Night Blooming

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

“So it can,” said Rakoczy. “But I will do my utmost to be sure this man isn’t among them.”

  Curious now, Amolon took a step closer. “Rorthger says that this man attacked you, with three others. Why are you caring for him?”

  “Because otherwise he would die, very likely in agony, and I would learn nothing from him,” said Rakoczy.

  Amolon nodded. “Then you intend to torture him.”

  Rakoczy straightened up. “No. I intend to set his bones and treat him with remedies so that he can recover. Then he will tell me what he knows.”

  “From gratitude?” Amolon scoffed. “He will lie and work against you.”

  Rakoczy went back to his task. “Do you think so?”

  “He was one of four who tried to kill you. You know nothing of him, or of his kin. They are your enemies, and you are reckless to—You might as well bring a wolf into the villa and let it run wild.” Amolon shook his head violently. “You are being foolish, Magnatus.”

  “Well, perhaps I am,” said Rakoczy. “But still, I must do it.”

  Amolon stood still, shocked disbelief making it impossible for him to move. “If he tries to kill you again, Magnatus—”

  “I will remember you warned me,” said Rakoczy.

  With a cough, Amolon went on. “You said you intend to hold Court on the Feast of the Dead. You will have to feed all who come, and feed them well. Also they must have drink, and in quantity. You must have soldiers to maintain order, and monks to be clerks for the Court.”

  “All of which I expected. Shall all this be indoors or in the courtyard?” Rakoczy continued to study the bruises, swellings, and discoloration of the man on the table. “He has been badly beaten in the past; you can see scars on his shoulders and chest. Four of his ribs have been broken, and healed badly. It is a wonder he could ride at all, let alone fight.”

  Amolon ignored Rakoczy’s remarks about the man he was treating. “Late in the year, it would be best to have Court indoors, for who knows what the weather may be? If you require the peasants to stand in the rain, they will become ill and unable to work.”

  “Indoors it shall be, then. Do I speak to the monks at Sant’ Cyricus for clerks?” He stood up again. “This is going to be a bit disagreeable; you may want to wait in the corridor.” As he spoke, he was positioning himself to set the man’s broken arm.

  After a single scratch on the door, Rorthger came in with a basket in his hands. “Everything you asked for, my master.”

  “Excellent,” Rakoczy approved. “Perhaps we should begin with syrup of poppies—if you would hand me the jar?” He held out his hand for it.

  “The man may need more than one dose,” Rorthger said, giving Rakoczy the jar.

  “Yes; I agree,” said Rakoczy; he removed the seal on the mouth of the jar and tipped a dollop of the thick, amber-colored syrup between the man’s lips. “It should begin to take effect shortly.”

  Amolon rushed to the door. “I will come back directly,” he assured Rakoczy as he stepped outside.

  “If you will help me,” said Rakoczy to Rorthger. “I’ll align the bones and if you will put the splints in place?”

  “I’ll be ready as soon as you wish,” said Rorthger, taking the wooden batons from the basket. “He may struggle.”

  “He may. I’m ready if he does,” said Rakoczy. “The syrup will take hold shortly.” He put his hand on the man’s forehead. “No fever yet. That isn’t necessarily a good sign, for his hurt-chill is as dangerous as fever.”

  Rorthger studied the man’s face. “He’s not a peasant, is he?”

  “I doubt it,” said Rakoczy. “Or if he is, he isn’t from Franksland.” He checked the man’s breathing. “The syrup of poppies has almost done its work.”

  “I am ready. You have only to tell me,” said Rorthger, adding, “I trust you don’t expect gratitude from this miscreant.”

  “No,” said Rakoczy. “But I would like some information from him.” He gave a fleeting, one-sided smile. “He may feel some obligation to me for his life—assuming he lives.”

  “He may,” Rorthger said skeptically. “You may also earn his ire.”

  Rakoczy shrugged. “If he dies, it will hardly matter,” he said. “The first thing is to bring him through this; the rest can be dealt with later.” He put himself in position to set the man’s broken bones. “Hold him.” Using his knee to keep the man from sliding on the table, Rakoczy took hold of the man’s hand and slowly tugged it out until the arm was straight; he exerted himself—the man began to moan—and carefully eased the bones into their proper position. “Splint the upper arm first,” he said to Rorthger.

  “At once,” said Rorthger, putting the short batons into place on either side of his upper arm. He wrapped the batons into place with linen bands and tied them off. “The lower arm?”

  “I will hold it. This one is trickier—only one of the two bones is broken, and it has to be maintained at an angle or it could slip again.” He moved his knee and used his hip to keep the man where he had to be. “Quickly.”

  Rorthger did as he was told, and in very short order he had splinted and wrapped the lower arm as well. “There.”

  “Find a cubiculum for him and set one of the mansionarii to watch him while I go to the bonfire. I will announce the Court there, and listen to the reports of the people.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Who could think that so much would be required?”

  “No one would think it odd if all you did was hunt and accept your rents.” Rorthger knew most Potenti lived that way on their fiscs, and thought it somewhat odd that Rakoczy was so determined not to follow their example.

  “The peasants would dislike it more than if I were a Frank,” said Rakoczy. “And the time may yet come when I will have need of their good-will.” He laid his hand on the injured man’s neck. “His pulse is strong. Be sure he has water frequently, and another portion of syrup of poppies by the end of Compline. He should be able to sleep through the night. I will examine him again at Matins.”

  “You’ll be back before then?” Rorthger asked.

  “Long before. I must begin to make gold and jewels again if I am to live as Karl-lo-Magne expects me.” He looked down at his patient one last time before he left the study. “I wonder who he is?”

  TEXT OF A LETTER FROM POPE LEO III IN ROMA TO KARL-LO-MAGNE AT AACHEN, CARRIED BY CLANDESTINE MESSENGER.

  To the most puissant Christian King, Karl-lo-Magne of the Franks, the greetings of Pope Leo III on this, the commencement of the Nativity Season, in Christ’s Year 798, with the prayers that God has continued to show you His Grace and made His Face to shine upon you.

  As you must undoubtedly be aware, my enemies have struck at me upon many occasions in the last year, smirching my name with slanders and attempting to attack me as they would any criminal. Much of this originates with Empress Irene of Byzantium, who seeks to bring her power, and with it the Greek Church, here to Roma, with the purpose of supplanting the temporal powers bestowed by your father and continued by you, and, in addition, to bring down the Holy Catholic Church so that the Greek Church may become the one voice in Christendom. Well we know what disaster that could bring upon the souls of all who have faith in God’s Word.

  I am sending this to you with Fratre Maurizius, who has my utmost trust and confidence. He will impart to you certain things I have learned that may have bearing upon your actions in the world. Some have said that you might consider an alliance with the Empress, taking her to wife for the purpose of securing power in the East by which you could protect the West. In another time this might succeed, but given that Irene has had her own son most cruelly killed, it may well be that she would not hesitate to undertake to have you murdered, or worse. It would be most dangerous to pursue any such arrangement with so treacherous a woman as she is known to be, for there is real danger that in spite of all your plans, Franksland could fall into her hands, and the Church would be destroyed along with your Kingdom. I advise you to cling to your present wife and think no
more of undertaking any treaty with Empress Irene.

  I am also asking you to further the terms of your father’s Donation by agreeing to be my safe-haven if Roma becomes too hazardous a place for me. If you are willing to receive me at your Court as your Pope, I will rest far more comfortably than if I must face the world, knowing that at any hour I may become a fugitive.

  I know of your desire to become Emperor, and I have heard the outcry from the Byzantines, who declare there can be only one Emperor-or Empress-of the Roman Empire. If you are willing to pledge me the support I seek, I will do my utmost to ensure that you are made Emperor in the West, which the Byzantines should accept, no matter how gracelessly. But to ensure such a position, you must be willing to extend all your might to protecting me, in Roma and away from her. You comprehend the stakes of this game we must all play, and for that reason alone, I beg you to consider all that you may achieve in granting what I ask. It is a pact that will exist privately between us, and I swear on the Blood of Christ that I will honor my obligation to you so long as you remain steadfast in your devotion to the Church and to me, as the Pope. Both of us have much to lose if you are unwilling to vouchsafe me the assurances I seek.

  Give my messenger your answer and he will bring it to me as secretly as he came. No one will question a pilgrim, or seek to rob him. He is not part of my Roman Court, and therefore no one will know him for what he is, providing safety for you and for me. I am grateful to you for all you have done for the Church in the past and I am prepared to be more grateful still, in the fullness of time.

  Amen

  Leo III

  Bishop of Roma

  Chapter Fourteen

  GYNETHE MEHAUT STOOD OVER THE FLOWER BED with a wedge-trowel in her hand. She had left Sorra Celinde in the cubiculum to which they had been assigned; the nun was about to visit Bishop Iso. This time in the garden seemed to be an escape, at least for a short while, from all the scrutiny and investigation that eddied like water around her; there was more to come, and she wanted to muster her self-possession before facing new interrogation. She bent down over the new buds, noticing the faint aroma. It was pleasant to pass the time before the end of Compline and the beginning of Nocturnes, at the conclusion of which she would have to go to the chapel for her night-time penitential prayers; the moon was almost full, no clouds to lessen the soft light that was kind to Gynethe Mehaut’s red eyes. Her hands felt stiff in their new bandages, but she continued to work the earth, loosening it and turning it, glad that winter had finally released its hold on the ground. She looked up as an owl drifted across the sky, something dangling from its beak; she watched it fly, thinking it was a failing in her that she did not hate owls as most did, but instead admired them; perhaps this was another sign of her damnation. With that to comfort her, she went back to her work, doing her best to concentrate on her simple task rather than any considerations related to the state of her soul.

  Although his step could be nearly as silent as the owl’s wings, Rakoczy made a point of treading loudly, in order to announce his coming; he did not want to startle her, for that would hamper his purpose: he had been enjoined to question the Pale Woman, and he had complied promptly, for he was aware that Karl-lo-Magne was growing impatient with the Bishops who continued to quarrel over this young woman. Before she was moved from Attigny, the King wanted answers; all this fuss over a woman—however unusual—was unseemly. Alcuin had endorsed the suggestion that an outside opinion might provide an answer the Bishops could accept, which inclined the King to require a response from Rakoczy as quickly as possible. He saw her, pale as wax, kneeling beside a plot of night-blooming milk-flowers, her attention finally claimed by the noise of his approach. “Gynethe Mehaut,” he said, his voice low and the tone mellifluous. He stopped still, letting her take stock of him.

  From her place by the night-blooming bed, she studied him, taking time to consider his face in the rime of moonlight. There was a dawning recognition in her ruby eyes. “I have seen you before, haven’t I?” she asked as he came up to her. “You are familiar to me.”

  “We met on the road to Aachen, very briefly, a few years since; I am honored you remembered. It was such a minor meeting,” said Rakoczy, surprised.

  “It wasn’t minor, not as I saw it,” said Gynethe Mehaut. “You were kind to me.”

  Rakoczy felt a moment of pity that so brief an encounter should have meant so much to her. “You were bound for a monastery, as I recall.”

  “With Priora Iditha,” said Gynethe Mehaut. “She has since returned to Santa Albegunda. I think of her often.” She put down her trowel and accepted his hand to assist her to her feet. “I have been told I must speak with you, and answer your questions. I will do so.”

  This blunt acknowledgment of his purpose was slightly disconcerting, but Rakoczy quickly recovered his aplomb. “Do you ever have news from Santa Albegunda?” he asked, choosing a matter that would not probe too painfully.

  “No. No one there has sent anything to me, not letters, or stories from couriers; or if they have, I haven’t received them. I have news of very little. But there isn’t much I want to know, so it may be just as well. Sorra Celinde occasionally tells me what is being whispered at Court or among the Bishops, but in general, I don’t converse with anyone; they leave me to myself. I am thought to be too dangerous, and so desire I remain ignorant, for my safety.” She sounded more saddened than angry, but there was a hardness to her mouth that hid an abiding anguish.

  “I am sorry to learn this,” Rakoczy said with genuine feeling. “Come. Let us find a bench where we can talk.”

  “We can talk anywhere, sitting or walking,” she said, her pale garments and white skin providing a stark contrast to his black clothing and dark hair. “If we sit, we may be more easily overheard. If we walk, anyone watching us will have to expose himself eventually.”

  “Do you expect to be spied upon?” Rakoczy said, beginning to make his way along the narrow paths between the various beds of herbs and flowers.

  “Anyone who lives in such a place as this should do,” she said, no emotion in her voice. “The mansionarii make themselves useful in many ways, some of them through reporting all they hear. The slaves are as bad, or worse.”

  Rakoczy was aware of these problems, and he said, “I, too, have noticed the attention they give. No wonder you are so cautious.”

  “I would say more sensible than cautious,” she corrected in the same detached tone.

  “Do you think you are more closely watched than some?” Rakoczy inquired, knowing the answer.

  “Certainly the monks and nuns look after me, as they must,” she answered, a suggestion of resentment beneath her calm manner.

  “Does that trouble you?”

  “I have tried to conduct myself so there would be nothing held against me,” said Gynethe Mehaut. “I say my prayers, I tend my garden, and I keep to myself as much as I can. You see, I am being candid with you; any one of a dozen nuns and monks can confirm these things. Sorra Celinde is perhaps the best informed on my doings; she watches me for Bishop Iso, and tells him everything.”

  “Do you think she is watching you now?” He lowered his voice to ask.

  “No, not now. Now you and I are as unobserved as we are ever likely to be.” She offered him a hint of a smile. “I am used to being questioned. It is the only time I am likely to speak with anyone but Sorra Celinde.”

  “And where is she—Sorra Celinde—just now?” Rakoczy wondered.

  “She is with the Bishop. She is his woman as well as his handmaiden.” She walked several steps in silence. “She will come for me when he has left her, but that won’t be too soon. We have some time to be undisturbed.”

  “How long, do you think?” The time would not be exact, but would give him a frame of reference by which to gauge their conversation.

  “Until near the end of Nocturnes,” she replied. “The Bishop has already attended to his evening devotions to God and now gives himself to the flesh.”

&
nbsp; “And what will she do when she is finished with the Bishop? Isn’t it time for her to sleep? Surely she won’t attend on you until morning.” Rakoczy’s sympathy for the young woman was increasing; he knew the burden isolation imposed, and the suspicions that the unfamiliar generated in those unused to it. Willing as she appeared to be to speak with him, and no matter how direct her answers to his questions, there was a great reticence within her, an impregnability that he could not breach.

  “She must escort me to the chapel tonight, so I may begin my prayers after Nocturnes,” said Gynethe Mehaut. “She goes with me almost everywhere.”

  “But surely you can go to the chapel by yourself; Attigny may be large, but not so huge that you would be lost,” said Rakoczy, perplexed by the conditions imposed on her. “Why should you need an escort?”

  “I suppose I could go alone, but then there would be those who would claim I had not performed my devotions, that I had shirked my duties to the Church; that would leave me open to punishment for apostasy. With her attentions, Sorra Celinde may bear true witness to my compliance,” she said, no note of complaint in her voice and only a tightening in her shoulders revealing her opinion. “I am housed and cared for, and in exchange, I must keep the Hours given to me, much as a peasant must plant the Potente’s crops and share his harvest to keep his children fed and housed.” They had reached a branch in the path, and after a glance at Rakoczy, she turned to the right.

  “You keep your Hours at night,” he said.

  “As I must.” Gyenthe Mehaut tipped her head back to study the night sky. “I am made for nighttime as much as those flowers are. My skin cannot endure the sun, and I must stay away from it as much as I can. You said the same to me that day on the road to Sant’ Audoenus. I heeded your words then, and I have benefited from them. Night is my day; I live in reverse to the nuns. While the sun is shining, I rest and sleep, which offends many of the truly industrious Sorrae and Fratri, for they see my restrictions as sloth, and rightfully condemn it. I, too, occasionally fear I am shirking my duties.” She extended her arms toward him, her flesh as pale as the linen strips wrapped around her hands. “You said, on the road, that I cannot abide the sun, and you were right I have accepted the burden this imposes on me. When the Sorrae tend the flocks and the gardens, I must remain indoors, and so I keep my Hours at night, as a penitent. This makes me more acceptable to most of the nuns, but not all.” Pulling her sleeves down, she resumed walking.