“Yes. So he does.” Pope Leo went through the gate and along the wall toward the chapel. “We must pray for him, asking that God’s Strength and Mercy be upon him. Without him, the Church would surely be in Byzantine hands by now, and the promise of salvation lost forever.”
Being able to think of nothing else to say, Fratre Berahtram cried, “Amen.”
“Truly. Amen.” The Pope was flagging a bit, his steps growing shorter and slower. “Do not rush, Fratre Berahtram. They will wait for me.” He lifted his hand to the Bishop who stood in the chapel door waiting for him. “There, you see? They haven’t started yet.”
“They wait upon you, Holiness,” said Fratre Berahtram, knowing what was a proper response, “out of respect.”
“Bishop Agobard is a most prudent man,” said Pope Leo, smiling slightly; the cicatrices across his face felt like hot wire. “Karl-lo-Magne is fortunate to have him as an advisor, just as he is fortunate that God sent him Sublime Alcuin.” He almost stumbled but caught himself before Fratre Berahtram had to steady him. “Don’t fret, good Fratre. You have brought me back to the world and I intend to stay here until God is finished with me.”
“May God be praised,” said Fratre Berahtram, feeling a bit foolish.
“Perhaps,” said the Pope, “Bishop Agobard could name you his successor. Would you like that, or would you prefer to remain among the sick and injured, to do cardinal Acts of Charity?”
Somehow Fratre Berahtram managed not to grin or whoop. Finally to get away from stinking infirmaries, from the howls and demands of the dying! His stock of medicaments was running precariously low, and he dared not approach Magnatus Rakoczy for more, knowing he would be exposed if this became known. He pretended to consider the matter. “God called me to tend the afflicted, and now, through you, He calls me to other work. I will do as you wish, Holiness, certain that you speak for God in the world.”
Pope Leo cocked his head to look at Fratre Berahtram. “Very well,” he said at last. “When the King returns, I will speak with him and Bishop Agobard about changing your station.” He patted the Fratre’s arm. “If you will escort me back to my apartments when None is finished, you will have until Vespers for your own.”
“You are very good, Holiness,” said Fratre Berahtram, reverencing the Pope. He hoped he could find some meat left in the kitchens; probably most of the scullions would have devoured anything not eaten in the dining hall, but they were supposed to set aside a portion for charity, which, if anyone deserved, it was he.
The chapel was cool and dark; the monks, priests, and Bishops sat on benches according to their rank; they rose for the Pope and reverenced him, then, when he had taken the sedes before the altar, sat again and began their devotions in near-silence. The men in the chapel all tried to demonstrate their piety so that the Pope would look upon them with favor and remember them when he returned to Roma.
In his place toward the rear of the chapel, Fratre Berahtram exulted, praying to express his gratitude for the advancement that the Pope had promised him, for promise such a pledge must be. He asked God to return Karl-lo-Magne quickly and safely, not for the King’s benefit, but so that he, Fratre Berahtram, might finally be given the advancement he had so truly earned.
It was three days later when Karl-lo-Magne clattered through the stockade gates of Paderborn just after mid-day, accompanied by a dozen Bellatori, a trio of Potenti, and a Comes to announce that he had beaten back the Saxons and exacted revenge for the murder of the monks. He was grimy, sweaty, and his knuckles were skinned, but he grinned hugely as he got down off his horse and roared for a cup of honey-wine. “We must drink to celebrate our triumph!”
Immediately the soldiers garrisoning the castle gathered around him, shouting their approval and demanding to know more. One Primore took advantage of his advanced rank and pushed through the milling crowd to the King’s side. “What has happened?” he bellowed.
Karl-lo-Magne, standing head and shoulders above almost all of the men, laughed immensely. “We caught the greatest part of their hosts unaware—men and women, the aged and the young—and we surrounded them. We had the advantage in surprise and weapons and we made the most of it; we surrounded their camp and charged from all four sides. They tried to fight, but we overwhelmed them, killing those who lifted arms against us, taking prisoners and slaves from the rest; it was over in less than half-a-day. A hundred of the men will be made into eunuchs and sold to the Moors, who always want fair-haired eunuchs. They will not stand against me again, and they will have no sons to oppose me.” He clapped his hands, and the men around him rollicked. “We have brought back women, young women, for the delight of you—my trusted soldiers. You may make wives or concubines or whores of them. That is up to you. But I will not have them giving birth to any but Franks, so that we will finally have an end to this infernal rebellion.”
A mansionarius hurried up, a large pitcher in his hands. “Honey-wine, Optime. Honey-wine. My deputies will bring cups in a moment.”
Karl-lo-Magne stretched out and seized the pitcher. “Bring a second one for my men,” he ordered. “This is mine!” He raised the pitcher and drank from its lip, swallowing eagerly until the pitcher was half-empty. “A worthy beginning to what must be a feast!”
The mansionarius beat a hasty retreat to comply with the King’s orders and to alert the kitchen that they would have to make ready for a major celebration. Behind him he heard Karl-lo-Magne shout, “Day after tomorrow! I want all my Bellatori here, and all the Bishops who can get here! Send couriers at once!”
There was a sudden flurry as the couriers detached themselves from the crowd around the King and hastened off to the stables, an under-senescalus in their midst, issuing assignments to the couriers as they went.
Comes Godefrid, who had ridden in immediately behind Karl-lo-Magne, yelled, his roughened voice not as easily heard as Karl-lo-Magne’s strident cries. “We captured over three hundred horses, almost all of them sound. And we have yet to count the swords and spears, or the shields and axes and daggers.”
This, too, was excellent news, and the men hooted and clamored enthusiastically. The Bellatori had dismounted, and now the Potenti joined them, thrusting their reins at grooms who stood at the edge of the throng, hands outstretched. Gradually the grooms were able to extricate the horses from the crush and lead them away toward the stables.
Karl-lo-Magne was taking another drink, his face beaming. “We will celebrate our victory and the victory of the Pope!” he announced. There was a brief silence as the men recalled that the Pope was a resident of the castle, but it quickly gave way to more hearty demonstrations as the mansionarius returned with two large pitchers and a parade of scullions behind him carrying trays of cups. The confusion increased in the frenzy to be first to drink with the King, and a few times men exchanged blows before Karl-lo-Magne called them all to order again. “We must thank God that the Saxons have paid for their desecration of our monasteries. It is good that the Pope is here to see the men who have delivered his Church from defilement.” He held up his pitcher, which was now almost empty. “Where are my daughters? Let them come to share my joy! Where is my wife?”
The mansionarius looked about in dismay. “They must know you have come, Optime,” he said uneasily. “Your daughter Gisela is at prayers.”
“She’s an Abba. She ought to pray,” said the King, dismissing this. “Where are the others? Gisela may join us after—what Hour is it?—None?”
“Yes, Optime,” said the senescalus as he came back from the stables. “Your couriers will be away shortly. I have dispatched nine of them.”
“Good,” Karl-lo-Magne approved. “Very good.” He drank a little more; his pitcher was almost empty. Seeing this, the mansionarius signaled one of his scullions to go and fetch another two pitchers. “What is there to eat now? It is late for prandium, but there must be something they can put on a spit for us.”
“Of course, Optime,” said the mansionarius, looking helplessly at the senesca
lus.
The senescalus of Paderborn took over. “There are geese and ducks that can be prepared quickly. And two stags are hanging, dressed, in the slaughter-house. They will take longer to prepare, but if you will be content to have the birds first, you need not be famished for long.”
“Excellent, Recho,” Karl-lo-Magne shouted. “Be about it at once. You!” He pointed to the mansionarius. “You go and tell the cooks to ready the geese. We’ll need at least twenty of them. And more than that number of ducks. Don’t dawdle, fellow. Go!” He did not wait to see if he would be obeyed; he swung around, still relishing his success. “The rest of our army will be here in time to banquet in two days. Make sure that Catulf and Gersvind are summoned to attend: they will have much to do between now and then, and their service should be rewarded, along with Fratre Berahtram’s.” The mention of the two most respected Jewish physicians in Paderborn brought cheers from the men, most of whom had been treated by them at one time or another. “I wish that foreigner Rakoczy were here; he would be useful.”
“Your missi dominici could fetch him in … perhaps twenty days, if the weather holds and they ride hard,” said Recho, preparing to dispatch the pair currently at Paderborn.
“No, no,” said Karl-lo-Magne before he drank the last of his honey-wine and held out the pitcher to trade for another. “In twenty days I may be ready to return to Aachen, and then he would have been summoned for nothing. No, let him remain at his fiscs for the time being.” He moved through his men. “I would like to have a swim. A shame we haven’t a pool here.”
“There is the river,” Comes Godefrid reminded him.
“Not the same. The river would have to be guarded, and that spoils the sport.” He drank from the second pitcher, but less eagerly than he had from the first. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he gestured to Recho to come nearer. “Put the kitchen to work. We’re all hungry and if we don’t eat something soon, the men will be wild as Avars.”
“At once, Optime,” said Recho, reverencing the King before rushing off to speed activity in the kitchen.
Karl-lo-Magne raised his free hand and motioned his men to follow him. “To the dining hall. There will be bread, at least, and new butter.” All but crowing he led the surge into the central building, going directly to the dining hall. He took his place on the dais in the center chair and signaled to Comes Godefrid to sit on his left. “The Pope should join us. He may have my right hand. The other chairs are for my daughters and my wife.”
Comes Godefrid reverenced the King and hastened up to the High Table, saying, “You show me much honor, Optime.”
“You fought well, Comes,” said Karl-lo-Magne. “It is fitting that you, being near-kin to me, should have this favor.” He slapped his big hands on the table, the loud thump signaling for silence where the men were jostling for places to sit on the benches at the three long tables. “Do not fret about your ranks. Seat yourselves among your comrades and enjoy their company.”
Another troop of scullions—Saxon slaves—appeared bearing pails of beer and large baskets of round loaves of bread. They struggled to distribute these among the men while a mansionarius served the King and his second cousin once removed. The commotion had died down a little when Bertrada and Rotruda came into the dining hall, shouting out greetings to their father and hurrying toward him as if they were still children. Karl-lo-Magne slewed around in his chair and opened his arms to receive them.
“It’s so good to have you back again!” Rotruda exclaimed, and kissed his hand, giving attention to his skinned knuckles.
Karl-lo-Magne bussed her cheeks, saying, “Where is my wife?” between kisses.
“She’ll be with you soon,” said Bertrada. “She’s been keeping Hours with Gisela, in the hope that she will finally conceive.” She glanced at the mansionarius. “I’ll have wine. The red from Tuscany if you have any.”
“There may be some, Illustra. I’ll have to look,” said the mansionarius, apprehension in every line of his body; he knew that his disappointment of this powerful woman would mean a beating.
“Do so, and quickly,” said Bertrada.
“You’d best bring two bottles or more. Gisela likes Tuscan wine, too,” said Rotruda. “I’ll have honey-wine, from my father’s pitcher.” She favored him with a winsome look.
More slaves came from the kitchen, bearing wheels of cheese and tubs of butter; they were welcomed with cheers and eager gestures as they made their way along the three tables. In the middle of this, the bell that signaled the end of None rang, and the men paused to sketch a cross in the air in front of them before resuming their scramble for food.
“Gisela and Luitgard will be here shortly,” said Rotruda, sinking into a chair beside Comes Godefrid. “How was the fighting, cousin?”
“It was fierce, but good,” he said, reaching for his drink.
“Has my wife been good company for you?” Karl-lo-Magne asked Bertrada. “She has not always liked coming on campaign, but it would be folly to leave her behind, unprotected. Who knows what might befall her on my account?” He patted his daughter’s hand.
“Luitgard is sensible in her way,” said Bertrada. “She knows she must stay with you, but you cannot blame her if she dislikes the conditions this imposes.”
“She’s not like you, is she? She has no taste for the rigors of campaign, though she must endure them,” he asked fondly, brushing his hand over her long braids. “You’ve been at my side since you were out of swaddling bands.”
“As have we all,” said Bertrada, and looked up as Leo III appeared at the far end of the dining hall. She rose and reverenced him; gradually the room went quiet as the rest of the company followed her example, except her father, who remained seated until the Pope reached the dais and came up to him.
“Most Holy Leo,” Karl-lo-Magne said, rising and embracing the Pope. “You honor my table. Sit and dine with us.”
Pope Leo nodded, acknowledging the reverence the King offered. “I am thankful to you, Karl-lo-Magne.”
“God has given us a victory, Holiness,” Karl-lo-Magne went on, making sure he spoke loudly enough so that everyone in the dining hall could hear. “Your prayers and presence brought us strength and took will from our Saxon enemies.”
“Then let us praise God for His Goodness,” said Pope Leo, holding his hands up in prayer before taking the seat the King indicated at his right. “It is always a worthy victory when the Church is vindicated.” He reached for the silver cup the mansionarius had just placed before him. “I am grateful to you for doing God’s Will.”
“Amen, Holiness, amen,” said Karl-lo-Magne, and heard this echoed throughout the dining hall.
More bread and cheese were carried in, to be grabbed and gobbled by the men on the benches; the under-mansionarius came to the High Table with silver trays of bread still warm from the oven, and cheese in waxen rinds. He reverenced the estimable figures before him as best he could, then served the food as if this were a banquet instead of an impromptu meal.
As Pope Leo broke the loaf he had been offered, Gisela and Luitgard entered the dining hall and made their way past the long table to the High Table. They reverenced the King and the Pope, then took their places, accepting the cups the mansionarius had managed to fill with red Tuscan wine.
“You look tired,” Gisela said to the King. “Was it a hard fight?”
“It was. The Saxons are purposeful foes, but they could not stand against us.” Karl-lo-Magne turned from his daughter to his wife. “Have you been busy here at Paderborn?”
“Oh, yes,” she answered. “I have been teaching your children—the ones who haven’t learned already—how to do sums.”
“How good of you,” said Karl-lo-Magne, and looked back to Gisela. “What more have you done in the last weeks?”
“I have read a great deal. Odile has shared two of Magnatus Rakoczy’s books with me, and I have found them most interesting.” She took a long draft of wine.
“Ah. Odile,” Karl-lo-Magne
said with a slight smile. “Is she well?”
“She is very well,” said Gisela with a knowing look at her father. “She is here at your pleasure, Optime. As are we all.”
Karl-lo-Magne gave a single nod, then gave his attention to the Pope. “There are many things we must discuss, Holiness.”
“I agree, Optime,” said Leo. He drank a little more wine to fortify himself. “Now that I am nearly recovered, I must return to Roma.”
“You must, it is true, but that need not be at once,” said Karl-lo-Magne. “Best wait until you are fully restored to health.”
“That may mean traveling in winter, which is more hazardous than taking to the road now. Once the rains come, and the snows, I may be unable to move until spring, which would give my enemies many months to prepare for my return. I would prefer not to give them such an advantage.” The Pope turned in his chair to look directly at Karl-lo-Magne. “You must be aware that the longer I am gone, the weaker my supporters become.”
“Your enemies know you are with me, and that ought to give them pause,” said Karl-lo-Magne, and was cut short by the stamping of the men’s feet in welcome to the first spit of geese, sizzling and smoking from the fire. He waited while these were portioned out, then went on. “Anyone who acts against you acts against me.”
“A most laudable sentiment,” said Pope Leo, “but permit me to say that it may not be as true as you want to believe. In this time, there are many demands on the members of the Papal Court, because I am not there to hold the Church on course. Too many of the Cardinal Archbishops are inclined to listen to the Byzantines, and to lend them support. If I were in Roma most of them would hesitate before undertaking any alliance with the Patriarch, for they would know I”—he stopped while a kitchen slave cut wings and legs from the largest goose and laid them on a tray, then split the body in half, putting one section before Karl-lo-Magne and one before the Pope—“they know I will punish such sedition with severity. No one can force their compliance as I can.”
Night Blooming Page 31
