same, nodding his approval when Rakoczy did.

  The last of their escort came over the bridge, and they continued on. Now they had taken out small fans to keep off the swarms of flying insects that gathered around them, buzzing and eager. At first none of the party noticed that the gnats and midges and mosquitos avoided Rakoczy and his manservant, but when they did, they were filled with curiosity and alarm.

  “How do you manage it?” Otfrid asked, making no excuse for the envy in his voice. “Nothing has bitten you.”

  Rakoczy had an answer ready. “I have a preparation that keeps them away,” he told them, which was true enough, but was not the reason the pests would not bother him; those of his blood were never troubled by biting insects. “If you would like some, I’ll be honored to provide it when we leave tomorrow morning. It should protect you all day.”

  Otfrid sign
aled his acceptance by touching his palms together in a gesture of supplication. “I and my men would be grateful.”

  “Then you shall have some ointment to rub on your face and arms,” said Rakoczy, glancing at Fratre Angelomus as he spoke.

  “No,” said the monk. “I do not refuse what God sends us to test our flesh. That is our sin remembered.” He regarded the others with narrowed eyes.

  “May God send you lice, then, Fratre,” said one of the soldiers, “to add to your sanctity.”

  “Amen,” said the monk, briefly bowing his head before he took his place in their group once more.

  When they reached the ford of Sant’ Wigbod, the river was high, and the current was swift; part of the gravel bar that had marked the eastern side of the ford was gone, and two heavy guy-ropes bore mute testimony that the ford now had to be ferried across. The bank on the far side rose more steeply than the arm of the bar on this, indicating that getting back on the road once they were across would be a serious task, requiring extra effort and planning to do the task properly.

  “Find the men who tend this place, and bring them here at once,” Otfrid ordered two of the soldiers who accompanied them. “We must get over shortly, or darkness will overtake us before we reach the inn.” He pointed to the south. “There is a meadow not far from here, where they graze their goats and cattle. You should be able to find four men to aid us.”

  “Tell them they’ll have silver for their troubles,” Rakoczy added. “Silver with Karlus’ name upon it.”

  The soldiers obeyed at once, forcing their hot, tired horses to a bone-jarring trot as they sought out the men who kept their animals in this part of the forest.

  While the two soldiers were gone, Fratre Angelomus dismounted and recited the mid-afternoon prayers his calling required. The rest of the group echoed his Amen and tried to do their best to seem devout out of respect for Karlus, who insisted that all men in religious Orders be given the same respect his Potenti received. When the monk was finished, he got back on his horse and continued to wait with the rest.

  When the two soldiers returned a while later, they brought with them five roughly dressed louts whose language was a strange amalgam of Frankish and Celtic, barely comprehendible and hard on the ear.

  “They all insisted on coming,” said Rotgaud, the older of the two soldiers. “Each wants a coin.” He glanced at Rakoczy. “Well?”

  “They shall have them,” said Rakoczy, opening the leather wallet that hung from his belt and removing half-a-dozen silver coins. “Here,” he said, holding out his gloved hand with the coins shining against the black leather.

  The peasants exchanged glances, and one of them made a gesture that seemed to convey consent; two of the men went off to fetch the raft they used for ferrying while the other three began to assess the loads to be carried, taking obvious precautions to touch nothing until Otfrid signaled them it was all right to do so.

  “What do you think?” Fratre Angelomus said to Rakoczy.

  “About what?”

  “These men—do they know the worth of those coins, or are they only fascinated by their shine? Men like this”—he smiled slightly—“you could probably give them a small amount and they would be as satisfied as they would be with a larger one, so long as the silver is untarnished.”

  “I have found,” Rakoczy said with a cordiality that was belied by his enigmatic gaze, “that men who labor know the value of what they do. If they do not know the worth of their work, I should do, and give them payment commensurate with their moil, as I expect to have from these men.” He took the largest coins from his wallet and slipped them inside his glove where he could be sure of having them ready when they were needed. “I have also found that I am better served in this world if I give full value for effort.”

  Fratre Angelomus cocked his head. “Is it so,” he murmured. “Well, so long as the Church receives her due, and Karl-lo-Magne, you may do as you wish, I suppose.”

  Rakoczy said nothing more to the monk; there was a silence between them that was heavier than the heat.

  “The men are coming back,” said Rotgaud, pointing toward the peasants pulling a broad, runnered sledge behind them, a sturdy square, equal to a tall man’s height, of thick oaken planks with a lip around the edge and a place to attach a rudder. The man in the lead was red-faced and panting, his loose mantel clinging to him, darkened by sweat.

  The peasants approached the ferrying ropes, going as far out on the gravel bar as was prudent, the sun falling full upon them and a swath of the river, making it shine like polished metal. The leader signaled his fellows to begin loading the sledge. His orders, although largely incomprehensible, resulted in the packsaddles on the mules being unloaded and the crates and chests they had carried stacked on the sledge; then the laden sledge was shoved down to the edge of the river. The leader looked at Otfrid, and said, in poor Frankish, “Three of you cross, and get ready to pull the load out of the water.”

  Otfrid bristled at the effrontery of the man, but Rakoczy said, “A very good idea. My man will lead the mules across, and I’ll come after the ferry. This way we will be able to help if anything goes awry, and need not depend wholly on you to guard my goods. The Fratre can go with whichever group suits him, but it would probably be best if you, Otfrid, went with Rorthger, to supervise the retrieval of the sledge.” He coughed once and made a self-deprecating gesture. “I will do all I can to help the men handle the ferry; these are my things, and I should be responsible for them.”

  This last concession gave the missi dominici an acceptable reason to accept Rakoczy’s proposal; Otfrid nodded and signaled to Rotgaud. “You and I will go with the manservant. Adalgis and Stracholf, you stay on either side of the ferry; if it needs steadying, you are to do it. If any of the Magnatus’ chests are lost, you will be accountable. The rest can bring up the rear with Magnatus Rakoczy. Keep to the downstream side, in case any of the chests should slip into the water. I don’t want to have to chase them down the river.” He urged his horse into the water, letting her drink before using his heels to move her on across; behind him, Rorthger tugged the lead-ropes to pony the mules into the water.

  “We’re ready,” said the head of the peasants, and stepped aboard the ferry, putting the rudder in place to swing it down once the ferry was fully in the river. Beside him, two of the soldiers set their horses splashing into the current, Adalgis whooping at the relief from the heat.

  The smallest of the mules balked just before he began to swim across the deepest stretch of river; he craned his neck as high as he could and angled his ears back in disapproval of what he had to do. Rorthger clicked his tongue and tugged on the lead, and the mule finally caught up with his fellows just as Rorthger’s dun gelding began to scramble up the bank, water streaming off his now-mud-colored coat. The mules came after him, far more surefooted than the horse, and tried to shake themselves off—they succeeded only in loosening the girths of their packsaddles. Rorthger led them to the side of the road, leaving a clear path for the ferry, which was now almost at midstream, holding its course precariously as the three peasants aboard it struggled to pull it along the guy-ropes while their leader held onto the rudder for dear life and his companion held the guy-ropes steady.

  Rakoczy tapped his grey with his heels; the horse moved into the sunlight and the river behind the ferry, bringing his head up as the water rose above his chest; Rakoczy wrapped one hand around the high pommel of the saddle to keep from swaying with vertigo. He kept his hand on the reins but relied on the horse to choose the most direct crossing, for weakness overwhelmed him as he strove to maintain his seat. The pull of the current insidiously sapped his strength, his vision wobbled, and he felt his skin start to burn. Pressing his lips firmly together, he concentrated on reaching the far bank. He could feel the grey swimming, and that added to his discomfort, for even that tenuous connection to the earth was gone now. When the horse’s front hooves struck the first rise of the bank on the far side, a little of his misery a
bated.

  The peasants were busy struggling to haul the ferry out of the river and up the bank. They shouted to one another and gave terse commands; Otfrid ordered Rorthger to bring the mules to help, which Rorthger did at once, moving them into position with the ease of long experience, setting the draw-lines across the mules’ chests and starting them pulling. The sledge lurched forward, then slid up the bank, coming to a stop ten strides from the river, the peasants leaping off to unload the sledge.

  “Come on, then!” Otfrid called out to Rakoczy and the men still in the river.

  Rakoczy sighed as his horse clambered up the bank to stand next to the sledge. He did his best to conceal his discomfort, but he also took the time to press as much water out of his clothes as he could.

  “Don’t worry, Magnatus,” said Fratre Angelomus. “On such a day as this, you’ll soon be dry.”

  “That will please me very well.” Rakoczy watched while the peasants put his crates and chests back on the mules’ pack-saddles under Rorthger’s supervision.

  “You dislike swimming?” Fratre Angelomus inquired with false concern.

  “I am not comfortable in running water,” Rakoczy allowed, knowing that the monk had watched him in the river.

  “You fear drowning; many do, for they do not put their faith in Christ and His Mercy,” said Fratre Angelomus. “A pity. Karlus himself is a great swimmer. He has a pool, such as the Romans of old enjoyed. He expects his companions to swim with him.”

  “I shall keep that in mind,” said Rakoczy. “Thank you, Fratre, for telling me.” He did not mention that he had heard of this swimming pool some years ago, when the project was first begun.

  “If he calls you to his Court at Aachen, you will have to swim; all his Majori, Potenti, Primori, Illustri, and Magnati are required to swim with him,” Fratre Angelomus said, clearly enjoying himself.

  “And so I shall,” said Rakoczy, and peeled back his glove to get the silver coins he had placed there. He counted out the six of them and held them out to the leader of the peasants. “One for each of you, and an extra for your patron saint. You have served us well.” He wondered where the shrine of Sant’ Wigbod was, for he saw no sign of it at the ford.