I have bred two of your mares to the stallion Atta Olivia Clemens has sent to you: he is a fine creature, deep-chested and sturdy with a fine, arched neck and a good manner. Niklos Aulirios vouches for the horse, saying he has responded well to his training, and his get will be as strengthy as he is. He is a blue roan, which Bonna Dama Clemens informs me you will understand and appreciate. The mares have settled, so next May there should be foals in the pasture as well as calves and lambs.
In addition to the stallion, Bonna Dama Olivia tells me news of Roma, some of it most distressing. She informs me that the Pope was attacked by roughians, and was feared to be near death, only he has vanished from Roma, and it is not known where he has gone. Some speculate he has died and been secretly buried, so as to delay the next Papal election. Some say he has been kidnapped by the Byzantines, and is even now in a cell in Constantinople. Some say he has fled to Karl-lo-Magne for protection. Some say that the Church has sent him to a monastery in Longobardia, where he can recover from his injuries under the protection of the Church. Whatever may be true, from what Bonna Dama Olivia tells me, Roma is in disarray over these events, and the confusion is likely to spread outward from Roma into all the Roman churches and monasteries. If this were the case, you would need to be very careful, for until the fate of the Pope is known, there is likely to be a great deal of bickering and discord throughout the Church, and you may find yourself under scrutiny, for many of these Franks are wary of foreigners, as you are already cognizant. I mention this only to keep your precarious circumstances uppermost in your mind. She also writes that most of this incident, very widely reported and believed, is generally false, for although the Pope was waylaid, his Guard extricated him from the miscreants and have generally confined him to the Lateran Palace for his safety, and that the Pope is truly still in Roma, no matter what tales are spread abroad, most of which are intended to undermine Leo’s authority and make him seem incapable of continuing to lead the Church. And if he is long a prisoner of his own Guard, what they say may become true, and he will not be able to maintain his position. Bonna Dona Clemens also believes this has been an attempt to force Karl-lo-Magne to reckless action on the Pope’s behalf, which could lead him to a confrontation with the Byzantines that could be Pyrrhic in cost.
I hope you will return before harvest. It will do much to please the people of this region to see you at their festivities, particularly if you will hold a Court, so that their various grievances may be addressed in a way that will stand up to the scrutiny of the missi dominici, who come here four times a year in the King’s name to see that his Will is carried out everywhere. I am continuing to administer the fiscs along the lines of your instructions, and I am pleased to report that there has been a softening of the attitude of the peasants in the villages near-by, to the point that they no longer refuse to enter the gates of the villa, but will bring their livestock to the buticularius for the kitchen, making our work much easier. I cannot say that you are welcomed enthusiastically, but that you are no longer regarded as a baleful presence.
In spite of these encouragements, be on guard, my master, and know that these fiscs are flourishing. Surely you may find comfort in this, as I have known you to do of old. Also, I have prepared your house and stable as you have ordered, so upon your return you may be easy in your own house.
Rorthger,
camerarius to Hiernom Rakoczy
Chapter Nine
FRATRE BERAHTRAM SAT ON THE LIP OF THE HORSE trough in the courtyard of Paderborn Castle, his handsome face grimy from his day’s labors, his usually personable expression turned to one of despair and disgust; he looked up at the sky, frowning at the dark clouds that had promised rain all day, but so far had produced nothing but grumbling thunder and occasional, distant bristles of lightning. He had been tending the wounded soldiers who had arrived the day before, and he was thoroughly sick of the thankless work; prayers availed nothing, and there was nothing he could do to ease the wounded but put a pillow over the faces of the most grievously injured; had he not been watched, he could probably have put an end to six of his charges by now. Little as he liked the idea of dispatching the men to end their suffering and stop their screams, he knew what was expected of him and did it, however grudgingly, when he was left alone; this would not advance him in the Church, and he was annoyed with Bishop Agobard for giving him such lowly tasks to do. He might as well be a nun for all the good his efforts would be. If only Bishop Agobard was not the cousin of Comes Gosbert! But since he had appealed to the Comes to aid him, he could not now turn away from what the Illustre had provided him, little though it suited his purpose. He was so lost in this unprofitable musing that he did not hear the approaching footsteps or notice anyone in the courtyard until a dark shape came between him and the late-summer sunlight that filtered through the clouds as they blundered across the sky.
“The other monks said I might find you here,” said Magnatus Rakoczy, his black garments seeming to make his shadow denser. “I trust I do not intrude? If I do, tell me and I will wait for you in the dormitory.” His manner was as courtly as any Illustre Fratre Berahtram had ever seen.
The reverence Fratre Berahtram made was hardly more than a gesture; he squinted up at the foreigner. “My Fratri guided you aright. Why do you seek me out?”
If he knew he had been insulted Rakoczy showed no sign of it “I was told you are in charge of the monks dealing with soldiers whose wounds have become infected.”
“I am,” Fratre Berahtram admitted reluctantly. “Bishop Agobard has required it of me, and I am obedient to his Will.”
“Most admirable,” said Rakoczy, the irony of his tone lost on Fratre Berahtram.
Fratre Berahtram ducked his head. “I cannot say if it is, but I pray it finds favor in Heaven. If my service is valued by God, my task is a worthy one.” It was what he was expected to say, and he recited the words as automatically as the Psalms of the Little Hours.
Rakoczy gave a little shake of his head. “May God be pleased,” he said as good conduct required.
After a short, uncomfortable silence, Fratre Berahtram rose. “For what purpose did you seek me out?”
“I am here at the request of Karl-lo-Magne, who has been informed that I have some skill with medicaments. He has asked that I assist in caring for the wounded who have fever and infection.” Rakoczy paused, aware that Fratre Berahtram was weighing up this information. “I would deem it an honor to be able to aid the soldiers of Optime Karl.”
“I see,” said Fratre Berahtram. “Do you mean you can cure those who suffer?”
“No; not all of them,” said Rakoczy promptly. “But I can cure some of them, and I can ease the agony of those who cannot be cured.” He saw a flicker of emotion in the back of Fratre Berahtram’s dust-colored eyes; it was quickly gone, but Rakoczy knew that he had glimpsed the soul of the monk, and that it was a dark and unwholesome thing, at variance with his open, regular features and well-proportioned limbs. “Let me work with you and your monks for three days. Surely that is not too long a period to ask? You may observe all that I do, and report upon it to whomever you believe you ought to. If I cannot prove my worth to you in that time, then inform Optime Karl that you would prefer I not assist you.” The offer was surpassingly reasonable, and therefore impossible to refuse.
“Three days,” said Fratre Berahtram, shading his eyes so he could better see Rakoczy’s pleasant, irregular countenance. “This day is more than half over.”
“Then let us say by prandium in three days,” Rakoczy suggested. “I will abide by your decision. But I cannot refuse to try, or I will counter the Will of Optime Karl.”
Fratre Berahtram sighed. “I would be more than a fool to say no to anyone coming with the King’s mandate.” He pointed to the dormitory that was currently serving as an infirmary. “The men with the worst fevers are at the far end of the rows of pallets. There are eleven of them just now; two died yesterday. The monks tending the others may send us one of their charges if h
e takes a turn for the worst. Bring your medicaments and we shall see what you can do.”
“Thank you,” said Rakoczy, his sincerity emphasized by a slight nod. “I will join you at your work shortly.” Saying that, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Fratre Berahtram in the full, hazy glare of the afternoon.
Not long after Rakoczy departed, Fratre Berahtram slowly made his way back into the dormitory, thinking as he went that Abbott Rokinard had done him no favors when he had insisted that the monk learn to treat the sick and injured. But he had asked for patronage, and he had to accept what was required of him by Comes Gosbert. He hated the look of the fevered men, hated their incapacity, their delirium, hated the ruin of their bodies, hated the stench of their wounds. It was all he could do to bring himself to go to them; it took every bit of resolution he possessed not to bolt from the building. He muttered a prayer to Sant’ Raffaell, asking for his support in this ordeal, and went to fetch a pail of water and a ladle to provide the suffering men with drink to relieve their thirst. He had taken care of four men when he saw the foreigner in black approaching along the aisle in the makeshift infirmary.
“What have you there?” Fratre Berahtram asked, noticing the large bag slung over Rakoczy’s shoulder.
“My medicaments, or as many as I have with me,” said Rakoczy, looking past the monk to the men on the pallets. “Are these the patients?”
Fratre Berahtram did his best not to breathe. “The worst of them.”
“Their wounds are putrid,” said Rakoczy dispassionately. “What have you been doing for them?”
“I have been bathing their injuries in basil-water,” said Fratre Berahtram, trying not to gag. “And there are holy seals on their pillows.”
Rakoczy nodded. “I believe I may be able to ease their hurts beyond this.”
“If you do nothing diabolic, then treat them as you wish,” Fratre Berahtram said, hoping that this Magnatus would be able to spare him having to deal with these dying soldiers.
“Thank you; I will,” said Rakoczy, going to the nearest pallet and looking down on the man lying on it; there was a gaping wound in his side, the flesh around it red and swollen, pus crusted the length of it The odor of infection hung around him palpably, and the man moaned with every exhalation, the sound occasionally turning to a shriek. His face was mottled and his breathing was unsteady, indicating the rot had reached his lung. “I cannot help this man to recover; I can lessen his pain.”
Fratre Berahtram gritted his teeth. “Then do so.”
Rakoczy shrugged his sack off his shoulder and lifted the flap that closed the sack’s mouth, taking out a vial. “I will need a cup of wine to administer this,” he said to Fratre Berahtram. “In fact, if you will, bring a bottle. More than one man may need this, and it would be foolish to keep you running back and forth to the pantry. Also, if you will bring olitory herbs, I would be most grateful.”
“Which ones?” Fratre Berahtram asked, reluctant to raid the kitchen garden without knowing what was needed.
“Coriander, garlic, basil, for a beginning,” said Rakoczy, somewhat preoccupied. “And lovage, if there is any.”
Although he was suspicious of Rakoczy, Fratre Berahtram was glad for any excuse to leave the dormitory. “I will see if the buticularius will allow it.”
“If there is any difficulty, ask him to send word to Great Karl,” Rakoczy suggested. “As I am here at the King’s behest, I will not hesitate to invoke his authority.”
“That I will,” said Fratre Berahtram with alacrity, and hastened away to do as he was ordered. As he stepped out of the door, he encountered Superior Leidrad, who held up his hand to stop Fratre Berahtram.
“Are you abandoning your duty?” the Superior demanded.
“I am following the instructions of Magnatus Rakoczy,” said Fratre Berahtram, wanting to push past the Superior, but not daring to. He glanced up at the leaden sky as another rumble of thunder went through it.
“Why are you doing so?” Superior Leidrad persisted. “What has the Magnatus to do with your duties?”
“The King has ordered the Magnatus to help with the most badly injured men, and the Magnatus is doing so. I am going to fetch a bottle of wine for him; he has need of it for his ministrations, along with an assortment of herbs,” said Fratre Berahtram.
Superior Leidrad stood aside. “Then be about your errand, for the Glory of God.” He stood still while Fratre Berahtram hurried off toward the kitchens; then the Superior went into the dormitory, uneasy in his mind: much as he had been impressed with Fratre Berahtram’s zeal, he had a nagging sense of apprehension about the young monk. He was relieved to see the Magnatus moving among the wounded men, as Fratre Berahtram said he would be. He went up to the black-clad man, saying, “Fratre Berahtram is doing your bidding, Magnatus.”
“Very good,” said Rakoczy, straightening up from his examination of a man with a severe facial wound. “I doubt I can save his eye, but I don’t think he will die; he is not yet so weak that he cannot rise above his ills.” He had treated worse injuries at the Temple of Imhotep, centuries ago, and had the injured recover. “If he doesn’t develop sickness in his blood.”
“If you think you can keep him from blindness, may the Saints guide your hand,” said Superior Leidrad. “I will thank God for sparing him. Such Bellatori as this man are rare; Optime Karlus cannot spare many of them to the graveyard, and Sant’ Gabraell.” He made a gesture of protection, for it was considered dangerous to speak the name of the Angel of Death in the presence of the wounded or ill. “See that you employ every skill you have at your disposal, foreigner. If you are lax, the King will know of it.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Rakoczy, his hand against the injured man’s throat. “His pulse is fast and thready. He will need a great deal of rest.” He would need herbs and poultices to draw out the infection as well, but that was understood by both men.
Superior Leidrad put his fingers together, relenting a bit from his previous admonitions. “If you cannot save him, save the ones you can.”
Rakoczy looked at the Superior. “This man has a chance to live. Three of these men do not. I will make them more comfortable so that they need not die in unendurable pain.” He saw Superior Leidrad wince. “I will not hurry their demise, but I will not force them to linger.”
“Isn’t that God’s Will?” Superior Leidrad asked while he clutched his pectoral crucifix.
“Knowledge is God’s Will as much as the hour of men’s death,” said Rakoczy, moving to the next pallet. “If I have it in my abilities to ease their anguish, surely it is God’s Will that I use them in this cause, or I would not be here at this time.”
The Superior nodded. “The Bishop would concur, and possibly the Pope as well.”
“Then how can I be wrong to fulfill the King’s order to treat these men?” Rakoczy said, leaning over the next man. “In the case of this soldier, God has already decided: he will not last the day. His blood is filled with sickness and nothing can stop it now.”
“How can you be so certain?” the Superior asked, accompanied by drubbing thunder outside.
“I can smell it,” said Rakoczy, choosing an explanation that would satisfy these Franks, and was rewarded by the approval in Superior Leidrad’s demeanor. He continued on to the next pallet. “I may be able to save this man; if he does not become too weak, his wounds aren’t bad enough to kill him now. I will know in a day or so if he will recover. He is not so far gone, but his blood isn’t quite sound; I will need time, to see if I have a sovereign remedy for him.”
“But you do have remedies?” Superior Leidrad asked, looking at the sack Rakoczy carried. “They have been tested, and you know them to be successful?”
“I have and they are,” said Rakoczy. “I am honored to use them for Great Karl’s benefit.” He held up a jar. “This ointment can be helpful if there isn’t much pus.”
“There is always pus,” said Superior Leidrad and swallowed hard; the stink of festering i
njuries was beginning to sicken him.
Rakoczy had no response to make; he went on to the last of the men, looking at the man narrowly. “This man has bleeding deep inside, and I don’t know if it can be stopped. If it can be, he may live; if it cannot, he will die.” He laid his hand on the man’s brow. “He’s far gone in fever.”
“He has been readied to die,” said Superior Leidrad, as if he had fulfilled all his obligations to the soldier. “His soul will go to Heaven.”
“Undoubtedly a good thing,” said Rakoczy. “But another ten years of life might be welcome to him, if he can come through the fever and survive his hurts.” He looked back over the other ten men. “Have all of them been shriven?”
“Yes; all of them. So if they recover, the glory is due to God and the Saints, and not to any earthly deed,” said the Superior, warning Rakoczy.
Rakoczy sighed. “Certainly. The glory is due to whomever you like, so long as the King is satisfied.” He pulled another vial from his sack. “This is tincture of primrose. It will help some of these men, as will my sovereign remedy.” He did not add that this second remedy was made from moldy bread, for that was considered corrupted matter and not fit for medicinal use.
Superior Leidrad scowled. “Do not make light of God and His Saints.”
“I do not,” said Rakoczy, realizing he had offended the Superior. “I am here at the pleasure of Great Karl, and I wish to render him worthy service. I must put my duty to him first, for he is master here. If God favors the King, then I do His work as well, but that is for more sagacious minds than mine to discern; I must content myself with obeying the King.”
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