The mansionarius gave the peasant a pleading look “Uncle, leave me, I beg you. You may scorn this Magnatus, but I cannot.”
“You can, if you want to come back to the village again. Doubarth the sawyer will have you as his apprentice and heir if you return.” The peasant pointedly ignored Rakoczy.
“Doubarth has two apprentices already, and I have the joiner’s trade my father taught me while he lived,” said the mansionarius. “Go, Uncle. Please.”
“I will, but do not ask me to come again,” the peasant grumbled, and turned his back on his nephew.
Watching him go, the mansionarius sniffed back tears. “He didn’t mean anything, Magnatus. He is not always wise.”
“He seems frightened to me, and fear rarely imparts wisdom,” said Rakoczy. “Are the rest of the villagers like him?”
“Some are,” the mansionarius admitted. “The Priest has said that the King would not send such misfortune to us twice.”
“So there is a Priest in the village, even with a monastery and a nunnery so near.” Rakoczy frowned. “Why is that?”
“The village is the other direction from Sant’ Cyricus and Santa Julitta,” the mansionarius reminded him. “This villa is half-way between them.”
“Ah,” said Rakoczy, thinking again that the maps Karl-lo-Magne’s clerks had provided him were far from accurate.
“My uncle … You will not…” The mansionarius looked at Rakoczy. “He didn’t mean…”
“Your uncle is safe, for the time being. I will not allow him to encourage insurrection, for that would be against the King,” said Rakoczy, and studied the young man. “What is your name?”
It was a most unusual question, for those of high rank rarely bothered to know the names of their lesser servants. The mansionarius almost choked. “Bufilio, I am Bufilio,” he said.
“Well, Bufilio, I am grateful for what you have shown me, however inadvertently.” Rakoczy glanced after the retreating peasant. “You would do well to be careful around your uncle.”
“I doubt he will speak to me again,” said Bufilio. “He is a hard man. He has sent three of his children away from the village because they would not do as he commanded them. He has just two left, and neither would defy him in anything, lest he send them away as well.”
“Truly a hard man,” Rakoczy agreed. “But if you do find yourself in his company, caution him. I can give him my Word, but no other man of rank need abide by it.”
“I’ll tell him, Magnatus.” Bufilio coughed twice and ducked his head. “I should not stand here talking to you. It isn’t fitting.”
“Before you go, tell me your uncle’s name and his occupation.” It was an unusual request, but there was nothing frightening in the Magnatus’ manner. “In case I should need to address him again.”
“He is Marbonet, the village skinner. His cousin is the tanner. Both are leaders among the people.” Bufilio coughed. “I have duties to attend to.”
“Then leave, if you must.” Rakoczy stepped aside, causing Bufilio acute embarrassment at this very minor courtesy. As the young mansionarius rushed off, Rakoczy started back toward the villa, where he could hear the men in the dining hall singing raucously. He realized it was going to be a demanding afternoon.
The cook was in the kitchen garden cutting the last remaining winter kohlrabi out of the vegetable patch, muttering to himself and glaring at the various empty sections in the beds. He reverenced Rakoczy as the Magnatus approached. “God give you good day.”
“And you, Wolkind,” said Rakoczy. “I see you are getting ready for comestus.”
“They are gluttons, every one of them. Their prandium should have contented them through the night,” the cook grumbled. “You do not have to give them more than what you have already provided.”
“Perhaps. But we do not want it said that the new Magnatus keeps a stingy board, do we?” Rakoczy let this hang in the air between them. “You have a fine reputation—why discredit it?” His smile was fleeting. “Well? What do you say, Wolkind?”
The cook nodded. “You have the right,” he admitted. “But this garden is neglected and many of the plants have been taken away, probably by the peasants. I must have seeds in the ground, and soon, if I am to do anything beyond peas-porridge for the household.”
“Purchase cheese and milk, and cabbages, from the peasants,” Rakoczy recommended.
“But they owe you that in rents, as tenants of the fisc on which they live,” Wolkind protested. “You can claim it as your right.”
Rakoczy shook his head. “If I were a Frank, perhaps, but I know none of them trust foreigners, and will resent every claim I make on them. So I will give you silver and you will give good value to them.”
“They will not be persuaded with money,” Wolkind warned him.
“No, but that will lessen their anger,” said Rakoczy, a world-weary note in his voice. “For the time being, this will be enough.”
The cook could not keep the shock out of his face. “They are peasants! They deserve whatever you demand of them. If you accommodate them, they will become unmanageable. Make them submit to your will and that will keep them well in hand.”
Rakoczy changed the subject. “When is the first spring market?”
“In the village, or in Stavelot?” Wolkind asked, knowing it was unwise to force any Magnatus to discuss anything with a lesser person.
“Either.”
“The village will have a market in six or seven weeks, when the sows have given birth and the piglets can be taken from their mothers. Stavelot has a market the week following the Resurrection Mass, and many come from leagues and leagues away.” The cook dropped the last kohlrabi into his basket and said, “It lasts for four days, and if you will permit, I will attend the first two days, to restock my larder and my garden. I will also want to buy chicks, and ducklings, and goslings.” He hesitated. “You will have to give me silver, for the land hasn’t been harvested here in more than a year.”
“So I surmise,” Rakoczy said. “You shall have a purse of silver coins. All I ask is you spend wisely.” He saw the cook blink. “You may use the carrucum for your travels, and yoke an ox to pull it.”
“You have no oxen, Magnatus,” Wolkind reminded him.
“I will have. I will purchase oxen and a mule, if I can find one.” He started toward the kitchen, wanting to get out of the sun, which, in spite of his soles being lined in his native earth, was beginning to pain him. “See that my guests are well-fed and I will be pleased. You are not to fret about your supplies, or the cost: I will see that you are not skimped.”
Wolkind reverenced Rakoczy. “It is as you wish, Magnatus.”
The kitchen was uncomfortably hot, for a gutted and dressed pig was being turned on the main spit in the open hearth, the first effort that would become comestus at sundown. Two scullions pricked the flesh to let the fat run, and then poured beer mixed with garlic over it. The smell was just beginning to fill the room, but it would soon be overwhelming and the scullions would be drinking as much of the beer as they were slathering on the pig. Two of the mansionarii were finishing their comestus at the old table in the corner near the window; they had a loaf of black bread split between them, and each used his portion to sop up the last goose grease from the skeleton splayed on the tray they shared.
Rakoczy went through the kitchen and climbed the narrow stairs to the second floor. The songs of the men in the dining hall roared their echoes along the stone walls, turning into a chaos of sound in which all words and melody were lost. The noise followed him all the way to the next staircase, which led to the top of the villa and two sloped-ceilinged rooms that Rakoczy had chosen for his private use. He saw with satisfaction that his red lacquer chest had already been brought to the larger of the two rooms. Entering the smaller room, he saw the chest containing his native earth set up with a thin mattress atop it. He laid his hand upon it and felt the annealing presence it provided. Sighing with relief, he stood for a while, then stepped back in
to the larger room as he heard men coming up the stairs.
“This is heavy,” one of the mansionarii protested.
“It isn’t our right to question the Magnatus,” said the other.
“What is this thing?” the mansionarius asked.
“A stone beehive, as the camerarius said,” the second man answered, and grunted with the effort of raising the athanor up another tread. “Don’t talk so loudly. Someone will overhear us.” He steadied himself on the stair.
“A beehive? Or an oven,” the first said, guessing more accurately than the second.
“What would a Magnatus bake?” the second asked, chuckling even as he groaned. “He isn’t a baker, is he? What would he use an oven for?”
“Only three more steps,” said the first. “Hold tight.”
“What do you think I’m doing?” the second demanded. “You have to turn a little to the left.”
“I remember,” said the first, and his wooden shoes scraped on the stairs. “To the left.”
The first man appeared, moving backward, the larger end of the athanor in his hands. He swayed as if his back hurt, and his arms were trembling with strain. “You have three more steps to go,” he said, and nearly dropped the athanor as he caught sight of Rakoczy. “Magnatus!” He ducked his head without being able to reverence him.
“Put it in the center of the room, if you will,” Rakoczy said evenly.
“If that is what you want,” said the mansionarius. He continued to back up, doing his best to look as if this were easy.
The second mansionarius came into sight and looked toward Rakoczy as if expecting a rebuke. “The middle of the room?”
“If you would,” said Rakoczy. He indicated the place. “Here.”
The two mansionarii made a last struggle and brought the athanor to where Rakoczy wanted it, and set it down with a thump. They turned toward Rakoczy uneasily, expecting a blow for their clumsiness.
“You have done well,” said Rakoczy, and motioned to them to leave.
“We have two more chests to bring up, Magnatus,” said the mansionarius who had backed up the stairs; he was ruddy-haired, perhaps thirty years old, and was missing two fingers on his right hand.
“Then do it,” said Rakoczy. “When you are done, go to the kitchen and have a cup of beer. You may tell the cook you have my permission.” No one in the household would make such a claim if it were not true, for that could result in expulsion from the household with a brand for treason on the shoulder.
“That is generous of you, Magnatus,” said the red-haired mansionarius, and glanced at his younger companion. “Let’s get back down.”
“You are in a hurry,” said the second.
“For a cup of beer? Yes, I am,” said the first He reverenced Rakoczy, then hurried off down the stairs.
The second ducked his head, then reverenced the Magnatus. “What do you want us to do here?” As soon as he said it, he fled.
Rakoczy watched the youngster go, and he wondered what the mansionarii would say to their fellows when they went to dine at sunset. He went to open his red lacquer chest and removed two vials of tincture of willow; he would offer them to the mansionarii, and hoped that the lessening of their hurts it would provide would be enough to incline the men to be less apprehensive about his foreignness than they were now. Determined not to be discouraged, he assumed all his household servants would eventually accept him, but though he argued inwardly at his most cogent, he could not convince himself this would ever be the case, especially once he began to work in the smithy, doing work no man of rank should do.
TEXT OF A REPORT FROM FRATRE ANGELOMUS, WITH OTFRID, MISSI DOMINICI TO KARL-LO-MAGNE.
To the most excellent ruler, Karl-lo-Magne, Otfrid and Fratre Angelomus tender their account of their recent escort of the Magnatus Hiernom Rakoczy, of Sanct’ Germainius, from his fiscs to Paderborn, according to your stated Will.
The Magnatus received us at his villa, serving us fine meals and having our horses stabled as well as his own, and they were groomed as if for a procession. This attention is evident in all his holdings. His fiscs are in good heart and many of the buildings are being rebuilt and repaired from the damage of the former tenant to whom you were magnanimous enough to present the fiscs now held by Rakoczy.
We were presented to the two fully armed and mounted men Rakoczy has provided as part of his vassalage to you. One is a former Guard from Aachen who is grateful to the advancement Rakoczy has afforded him: a fellow named Usuard, son of Ansgar. The other is a local fighting man, Theubert of Sant’ Cyricus; he has been a Watchman at the monastery of that name and was trained by the Abbott himself, who was once a famous Comes and retired from the world when he lost his arm to the perfidious Moors in Hispania.
We brought him as directly as we could to your Court as you commanded we do. It took us just under two weeks, riding from dawn until dusk, and with the lengthening days, this has let us make good speed on the road. There was hardly any mud encountered, and, as we have ridden horses rather than been paced by oxen, we have been able to progress rapidly.
The Magnatus has been installed at the house of Maurus the merchant, where he has been given a good reception by the men of the household and provided the largest bedchamber and two large basins made of copper for his use in token of his favored position with the King. The Magnatus has returned this kindness to Maurus by presenting him with a cask of new wine and a cup of gold ornamented by fine stones he claims are rubies from the East. This has pleased Maurus, and he has said that his entire household is in the debt of the Magnatus, and it may be that the Magnatus will sponsor a journey for Maurus, who has of late wanted to enter Wendish lands to purchase amber and furs.
The armed men who accompanied us in their duty to Great Karl have said that they have been treated well by Rakoczy, who, they say, tempered the weapons he provided them himself. While I do not entirely believe this, I did hear his mansionarii say that the Magnatus works his own forge in the smithy, so it may be true. It is also said of him that he has provided tinctures and unguents to treat the ills of the household, and these treatments have helped to end their pains and fevers. If this is a genuine skill, it could be of use in the King’s service when next Great Karl campaigns.
It is useful to know that the Magnatus has been able to learn the tongue of his peasants well enough to listen to their complaints without the aid of a clerk, and this may become to his advantage if he is to remain at the fiscs Optime has granted him.
By my own hand on the Pope’s Feast of Sant’ Epiphanius of Salamis, on the Mass of Mid-May, the Church’s Year 797.
Fratre Angelomus
Chapter Seven
ONLY THOSE KEEPING VIGIL were in the chapel at Sant’ Audoemus; most of the monks were asleep in their dormitories, dreading the sound of the Matins-bell that would ring well before dawn. In the two other dormitories of the monastery, the maimed, the crippled, and the mad kept their own watches, some of them chained to the walls, others on cots, still others in places of their own choosing.
“I don’t belong here,” said Gynethe Mehaut to Priora Iditha as they walked in the night garden of the monastery, making the most of the warm June night; it was unusual for the two of them to have much time together, and Gynethe Mehaut wanted to make the most of it.
“I know,” said Priora Iditha kindly. “But I believe there is little I can do to change your situation. Do not repine. Your welfare is being considered by Sublime Iso, or it will be as soon as he comes and I am permitted to speak to him on your behalf.”
Gynethe Mehaut sighed. “I realize that. And I understand that I must accept what is provided me.” She gestured toward the infirmary and the confinement cells, at either end of a stark building set against the highest part of the wall. “I am not like the others: I am not mad, and I am sound of body, although my body is strange. My bleeding is not like other sorts of wounds. It isn’t like women’s bleeding. What these monks offer can avail me nothing. They might as well send
me to the remotest island in the Western Sea.” She stopped to bend down to an open, white blossom that released a sweet fragrance onto the night air. “Sometimes I think I am like these flowers—of my own nature, as God made me.”
“I agree,” said Priora Iditha. “But Bishop Iso has said you must remain here until he can decide about your case. You know he is to come here soon, and at that time he will learn that there is more to your condition than white skin and red eyes. If only your hands didn’t bleed. More than your skin and your eyes, that is what troubles everyone. That is what the Sublimi must decide about, on Bishop Iso’s advice. Be obedient to the wishes of the Sublimi, and the time will pass quickly.”
“They expected the Bishop yesterday, and still he isn’t here,” said Gynethe Mehaut, doing her best not to fret. “What if he has met with trouble?”
“We will hear of it if he has. He may come tomorrow, or the day after,” Priora Iditha offered, sharing her apprehension. In the silence that followed, Priora Iditha watched her charge carefully.
“They say the Saxons have submitted to Great Karl,” said Gynethe Mehaut, making it clear she wished to speak of other things.
“So they do,” said Priora Iditha. “It is a great victory for the King.”
“Truly it is,” said Gynethe Mehaut. “Then the Wends will fall, and the Emperor in Constantinople will tremble. The Golden City of the Greeks will not shine so brightly.” She shoved her bandaged hands into the capacious sleeves of her gonella and stared up at the waxing moon. “I wish I could see these wonders: Constantinople, the castles of the Saxons, Roma.”
“Perhaps one day you will,” said Priora Iditha, not believing it for an instant.
“It all rests with Bishop Iso and his fellows; if they decide I must become cloistered, then I will see nothing but nunnery walls until I die,” said Gynethe Mehaut, reminding them both of the obvious.
“And, because you are faithful to the Church and the King, you will abide by the Sublimi’s decision, even if it means you’re to remain here the rest of your days,” said Priora Iditha, a bit more sternly than before.
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