Night Blooming

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Do you mean you intend to leave?” Rorthger stared at him. “The animals haven’t all been watered yet.”

  “We’ll do it on the road,” said Rakoczy. “Give the others a little of what’s in that pail.”

  Rorthger shook his head. “They’re tired.”

  “Then we’ll go slowly.” Rakoczy tied his bedroll to the pack-saddle again.

  “Won’t the passagius give you the right to rest here, if anyone questions you?” Rorthger asked.

  “If there is someone in that village who knows what a passagius is, which I doubt, and someone who can read it, which is unlikely, then it might help us, but under the circumstances, it makes more sense to get away while we can.” He took a saddle-pad and put it on the grey he had been leading. “Ride the remounts. We’ll remain at Fulda for two days, to let the animals recover.”

  “And if the Great Pox is there?” Rorthger took the pail to the next mule. “These animals are wearied already.”

  “So are you, and I,” said Rakoczy, hefting the saddle onto the gelding’s back. “We should be away as quickly as possible.”

  “Why do you expect trouble?” Rorthger demanded as he set the pail aside.

  “Because this place is a shrine and we are strangers. Our presence defiles this chapel, or so the peasants are likely to think. There is no church in the village, nor is a monastery or convent near-by, so this is their sacred place and if they are like most Frankish peasants, they will defend it from outsiders.” He secured the girth and began to buckle on the breast-collar.

  “This isn’t Csimenae’s land, and there are no cups of horses’ blood on the altar,” Rorthger pointed out. “You don’t know these people will be as … ferocious as she has been.”

  “Her people aren’t the only ones who guard their shrines.” Rakoczy put the next saddle-pad on the jack-mule standing beside his horse. “I’ll remove the wraps before we go. I want them to get as much benefit as they can from them.”

  “Do you think the peasants will come here?” Rorthger began to saddle his red-speckled roan. “I’ll lead the copper-dun, as you like.”

  “It’s easier on the horses.” He lifted the laden pack-saddle with an ease that would have astonished anyone but Rorthger or Olivia; he settled it on the mule’s back and reached under for the girth. “Are the nose-bags empty? These two are.”

  “Yes,” said Rorthger. “They’re hungry as well as tired.”

  “I’ll see if we can purchase some apples along the way, for a treat.” He tightened the girth and then the breast-collar. “I want to be away from here as soon as possible.”

  Rorthger kept his thoughts to himself, but he was convinced that Rakoczy was being more cautious than necessary. He kept on with his work; although he sensed Rakoczy’s urgency, he did not feel the same pressure within himself. Still, his long centuries with Rakoczy had taught him to respect his master’s intuitions. When he finished saddling the pack-mules, he handed a bridle to Rakoczy and kept one for himself as he removed nose-bags from all the animals. Rakoczy busied himself taking off the leg-wraps and storing them in the sack on the fourth mule’s saddle while Rorthger gathered up the leads and handed three of them to Rakoczy, keeping four for himself. “Are you ready?” He swung up into the saddle as Rakoczy pushed the door open before mounting.

  “Yes. And in good time,” said Rakoczy. “A pity we didn’t have time to sweep out the bedding, but…” He gathered up the reins and the leads and started toward the road. The sun was half-way up the sky, brilliant as brass in the cerulean expanse; the day was turning hot already.

  They had gone less than a thousand paces when they came upon a group of peasants, many armed with pitchforks and sickles, coming toward them; four of the men in the lead had badly scarred faces and the wan look of those recovering from the Great Pox. Rakoczy pulled his horses and mules to the side of the road and allowed the people to pass. He did not expect any of the peasants to speak, for it was not acceptable for peasants to address a hobu without permission. By moving off the road he had been more generous than most Franks would be. He signaled to Rorthger to keep behind him.

  When the peasants had passed, Rorthger said, “We should have left sooner.”

  “We went as quickly as we could,” said Rakoczy. “At least we are on the road. And now, I think, it would be wise to pick up our pace for a while. The peasants will come back in a short while and we should be gone.”

  “Do you think they would detain a hobu and his servant?” Rorthger inquired.

  “Do you think they would not? Who knows where we are?” Rakoczy pushed his gelding to a jog-trot, and reluctantly, the mules jogged after, craning their necks as the leads pulled on their halters.

  Rorthger kicked his speckled roan to a jog and followed after Rakoczy and his remount and mules. By noon they were into the next valley and on a better road, leading to the monastery and town of Fulda. There were other travelers around them now, some of them showing the ravages of the Great Pox; a wagon drawn by goats held half-a-dozen children—orphans by the look of them—and behind them came a carpentum loaded with slaves bound for the monastery; a monk led the oxen.

  “There’s supposed to be a fair in the town,” said a merchant from Longobardia, his clothes identifying him as much as his language. He had dared to speak to Rakoczy because his carrucum was laden with wine-casks bound for the table of the Bishop or the Abbott.

  “Even with the Great Pox?” Rorthger said. “I would think most people wouldn’t dare to enter the town.” He spoke off handedly as if he thought that would be the end of their talk, but the merchant beamed at him and fell in beside him on the road.

  “You haven’t lost a summer’s worth of selling, as I have, and many of the peasants have, as well. They must have a market or face a hard, hard winter. After the Great Pox, who can blame them for wanting to bring what goods and wares they can, for trading and for a copper or two, or a tun of ale for a wheel of cheese. The Great Pox has taken a toll on us all. My own escort was struck, and when two men took the fever the other two refused to go on, so I was forced to journey alone or fail the Bishop.” The merchant laughed with a kind of whimsy that was eloquent of years of just such troubles. “The Bishop wants his wine. That’s something I may be sure of. The rest is in the hands of God and Fortune.”

  “And do you know this Bishop?” Rorthger asked, knowing it was expected of him.

  “Of old, of old. He is Flodoard, a distant kinsman of Karl-lo-Magne himself. I have brought him wine for fourteen years, and he has never found a faulty barrel among my wares. He has even served some to the Emperor himself, and been praised for its quality. Well, he would do, with his family bond and Fulda such a prize. He has to show his gratitude.” The merchant grinned. “I am Urtius, from Pavia. It’s a pleasure to have someone to talk to.”

  “Urtius,” said Rorthger. “I am the camerarius of Comes Sant’ Germainius, my master.” He could see the dubiety in the merchant’s face but decided to ignore it.

  “He doesn’t look like much, black as a crow, and no jewels,” said Urtius. “But what man travels in jewels if he has no soldiers to guard him?” He chuckled fulsomely. “The cloth of his gonelle is high quality, I can see that for myself, and his horses are from good lines—any fool must know it.” He arched his brows speculatively, his large, fleshy features creasing into an obsequious grin.

  “It is suitable to his rank,” said Rorthger in a tone that would have put off most men.

  But Urtius from Pavia was not easily discouraged. “A man of some influence, is he? Your master?”

  “He is highly esteemed by Great Karl; he has done many things for him, and been thanked, though he isn’t a Frank,” said Rorthger, and in the next instant wished he had bit his tongue, for he saw Urtius’ small bright eyes grow shiny.

  “He is probably nothing but a faithless Bishop,” said Urtius. “He has been sent away from his bishopric.” He licked his lips eagerly.

  “He is a Magnatus,” said Rorthger, “and
a man of learning.”

  “But not in the Church? Is he a Jew?” Urtius cocked his head. “I do business with Rindarus, the Jew. He is a great friend of the Bishop here.”

  “My master is faithful to the teaching of his fathers,” said Rorthger.

  “But you said the Comes isn’t a Frank, didn’t you?” Urtius feigned surprise. “He doesn’t have the look of it, with dark hair and eyes. Was his mother from Hispania?”

  “No, he isn’t a Frank. That is why he was chosen for this errand. It would be wise for you to keep in mind that the journey we undertake is for the Emperor.” Rorthger could see that Urtius was already anticipating boasting of this encounter, and perhaps enlarging upon it. “Keep in mind that secrecy is required for the task my master is charged with to succeed.”

  “Why would Great Karl prefer a foreigner to—” Suddenly he nodded. “Oh. Yes, indeed.” He put his hand to his nose. “Sub rosa. Better not to use a Frank then.”

  “Exactly,” said Rorthger, wishing he could break off this conversation. “Do you expect to have the Bishop receive you?”

  This ploy failed. “How does it happen that you travel without escort?” asked Urtius, nodding toward the mules. “I would think that soldiers would—”

  “Ah, but that would create more attention, and a war-like presence that would damage the mission,” said Rorthger, and shot a sudden look at Rakoczy.

  “So! He is more than a courier, after all.” Urtius put his hand to his nose again. “Well, I will keep your council, and say nothing.”

  “I am grateful to you for your wisdom; if my duty is compromised it will go badly for the Emperor,” said Rakoczy suddenly, and added to Rorthger in the language of the Asian steppes, “We had best avoid Fulda. We cannot suppose this man will not speak of this meeting.”

  “I am sorry, my master,” said Rorthger in Frankish.

  “Hardly your fault, old friend. These garrulous men can be tenacious. Perhaps I should have intervened before now. You had best say something that will frighten the fellow or he’ll stay with us for the next two leagues, and then we’ll have to turn toward Fulda or be even more conspicuous than we already are.” Rakoczy changed back to Frankish. “You should ride ahead now.”

  “I will,” said Rorthger, and nodded to the merchant. “May your friend the Bishop receive you well, and may you prosper.”

  “You are gracious,” said Urtius, beaming at Rorthger and ducking his head in Rakoczy’s direction. “I must tell you how pleased I am that we have met.”

  “You are very kind,” said Rorthger. “And I pray you will have no reason to regret this meeting.”

  “And may your mission be fruitful for Great Karl,” said Urtius, already anticipating the tales he would have to regale the Bishop and his company that night or the night after, whenever the banquet was held. “How could I regret this meeting?”

  “The enemies of Great Karl are always alert to the failures of his messengers, and if that fate should befall my master, anyone we have spoken to stands in danger from them.” He ducked his head. “I am sorry to repay you so ill for your friendliness.”

  Urtius went pale. “Ah. I had not considered … Your point is … I see your point.”

  “For your own sake, keep this meeting secret. You would not want to suffer any grief on our account.” Rorthger made a gesture of protection. “May the Saints and Martyrs guard you, Urtius of Pavia. May you escape all danger.”

  “Amen,” said Urtius, and did not protest when Rorthger moved out ahead of Rakoczy and the two took a side road rather than the main one.

  They kept on all day, passing Fulda at mid-afternoon, standing below them in the valley. “The horses will need a good rest, wherever we fetch up this evening,” said Rorthger, pointing out Fulda through the screen of trees. “If we had gone to the monastery we would be resting now, you and I, and our animals.”

  “I know,” said Rakoczy. “And I have been thinking. Do you remember the ford at Sant’ Wigbod? Where we crossed when we came into Franksland.”

  “Where the peasants brought the sledges?” Rorthger asked. “Yes. It is north of here, perhaps thirty Roman leagues.”

  “Yes. The road is clear between here and there. I trust we might cross at that point again,” said Rakoczy. “They must take many travelers over the river at this time of year.”

  “But wouldn’t that be folly? The Emperor would expect you to go that way, and if he wishes to stop you, he will send his soldiers there.” Rorthger was troubled by this suggestion. “Why would he want to stop you? Is there some reason he might withdraw his defenses?”

  “So he might. And we must be ready for that. But a handful of silver coins should buy us a day or two of protection among the peasants of this region.” Rakoczy managed a quick, hard smile. “The peasants are probably willing to keep our passage a secret for a day or two if I pay them enough, if only to have a secret.”

  Rorthger shook his head. “It is too much of a chance.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Rakoczy. “We have good reason to go that way. It is the easiest crossing into Wendish territory away from the main roads. From there it is only three days to the frontier, which is closer than in many places. There are no battles, or any campaigns, in that region, at least not now.”

  “But it could be dangerous. Armed men could be waiting,” Rorthger said nervously. In spite of himself, he looked back over his shoulder as if he expected to see men in pursuit.

  “Armed men could be anywhere,” said Rakoczy, as if knowing his apprehension. “For now, let us look for a village where we can pass a day or two. There must be some place in these hills where we can let our animals rest without attracting notice.” He, too, looked over his shoulder at the road behind them. “No one has followed us this far, and that is something in our favor.”

  “You may be overly cautious,” Rorthger reminded Rakoczy.

  “I may be,” he agreed. “But better too cautious and free than careless and in the hands of those who are against us.” He pointed to the crest ahead. “There should be a village or a hamlet in the next valley, or the one beyond, or perhaps a monastery. Let us hope, whatever we may find, they will be able to provide us a place to stay for a day or two.”

  Rorthger tried to look skeptical, but had to admit that he had a strange sensation on the back of his neck. “All right. And then on to Sant’ Wigbod.”

  “Yes,” Rakoczy said, and once again took the lead on the narrow track that led into the fastness of the rugged hills.

  TEXT OF A LETTER FROM BISHOP FLODOARD TO BISHOP ISO, CARRIED BY CHURCH COURIER AND DELIVERED SEVEN WEEKS AFTER IT WAS WRITTEN AND DISPATCHED.

  To the most Sublime Bishop Iso, the greetings of your Brother in Christ and the Church, Bishop Flodoard at Fulda on the 22nd day of August in the Pope’s year 801. May you find favor in Heaven’s Eyes and advancement in this world. Amen.

  The soldiers you dispatched to this monastery, after two weeks waiting here, have moved on, for the men they were seeking have not come this way. I have already dispatched word to the fortress at Erfurt, advising the Comes there that he may have to detain this Rakoczy and his servant As much as we have done to locate the criminal, we have not been able to discover where he may have gone. It is most perplexing to have a man and one servant so completely elude you. There has been no report of them amongst the travelers stopping here, nor has anyone seen them in the village around the monastery. The wine-merchant spoke of seeing a hobu with an escort some distance from this place three weeks since, but as no one else has reported such an encounter, I put little credence in his account, for he is often moved by what he sells, and in the retelling, a flock of sheep becomes an army. Yet even if he did encounter this foreigner, he makes it no easier to find the fellow. I know this is most disappointing to you, I know, for you have been determined to call this man to answer stringent charges. I am in sympathy with your predicament, for when such miscreants as this foreigner Rakoczy and his camerarius are said to be are allowed t
o move about the Empire of Karl-lo-Magne, all of Franksland must be held accountable for permitting his escape. For this alone you and I will have much to answer for if the Pope should ever decide to question these events.

  At least the White Woman has Confessed at last telling Bishop Berahtram that she had congress with many devils who were summoned by Rakoczy in diabolical rites intended to harm the Pope and bring about the end of the Roman Church. She has also said she has been in the Circle of the Damned and heard curses called down upon our Emperor, and for such evil, not even the Pope can save her. It must be troubling to His Holiness that the White Woman so glamored him that he did not see Satan in her when she was sent to appear before him. He will not extend protection to her now that it has been shown that she is as a viper sent to poison the hearts and souls of good Christian Franks. Her immurement will provide her the opportunity to expiate the worst of her sins and bring sanctity to Sant’ Ianuarius, as well as enhance the reputation of Bishop Berahtram, who has been able to show her for what she is, and thereby defend both the Church and the Emperor. May God grant him long years and a good death.

  I must tell you that I am disheartened that I have been unable to assist your soldiers in apprehending this foreigner. I am informed that Optime has been reluctant to condemn this Magnatus because he believes that Rakoczy rendered him honorable service during his time as his courtier. I cannot express what a disappointment I have experienced since I have learned that Great Karl has refused to send more soldiers to these eastern frontiers for the purpose of seizing this foreigner and sending him back to be tried before a full Council of Archbishops.

  One of the travelers who recently came here to Fulda suggested that this missing foreigner might have been killed by bandits on the road. There have been more than twenty such killings this summer, and I must agree that this is possible, and, if it has happened, we must all thank God for deliverance from the powers of Satan. It is also possible that he was struck down by the Great Pox that still lingers in this region, and has claimed many lives since summer began. If that is the case, the man lies in some nameless grave and you and I may be free of worry. I have asked various pilgrims if they have heard of any foreign hobu dying of the Great Pox while on the road. I have learned nothing so far, but I have dreamed that he succumbed in just that fashion, and if, by the Nativity, I have heard nothing more of him, I will know my dream to have been a true vision. I pray you will find the same surety that I have, so that you may inform Optime that he has no reason to fear the return of Magnatus Rakoczy. My revered colleague, Bishop Iso, I implore you, let it be as if the foreigner never existed, and God will bring us all to Grace for honoring His Might.