Night Blooming

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “I am here,” said Rakoczy, surprising all the villagers by addressing Vulfoald directly instead of using Rorthger as his speaker as was the custom, “because as hobu and representative of the King, it is my duty to hear your grievances and do what I can to redress them.”

  “What is he saying?” Vulfoald asked Rorthger, who obligingly repeated what Rakoczy had said in the local tongue. “All very well, to make such an assertion; we have heard them before, and know their worth. But what is his true intent here?”

  “My intent is to perform those tasks that I am required to, in accordance with the responsibilities the King has laid upon me,” Rakoczy said, pitching his musical voice to carry to everyone listening; he spoke slowly and clearly, hoping to help their comprehension.

  “And what will you take in return for your help?” Vulfoald asked, daring to be sarcastic. “Our flocks? Our women? Our children to be your slaves?”

  Rakoczy listened quietly, then said, “None of those things. The King has charged me to keep his law in these fiscs and I am obliged to do it, for his sake. If I take anything from you, then I do the King dishonor, and I should suffer for it.”

  Vulfoald turned his head and spat. “So we have heard, time and again. It is what every Potente and Primore says he will do. And yet nine of our women grew large with the Comes Udofrid’s seed, and thirteen of our children were taken to serve him as his slaves, and we were left to make our laws in the old way. He, too, was King Karl’s friend, and upheld his laws.”

  “Perhaps the King was not deceived by the Comes, and saw what mischief he did: you know he has been sent far away and his lands seized, and the Magnatus has been granted his fiscs in his place,” said Rorthger, motioning to Rakoczy to remain silent. “Whatever the case, Magnatus Rakoczy is no part of Comes Udofrid or his kin, and is answerable only to Great Karl. He will hear you with fairness and will administer justice as the King charges shall be done.”

  “That may be,” said Vulfoald. “But I have not seen it, and no one says—”

  Rakoczy cut him off. “If you are to judge me, then do so when I have done something that you may decide upon. Do not accept rumor and the bad acts of others to weigh with you.” There was silence; in a moment, he went on. “Tell me what wrongs demand justice and I will do my utmost to address them and dispense such remedies as I am permitted to give.”

  “You will tell us anything, and then you will leave, and your soldiers will come and our children will vanish, and then our women, and all will be the same as it was when Udofrid ruled,” said Vulfoald. His big hands knotted into fists.

  “I swear before the God of Christ and the monks of Sant’ Cyricus that I will not prey upon your people,” said Rakoczy.

  “No one hears you but us, and that means nothing. A Magnatus, even a foreign one, may say anything to peasants and it is as if it was nothing more than a cry on the wind, to be denied without dishonor,” said Vulfoald contemptuously. He motioned to three men standing a little apart from him and said, “It is time to light the evening fire. Do it.”

  “Yes, Headman,” said the largest of the three men, and went to fetch the village torch that always hung in the iron cleat over the brazier that was kept lit day and night, year after year. It was protected by a stone enclosure that resembled a shrine—as it had once been.

  Rakoczy laid his hand on the hilt of his Byzantine long-sword. “I offer an oath on this blade,” he said; he had seen soldiers make such pledges and knew they were bound by them.

  Vulfoald lifted his head and glared directly at Rakoczy. “Hold Court and take an oath with monks and many people to hear you, and I may believe what you say.”

  This insolence shocked most of the villagers, who drew back, not quite cowering, and looked from Vulfoald to Rakoczy and back again as if expecting some terrible retaliation from the black-clad Magnatus; a few of the men slipped away, bolting for their houses as if to escape from terrible danger. The very air seemed to crackle with the kindling of the bonfire, emphasizing the tension that increased with every breath. The light from the new fire cast shifting illumination on them all, accentuating their movements.

  “I will hold Court,” said Rakoczy. “On the Feast of the Dead.” He pointed to Vulfoald. “You must bring your people to my villa then, or you will receive no justice from me.”

  Vulfoald slapped his palms together. “On the Feast of the Dead, we will come. If there is treachery, the curse of the old gods will fall upon you.”

  “If there is treachery, I shall deserve no less,” said Rakoczy, and took his reins from Rorthger, preparing to remount. “Those children of Comes Udofrid: what became of them?”

  “They were exposed, as all foreign infants are. The old gods and their beasts took them,” said Vulfoald as if the answer must be obvious. “Did you want them for slaves?”

  “No,” said Rakoczy, and swung up into the saddle. “Until the Feast of the Dead.”

  “Until then,” said Vulfoald, and turned away before Rakoczy and Rorthger rode out of the village, this studied insult making more than one of the men around Vulfoald shudder at the enormity of their headman’s affront.

  As they took the path that led most directly to the villa, Rakoczy said to Rorthger, “I’m sorry, old friend, but I must ask you to ride tomorrow to all the villages and monasteries in my fiscs to inform them of the Court. See that they all know about it. Anything less would lead to trouble among these people, and I fear there has been more than enough of that already.” He looked ahead into the gloom of dusk. “How did Comes Udofrid do so much to their detriment? And why?”

  “I cannot say,” Rorthger responded. “But from what little I have been able to discover, Comes Udofrid was a rapacious, tyrannical coward who made himself loathed everywhere in his fiscs. Not even the Superior of Sant’ Cyricus—who was supported by the Comes—has spoken well of him.”

  Rakoczy thought this over; they continued on into the gathering darkness, letting their horses find their way back to the stable. As they passed the outer walls of Santa Julitta, Rakoczy asked, “Did Comes Udofrid do anything to the nuns?”

  “The rumors say he made whores of them,” said Rorthger.

  “Was this known? What did the Bishop have to say?” Rakoczy asked.

  “The Bishop was the one who finally persuaded Karl-lo-Magne to remove Comes Udofrid from his position, for the sake of the nuns, if nothing else. The Church insisted that something be done, and Great Karl finally complied, and bore the brunt of Udofrid’s kinsmen’s displeasure at his ignominy.” Rorthger considered his next remark. “Not that his reputation wasn’t earned: his debauchery seems to have been common gossip, but nothing was said officially, which was the same as relegating it all to oblivion. If the Church hadn’t stepped in, and his killer, Comes Udofrid might well be here still, continuing his old amusements at the cost of all those around him. Even with his discredit, the damage he did lingers. The nuns have done nothing untoward since the Comes left, yet the rumors remain. I have not spoken to any at Santa Julitta but the Priora, and she said nothing of it.”

  “Not that she would; the Sorrae would be disgraced,” Rakoczy observed; the nunnery was lost to view as they went around the soft rise of the hill and into the trees once more. “Well. I have much to rectify, it appears, and the sooner I make an effort, the better for all of us. I have no wish to awaken more suspicions than I already have. It would probably behoove me to ready myself: if there are any records at the villa, I should review them before Court, so I will be prepared for the complaints.” He shifted in the saddle, listening. “There is someone behind us.” He waited. “More than one, I think.”

  “Mounted?” Rorthger asked as he reached for the short-sword in the saddle-scabbard.

  “Yes. Unshod horses.” Rakoczy drew his Byzantine long-sword and swung it to limber his arm against its weight.

  “How many?” Rorthger asked, swinging his mouse-dun into position against Rakoczy’s grey, noses to tails, flanks almost touching.

 
“Four, I think. Yes. Four.” Rakoczy studied their surroundings and decided their position was defensible; the trees had thinned, and they were in a meadow with a brook on the far side. In the cold-scoured sky overhead the first stars were beginning to shine; the waning moon would not rise until after Compline. “This is as good a place as any to face them.”

  “Do you think this could be something other than an attack?” Rorthger wondered. “Couldn’t this be couriers or missi dominici?”

  “At this hour, in this place?” Rakoczy shook his head.

  “Do you suppose there will be a fight?” Rorthger took a swipe at the air with his short-sword.

  “If they are very foolish, there will be,” said Rakoczy, so calmly that Rorthger knew it was certain that Rakoczy was prepared for battle.

  The sound of the approaching hoofbeats got louder, and there were shouts, harsh and abrupt, that drove out all notion of cordiality; the riders were hunting Rakoczy and Rorthger.

  “They’ll be on us,” said Rakoczy, cocking his head to indicate the curve of the road as it came out of the trees. “Be ready.”

  “I am,” said Rorthger. “I’m only sorry I don’t have a maul with me.”

  “They may well have one,” said Rakoczy, and directed his gaze toward the track behind them. “Be careful of blows.”

  The first of the followers emerged from the trees at the trot, then slapped his pony into the canter; his men behind him did so as well. The leader checked his mount as he caught sight of Rakoczy and Rorthger up ahead; then he urged his pony to gallop, yelling as he closed with Rakoczy, a heavy cudgel raised above his head, ready to strike.

  The impact went awry as Rakoczy swung his sword back-handed, bringing the blade up and under the leader’s arm; its steel bit deeply into his flesh. The cudgel fell from his hand, striking the on-side forecannon-bone of Rakoczy’s grey; the horse screamed and reared, which kept Rakoczy from killing the attackers’ leader with his first slam of his blade. Rakoczy held his grey with his legs, making the horse drop back onto her front legs; she minced in place, squealing with hurt.

  Two of the men had swept around to strike at Rorthger; the attack faltered as Rorthger jabbed at the nearer of the two men, missed, and thrust his short-sword deep into the pony’s neck. Blood erupted from the wound as the animal went down, hooves thrashing; his rider was pinned beneath him, screaming that his arm was broken; his voice was rising in anguish. The second man pulled back and drew a short spear from a scabbard on his saddle; he prepared to rush at Rorthger, and put his pony into the gallop, only to find that Rorthger had brought his mouse-dun around to charge him.

  The fourth man reined in, hesitating at the edge of the trees. Then he wheeled about and fled, leaving his companions to face Rakoczy and Rorthger alone. The man riding at Rorthger saw this and sheered off, following the fourth man toward the woods.

  The single remaining mounted man shouted loudly and made an effort to take another swipe at Rakoczy, using a long knife; he reeled in the saddle, and were it not for his hardy, sure-footed pony, he would have fallen; as it was, the man clung to the high pommel as the pony wheeled on his back legs, then bore his rider off in the direction the other two men had taken.

  As soon as he was sure that the other men had gone, Rakoczy swung out of his saddle and knelt to examine his mare’s leg. His night-seeing eyes could clearly discern the ruin of her leg, and he knew she could not be saved; he patted her shoulder, his heart heavy. Getting to his feet, he began to unbuckle the girth of the grey’s saddle while Rorthger dismounted and used the dropped cudgel to end the wounded pony’s suffering; the man pinned beneath was unconscious.

  “I’ll carry the tack,” said Rakoczy as he set the saddle on its pommel-end and prepared to swing his long-sword.

  “Is it necessary?” Rorthger asked.

  “Her leg is broken. She can die quickly or slowly, but she cannot survive,” said Rakoczy flatly. In the next moment he had severed her neck cleanly and moved back as the mare collapsed. “The wolves will feed well tonight.”

  “A pity,” said Rorthger, knowing that it was difficult for Rakoczy to perform this kind of duty, no matter how merciful it was. “The pony is dead, too.”

  “Just as well, with such a wound. He would never get to his feet again, not with such a loss of blood.” Rakoczy went over and looked down. “The rider’s still alive.”

  There was a long silence. “Are you going to remove him?”

  “I suppose I must,” said Rakoczy, and bent to shift the pony’s body in order to lift the injured attacker. “I’m going to sling him across the back of your horse,” he said to Rorthger just before he did.

  “And what about you?” Rorthger asked as he prepared to remount. “Do you want to ride my horse?”

  “I can walk. The villa is less than two Roman leagues away. No one will see us at this hour, so I’ll carry my saddle. Where are your lashes? He’ll have to be tied on.” Rakoczy helped to secure the unconscious man to the cantle of Rorthger’s saddle, then swung the saddle he had taken off his grey up to his shoulder. “This is an inconvenient shape,” he remarked as he tried to settle it comfortably. “We’d best get out of here: the three may well make a second attempt on us.”

  “Two of them, possibly,” Rorthger agreed. “The third is too badly injured.”

  “If blood loss doesn’t exhaust him, he is likely to take an infection,” Rakoczy said, setting out in the direction of his villa. “Who were they, do you think?”

  Rorthger considered the question. “There are stories about Comes Udofrid’s Guards; they shared his disgrace but had no kinsmen to protect them from penury, and so they … they had to fend for themselves.”

  Shaking his head, Rakoczy remarked, “Those were not soldiers. They didn’t fight like soldiers; if they had we would have found it much more difficult to get free of them. Remember the Avars at Pityus.” Although they had fought the Avars there more than 250 years ago, the event remained sharp in their memories.

  “They were desperate,” Rorthger reminded him as he glanced back toward the line of trees.

  “So were these men, I should think,” said Rakoczy, lengthening his stride. “But though the Avars were near to starvation, they fought more effectively than these four.”

  “Then do you have a suspicion about them?” He let Rakoczy take the lead, keeping his mouse-dun to a steady walk.

  “Hardly so much as a suspicion, more of a sense,” said Rakoczy. “Say rather that I cannot reconcile these attackers with the skill and behavior of trained soldiers. Four trained fighters would not make the mistakes these men did.” He thought a moment. “And the ponies were more like those used by the peasants than the horses soldiers ride.”

  “A man must use what he can find,” said Rorthger. They topped a rise and could just make out the torches burning at the front gate of Rakoczy’s villa on the brow of the next low hill.

  “So he must,” said Rakoczy. “I fear we will arrive later than the villagers of Monasten would like.” He nodded in the direction of the lume of a great fire off to their right.

  “If you are there before they are all too drunk to notice, all will be well,” said Rorthger, echoing the light irony in Rakoczy’s voice.

  “Then perhaps we should hasten,” said Rakoczy. He continued to walk at a brisk clip, covering ground at a speed that would have alarmed anyone but Rorthger, had he been seen. Maintaining his celerity until they had almost reached the outer wall of the villa, Rakoczy was reasonably satisfied when he came up to the squat, massive wooden doors that were the entrance to the villa’s grounds. He used the bell-chain to summon the warder and looked up at Rorthger. “How is your charge doing?”

  “He is clammy to the touch and his breathing is shallow,” said Rorthger. “He will have to be helped soon, or he may die in spite of anything you do.”

  “Then take him to my study and I will come shortly to tend to him.” He put down his saddle and said to the warder as the gate opened, “Take the saddle to th
e stable if you would. And summon Amolon for me. He may find me in my study.”

  The warder ducked his head. “I will, Magnatus.”

  “Very good,” said Rakoczy, and strode across the courtyard to the main house, leaving Rorthger to provide an account of their difficulties to the warder. He went directly to his private apartments, peeling off his gonelle as he went and loosening the ties on his black linen camisa. Once in his outer room, he paused to strike steel to flint to light the lamp hanging from the center beam; the light did not penetrate the gloom very well, but it was sufficient for Rakoczy to find the tunica he sought in one of his three chests of clothing. He pulled this on quickly, then went to the basin of water that he always ordered kept in his chambers. Washing his hands, he made sure his fingernails were clean before he left his apartments and headed for his study. There he found Amolon and Rorthger waiting for him, the semi-conscious attacker laid out on the trestle table, a stained cloth over him. Three branched lamps had been lit, giving the room enough light to treat the man.

  “Magnatus,” said Amolon, reverencing him.

  “Amolon,” Rakoczy responded. “I thank you for coming here promptly.”

  “I am here to serve you,” said the buticularius.

  “Very good,” Rakoczy said as he pulled back the cloth over the supine man. “I am going to hold Court on the Feast of the Dead. Can you tell me what I must do?” He bent over the man, inspecting his wounds. “Rorthger, I will need two splints and many strips of linen; and syrup of poppies for the pain. Also a vial of my sovereign remedy, against fever from his hurts.”

  “I’ll fetch them,” said Rorthger, and left the study at once.

  Puzzled and a bit nonplussed, Amolon could not think what to answer. Finally he said, “The Court is to be here.”

  “Yes.” Rakoczy pulled his knife from the sheath at his knee and cut open the man’s clothing. “His arm is broken in two places. He’s fortunate it’s no worse than that.”

  “A broken arm can be a man’s death,” said Amolon.