Night Blooming

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Let me also state that I have no reason to suppose that she has done anything to her hands to bring about her bleeding. I have kept watch over her and I have set other Sorrae to do the same, with the result that none of us can account for this perturbing continued bleeding. If she is doing anything to her hands, I cannot determine what it may be. There are those who say this is the mark of the Anti-Christ on her, and if it is, she has borne it in a way that should redeem her, for God has raised up far more grievous sinners than Gynethe Mehaut, and brought them to Glory. If these marks originated with Satan, Gynethe Mehaut has done all that mortal could to put herself beyond the touch of damnation, and in that she serves as a most wonderful example of the triumph of faith over the wiles of Satan and all his minions.

  I ask you to use this in any way that will be to Gynethe Mehaut’s benefit and the support of our Church.

  Amen.

  Iditha,

  Priora Santa Albegunda.

  by my own hand

  Chapter Four

  IN THE ANCIENT VILLAGE OF LECCO the fishermen were cleaning their boats, much as they had done since before the Caesars ruled; few of them paid any attention to the soldiers and the plausterum that clattered by on their way to the large villa that occupied a low promontory that brooded over Lake Como. The warm breeze carried the odor of orchards and pasture, as well as the hint of pine trees from the higher peaks, lending the afternoon a sweetness that took the sinister out of the shadows and lent a beauty to even the most ordinary sights.

  “You say this villa is in your family?” Notrold asked skeptically as they neared the gates of the expansive holding with its fine stone walls extending almost half-a-league around the estate.

  “Yes. Since the time Pliny came here,” said Rakoczy, thinking back to those discussions they had shared that lasted long into the night and the long correspondence that had resulted from it.

  “Who is that?” Theubert asked.

  “A Roman maker of descriptiones and itineraries,” said Rakoczy, finding it difficult to reconcile himself to the loss of Pliny from the world of memory.

  “A useful sort of man,” said Sulpicius. “He must have been a monk.”

  “No. He was a scholar,” said Rakoczy, knowing such a distinction was meaningless to these men. He took the lead as they neared the gates, calling out, “Ombrosius! Senescalus! Open the gates! It is Sant’ Germainius!”

  There was a bustle of excitement inside the walls, and finally a badger-grey head appeared in the warder-gate and an elderly servant gaped out at them, his tunicae a bit askew and belted haphazardly. He studied the men and horses, hesitating to act. Rakoczy, who had donned his silver-link collar with the eclipse clasp, rode up next to the gate. “Let us in, Ombrosius, You know me and you recognize my sigil. You had my letter saying to expect me. Well, I have come at last.”

  The old man nodded several times and added something under his breath, then went on in his regional dialect that had more Latin in it than Frankish. “That you have. Goodness, look! It is Comes Sant’ Germainius. With a party of armed men. Saints save me!” He ducked back behind the door and slammed it shut as if to keep the soldiers out.

  “They are welcome here, Ombrosius,” said Rakoczy patiently, adding to Einshere, “He is cautious, and that is a good thing, to my mind.”

  “As you say,” Einshere said distantly; he had been preoccupied since they left Sant’ Spiritu to continue their long trek over the high passes into the warmer climate of Longobardia. Einshere had taken to reciting the Hours as they rode and was now readying himself for Vespers.

  “It looks to be a good place: easy to defend, at least these inner buildings. That wall would need a full company of soldiers to hold,” said Notrold, giving Einshere a look of veiled contempt.

  “I gather it has been manned by a century of Legionaries, in the past,” said Rakoczy.

  “Stout walls and a fine position,” Notrold enlarged his praise. “How large is the villa? With all the grounds?”

  “It is smaller than it was,” said Rakoczy, remembering how much of the estate he had had to sacrifice in the last six hundred years; originally it had extended for a full Roman league along the lake, and had taken in all the land for half that distance from the shore. “But at its present size, it houses a staff of thirty-four and employs more than fifty peasants and artisans. There is room for twenty guests, with stalls for fifty horses.”

  “How many slaves?” Sulpicius asked.

  “I keep no slaves,” said Rakoczy. “Not in Franksland, not here, not in Wendish territory.” He could see the men exchanging glances at this oddity of character. “Foreigners are often deprived of property, and slaves are more spies than servants for most foreigners. Servants are more dedicated.”

  “As long as they are kept well,” said Notrold.

  “That’s so,” Usuard said as the gates were pushed open and Ombrosius came bustling out, bowing and reverencing all the men.

  “May you all be glad, Bellatori, and Magnatus, for coming here. It is a fine day when the Gomes returns to us, one which we will celebrate. We have fresh fish to cook for our comestus, and tomorrow a proper feast shall make you truly welcome.” He looked up at Rakoczy. “Shall I heat the caladarium? Or let more water into the tepidarium? Do your men want to swim?”

  “They may want to tomorrow,” said Rakoczy, anticipating this Roman luxury for himself. “I will be glad of some time in the caladarium. Can you heat it for me so that I may bathe while they dine?” He dismounted and shouted, “Avitus!” for his mariscalcus. “Bring your grooms. We have horses in need of grooming and food.”

  “Avitus is not here,” said Ombrosius, and stared off at the northern peaks on the far side of the lake.

  “Not here?” Rakoczy was surprised to hear this. “Where is he?”

  “In Heaven, so I trust,” said Ombrosius, and made a gesture of protection. “He took a fever in winter, and it turned into a putrid cough. He died of it.”

  “That saddens me; I trust his family has not suffered because of it,” said Rakoczy.

  “We have followed your instructions, Comes,” said Ombrosius. “They are still housed and fed in his name.”

  Rakoczy made a gesture of approval. “Who is mariscalcus in his place?”

  “Heraclius, his nephew, has done his work.” Ombrosius looked over his shoulder in the direction of the stable. “Shall I summon him?”

  “Of course,” said Rakoczy, and turned to the men with him “Dismount. My mariscalcus will take your horses and tend to them directly. In the meantime, Ombrosius, send for mansionarii to show my guests to their quarters. See that they are comfortable, that their property is respected, and that they have no reason to complain of their treatment. And summon one of the kitchen women or laundresses to wait upon the woman who rides in the plausterum.” He saw the excitement in the old senescalus’ eyes, and said, “No, I do not bring you a lady to be chatelaine here, though she is worthy enough. She is summoned to Roma in answer to the Pope, and we escort her at the Will of Karl-lo-Magne.”

  “The Pope summons a woman?” Ombrosius exclaimed, and was stopped from further observations by the arrival of Heraclius, who reverenced Rakoczy and nodded to Ombrosius.

  “Comes Sant’ Germainius,” he said. “I had the honor to see you once when I was a little child. It is a most welcome thing to greet you again.”

  Rakoczy, who had in the past years left Hispania and gone east into Wendish territory, had made two short journeys into Italy to procure horses from Olivia; he supposed he must have seen the young man on the more recent of the two, when he had remained at this villa through most of the winter. “I am pleased to see you grown, and I am sorry to hear that your uncle has died. He served me long and well.” He watched Heraclius reverence him and wondered how long this too-plausible young man had practiced it.

  “As, I hope, I will,” said Heraclius, holding out his hand for the reins and leads Rakoczy held. “Your orders before were for sweet hay, two measures of o
ats, an apple or a handful of grapes, and oil of turpentine on the hooves. Have you changed any of your preferences?”

  “Comb their manes and tails, and rub them with wool-fat, then brush their coats,” said Rakoczy. “And when they are cool, give them fresh water to drink. We will be here for a few days, and for that time, the horses are to be in the pasture during the day and stalled at night.”

  “As you wish, Comes,” he said, and signaled for the grooms to take the other horses.

  “Hold the mule drawing the plausterum,” said Rakoczy, and went to assist Gynethe Mehaut to get down. He paid no attention to the gasps of his servants, but showed her all the deference courtesy demanded. “She will need a woman to serve her.”

  Ombrosius all but goggled at his first sight of Gynethe Mehaut. “A ghost!” he cried out, and retreated half a dozen steps, his face averted. “Look away! Look away!” The mansionarii who had come hurrying out of the central building stopped in their tracks and stared, shocked by the appearance of the white-skinned woman with the red eyes.

  “No, she is no ghost, no matter how pale her skin. This is Gynethe Mehaut,” said Rakoczy as if his servants were behaving well. “She is called by His Holiness, Pope Leo, to wait upon him in Roma. You will show her all respect while she is here.”

  As the men of the escort surrendered their horses and remounts, a few of the mansionarii came forward to take the chests from the mules before the grooms could lead them away. This simple task broke the spell that seemed to have fallen over everyone in the courtyard.

  “I have a cousin. She is called Zenevra, a most excellent, sensible woman, not given to fancies or frights,” said Ombrosius, making a recovery at last. “She has three living children, all grown. She Jives with my brother and tends to his family. She will come here and wait upon your … guest. If you will permit me to send for her, she will remain with … her, and—”

  “Fine,” said Rakoczy, “Send one of the mansionarii who knows her. I will see your family is rewarded for this service to me.”

  Relieved that he had nothing more to do to show his remorse for his earlier dismay, Ombrosius bustled about, his head bobbing as he gave crisp orders to the various servants. “Luculian, see the soldiers to the dining hall, and Rouanius, build up a fire in the caladarium. Merusian, go to the bakery and fetch the new bread and tell the cook to ready more.” In a short time, everyone had gone about their assigned tasks, and Rakoczy was left alone with Gynethe Mehaut standing next to the pile of chests and packs that still had to be taken to cubicula of the soldiers and his own apartments.

  “They are willing,” said Gynethe Mehaut. “You are fortunate in that.”

  “So I am,” Rakoczy agreed. “And the people of Lecco have been faithful to those of my blood for many generations.”

  “How long have your kinsmen held this place?” Gynethe Mehaut was staring at the fine old stonework left over from the time when the villa was new.

  “For centuries,” said Rakoczy. “I am going to assign you to apartments instead of a cubiculum. You will be able to rest there and not worry about the sun.” They had been built for Olivia, but the precautions that would support a vampire would also serve an albino well.

  “Won’t that cause talk? If you have a chapel here, I might—”

  “You have been praying every day since we left Attigny. You may rest a little from your observances,” said Rakoczy, and indicated a young mansionarius who was making for the warder-gate. “He will bring you Ombrosius’ cousin Zenevra, and she will tend you.”

  “But if I don’t keep the Office,” Gynethe Mehaut protested, “will it not be held against you?”

  “If you wish to continue with the Hours, I would never stop you, but I would also not require it of you. I haven’t the authority.” Rakoczy started toward the main building.

  “I’m afraid we’ll be watched—one of the Bellatori, or your servants—” She looked over her shoulder as if anticipating the discovery of a lurking spy.

  “You aren’t under surveillance here unless you should wish to be. I give you my Word.” He stopped, aware that he had not allayed her fears. “Come with me, Gynethe Mehaut. I will be pleased to guide you.”

  “That could make it appear I am your mistress,” she said, her face showing confusion more than distress.

  “What would be the harm in that? It would mean you are under my protection, which is accurate. I am master here, and you are my guest. And my servants will not press their advantage, or gossip more than most of them do.” Rakoczy watched her while she thought about this. “The servants would be most attentive if they assumed you were my woman.”

  “They’re afraid of me,” said Gynethe Mehaut.

  “They’re startled by anything new; some of them are wary of me,” said Rakoczy. “You might prefer to keep to your apartments while you are here, or you may use any part of the villa inside the walls. There are baths—old Roman baths—and two gardens and a small orchard you may visit safely.” They had entered the vestibule, and Rakoczy pointed to the three corridors that converged there. “The atrium has become a garden, a small one,” he went on. “The reception hall, dining hall, and withdrawing rooms are down there, to the right, the private apartments are to the left, on the upper floor. The cubicula are on the ground floor.”

  “This is a very fine place. Not at all like the Frankish villas.” She went toward the wall ahead of her, staring at the faded murals there. “What Saint does this depict?”

  “Not a Saint,” said Rakoczy. “The painting is too old for that It shows the adventures of Gaius Julius Caesar. You see? There he is in Gaul, that part of Franksland where Attigny stands.”

  She contemplated the figures Rakoczy indicated. “Was he a pious man, do you know?”

  Rakoczy thought of the Latin definition of that word, meaning affectionate devotion, and said, “Yes, he was, for those he called his friends.”

  “And was he martyred?” she asked, pointing to the last illustration, showing him falling under the daggers of Brutus and the others.

  “Some might say so,” Rakoczy answered.

  “What would you say?” She tried to read his face as he answered.

  Considering his answer carefully, Rakoczy said, “He dedicated his life to Roma, and all that he believed it stood for. His enemies killed him for it. So, yes, he made himself a martyr, not to God, but to Roma.” He perused the mural, and said, “The portrait isn’t very good. It misses the wryness of his features. For an ambitious man, he had a rich appreciation of the absurdities of life—not that that stopped him from pursuing his objectives.”

  “You speak as if you knew him,” said Gynethe Mehaut.

  “Do I?” He turned away from the wall. “I’ll show you your apartments.”

  She followed him obediently, climbing the stairs two steps behind him. “This gallery—does it go all the way around the … the…” She pointed down into the atrium.

  “No,” he said. “It goes along two sides of the atrium, as you’ll see in a moment. Just keep to the left at the top of the stairs.”

  “To the left,” she said. “I will.”

  “Your apartments will overlook the atrium. Mine are at the corner and overlook the lake.” He stopped at the top of the stairs. “There,” He pointed along the gallery. “You see? There is a door at the start of the corridor. That is where you will stay. There is a bedchamber and a parlor, and a cubiculum for a servant. You may arrange it to your taste.” As he said this he felt a sudden pang, missing Rorthger. “If Ombrosius’ cousin is willing to remain here, then there will be a place for her in the cubiculum.”

  Gynethe Mehaut had stopped and was leaning against the gallery railing. “Look. There’s a fountain in the atrium. It’s flowing.”

  “Yes,” said Rakoczy. “This villa is Roman, and it has the Roman way with moving water: it is piped in from the lake. Most of it goes through the holocaust, to heat the caladarium and the water in the kitchens, but some is used for this fountain, and the tepidar
ium. That’s in the next building. You can see its roof just over there.” He pointed.

  “Is it all for the tepidarium? How big is it?” Gynethe Mehaut was astonished. “It must be bigger than Great Karl’s swimming pool at Aachen.”

  “It is,” Rakoczy admitted. “But there are many, much larger, ones in Roma—or there were.” He gave a little shake to his head and smiled at her. “You will see for yourself when we go there.”

  She shook her head. “I won’t see them. I cannot go about the city.”

  “But you can, you know.” Rakoczy resumed walking, passing through a narrow, brilliant band of light where the setting sun found a notch in the roofline. “Be careful,” he warned her.

  She winced as she walked through the bar of luminous gold. “I wouldn’t like to be exposed to that for very long.”

  “You’re safe enough here,” he said, wishing she, too, could line the soles of her footgear with her native earth to protect her from the depredations of light. “There are only three places along this gallery where you can be hit by direct sunlight, at any time of day, or season of the year.”

  “What a fortunate thing,” she said, “that you came upon such a place as this.”

  He wanted to tell her it had been built to his specifications, but that would have required him to admit to having lived far beyond the usual human limits, and he was worried about her reaction to such knowledge, so he only said, “Yes; it was.” He had visited a pilgrim woman in her dreams three nights ago and so was no longer famished, but he still missed the intimacy of acceptance that such dream-visits never afforded. Nearing the door to her apartments, he said, “If there is anything you need, you have only to tell me and I will have it done for you.”

  She managed a sad smile. “Can you put my skin to rights, or my eyes? Can you keep my hands from bleeding?”

  “No,” he told her. “But I can attend to your comfort, and provide you with food and drink to please you.”

  “You are a gracious host,” she said. “And you have been kind to me as no one else has.”