Night Blooming

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Do you expect that this will be acceptable to the Byzantines?” asked the Cardinal Archbishop. “Shouldn’t you tell them what you are planning?”

  “Why should their opinion concern me?” Karl-lo-Magne asked. “This isn’t their territory. They have no reason to concern themselves with what happens here.”

  “Do you want to send word to them? As a courtesy?” The Potente who asked was unfamiliar to Rakoczy; the man was almost bald, and he leaned on a stick; his accent was Longobardian. “Shall we dispatch messengers?”

  “When it is done,” said Karl-lo-Magne. “There will be plenty of time to have them know what has happened here in Roma. There is nothing they can do to change it, in any case. Why should I tantalize them with an announcement before the deed is done?” He motioned to the musicians. “Get a tabor. I want to hear the beat without having to provide it myself.” Then he saw Rakoczy standing at the edge of the men. “Magnatus! I was beginning to wonder what had become of you.”

  “I came as quickly as I could. The streets are not easily traversed at present.” He reverenced the King and moved in a little nearer.

  “You have the White Woman with you?” Karl-lo-Magne asked.

  “Here in Roma, yes, but not in my company just now. I didn’t think it would be wise to expose her to the celebrations. She is with a distinguished Roman widow who has been our hostess since we arrived here. Your Bishop Iso can confirm this.” Rakoczy kept his manner carefully deferential.

  “I have no doubt that you have followed my orders to the limit,” said Karl-lo-Magne, but with a slight hesitation that was eloquent of uncertainty.

  “I gave you my Word that I would,” said Rakoczy, aware that he had become the object of curiosity. “I have fulfilled my Word.”

  “And I am mindful of your service, and your reliability in its execution,” said Karl-lo-Magne, stifling a huge yawn. “It has been a long journey, and I will not have much chance to rest. There is a great deal to do before the Mass of Christ.”

  A third musician carrying a tabor came up to the other two; they whispered among themselves and then began a quick tune, the tabor pounding out the beat emphatically. The men around Karl-lo-Magne paid little attention to this, although the King began to snap his fingers along with the tabor and occasionally hum along.

  Rakoczy ducked his head. “I have escorted Gynethe Mehaut to Sant’ Ioannes Lateranus eight times, at his request. I will continue to provide her that duty as long as you require it.”

  “Yes,” said Karl-lo-Magne, drawing out the word. “About that. Now that I am in Roma, there are many to give the White Woman the escort she requires. Once the Mass of Christ is over, the Pope will hear her case. As soon as that is done, I want you to return to Franksland. Go to your fiscs and wait there for my orders. I don’t want the Cardinal Archbishops saying that I am giving preference to an outlander at this time.” He glanced at Rakoczy from under his tufted eyebrows.

  “I am at your service, Optime,” said Rakoczy, reverencing him again; inwardly he was filled with dismay. He had assumed that he would have another two or three months in Roma to keep the Church at bay and work to improve Gynethe Mehaut’s position.

  “If only you were kin of mine, I would be able to distinguish you more. Still, Magnatus, you have provided a good example for my men. I will acknowledge it.” He pointed to Rakoczy. “Look upon this Magnatus,” he said to the others. “Take him as your example if you would serve me.”

  “Optime is kind,” said Rakoczy, once again feeling uneasy, the result of the intense gazes of the men around the King.

  “I expect you to continue to obey me. By Epiphany, I want you to depart from this city, so that you will be at the foot of the mountains when the passes open. You will return to Franksland.” Karl-lo-Magne clapped his hands. “Slaves! Where is our wine?”

  Three mansionarii hurried off to find slaves who could answer the King’s command, and one of the Bishops fidgeted in his chair. The musicians reached the end of their tune and, after a brief consultation, began another, this one a bit slower of pace, the melody wistful.

  “These Roman musicians, so eager and proud,” said Cardinal Archbishop Paulinus Evitus. “These three are better than most.”

  “With a tabor to keep the beat they are very good,” said Karl-lo-Magne. “No dirges,” he warned them. “Nothing so very glum. This is an occasion for rejoicing; I will have glad music only, to reflect the delight that the Pope’s return must engender in all Romans. Tune your instruments to that.” With a glance at Rakoczy, he said, “I have been told you play well.”

  “I play—the hydraulis, the kythera, the Egyptian harp, the psaltery, among others,” said Rakoczy. “How well is a matter for others to decide, not me.”

  “You are too modest,” Karl-lo-Magne protested. “According to Odile, you are as accomplished as any clan harper.” He gazed into the middle distance. “A pity about her.”

  “A pity?” Rakoczy repeated.

  “Yes. She had a daughter and contracted a fever shortly afterward. She succumbed to it when her child was, oh, five or six months old, and the girl has been put to a wet-nurse. I’ll make some arrangement for her if she lives long enough. The Church will always receive her if I cannot find a man of rank to marry her. In any case, she will not be cast upon the world without means.” He looked directly at Rakoczy. “You must have known Odile wasn’t strong. She miscarried four times when her husband lived. She served me well while we were together, but God claimed her as His own.” With a gesture of protection, he put an end to the subject. “How many men will you need for an escort north?”

  “I don’t quite know yet,” Rakoczy said, still trying to comprehend the death of Odile; he forced himself to respond to the King’s question. “To be candid, I hadn’t thought I would have to leave quite so soon. Coming here I lost three of the men of my escort, and I cannot suppose I will get to Franksland unscathed, but I cannot guess how many men I will need for my travel.” He ducked his head. “If I may have a few days to consider the matter?”

  “Certainly. You may wait until shortly before the Feast of the Nativity. I would rather you tell me sooner, but with all you must do for the White Woman, you may need more time. You will have to escort her to the Pope when he requires it.” Karl-lo-Magne saw a dozen slaves approaching with large ewers of wine; he pulled out his dagger and slapped the nearest one on the shoulder with the flat of the blade. “About time, you dogs. Do not be so lax again or you will be beaten for laziness.” He pointed to the Bishops and the Cardinal Archbishop with the dagger. “Serve them from your knees.”

  The slaves rushed to obey; the man in front of Rakoczy held up a goblet and a jar.

  “I’m sorry; I do not drink wine,” said Rakoczy, and motioned to the slave to rise.

  “Give that to the Potente Luchandus,” Karl-lo-Magne ordered. “You’re too lenient, Magnatus. The cur deserved a kick.”

  “He is not my slave,” said Rakoczy, dodging the issue. “If I were a Frank, it might be otherwise, but as I am a foreigner, I am in no position to reprimand slaves of the Franks.”

  “An apt point,” Karl-lo-Magne admitted. “I must give it my consideration.” He took a goblet of wine and drank a little. “I must join my women. Since my wife died, they have more need of my company.”

  “I was sorry to learn of your Queen’s death,” said Rakoczy.

  “Yes. It is unfortunate. She never gave me a child, and I have nothing to remember her by.” He sat up. “I will speak with you all tomorrow. Potenti, you know what information I must have to be ready for the coronation. See that it is done, and in good time. I have authorized each of you to spend one hundred pieces of silver.”

  “So great an amount,” said Potente Rodolf, reverencing Karl-lo-Magne.

  “Do you say it is too much?” Karl-lo-Magne asked, not quite rising from his chair.

  “No,” Potente Rodolf said hastily. “But it is a very large amount of money. How can you spend so much at this time? Shouldn’
t you hold some back, in case there is trouble? If you have to hire mercenaries, you will need all the silver you can find—and more.”

  “Why should I hire mercenaries with eight thousand Frankish troops in Roma?” Karl-lo-Magne asked.

  “Well, the Byzantines have a vast army, and if they should bring it—”

  “That is my concern,” said Karl-lo-Magne, rising to his full height. “They could not get here before the Mass of Christ if they set out today, and by then it will be too late.”

  “But if they have started out already?” Potente Rodolf asked nervously.

  “They haven’t,” Karl-lo-Magne stated. “Do you think the Greeks are the only ones with spies? I have been receiving dispatches regularly.”

  Rakoczy listened uneasily, aware that the Potente was not the only Frank with apprehensions about the coronation. “It is winter. The Byzantines will not want to put to sea until the storms are less frequent.”

  “Listen to the Magnatus,” Karl-lo-Magne advised, and turned on his heel.

  “He is good to his women,” said Potente Hincmar, not entirely approving of this.

  “It was a vow to his mother,” said Bishop Aelischer, as if the King’s behavior needed some explanation. “It is to his credit he has honored it for so many years.”

  “He has taken his women with him for many years,” said Cardinal Archbishop Paulinus Evitus.

  The Potenti nodded, and Rodolf said, “He wishes them to be safe and believes they can only be so with him or with the Church. Three of his bastard daughters are Abbas, and one of the legitimate ones.”

  Potente Luchandus shook his head. “He gives them too much, and they become demanding.”

  “Because Optime would not allow you to woo his daughter for marriage, you speak ill of his affection for his women,” said Bishop Aelischer, his remark serving as an end of their discussion.

  Rakoczy took advantage of the moment to reverence the company as he prepared to depart. “Potenti, Bishops, Cardinal Archbishop, may your enterprise flourish here in Roma.”

  “And you, Magnatus,” said Cardinal Archbishop Paulinus Evitus. “We will look to you for guidance.”

  Taking this as a warning, Rakoczy lowered his head as he threaded his way from the reception room, through the brimming corridors to the stable. He found his grey in the stall, led the horse out into the courtyard, swung into the saddle, and holding the gelding to a walk, started back through the streets. Vespers were sounding all over the city, and the clamor of the bells was almost drowned out by the rollicking populace; no one stopped rejoicing to observe the Hour. Small parades had sprung up, soldiers and monks occupying the streets in groups, drinking and singing together, and occasionally giving way to ineffective battles among the carousers.

  The square in front of the Temple of Hercules was crowded: soldiers waited in lines that led into the temple. A few men, already finished with the women inside, lounged on the steps, sharing skins of wine and tossing dice. An old woman made her way down the lines, asking the men what their preferences were and how much they could pay.

  Rakoczy summoned Niklos with a tug on the bell-chain and was surprised when it took more than three clangs to bring the major domo to the door. “Trouble?” he asked when the door was finally opened.

  “Nothing I didn’t expect,” said Niklos as he set the bolt in place. “The men occasionally ring this bell, which is why I didn’t answer at once. Earlier three Bellatori tried to get in, and I was forced to repel them. Fortunately, they were drunk, and a single blow with a cudgel was enough to discourage them.”

  “I should think they would be,” said Rakoczy, leading his grey toward the stable.

  “The women are in the atrium; they gave up any hope of sleeping until late tonight, if then.” Niklos looked toward the entrance to the house. “I’ll escort you in shortly. I’m afraid the grooms and the mariscalcus have been given the night to join the festivities; so have all but two of the mansionarii.”

  “Probably a wise decision,” said Rakoczy, and took his grey into the stable and began to remove the tack; then he brushed down the gelding and led him into a stall before going to fetch a flake of hay to put in the manger. When he had cleaned his saddle, girth, and bridle, he went to the house, going directly to the torch-lit atrium.

  Olivia was clipping the dried heads off the last of the autumn flowers, dropping the faded petals into a pail. Gynethe Mehaut sat near the fountain, her veil pulled around her shoulders, her head uncovered. The two looked up at the same time, both of them showing their individual kinds of relief.

  Rakoczy reverenced them both. “I hope you haven’t found the day too difficult,” he said.

  “Noisy more than difficult,” said Olivia, making a gesture with her shears to indicate the clamor that still filled the air. “If it keeps up all night, then it might be difficult.”

  “You had planned to go out?” Rakoczy asked.

  “Later; there will be many men sleeping in the street; I hope to meet them in their dreams, which can be so sweet.” She smiled and glanced at Gynethe Mehaut. “I’ve been telling her about the way my life has been, how I have lived and what I have endured—not to boast, mind you, but to let her know what could lie ahead of her if she decides to come to our life: why it would be especially dangerous for her, and why it is precarious to have two vampires in a city this size.”

  Gynethe Mehaut managed a ghost of a smile. “It is true. She has told me about her life and how much it is like mine. But she can hide her nature, and I cannot hide mine.” She sighed. “Yet both of us must fear the sun, as you have said, and both of us are feared. Olivia says it is ignorance. It seems otherwise to me, but both of you have told me the same thing.” She looked up at the clear, November sky, at the brilliant stars. “I have tended the night-blooming flowers since I was a child. I know the stars as if they’re Saints. I see them from season to season, and I watch the moon.”

  “And what have you learned?” asked Rakoczy.

  “I’ve realized that all things come as God Wills,” she said, and looked at Olivia. “I know you see it otherwise, and I suppose the Magnatus does, as well.”

  “You must forgive us,” said Olivia. “It is our nature.” She put her shears in the pail and left off all semblance of tending her garden. “The longer you delay telling us what happened, the worse we will assume it is.”

  Rakoczy lowered his eyes. “I know. And I’m sorry to hesitate.”

  “Then it isn’t good,” said Gynethe Mehaut fatalistically.

  “No, it isn’t. But it could be worse,” Rakoczy said, wanting to offer some mitigation. “The King has ordered me to start for the north after Epiphany. He wants me to be in Franksland as soon as the passes are open. It would be folly to disobey him.”

  “Particularly now,” said Olivia. “Yes. Great Karl would not take well to his authority being compromised, and by a foreigner.”

  “You do understand,” said Rakoczy; he turned to Gynethe Mehaut. “Until then I am to remain your escort and you will be allowed to reside here. What will happen after that, I cannot say.”

  Gynethe Mehaut folded her arms across her chest “It is in the Hands of God.”

  Olivia shook her head. “No. Unfortunately it is in the hands of men.” She saw Rakoczy nod in agreement as he went to Gynethe Mehaut, holding out his hand to her.

  She looked away. “I am not … There is no reason to…” Huddling into the folds of her veil, she wrapped herself in misery, refusing all sympathy and comfort as she considered her future.

  TEXT OF A LETTER FROM FRATRE GRIMHOLD IN ROMA TO BISHOP FRECULF IN FRANKSLAND, CARRIED BY ROYAL COURIER AND DELIVERED TWO WEEKS AFTER EASTER.

  To the most excellent, Sublime Freculf, Bishop and servant to the Emperor, whom God save, on this, the Feast of the Circumcision, the first day of the year 801 by the Pope’s calendar. Amen.

  This is to inform you of all that has happened since Karl-lo-Magne and Pope Leo entered this city in triumph toward the end of last Nove
mber. It is most regrettable that you were not able to come here to see these fine events for yourself. May God, Who seeth all things, impart to you the wisdom to know His Will in this time of so many glorious victories and so many griefs.

  The celebrations of the Pope’s return lasted for three days, and the people spent every waking hour in the streets, although on the third day there was a terrible storm, and some of those celebrating took ill and some died of putrid lungs. I cannot tell you what excesses were committed in the name of this sacred occasion, but I must tell you that a goodly number of prostitutes are exhausted but richer than they were before the Pope came back to the city. The meetings at the Lateranus were ongoing from the time of the Pope’s return, and the Churchmen and Karl-lo-Magne’s Court had many things to work out among them so that the coronation might proceed without challenge or incident.

  The first matter was the Pope’s Declaration of Innocency, which was given before all the Bishops and Cardinal Archbishops in Roma; now anyone doubting the Pope’s virtue must have proof to present that is incontrovertible, or that person will become a criminal. Rumors may continue, but their damage has been curtailed, and the Pope has made himself all but impervious to any slander, which in turn ensures his authority and ascendancy in the Church. I have seen the Cardinal Archbishops debate among themselves what is to become of the Pope if the Byzantines should press their advantage at the beginning of the new year, but it is generally agreed that with his Declaration the Pope has removed himself from all but the most egregious attacks, and those can be dismissed as spite. The Byzantines must take all this into account if they are to move on Roma or the Church.

  On the day of the Mass of Christ, the men of the Church all gathered as our faith compels us, at Sant’ Pier’s Basilica. Among them were all the Potenti and Bellatori of the Franks, including the King all of whom attended the Mass with all respect and reverence, their conduct worthy of all Christians. Karl-lo-Magne wore a white dalmatica of fine wool and a mantellum of green edged in silver, as if he were a Roman patrician and not a Frank. The entire Basilica glowed with new silver brought by the Franks and hammered into foil by the artisans of Roma. All 1,365 candles in the candelabrum were lit, so the entire interior was bright as day. When the Pope himself had celebrated the Mass with Cardinal Archbishops to assist him in the Mass, he summoned Karl-lo-Magne to the tomb of Sant’ Pier, where Great Karl knelt to read the Gospels and there Leo crowned him Emperor of the Franks and Longobards and Imperial Governor of All the Romans in the West The Emperor’s praises were sung, and the litanies of exultation recited. Then, to the astonishment of many—and the fury of some—the Pope knelt to Karl-lo-Magne and did him obedience as would any lord in the world, or the Byzantines would do to their Emperor. All the congregation were required to adore him, nobles and clerics alike. Karl-lo-Magne accepted this and pledged to guard and protect the Church as he would his own lands.