Night Blooming

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “She is the handmaiden of Satan.” She made a sign of protection. “My God keep you from her many stratagems.”

  “You speak as if she has worked them upon you,” said Cardinal Archbishop Paulinus Evitus.

  “Of course she has. I began by wanting to protect her, but when I discerned her purpose, the scales were lifted from my eyes.” She pointed at Gynethe Mehaut. “Let her say what she likes, she is the heart of evil.”

  Rakoczy listened with a sinking sensation in his chest. “May I ask the witness a question?”

  “No!” Sorra Celinde shouted. “He is in her thrall!”

  Pope Leo smiled sadly. “It would not be right” He motioned Rakoczy into silence and looked back at Sorra Celinde. “You see? You have nothing to fear.”

  “But who will speak for me?” Gynethe Mehaut asked desperately.

  “God will defend you, if you are virtuous. If you are not, then you will know that Satan has forsaken you,” said the Pope.

  Listening to this, Rakoczy felt a fatalistic gloom settle over him; Sorra Celinde continued to rail against Gynethe Mehaut, and no one was willing to stop or question her. He wondered what he could do to protect Gynethe Mehaut now, and tried to think of some way to comfort the pale woman kneeling near enough for him to touch, and yet as far away as if he were in the land of the Great Khan and she at the ends of Hispania.

  TEXT OF AN ORDER OF REQUISITION SUBMITTED TO THE EMPEROR KARL-LO-MAGNE FOR HIS APPROVAL ON JANUARY 4, 801.

  For the north-bound journey of Magnatus Rakoczy, ordered by Karl-lo-Magne, the Emperor, the following men and supplies are requisitioned:

  Men:

  Willigond

  Ulfila

  Constantinus of Rheims

  Gradovic son of Baldegard

  Freieus

  Beneventus

  Odobald

  Latifundus

  Horses:

  these are to be provided, mounts and remounts, by Magnatus

  Rakoczy

  Mules:

  the same as horses

  Food:

  of cheese, 6 rounds

  of beer, two full kegs

  of wine, two full kegs

  of oil, one cask

  of bread, six hard loaves

  of sausage, nine in casings

  of dried cod, one full fish

  of honey, one comb

  of onions, three strings

  of beans, one full sack

  of smoked meat, one haunch of venison and one ham

  Feed:

  of oats, three sacks

  of dried apples, one sack

  Weapons:

  to be supplied by the Magnatus

  Others:

  twelve unshaped horseshoes

  two cooking spits

  one cauldron

  All these are ready to pack in chests and put on mules on the day after Epiphany, if there is no rain.

  Approved by the Emperor

  Karl-lo-Magne

  prepared to the order of the Potente Edelfus

  Chapter Twelve

  AT OLIVIA’S HOUSE, the torches and oil-lamps gleamed long into the night, shining off the snowflakes that drifted over the city, turning everything pale as marble. In Gynethe Mehaut’s apartments the window, made of small, costly sections of glass, turned the falling snow to many-faced crystals. It was cold, but the heating channels in the walls from the floor below kept the rooms fairly warm, so that Gynethe Mehaut was wrapped only in her stolla and gonella as she sat in a chair lined in marten-fur, her pale face lit by a stand of oil-lamps.

  Rakoczy sat at her feet, holding her bandaged hand in his. “I’m sorry I must leave,” he said for the third time that evening.

  “It is the order of the King … the Emperor,” she corrected herself. “You are his vassal.”

  “His vassal? In some respects,” said Rakoczy, “I am. In others, as I am a foreigner, I am not.” While this was true, he was aware it made no difference in the orders he had been given; it was only an admission of his diminished protection.

  “But you won’t stay here,” she said, touching his hair with the tips of her fingers.

  “It wouldn’t be safe for any of us if I did,” said Rakoczy with a rueful smile. “Not you, not Olivia, and not I would be able to avoid scrutiny and condemnation.”

  “You’re certain of that,” she said, wanting to be persuaded otherwise.

  “So are you,” he pointed out. “And if I were to remain in Roma, I would have to leave this house, or bring the Church and Karl-lo-Magne’s men down upon you. No, I must leave.”

  Gynethe Mehaut sighed. “I’ll miss you.”

  “And I you,” said Rakoczy, already feeling her pull away from him, though she did not move.

  “I’m sad,” Gynethe Mehaut said a short time later. “I shouldn’t be, but I am.”

  Rakoczy rose on his knees and put his arms around her. “If you are sad, then it is what you should be.”

  She shook her head. “It is giving way to sin. God sends us what He wishes us to have, and to be sad denies His Goodness. It is the sin of Indolence.”

  “Who taught you that?” Rakoczy asked, knowing the answer.

  “The Sorrae,” Gynethe Mehaut said.

  “You have a right to your sorrow; it isn’t Indolence, it is mourning,” said Rakoczy. “If you cannot honor your grief, you lose much of your love.”

  “Love is for God and the Emperor’s Will, for children who live, and for those who protect us.” She spoke dreamily, as if far away from him. “That of men and women is mere Lust, and a sin.”

  “More of the nuns’ lessons,” said Rakoczy. “You need not accept those things—”

  “I don’t want to talk about such matters.” She pulled her hand away from him. “You speak so … I can’t believe … It isn’t as if I … I can’t tell you; you’ll be angry.”

  “No, I will not,” said Rakoczy quietly. “Tell me: I will listen.”

  “So you say,” she murmured. “But you will grow angry with me, and then—”

  “I won’t be angry—I may be disappointed, and that more for myself than on your account—but never angry. I have tasted your blood and you are part of me. How could I be angry with you?” He turned her face toward him with a light touch of his fingers. “You have my Word, Gynethe Mehaut—I will not be angry.”

  She studied his eyes as if seeking deceit. She finally mustered her thoughts, took a deep breath, and said, “I never thought anyone would be as kind to me as you have been. But you put questions to me that I cannot answer. No one has ever touched me, but you, without disgust and fear. Yet it has to end. You said, yourself, that you cannot lie with me again after tonight or I will become what you are when I die, and I want no part of such a life. I am what God made me, and to Him I shall return. I will not be compelled to be what you are, no matter how benign you may be.” She put her bandaged hand to her brow in an attitude of supplication. “I will accept my life because it is what God has given me. But to rise into a life that isn’t His, that would make a true blasphemy of my skin and my eyes, and show that I am what I have been accused of being. I would become what I have been called so unjustly: I would truly be the demon they think I am now.”

  “You are no demon, and could never be,” he said as gently as he could.

  “It hardly matters, if Bishop Iso has his way. I will have to endure the fate of all demons, and burn for it.” She sighed. “Pope Leo has suffered, and I think he may not condemn me utterly. He knows what it is to have the world against him.”

  Rakoczy pulled her closer to him. “He is frightened, and that makes him dangerous.”

  “You tell me so, but I don’t know that it’s true,” she said to him, disengaging herself from his arms.

  “Then what do you want of me, Gynethe Mehaut?” he asked, his voice low.

  She considered her answer carefully. “I want to lie with you again, this last time. You said it is still safe for us to … to comfort our bodies. I want to have yo
ur touch to remember. If I must be a martyr to the Church, I will be, but I will have some delight for myself, if only to liven my Confession.” She eluded his hands. “Don’t press me, or engulf me so. I don’t like such embraces.”

  “As you wish,” said Rakoczy, and rose to his feet, holding out his hand to her. “Come. You will choose where we are to lie, and you will tell me what would pleasure you most.”

  “I don’t want to demand more of you than you wish,” said Gynethe Mehaut. “You may not intend to give more to me than you have, but there is much I haven’t found yet.”

  “That is why I implore you to tell me what you seek,” said Rakoczy, indicating the private room attached to the parlor where he and Gynethe Mehaut had sat for a good part of the evening.

  “This is going to be an interesting farewell,” said Gynethe Mehaut, as if she had determined to enjoy herself at any cost.

  “What do you suppose would please you?” Rakoczy asked as he opened the door. “The bed is made with linen and good fur. You can be comfortable and warm.”

  She nodded. “This is good,” she said, and smiled. “The room is warm; it is much more agreeable to be warm.” Glancing nervously in his direction, she said, “I don’t know what I should do now; can you tell me what would be best to do?”

  “Choose what most gratifies you and that will satisfy us both,” said Rakoczy as he went to the side of the bed. “The coverlet on or off?”

  “On,” she said. “I will lie atop it.” She unfastened her girdle and tossed it aside. “Take off my gonella.”

  Rakoczy moved to her side and slowly lifted the soft woolen garment. “And your stolla?”

  “I don’t know yet,” she said, shivering a little either from cold or anticipation. “Just don’t press me,” she said again.

  “No. I won’t.” He went to her clothes-tree and took down the largest of the three silken veils Olivia had given her. “This has a touch a breeze could envy,” he told her as he ran the sea-foam fabric through his hands. “You may not think so now, but I will show you.”

  She stood watching him. “You will not bind me?”

  “No, I will not,” he said, trying to find some way to reassure her. “My Word on—”

  “Yes, yes,” she said impatiently. “Well, no doubt I will see for myself.” She sat on the edge of the bed and stared off toward the lamps hanging near the head of it. “Compline is over and we have until Matins.”

  “They will ring Vigil,” Rakoczy reminded her, puzzled by her state of mind.

  “So they will.” She lay back. “May God forgive me for my happiness tonight.”

  “Why should you need forgiveness?” Rakoczy asked, coming a step nearer.

  “I should spend the night in penance, as I have done so often. While we traveled, it wasn’t possible, but I have been lax since I arrived here. God may not look kindly on my neglect of Him.” She held up her bandaged hands. “He could exact contrition.”

  “You make God sound like a petulant parent, jealous of His own children, and Christ a rebellious youth,” said Rakoczy, who had often thought that the understanding of God had shifted from the original teaching of the founder of the Christian faith.

  “Don’t say that It is blasphemous,” said Gynethe Mehaut distantly. “I don’t want to have to repent for listening to you.”

  “Then perhaps I should be silent,” he suggested, coming close to her and letting the edge of the veil drift over her.

  She caught the end of the veil in her fingers, letting it trail slowly. “It is so soft.”

  “It is,” Rakoczy agreed, and came to the bed, putting one knee on it and moving the veil so that it fluttered over her.

  “It is like a butterfly,” she whispered. She pulled her stolla up, exposing her thigh and waiting for him to do more. “Where will you land, lovely butterfly?”

  Rakoczy flicked the silk, letting it brush her skin without lingering too long in any one place, flirting it along her body, across her stolla to her hands, and over the bindings that covered the wounds in her palms. Then he floated the silk down her exposed legs, a languid progress that eased her thighs open and brought her nipples erect, honing her senses to a keenness she had not experienced before; every part of her had come alive and was now yearning for greater stimulation. Although he could see the changes coming over Gynethe Mehaut, Rakoczy continued his tantalizing ministrations, using the silk to dally along her legs until she wriggled completely out of her stolla.

  “Is this all?” she sighed, her body moving to follow the caresses of the veil.

  “For a while yet,” Rakoczy said, aware of her increasing arousal. “Doesn’t it give you pleasure?”

  “Oh, yes,” she breathed.

  “Good. Then I’ll continue,” he said, and danced the veil up her taut belly to her small, high breasts.

  Her breath hissed into her, and she shivered but not from cold; the sensitivities possessing her brought her to a pitch of excitement that astonished her. That a single piece of silk could work such marvels! She felt its caresses as if they were kisses, and she opened herself to them as she had seen the night-blooming flowers open to the darkness. So caught up was she in the sweet delirium of her body that she hardly noticed when Rakoczy set the silk aside and slowly, exquisitely, stretched out between her legs, gently lowering himself so that his head rested just under her chin. Slowly his hands repeated the lambency of the silk, their touch so light that it was almost as if the air caressed her. Her body responded to him, and she felt a gathering of heat within her that surprised and gladdened her. Gradually she moved to accommodate him, ecstacy putting all her fears to flight while his hands and lips discovered new raptures. Finally she was shaken by a sudden spasm that alarmed her with its intensity, and she pushed against his shoulders.

  He moved immediately, lying beside her, his hand resting just beneath her breasts where he could feel her heartbeat, and her breathing. “Gynethe Mehaut,” he whispered.

  She was panting still, and she took a short time to answer. “Before you … The other times … This time you didn’t…”

  “It will come,” said Rakoczy.

  “Aren’t you finished?” she asked, her eyes growing wide.

  “No; you aren’t,” he said, a hint of amusement in his dark eyes. “You have only started to learn what your body can give you.”

  “But—” She stopped herself, not wanting to name the sin she had committed.

  “All your life, your body has been your adversary, a necessary vessel for your soul, but not an ally. You resent it, and it isn’t surprising that you do.” He stroked the line of her ribs. “It dispirits me to see you so blighted. If I can give you nothing else, at least let me have this chance to help you accept your body as a confederate and not an opponent.”

  “You didn’t do this before,” she said, suddenly suspicious.

  “No; you had no desire for that experience, but you do now.” He raised himself on his elbow, the black of his gonelle lying like a shadow along her white skin.

  “Why do you say that? How can you know?” She wanted to pull away from him, but her limbs would not obey her will.

  “I know that because I know you.” He moved his hand up, lightly cupping her breast.

  She started to move his hand away and then stopped, unwilling to give up the rapturous sensation that was welling within her once again. “How can you?” she repeated.

  “I told you: when I tasted your blood, some of you became part of me.” He fingered her nipple, gently, gently, then grazed a kiss on it.

  Gynethe Mehaut shuddered deliciously and felt herself lapse again into that apolaustic state that must surely demand repentance at a later time. For now, this was all the world and everything she could desire, and not even the joys of Heaven could lure her from the fervor he awakened in her. She closed her eyes and gave herself up to the ardor and the rapture that Rakoczy evoked in her, a glorification of her living body that she had not expected to find except before the Throne of God. Whe
n his lips brushed her neck, the culmination of her passion carried them both far beyond happiness to the fulfillment of joy. After what seemed to be half the night, Gynethe Mehaut opened her eyes and stared at Rakoczy lying beside her. “What was that? I’ve never experienced anything like it. What happened to me?”

  “You found intimacy,” he said simply, and carried her hand to his lips to kiss the bandage. “We touched one another, and you touched yourself.”

  “It was more than that,” she said.

  “There is no more than that,” he told her, and brushed her pale wisps of hair back from her face. “And many people live all their lives without ever knowing what you have known.”

  “But this is the flesh,” said Gynethe Mehaut, a sudden wave of anxiety taking hold of her. “How can it be more than the meeting of skins and the making of children?”

  “Because,” Rakoczy said softly, “our bodies have touched, and through that, our souls.”

  “That cannot be true. You drink my blood.” She flung the accusation at him as if to barricade herself against the emotions welling within her.

  “As you drink wine as the Blood of Christ, to achieve union with the Saints,” he reminded her, no trace of blame in his words.

  “The Saints abhor the flesh,” she said forcefully.

  “Some of them do,” he conceded.

  “The only union for Christians to desire is union with God,” Gynethe Mehaut charged him.

  “Whose kingdom is within, according to Scripture,” Rakoczy reminded her. He moved back, then reached for the blanket of fox-fur that lay atop the chest near the wall. “Here. You’ll get cold. Wrap this around you and stay warm.”

  Gynethe Mehaut huddled into the soft pelts, not entirely to keep warm, but to protect herself from his nearness. She was shivering again, this time for reasons she could not define. “When Vigil sounds, I should go and pray. It will ring shortly, I expect.”