Night Blooming

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “May we have this always and always?” she asked, renewed eagerness lending her energy.

  “No, not always,” said Rakoczy quietly. “Those of my blood may love knowingly no more than six times; after that, there is a change.”

  “What change?” she breathed.

  This was going to be difficult, and Rakoczy did not speak at once. “After six times, there is certainty that when you die, you will become what I am, and those of my blood are. And once that change has occurred what is between us now will be over.” There was a long silence between them.

  “Would I still be white?” Gynethe Mehaut asked at last.

  “Yes,” Rakoczy said, and kissed the palm of her unwrapped hand. The nearness of her blood was tantalizing, but he kept from doing anything more until she accepted him.

  “Would I still bleed?” Her voice was almost inaudible.

  How difficult it was to answer her! “I don’t know.”

  “So. There will be no more than six times that we can have our intimacy.” She looked at him. “Is that what we will have?”

  “If it is what you want,” said Rakoczy, new hope gathering in him.

  “Wouldn’t it be better to lie in bed?” she asked, getting to her feet and motioning to him to rise.

  He did, and caught her up in his arms; he was startled by how little she weighed, and thought it had to be on account of her frequent fasting. As he bore her into the bedchamber, she reached up and put her hand behind his head to draw him down to kiss her. “So,” he said as he laid her on the black wool coverlet, her pale skin and stolla seeming to glow against the darkness, “now we know where to begin to awaken your exultation.”

  “You mean with kisses?” she murmured, red eyes sanguine as rubies.

  “For a start,” he said, and began a slow, ineffable exploration of her body with lips and hands, evoking gratification and rapture from every part of her flesh until she quivered like a wind-blown reed, clinging to him as she discovered her own passion and felt his as if they had fused, and for an eternal moment, she comprehended their shared nature and, at the culmination of her ardor, his esurience for blood.

  TEXT OF A LETTER FROM FRATRE GRIMHOLD IN ROMA TO BISHOP FRECULF AT HIS PRINCIPAL SEAT, SANT’ POTHINUS OF LYONS, IN FRANKSLAND, WRITTEN IN CODED LATIN, CARRIED BY HIRED COURIER, AND FINALLY DELIVERED IN LATE AUGUST, 800.

  To the Sublime Bishop Freculf in Franksland, the greetings of his agent in Roma, Fratre Grimhold, with the continuing assurances of his devotion to the Bishop’s cause, and the Pope, on this, the 19th day of July in the Pope’s year 800.

  Sublime, I have done as you ordered me. Not only Patre Servatus, but Fratre Eugenius are dead, both paying the price for betraying His Holiness, Pope Leo, and the Roman Church. I did not employ the Patre Ariolfus disguise to deal with Fratre Eugenius, for that was too hazardous, as it turns out the Frankish monks who helped me to see Patre Servatus blessed and buried have described Patre Ariolfus to the Laterano Guard, so I took a capa, such as those worn by the street gangs of Roma, and I put a bandage around one eye so that it would be thought I was half-blind, then I found a remote corner near the place that Fratre Eugenius meets with the Byzantines to give information to them and to collect their promises of advancement when Constantinople rules in Roma. Fratre Eugenius expected to become Metropolitan of Roma for his treachery, but that is not the case any longer; he has left this earth for whichever destination best pleases God.

  This is how I accomplished my ends: I sat on a fallen column, the way the organized beggars do, and Fratre Eugenius ignored me, just as Patre Servatus paid no heed to a fellow priest entering the Basilica of Sant’ Bartolomeo. I was able to overhear everything the Byzantines said, and I thought Fratre Eugenius was a fool to believe the Greeks, for I am certain that had I not killed him for the Pope, the Byzantines would not allow him to live, what with all the secrets he knew about them and their activities in Roma. His dreams of elevation were not visions of what was to come, but of his own greed for achievement in the world, for the Church has become a worldly prize, when not so long ago, it was only a promise of Salvation. He was even so foolish as to drink the cup of wine the Greeks gave him—I would have refused, for everyone knows how adept the Greeks are with poisons. Fratre Eugenius’ hubris was so great that he never so much as questioned this gesture, but I thought him a fool.

  You may rest assured that when the body is finally discovered, it will be assumed that Fratre Eugenius was waylaid by thieves, for I put a thief’s knife in his ribs, one that has a gang-marking in the horn handle, and this will remove any suspicions that he was killed because of his dealings with the Greeks. This will serve your purpose well, for an accident such as being waylaid by outlaws is not nearly so dangerous a development as a monk being killed for dealing with the Patriarch’s servants. I was at pains to put him out of the way, in an old tunnel; it may be that he will not be found until he is bones, for I disposed of him in an empty quarter of the city, where the few buildings standing are ruins, and only beggars and outlaws live there, another reason for it to be assumed that he was set-upon by criminals. The Guard rarely goes into that part of the city, and only in armed companies, for they are often attacked and repelled by those who live there. The tunnels in that quarter are not often inspected, and no one who lives there will report this killing. So it may be that Fratre Eugenius will simply vanish, and no matter how much people may wonder about him, it is possible that his fate will be unknown.

  I did take the time to say the prayers for the dead over him, so that God may be aware of his dying, even if only you and I are the only men who know of it. I have also added his name to those I remember at Nocturnes, so that he will not be completely forgotten, though it may be no more than what he deserves.

  I am prepared to do your bidding again, but I must warn you that I am becoming uneasy about the killing I understand why Patre Servatus and Fratre Eugenius were dangerous and needed to be disposed of, but I confess I do not understand your most recent order—to do away with the foreigner Magnatus Hiernom Rakoczy because he escorts a white woman to Roma. You tell me that so foreign a man as he must give strength to those who oppose her and seek to condemn her. You are afraid that distrust of him will increase the opposition to her, and work against her in the Papal Court. I can comprehend how this might happen, but I don’t see the use in killing him. I would not like to have to Confess to his death as I have had to do for Patre Servatus and Fratre Eugenius. The priest who has heard my Confession is one who supports all you do, but I may not be able to persuade him of the need for this death. If you will provide more information, so that I need not fear having to spend the rest of my life in penitence, I will increase my gratitude to you in all my prayers.

  If you insist upon the plan being carried out, I ask only that you provide access to this Rakoczy for Patre Ariolfus, so that I may have a creditable reason to seek him out without creating doubts in his mind, or in the minds of those around him. I should warn you that I have had a dream that reveals that this foreigner could be more dangerous than either you or I believe he is, and I have heeded my dreams in the past, and will do so now. We must be very careful in any attempt on this man, or we will both come to grief. If I must approach him as a street-tough, I will need to have men around me, for you tell me that he comes to Roma with an escort of soldiers, and with the promise of protection from Great Karl himself, in which case he isn’t likely to go about the streets unattended. Inform me of your wishes in this regard as soon as you may. I am ready to do your bidding, but not if it exposes us both to the wrath of Leo or Great Karl, for surely that would be a foretaste of the Wrath of God.

  Word has it from the slaves of the Cardinal Archbishops who are known to the couriers that Bishop Iso and his retinue are approaching Roma and are expected to arrive here in two or three days. There will be ten with him, including his Sorra Celinde, who is supposed to report to the Cardinal Archbishops on what she observed while caring for Gynethe Mehaut. I could more r
eadily understand a desire to do away with Bishop Iso than the foreigner Rakoczy, but you must do as you know best, God no doubt guides you in all things, and this is just another sign of His Will. For the honor of our family and the preservation of the Church, you may be sure that I will continue to work on behalf of both until I am summoned to answer before the Mercy Seat.

  Fratre Grimhold

  by my own hand

  Chapter Seven

  THEY CROSSED THE HILLS and reached the Aurelian Road at the site of the old Roman town of Luna, where the port continued to flourish although the community had shrunk to less than a third of its former size. They spent that night at a hostel for travelers and in the morning discovered that Sulpicius had been robbed sometime between midnight and dawn.

  “Should we report it to the town leaders?” asked Einshere.

  “They probably receive a portion of the booty,” said Notrold. “It happens often, when there’s loot involved.”

  “Perhaps the Abbott at Santa Cruce should be told,” said Rakoczy. “He may be able to record the event, at least, though who knows what can be done. Or will be done.” He added the last as he handed a short-sword taken from his own chest of weapons to Sulpicius. “You can carry this for now. At Roma I’ll see you have a new sword. And for now I will provide you with two of Great Karl’s silver coins, in case you must pay for something directly. You cannot go about this part of the world without something to spend.” He glanced around at the others of his company. “You all have coins from me to use to that end. Do not begrudge Sulpicius these. I would do the same for you, were any of you robbed as he has been.”

  “Next time, we all sleep in the same cubiculum or dormitory,” said Theubert. “It was a mistake to allow him to lie down with strangers.”

  “Comrades might do the same, if the rewards were great enough,” said Notrold with a snide expression that was supposed to be a smile, “and the Bellatori were lax enough to let it happen.”

  “He’s lucky he wasn’t killed,” said Usuard. “They could as easily have stabbed him as taken his sword and coins.”

  The soldiers knew this was true; they exchanged uneasy nods and waited for their horses to be led out, along with the pack-mules, their remounts, and the plausterum. It was a shining morning, and the wind off the sea promised relief from the heat they had encountered inland.

  “The White Woman,” Anshelm ventured. “Is she well? The heat has been fierce, and she—” He stopped.

  “She is doing well,” said Rakoczy calmly. “And travel will be easier now we have the Via Aurelia to go on.” He used the old Roman name deliberately, as a reminder of the superior roads they had made.

  “The coast is cooler,” said Notrold. “And there are towns along the way used to travelers. No more sleeping in barns.” They had done just that for two nights on the road from Bobbio and Notrold had complained mightily, for he felt it slighted him to share a stall with an ox.

  “And the road is better,” Einshere said, reiterating Rakoczy’s point. “We should make good time now—perhaps fifteen or sixteen leagues a day.”

  “Those are Frankish leagues, I suppose, not Roman,” said Rakoczy. “For Roman leagues we will do well to cover eight or nine in a day.” He thought back to the time of Vespasianus, when couriers routinely covered twenty-eight Roman leagues a day in all seasons but winter, a distance that now seemed fabulous.

  “Yes, Frankish,” said Einshere, a bit offended that he should be asked such a question.

  “In Longobardia most reckon in Roman leagues, not Frankish,” said Theubert, and added as the soldiers turned toward him, “The priest at Sant’ Chrysogonus explained it to me before we left Lecco.”

  “That was good of him,” said Rakoczy, and took a copper coin from his wallet to hand to the groom leading out his horse and remount; the slave stared at this unexpected largesse and doubled over at the waist in gratitude.

  “You shouldn’t do this,” said Einshere to Rakoczy. “Slaves are slaves for God’s Will, and they need nothing more than the rewards of Heaven. To give them money corrupts their service.”

  “In their place, I would be glad of a copper or two.” He had been a slave more than once and was keenly aware of the limitations such a condition imposed. “Two coppers are hardly extreme wealth. It won’t buy him much more than a pair of wooden-soled brodequins to keep his feet dry in the winter.” Rakoczy checked the girth and, satisfied it was firm, swung up into the saddle and gathered up the reins and the lead-rope.

  “That’s for his master to do,” said Einshere. “Or the monks.”

  “Then consider it an act of charity,” said Rakoczy, refusing to be drawn into an altercation.

  Einshere took his blood-bay in hand, mounted up, and reached for the lead on the mouse-dun. He stared off between his horse’s ears as if trying to disassociate himself from the party in the hostel courtyard. Only when Anshelm spoke to him did he recall himself from his reverie. “What did you say?”

  “I asked if we should carry our spears at the ready or in their sheaths. Should we carry our swords, or keep them in their scabbards?” Anshelm looked annoyed.

  “In their sheaths, at least for now. Swords in scabbards.” He looked at the sun as it hung over the distant eastern hills. “When we stop for prandium, ask me again.”

  Anshelm shrugged. “As you say.” He reached for his horse and mounted up without checking the girth, saying to the slave at his stirrup as he did, “If this slides, I’ll have the skin off your shoulders.”

  “It will not slide,” said the slave, his face turned away in a show of respect.

  Gynethe Mehaut came out of the women’s side of the hostel, her face protected by a fine veil, a gift from Rakoczy that she had finally consented to wear. She stood in the shelter of the narrow porch, waiting for the plausterum, her freshly bandaged hands folded in front of her to show her modesty.

  Rakoczy rode over to her. “I hope you slept well.”

  She looked up at him. “I slept,” she said. “The baker’s wife snored.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” said Rakoczy, wishing he could show her more attention than he did, but keenly aware that this would be unwise.

  “I spent the time praying,” she said, wrapping her arms across her body and grabbing her elbows. “I maintained my penitence.”

  Rakoczy would have liked to say something to comfort her, but Einshere called to him. “We’ll talk later,” he promised her, and bent down to reverence her as much as the saddle would allow. “May you travel peacefully and as comfortably as the road will allow.”

  “If such a thing is possible, Magnatus, I will.” She nodded to show her readiness.

  Now Theubert and Usuard were mounted and had their remount leads in hand; at last a slave led out the plausterum, one of the mules harnessed to it. He handed the lead to Rakoczy and ducked his head, accepting the copper coin he was handed with a great show of thankfulness.

  Bells were ringing the end of Prime as the little party went out of the gates of Luna and onto the Aurelian Road, bound to the south along the coast. The Roman paving was intact in most places; where it was broken the patching was clumsy and slowed down their travel, for they had to be particularly careful not to wreck the wheels of the plausterum or to damage their horses’ legs and hooves. As the day wore on the travelers became more testy. The mules slowed to a walk and would not be rushed over bad stretches of road. The first day on the Aurelian Road they covered eight Roman leagues and spent the night at the monastery of Sant’ Erunicus. The next day they went another eight Roman leagues and arrived at a small market town. The soldiers bought new squashes and beans and had the hostel-keeper add them to the stew he made for them that night. The day after they managed only six Roman leagues and had to put up at a monastery with a smithy where Rakoczy worked through the night repairing and strapping the plausterum’s wheels.

  They reached Pisa and found a travelers’ house on the south side of the city. Rakoczy suggested that they spend a day t
here, letting their horses rest and buying more supplies for the road. No one wanted to give up an opportunity to rest, and none of them were inclined to challenge this decision; Rakoczy arranged for two nights’ lodging and paid for a private chamber for Gynethe Mehaut.

  That night, Gynethe Mehaut came to Rakoczy after comestus and sat in the chair beside his in the small reception room. “I miss you,” she said. “At night.”

  “And I you,” he told her.

  “Then perhaps…” She took his hand and lifted it to her lips.

  “I would like to hold you,” he said in an undervoice.

  She shook her head. “You needn’t.”

  “Why?” he asked, aware that she still had the capacity to surprise him.

  “I am not used to embraces,” she admitted after a brief silence. “Not even my mother wanted to touch me, or hold me; she was too frightened—and such demonstrations are not encouraged among the Sorrae.” She turned to look at him. “Most people are unwilling to touch me.”

  “The white will not come off,” said Rakoczy, with a swift, ironic smile.

  “If it did, I could be rid of it and have embraces every day.” She put her bandaged hand to her mouth, shocked by her own admission. “I wish we could spend more time alone together.”

  “On the road it wouldn’t be wise,” said Rakoczy, lifting his finger to his lips. “And certainly not in a place like this.”

  “Then when can we … where can we—?” Gynethe Mehaut whispered.

  “In Roma, where we will be alone,” he said, turning her hand and kissing the bandage that wrapped her palm.

  She laughed unhappily. “How can we? It will be worse: in Roma we shall be watched and scrutinized and spied upon.”

  “As you are now,” he reminded her as kindly as he could.

  “It will be worse in Roma,” she predicted, staring down at the floor.

  “Not if we go to a safe place,” said Rakoczy. “I have an … associate in Roma who will be our hostess. She is expecting us. It is all arranged.”