Night Blooming

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  The Superior could find nothing to argue with in this and folded his hands to show submission to the King as well as to God. “Great Karlus has been given the victory, and that is God’s Will.”

  “The Saxons haven’t yet submitted, though this city has fallen,” Rakoczy pointed out as he set out more vials and jars on the ledge of the small window that provided less light than the three oil-lamps that hung from the beam overhead. “It will be a while before they do.”

  “We are in their capital. They might as well surrender now and spare themselves more travail,” said Superior Leidrad, and would have gone on, but was interrupted by the return of Fratre Berahtram.

  Fratre Berahtram carried a wine-jar in one hand and a basket in the other; it was half-full of various herbs, all freshly cut. “I have done as you asked,” he declared, and all but thrust these things into Rakoczy’s hands. “They say there is more if you need it.”

  “Very good,” said Rakoczy. “I will require broth before evening, preferably of goat or venison. If you will inform the kitchen of this, I would be most appreciative.”

  Astonished at his good fortune that would permit him to be out of the dormitory once again without shirking his responsibilities, Fratre Berahtram assured him, “I will go at once and tell them what they must prepare.”

  Rakoczy’s quick, one-sided smile was ironic, but neither Fratre Berahtram nor Superior Leidrad saw it. “Thank you. Please tell the scullions that the broth must be twice-strained, so that it is clear of scraps and of a deep color, for that provides the greatest fortification of the body. If you would like to supervise the preparation, I believe it would make their compliance greater.”

  “I will,” said Fratre Berahtram, and turned to leave at once.

  “He is an energetic man,” said Superior Leidrad after Fratre Berahtram was out of the dormitory; it was difficult to tell whether the Superior intended this as a compliment or not. “It is odd to think of him as the Fratre he is: his devotion is singular in a man so well-favored by nature. Most monks need not be troubled for comeliness, but, as you see, Fratre Berahtram is a sweet-visaged fellow, and is often tempted by those who admire his beauty. It is a great trial to him, and he often Confesses his worthlessness because of it.”

  “Does he,” said Rakoczy, adopting the same neutral tone. He opened the wine-jar using the knife that hung from his girdle and poured a little of it into four small cups he had taken from his sack. To these he added a measure of a thick, dark liquid. “This is syrup of poppies,” he told the Superior. “I will give it to those men who cannot recover. They will have less to endure as their lives ebb.” He used a small glass rod to stir the contents of the cups. “I will make a less potent mixture for those who can recover, to enable them to rest. Lack of rest kills as many as putrefaction does.”

  “Do you truly expect seven of these soldiers to recover?” The Superior was startled at this optimism. “I would not suppose so many had a chance.”

  “That is what they have,” said Rakoczy as he went to the most far-gone of the men, lifting his head and starting to tip the wine-and-poppy-syrup into his mouth. “A chance.” The Bellatore coughed and sputtered, but was able to swallow most of the mixture. Rakoczy laid him back on the pallet and then went to the next dying man and repeated the process with the contents of the second cup.

  “What if this man is destined to live?” Superior Leidrad asked.

  “Then he will live,” said Rakoczy, adding, “But after such a fever as he has had, I doubt he will be able to fight again.” He took the third cup and went to the soldier with internal bleeding. “All this does is reduce pain and promote rest. All else is in the Hands of God.”

  Superior Leidrad watched with interest, doing his utmost not to give away his curiosity, for that might seem to be lack of certainty in God. “How did you come to learn these things, Magnatus?”

  Rakoczy had been expecting such a question, and he answered it easily. “My travels have taken me many places. I stayed, as did the Holy Family, for some time in Egypt, learning all their priests had to teach about treating the sick, the injured, and the dying.” He did not add that the priests had been pagans and that his time there had stretched for almost eight hundred years.

  “You must have been a young man when you did that,” said the Superior; this was punctuated by a sprink of lightning and almost at once a peal of thunder.

  “I was younger than I am now,” said Rakoczy, and gave the liquid in the third cup to the moaning soldier, taking the time to touch the man’s distended abdomen lightly. “He will not last much longer.” Another burst of lightning and a sharp clap of thunder heralded a sudden downpour. Rain came in torrents, shining like fish scales as the wind drove it across the courtyard. The smell of the storm could not penetrate the dormitory, but there was enough of an increase in the wind that the worst of the smell was mitigated. More lightning streamed over Paderborn Castle, and thunder trundled after it “Are there more blankets?” Rakoczy asked Superior Leidrad when the echoes had dissipated.

  “It is a warm day, in spite of the storm, and these men are taken in fever. What use are blankets?” The Superior turned as the bell for Sept rang. “It is the Little Hours,” he said, glad of the excuse to leave.

  Rakoczy was equally pleased to see him go. “Tell your monks that they need not concern themselves with these men; I will care for them.”

  “After Nocturnes, one of the Fratri will relieve you,” said Superior Leidrad as he reached the door. “Or you may relieve Fratre Berahtram, as suits you best.”

  “That is good of you,” said Rakoczy, aware that refusing this offer would lead to precisely the kinds of suspicions he wanted to avoid. He went to administer the fourth cup to the soldier whose thigh wound was distended and puffy, with red lines running up his body and under his camisa; the soldier muttered occasionally, but spent most of his waning energy in attempting to breathe. Rakoczy could tell the man would be dead before nightfall. Syrup of poppies would give him a modicum of succor before the end came, but nothing more.

  The rain continued furiously for most of the afternoon, then tapered off, fading with the day; the thunder and lightning had ended some time before. As sunset winked through the thinning clouds Fratre Berahtram came back to the dormitory, a large iron pot hanging from an arched handle that he held with a pad of rags. He hurried up to Rakoczy, his cheeks ruddy from the heat of the kitchen and the buffing of the wind. His clothes were damp but not wholly wet.

  “Here!” he exclaimed. “Venison broth, strained twice and boiled twice. The scullions were annoyed, but they did it.”

  “Very good,” said Rakoczy. “If you’ll set it down—oh, anywhere near the window.” He pointed to the general area he meant. “I’ll put you to work in a short while—if there is anything you would like to attend to in the meantime; the Little Hours, perhaps.”

  “No; I am at your service.” Fratre Berahtram looked dismayed, then schooled his features to an expression of devotion. “I will do as you require, Magnatus.”

  Once again Rakoczy had the uneasy impression that he had glimpsed a monster within the handsome monk. He studied Fratre Berahtram for a long moment. “Very good. I will give you my instructions after Vespers or Compline, whichever you prefer.”

  The monk looked troubled. “Why delay?”

  “Because you haven’t dined, and this will be a long night. I will relieve you at Vigil—” he said, only to be interrupted.

  “We keep Nocturnes here. The castle is protected by soldiers, and we monks need not patrol the grounds to ensure our safety. Here Nocturnes are sung half-way between sunset and midnight.” He ducked his head to show his devotion to his Hours. “You might as well tell me now.”

  “Instead of Vigil at midnight,” said Rakoczy. “So Bishop Wildefurt told me some days ago. I wondered—as you answer to Bishop Agobard—if this infirmary kept the same Hours as the monks on other duties. You must tend the wounded day and night.”

  “So we must,” said
Fratre Berahtram. “But Bishop Wildefurt has decided that all religious at Paderborn must follow the same Rule, clerks and servants, and Bishop Agobard is in accord with him.”

  Rakoczy wondered how such consensus had come about, but said only, “Then let us tend to the wounded. I will relieve you at midnight, so you will be able to rest before Matins. Dawn still comes early, and Matins comes still earlier.” He indicated the herbs in the basket. “If you would, take the basil and pound it into a paste that I can use to dress the injuries that are in need of draining their putrescent humors.” It was not quite as much as Rakoczy wanted to do, but he knew if he attempted more treatment than what the monks usually did, he would have to defend all his choices; it was most important that the soldiers be given his sovereign remedy, and he would delay other unusual regimens until the benefits of the remedy were apparent to all and he was considered trustworthy: these men could not endure such a wait.

  Fratre Berahtram coughed discreetly. “They have already had basil to dress their wounds. What they have had should be sufficient.”

  “Perhaps they have had. But a newly made paste will lend more virtue than dried leaves can, and thereby increase their chance for a good recovery.” He shrugged. “If you would rather, you may remain with the men and I will deal with the herbs.”

  “No, no,” said Fratre Berahtram, slightly too quickly. “I believe it would be best for you to dispense your remedies yourself. I am unfamiliar with them, and I might not give adequate amounts, or too much.” He reached for the basket. “I will prepare the herbs. What am I to do with the garlic?”

  “Grind it well and combine it with this”—he took a small bottle from his sack—“and with marrow. Have the scullions get you a good measure of marrow—it strengthens the herbs.”

  Fratre Berahtram eyed the bottle suspiciously. “What is it?”

  “Ground ginger preserved in olive oil. Use half the amount in the bottle, and make the mixture thick as porridge.” He held up his hand. “Leave the coriander and the wine here.”

  Repeating these instructions to himself in a mutter, Fratre Berahtram made for the door, the basket clutched in his hands. “I will return after comestus, to give you what I have done.”

  “Very good,” said Rakoczy, making this a dismissal.

  Fratre Berahtram was almost to the door when he stopped to look at one of the most severely hurt—the man whose thigh wound had red lines running from it. “He is breathing more easily,” he remarked in some surprise. “Your syrup of poppies has calmed him. That’s something.” With a nod to the Magnatus he made good his escape from the dormitory and the company of the wretched soldiers.

  Rakoczy shook his head, knowing the man was near death. He went and laid his hand on the soldier’s forehead, noticing that his fever had risen again. He patted the man’s shoulder. “It will not last,” he promised. “It will be over soon. You will not have to suffer much longer.” He hoped that if the man heard him he might take some consolation from this pledge. Then he went back to mixing an unguent of willow-bark and wool-fat to dress the less grievous injuries of his patients. While he continued his preparations, he realized he would need more clean rags, and shortly, and wondered if he could persuade one of the monks at the other end of the dormitory to fetch them for him. Once again he missed Rorthger, who would have procured what he needed without causing speculation or distress. Pulling the last of his clean rags from his sack, he decided to make the best of what he had until Fratre Berahtram returned.

  The soldier with the thigh wound died with the day. As the last glow of sunset faded, his breath shuddered and stopped. Rakoczy heard it, and knew the end had come. He looked up from his dressing of a mangled arm and hand and realized only one monk was in the dormitory, the others having gone for Vespers and comestus. With a slight sigh, Rakoczy went and pulled the blankets up and around the dead man, readying him for removal to the burial chapel. Then he went back to tending the ruined hand, thinking that if the soldier were not already too weak, the hand and lower arm should be amputated, for the injuries were too extreme to heal properly, and the chance for a worsening infection was very high.

  When Fratre Berahtram returned, he had the herb paste in an earthenware bowl. He paused at the foot of the pallet where the dead man lay. “When?”

  “At the end of sunset,” said Rakoczy. “It was fast when it finally happened. He was snuffed out like a lamp, gone in a sigh, without agony or rage.” He looked directly at Fratre Berahtram. “I doubt the man with the shattered shoulder will last through the night. I’ll give him another dose of wine and syrup of poppies, to keep him tranquil.”

  It was all Fratre Berahtram could do not to gag. “If you don’t think that you would be wasting them.”

  “No,” said Rakoczy. “That’s what it’s for.” He kept his conversation as casual as he could, wanting to mitigate his foreignness as much as possible.

  “Then God will send you more if you need it,” said Fratre Berahtram, “and if you are worthy.”

  “May it be so,” said Rakoczy. “For the sake of these unfortunates, I pray it is.” He studied Fratre Berahtram for a long moment, noticing how the lamplight played tricks with the monk’s handsome visage. “I will dress the wounds and then leave the men in your care until midnight.”

  “I am expected to keep Nocturnes with the other Fratri,” said Fratre Berahtram.

  “I will arrange matters with Superior Liedrad,” Rakoczy assured him. “I believe you will be given permission to observe Nocturnes here.”

  Fratre Berahtram strove to show proper humility; the thought of having to spend so much time with these men horrified him. “If there is no objection on the part of the Superior, then I will be satisfied.”

  “Very good,” said Rakoczy, taking the earthenware bowl from Fratre Berahtram and setting to work making dressings. He worked quickly, the low light having little effect on him, for his night-seeing eyes were as keen as most men’s at midday. As he strove to treat the men in his care, he glanced occasionally at Fratre Berahtram, trying to determine what the young monk was thinking: it was apparent that the Fratre was displeased with his duties, and it was equally apparent that he would never say so.

  “I should observe Compline,” Fratre Berahtram said suddenly. “It is a Little Hour, so I need not go to our chapel.” He rose and went to the other end of the dormitory and knelt before the crucifix there, his arms raised in prayer, apparently shutting out all worldly considerations as he began his Psalms; two other monks joined him, leaving the men they tended to fend for themselves until Compline was over.

  Rakoczy watched this with curiosity; he found it difficult to think of Fratre Berahtram as a religious man, for in spite of all he did, his eyes held secrets that had nothing to do with worship. Putting his attention to the wounded men entrusted to him, he continued to apply herbal dressings to those whose infections could respond, to make drawing poultices for those whose infections had gone deep into muscles, and to offer syrup of poppies in wine to the men riven with pain. By the time Fratre Berahtram ended his Hour, Rakoczy had all the patients ready for the night.

  “What must I do?” Fratre Berahtram asked. “You have ministered to these soldiers most conscientiously.” He indicated one of the men who was past saving, whose shoulder was an oozing mass of bone fragments and ruptured tissue. “What about him?”

  “He’s dying,” said Rakoczy quietly. “When the monks come to remove the other dead man, he may well be ready to go to the chapel as well.”

  “They should arrive before Nocturnes,” said Fratre Berahtram. “They make two visits a day for the dead—after Prime and before Nocturnes.” He glanced at the other men. “Have there been any changes in them?”

  “It’s too soon to tell,” said Rakoczy, his face revealing nothing but concern. “By morning I should be able to know more.”

  Fratre Berahtram folded his arms. “What am I to do, other than pray?”

  “Give them water frequently; those who are truly awake
are to receive the broth, and if they are hungry, give them the marrow—not much. It is in the large cup.” Rakoczy pointed to the vessel.

  “Very well. Anything else?” Fratre Berahtram glowered at the large cup.

  “Not yet,” said Rakoczy. “If there is anything that troubles you, have one of the mansionarii wake me. I will be in my chamber.” He turned away, strangely uneasy about leaving his patients in this monk’s care. He crossed the side yard, entered the castle through the garden door, and made his way to the narrow stairs leading up to the gallery along which rooms had been assigned by Karl-lo-Magne for his Court’s use. He opened the door of his chamber and stepped inside, feeling the draw of the chest on the far side of the room containing his native earth; he did not require sleep, but he longed for the annealing presence his native earth provided. He used flint and steel to light the wick of an oil-lamp. As the little scrap of light flared in the gloom, Rakoczy took down one of his books—an ancient text in the Romanized Greek of Mediterranean merchants seven hundred years before, describing medicinal herbs—and began to read, searching for a formula to lower fever more effectively than willow bark and pansy. As he studied, he was vaguely aware that Nocturnes was being sung; in a while he would have to relieve Fratre Berahtram. He read more urgently until shortly before midnight, when he returned the book to its shelf and blew out the lamp before retracing his earlier steps to the infirmary, where Fratre Berahtram was waiting for him.

  “Two more are dead. The bodies will be taken in the morning.” He indicated the dead. “Lothar—the one with the shattered wrist?—he was hungry earlier.” He pointed to the cup. “I fed him, as you ordered.”

  “Very good,” said Rakoczy. “Go get some rest. The bell will sound for Matins far too soon.”

  Fratre Berahtram managed to make a sound like a muffled laugh, although there was no humor in it. “So it will. I will return after Prime.” He turned around and hurried out of the infirmary.

  Rakoczy waited until Fratre Berahtram was gone before he went to examine the corpses, finding that one of the dead men had been hurried out of this life, for the whites of his eyes were suffused with red, a condition that he had not observed earlier. Rakoczy took a long, slow breath. “He needn’t have bothered; you couldn’t have survived,” he said as if in apology to the body. He stepped back, closing the Bellatore’s eyes with care before going to tend to the living.