Night Pilgrims

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Sandjer’min will do, or Rakoczy, whichever you prefer.”

  “Not much to choose between them,” Sieur Horembaud grumbled. “Still, Rakoczy sounds more civilized than Sandjer’min. Could it be similar to some of the names of the knights from the east of Europe.”

  “My native earth is presently Hungarian.” Sandjer’min gave him a half-bow, and stepped aside, saying to Aste’on, “He and his company are eager for rest, but they seek the honor of joining you and the people of your village, in dining together.”

  Aste’on smiled for the first time. “For our fellow-Christians, it will be our honor,” he said, then raised his voice. “All of you, our visitors seek the chance to share our evening meal. Let all of you hasten to prepare what will please our guests. For the Glory of God and the honor of Sese’metkra.”

  A general shout went up from the villagers; some of the pilgrims on the boats exchanged uneasy glances until Sandjer’min raised his voice and called out in Church Latin, “The villagers of Sese’metkra and the monks of the Monastery of the Visitation bid you welcome. They rejoice that you have come to them during your holy journey.”

  Sieur Horembaud studied the foreigner’s face. “I hope that is what he said, Rakoczy. I would not want you to play me false.”

  The villagers pressed onto the landing to help the five boats tie up while the slaves from the barges clambered onto the landing to secure their crafts.

  “What would that benefit me, Sieur Horembaud?” Sandjer’min asked without rancor. “I may express what you, or the leader, wishes me to convey in terms neither would use as such, not knowing the language and customs of the other, but the intent of your words must always be at the heart of what I say.” It was a little too accommodating, Sandjer’min thought as he reviewed what he had said, but he decided Sieur Horembaud would prefer that to anything he assumed smacked of disrespect.

  Behind them, two of the boats were helping their passengers to disembark: two men, one fairly young, the other older, with the du Langnor arms on their surcoats, were the first on the landing; immediately after them came a nun and a young man; behind them, a woman in half-mourning; last, a servant, about twenty-five, with massive shoulders. As soon as they were all off the boat, the oarsman steered it away from the landing to give more room to the other boats.

  “See you stay within my meaning, Rakoczy. I have no wish to be held accountable for your misrepresentations.” He swung back toward the boats. “Follow the villagers,” he said loudly. “The slaves will handle the animals.”

  “How many slaves do you have with you?” Sandjer’min asked.

  “Eleven; they’re on the barges with the animals. I own two of them. They can sleep in the stalls, the lot of them. Tell Aste’on, would you?” Sieur Horembaud reached out to take hold of Sandjer’min’s arm. “And tell me if you think we should post guards around our cases and our stock?”

  “If you fear that you might be robbed, then ask Aba’yam if you can keep those things inside the monastery. The monks are sworn to keep everything within their walls protected. There are a few paddocks behind the rear wall, and that should be a safe place if you believe the villagers would take them.” He kept all emotion from his voice.

  “We’re pilgrims. Better the monastery for our property, but the village for beds,” said Sieur Horembaud, releasing Sandjer’min’s arm. “Arrange it. Don’t promise them too much—they should be honored to receive us as guests.”

  Sandjer’min nodded. “I’ll speak to Aste’on now, and then go to the monastery to make arrangements for you.”

  “Very good,” said Sieur Horembaud, then, as Sandjer’min moved away from him toward the village, Sieur Horembaud signaled to one of his company; a surprisingly handsome young friar came up to him. “Well?”

  “I don’t know the local language, but his Arabic is very good,” said the friar in Greek. “He has a manner about him. You can tell he was born to better than sanctuary in a monastery, especially one like that.” He pointed to the open gates.

  “There must be a story behind his choice,” said Sieur Horembaud, rubbing the stubble of his beard. “You’re right, he does have a manner.”

  Frater Anteus followed Sandjer’min with his eyes. “You won’t be able to bend him to your will so easily.”

  “So long as he obeys me, why should I care how submissively he does it?” Sieur Horembaud looked about him. “What would bring that man to a place like this, do you think? Is he on the run, or something worse?”

  The second boat was nudged up to the landing, and a third on the other side of the stone pier. Both were unloading their passengers, who went along toward the village; all of them looked tired, and one seemed to be suffering from the sun. One of the pilgrims was wearing a loose linen tunic over laced leggings, a modified version of what most of the Egyptians wore; he appeared more comfortable than the others.

  “He hasn’t the look of a fugitive,” said the friar. “Jiochim Menines said he had heard that the Sidi is in exile.”

  “But why? And from where?” Sieur Horembaud asked the hot, sandy air. “I’m damned if I’ll call any man Sidi.”

  “If he is an exile, we should be able to find out the reason, in time,” the friar declared. “Do you want me to befriend him?”

  “If you aren’t obvious about it,” Sieur Horembaud said, then walked more swiftly as the slaves began to lead the asses and horses off the barges. “I must deal with the village leader, that Aste’on, and I suppose, the Superior at the monastery.”

  “Keep Rakoczy with you when you do. He appears to be trusted.”

  Sieur Horembaud gave him a hasty wink. “Ah, Frater Anteus, if your father had had any sense about him, he would not have abandoned you to the monks when he left for Normandy. Bastard or not, you do him proud.”

  Frater Anteus managed to conceal the flare of temper he felt, and ducked his head. “A great compliment, Sieur.”

  Oblivious to the sneer in the friar’s voice, Sieur Horembaud returned the slight bow and strode on, following Sandjer’min, who was some distance ahead; he paid no heed to the sandy-haired, middle-aged man who came up from the river, a brace of ducks hanging limply from leather thongs; he knew a slave or a servant when he saw one.

  Ruthier watched the Anglo-French knight increase his speed from a saunter to a brisk walk. He had heard enough of Sieur Horembaud’s exchange with Frater Anteus to be concerned. He would have to inform Sandjer’min of Sieur Horembaud’s opinions and intentions, and Frater Anteus’ knowledge of Arabic and Greek, and possibly other tongues as well. He waited while more of the pilgrims disembarked and the boats moved up-river to the pier where they could tie up for the night; this would provide room for the slaves to lead the horses and asses up into the village where they could be turned out in paddocks. When the animals with the servants and slaves assigned to them were on the shore, Ruthier went up the hill, past the chapel, to the little house in the stand of sycamores.

  Sandjer’min returned a short while later, saying as he came through the door, “I need my case of medicaments. One of the pilgrims—some kind of disgraced Crusader—is suffering from too much sun. His skin is fair and now it is badly burned and fevered.” He went into the second room and came out with his case.

  “Yes. I saw him. He looks like a half-cooked roast.” Ruthier interrupted his plucking of the ducks and turned toward him. “You understand his problem.”

  “Far too well,” said Sandjer’min, recalling his ordeal on the road to Baghdad, and the months it took his skin to recover. He was almost out the door when Ruthier stopped him.

  “Sieur Horembaud doesn’t trust you.”

  “Nor I him,” said Sandjer’min. “But what makes you say that?”

  “I have just heard him talking to that friar, that Frater Anteus? Sieur Horembaud has assigned him to befriend you so that he may report on you to the knight.”

  “That’s odd. Sieur Horembaud made it clear in his letter that he didn’t want me fraternizing with his compan
y.”

  “Then this may be some kind of test. By the way, Frater Anteus speaks Arabic.” He said all this quietly, but with genuine concern.

  “I thought he might,” said Sandjer’min. “A friar—is he a friar or a monk?—from Alexandria would find it helpful. He probably knows Greek and a few other languages—and Church Latin, of course.”

  Ruthier nodded. “Be careful with him, my master.”

  “I will, old friend, and with Sieur Horembaud.” He shook his head slowly.

  “Is there anything I can do for you while you treat this burned pilgrim?” Ruthier asked as Sandjer’min started toward the door.

  “Only if you can conjure up some ice. Otherwise, I must use the medicaments I have, and hope to bring his fever down.” He opened the door. “The wind’s picking up.”

  “I’ll make sure all the shutters are closed. It will be dark soon.” Ruthier waited while he listened to one of the asses being led to the small stable beyond the rear wall bray loudly. “Will you remain for the welcoming feast, or do you plan to leave early?” There was an anxious note in his question.

  “I’ll remain only if I must. I will have to discuss a few things with Sieur Horembaud, but they will wait for morning. I think Sieur Horembaud is more tired than he supposes he is.” He stepped out into the stinging wind, wiping the fine film of sand off his face as he closed the door. Making his way down the hill, avoiding the animals being led up it, Sandjer’min went to the scriptorium, hoping to find Yaboth, but he and most of the monks were gone.

  “They’re in the village, with the pilgrims,” one of the monastery’s slaves informed him.

  “I will look for them there,” said Sandjer’min. He left by the side-door of the scriptorium and went on down the hill.

  The doors of the civic house were wide open despite the wind, and the building was filled with pilgrims, monks, and villagers, most of them talking at once. Sandjer’min threaded his way through them to where Aste’on sat with the other two leaders; he made the gesture of respect as he came up to them, and raised his voice to be heard. “I have come, as you asked. What is it you want me to do?”

  “Oh. You’re here,” said Aste’on, motioning to Sandjer’min to come closer. “The poor man is in the counting-room, on the bench there.”

  “I’ll go tend him, and will tell you what his condition is when I am done.” He went toward the cluster of small rooms at the back of the main hall; he saw the counting-room door was open, and he made for it.

  “Rakoczy!”

  Sandjer’min stopped at the sound of Sieur Horembaud’s voice. “Bon Sieur,” he said, trying not to seem impatient.

  “They told me you can fix Torquil, that you can restore him to health,” he said as he approached, effectively blocking Sandjer’min from going on.

  “I hope I can. It depends on how badly burned he is.”

  “It’s bad. I’ve seen men in his condition before. I had Florien give him some salted fish in gruel—that’s what the Crusaders use for such burns—but I don’t think Torquil ate it, or if he did, that it didn’t do much for him. Florien’s still with him. Send him out to me if you don’t need him for your treatment.” He paused. “You may speak with Torquil, and the rest of my company, as your duty requires of you, but I must insist that you indulge in no idle chatter; we are on a holy mission, and we must not have our thoughts turned from our goal. Be sure you bear that in mind in our travels as well as now.”

  “I will send Florien out, then, unless you want him to observe my treatment,” said Sandjer’min; he had the disquieting sense that Sieur Horembaud had been waiting for him. “If you will permit?”

  “Permit?” With the appearance of mild surprise, Sieur Horembaud stepped aside. “I hadn’t noticed that I was blocking your way.”

  As Sandjer’min went on to the counting-room, he began to think that Sieur Horembaud could be just as arbitrary in his demands as Tsura’gar was in his, and as difficult to accommodate.

  * * *

  Text of a letter from Aba’yam to Venerable Minseh at Edfu, written on papyrus and carried by Dinat, delivered four days after it was written.

  To the Venerable Minseh, from Aba’yam of the Monastery of the Visitation, the most reverential and covert greetings, on this, the sixteenth day before the Vernal Equinox:

  Venerable Minseh,

  This is to inform you that yesterday a company of pilgrims arrived at Sese’metkra, seeking a place to rest and to receive treatment for one of their number who had been badly burned by the sun. Aste’on arranged for places for them to sleep, gave them permission to eat in the civic house, and generally made them welcome. I have told them that they might come to our chapel for Mass, though they are not Copts, but I doubt any of them will. Because their burned companion will need a few days to be able to travel again, the company will remain here for another three days, and when they leave, Sidi Sandjer’min and his man will go with them. This is not a sudden decision, for the Sidi and I have discussed this possibility for some time, as he was asked to join the pilgrims some weeks ago. Much as I dislike losing his skills, I agree with him that it is appropriate that he depart, for his continued presence may cause us problems if he is still here when the Sultan’s messengers return. I have given permission for Zekri, one of the younger monks, and Olu’we, a tertiary from the village, to go with the pilgrims, with the understanding that they will provide us regular reports, which they will entrust to pilgrims bound down-river to deliver to you at Edfu. Both have pledged to honor my instruction, and for that reason, I believe we will all benefit from their traveling with the pilgrims.

  My foot is much improved, but it will be some time yet before the healing is complete, with God’s Will to bring about a full recovery. I pray daily for His Mercy. For those among the monks here who doubt I will be able to resume my duties, I know their fears are groundless, and that in good time they will see that they have no cause to worry. It troubles me that their doubts should so work upon their Brothers that discontent is disrupting the harmony of the monastery, and I pray that you will not be swayed by the rumors that have become rife in regard to my capacity to fulfill my office here. Venerable Minseh, you have no reason to question my abilities, or to consider putting another in my place. In God’s good time, I will mend, and do all that is required of me with a whole body and a thankful heart.

  May God’s Grace be upon you, in this life and in the life hereafter,

  Aba’yam

  The Monastery of the Visitation

  4

  “What do you want to do with the sword?” Ruthier asked Sandjer’min as he set the metal buckles on their clothes chest over the tongues, then pressed down the cap that would keep the buckles from opening. As they usually did when they were together alone, they spoke Imperial Latin. “Pilgrims can’t have swords.” Outside the sun had barely begun to rise, its golden rim sliding above the line of hills to the east; cocks were crowing, goats and sheep in the monastery pens and the village below bleated for food, and activity had increased at the water’s edge in preparation for loading the barges and boats to resume the voyage up-river. The wind was steady, coming up from the north, promising good travel for the day.

  “I’m not going to carry it in plain sight, but I won’t leave it behind.” Sandjer’min almost smiled. “I have wrapped it and its scabbard in leather and put it in the back of my medicaments chest, under the metal belt that keeps it closed. I’ve designed it to look like the leather padding on the inside of the belt. I’ve installed a pair of leather staples to keep it in place.”

  “What if anyone should discover it?” Ruthier pursued.

  “I don’t know. I suppose I will have to think of some explanation for it being there. For now, I will trust that it won’t be discovered. But I will not leave so valuable a sword here in the care of monks, who would not know what to do with it, or how to take care of it.” The sword had come into his possession as the result of single-combat in the mountains of western China a decade ago; Sait
o Masashige, the foreign warrior he had bested, had presented Sandjer’min with it in recognition of his victory.

  “They’d probably use it to kill chickens,” said Ruthier.

  “Or cut the limbs off of the trees,” said Sandjer’min with genuine sadness.

  Ruthier was able to shudder at the thought. “You must bring it with you.”

  “And hope for the best.” Sandjer’min nodded. “Have we everything else ready?”

  “The tent is in a heavy cotton casing, your medicaments chest is ready, our other chests and cases are set outside on the sledge. All I have to do is finish loading them on and tying them down. Your mattress is rolled and tied on your chest of native earth.”

  “Very good,” Sandjer’min approved. “Then we need not linger.”

  Ruthier hesitated before he asked his next question. “Did you visit the widow at the edge of the village last night?”

  “I did. She had a wonderful dream,” he said, a hint of sadness in his answer.

  “But you would prefer a knowing partner,” Ruthier said for him.

  “Yes; but such a woman isn’t to be found here, and if there were, it wouldn’t be safe for either of us to be intimate.” He waited for the next question; when none came, he said, “Still, I will miss her.”

  “There are women among the pilgrims,” Ruthier pointed out.

  Sandjer’min shook his head. “In such a group, I would be a fool even to visit one of them while she slept; there is too much familiarity among them for my actions to go unnoticed, and among pilgrims, my true nature would be seen as diabolical. No, for now, I must content myself with taking a little from the asses and horses. There may be places along the way where I can find sleeping women.”

  “Where might that be?” Ruthier asked.

  “I will know when—or if—we find such a place,” said Sandjer’min at his most distant. After a short silence he added, “The monks and the villagers have remembered we are foreigners and are relieved to have us gone, as useful as we have been to them.”