Night Pilgrims

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Ruthier nodded and changed the subject. “What of Zekri and Olu’we? Will they want to put their cases on the sledge with ours?”

  “They’re probably going to be assigned to help the slaves bring the horses and mules down the hill; they should have their cases at the landing already if that’s the case. You and I can handle the sledge ourselves. We won’t have to ask for any additional help.” Sandjer’min was strong enough to carry all their luggage himself, at least at night, and by day he would have been able to bear most of it, but that would draw attention he did not want, and so he put the last case on the sledge, and signaled to Ruthier to leave the little house and the shelter of the sycamores, and begin yet another journey.

  “Are you ready?” asked Ruthier as he shoved the door all the way open.

  The sky was brightening to a purplish red; Ruthier closed the door behind Sandjer’min and said, “Windy today.”

  “The signs are for it; it should help speed us up-river,” said Sandjer’min, going to the front of the sledge and taking the broad loop of hempen rope in his hands, giving it an experimental tug. “I’ll need you to hang on to the rear once we start down the hill. I don’t want this running away from me, or knocking me off my feet.”

  “Do we wait for the animals to be led down?” Ruthier gathered up a length of rope, wrapping it from hand to elbow, then stowing it under the ropes holding their belongings on the sledge.

  “Yes. They should be on their way shortly; the slaves went up to get them a little while ago.” He heard one of the horses whinny, and added, “They’re on the move.”

  Ruthier glanced toward the stout gate that led to the barn, the stable, the pens, and paddocks behind the monastery wall. “I have been told that Sieur Horembaud bargained for more food last night.”

  “He has got more of it for the animals than the pilgrims. He said keeping the stock fed will be more important than keeping the pilgrims fed, that fasting will benefit them if it comes to that.” Sandjer’min watched as the four horses were the first through the gate, frisking on their lead-lines, tails flagged over their rumps.

  “Do you know which boat we will ride in?”

  “I believe he intends to separate us while we are moving; I have told him that you and I will usually dine apart from the rest—that it is the custom among those of my blood, and among yours, and he has agreed to allow us to do so, though I’m not sure how he sees that happening,” said Sandjer’min, watching the horses come to order and mince down the hill, the nine asses coming along behind them, stolid and dependable. All of them were dusty and a few showed bare patches of skin where the sand had worn the hair away.

  “Why?” Ruthier inquired. “Does he suspect us of nefarious dealings?”

  “If he does not, Frater Anteus does,” said Sandjer’min. “We should let Sieur Horembaud tell us where he would like us to settle for the voyage to Edfu; he will be more comfortable that way, making assignments and directing the travel,” he went on, more to himself than to Ruthier, then added, “I have asked him to permit me to attend Torquil in the shelter that has been rigged for him on one of the barges; that will ensure that Torquil is given treatment for his burns, and it will keep me out of the sun. If I can keep the chest of my native earth, I shouldn’t be too exhausted.”

  “You mean he consented to letting you travel with Torquil to care for him?” Ruthier was somewhat surprised to hear this, for he had thought that it was unlikely that the knight would be willing to see Sandjer’min so coddled when others were not.

  “Consent is too strong a word; he has been willing to consider it, and told me last night that he thought it would be best for Torquil that I attend him. And since he intends that you and I should travel in separate vessels, he has assigned the nun—Sorer Imogen, the Englishwoman?—to assist me with Torquil,” said Sandjer’min, recalling his discussion with Sieur Horembaud from the previous evening; his expression darkened. “Once we start across the desert, we will travel at night, so that should be no difficulty. But while we are on the river, sun and running water will enervate me by the time we stop for the night.”

  “You convinced him to use the old trade route, then?”

  The last of the asses clattered by, their tails already flicking at flies; the slaves leading them kept them to a brisk walk, holding the leads to the simple halters with care, for the asses were still unused to them, and inclined to fret and resist if tugged suddenly. They progressed down the hill and out the heavily planked gates, then along the main road through the Sese’metkra to the landing.

  “I showed him the maps of the river, including that loop to the southwest, and how we could take several days off our travels if we went on the Gold Road.” He gave an ironic smile. “I think gold caught his attention.”

  “Then we will have to buy or engage camels. Horses and asses alone cannot make that journey,” said Ruthier. “This company of pilgrims will need camels to get across that part of the Nubian Desert.”

  “That they will.” Sandjer’min sighed. “Camels. Perhaps I can persuade Sieur Horembaud to let me ride one of the asses.”

  A glint of amusement lit Ruthier’s faded-blue eyes. “If he refuses, you’ll have to ride a camel.”

  “If only there were Bactrian camels here, not Dromedaries,” said Sandjer’min, and tugged the sledge into motion. “I’d better arrange for a horse.”

  “It’s the wrong desert for Bactrians,” said Ruthier, and took hold of the main rope, preparing to keep the sledge to the pace Sandjer’min set.

  “Sadly, it is,” said Sandjer’min, making sure his efforts to lug the sledge appeared genuine, for he could see Tsura’gar standing a short distance above the chapel, watching him. Sandjer’min ducked his head respectfully.

  Ruthier saw him, as well, and fell silent until they were past him. “It is unfortunate that Aba’yam did not come to offer you his blessing.”

  “I asked him not to,” said Sandjer’min.

  “You did?” Ruthier was so surprised that he almost stopped moving.

  “Tsura’gar has been urging the monks to support him to be Aba’yam, and to compel the present Aba’yam to retire to a cave to pray. If Aba’yam were to offer any kind of farewell short of a curse, Tsura’gar would use it to discredit Aba’yam, and that would be poor thanks for the haven this place has been.” He could see Tsura’gar raise his arms in prayer, and briefly wondered what the monk was praying for.

  “Are you certain that that would happen?”

  “Not absolutely, but certain enough, and that would be poor compensation for Aba’yam’s kindness to us; he has trouble enough without our adding to it,” said Sandjer’min, reducing the speed of his walking as he felt the weight of the sledge shift with the steepening of the slope. “Hold on, old friend.”

  Ruthier tightened his grip on the rope. “Do you need more help?”

  “Not yet, but don’t let go of your rope,” was Sandjer’min’s reply. He lifted the front end of the sledge a bit, not only to get it over the uneven ground more easily, but to keep the sledge moving more slowly than it was straining to go.

  As they passed the chapel, Zekri and Olu’we came out, both with the Cross marked on their foreheads in oil, and each with two large cases slung over their shoulders. They fell in beside Ruthier. “We were told to go to the boats with you,” said Zekri.

  “Good morning, Brothers,” said Sandjer’min in their own tongue. “A good day for traveling, wouldn’t you agree?”

  The monks muttered a response, showing how much they were trying to contain their excitement; Zekri pressed his lips tightly together to keep from smiling.

  A moment later, Olu’we said, “I’m going to tell them to keep the gate open for us,” and all but ran down the hill.

  “He’s been worried that we will not be allowed to leave, after all, and now that the animals are through the gate, he fears the slaves will close us in,” Zekri explained quietly.

  Sandjer’min gave a single laugh. “Many of the monks want u
s gone, as well you know. They’re more inclined to drive us out with whips than keep us in.”

  Leaving the monastery behind, they went on through the town, passing the civic house and the market-square, heading toward the landing where the barges were drawn up to take the animals aboard. Rowers stood near their various barges, most of them eating dates and flatbread, paying little attention to the loading going on, or the people who were gathering at the foot of the landing. On the nearest barge, a simple tent of dark wool had been set up, with a pallet lying under it; Sandjer’min realized this was where he was bound, and where Torquil would be laid. A number of trunks had already been lashed to the deck of that barge, and three large nets filled with fodder for the asses were tied atop them.

  Sieur Horembaud, who had been shouting to the men at the end of the landing, now came toward the four new arrivals. “In good time. The watermen tell me that we should make swift progress today, with the wind so brisk.”

  “It is brisk,” Sandjer’min agreed, dragging the sledge onto the landing. “There are two chests and my mattress I would like to take aboard the barge with me, and my chest of medicaments. The rest can go where it suits you.”

  For a long moment, Sieur Horembaud looked as if he would like to refuse, but then he shrugged. “You’re the one who will have to treat Torquil; you know what you need to do it. If you require those things, I’ll take it you know your business: you may have them.” He rounded on Ruthier and the two monks. “You will go with the English widow—well, not really a widow, but as good as one—Margrethe of Rutland, in the third boat; she has her husband’s half-brother with her—he’s young enough to be impatient with everything. Her sister-in-law, Sorer Imogen, will ride with the Sidi, to aid him.” He glared at the river. “As we concurred last night.”

  “Yes,” said Sandjer’min, letting go of the pull-rope and working to untie the chests and cases from the sledge.

  “The slaves will load your goods for you; leave the chests and cases and the rest of it to them. Your manservant may go along to the end of the landing.” He nodded to Zekri and Olu’we. “You monks go with him; with Ruthier.” Sieur Horembaud shaded his eyes and looked toward the rising sun. “We go to Edfu with good signs.”

  “How long will it take? We’ve been riding these waters for a long time, and still have far to go, haven’t we?” asked one of the pilgrims; he was a man of moderate height and fulsome manner; his accent was that of central France, and his clothes marked him as a man of modest fortune. “To get to that place?”

  “The watermen say two, perhaps three days. We’ll sail through the night tonight, and that should bring us to Edfu in two or perhaps three days.” Sieur Horembaud pursed his lips, as if trusting that repetition would indicate he was deep in thought. “It will be hard on the horses, but it can’t be helped. Even horses as light-bodied as these don’t like standing for hours on end.”

  “A pity you couldn’t bring a destrier or two,” said the Frenchman.

  “The heat would make them useless, and they’d eat double what these horses will. And they wallow in sand.” Sieur Horembaud laughed contemptuously. “What do you know of destriers?”

  “I know enough to see that these horses are little more than ponies,” the other man protested.

  “Ponies would be able to endure the rigors more than a destrier could”—he thought back to the hardy ponies of the Jou’an-Jou’an in the Year of the Yellow Snow, and wished he could summon a few up now—“and since we’re not allowed to have armor, there is no reason to bring heavier mounts than these are,” said Sieur Horembaud, and held up his hand to silence the Frenchman before he could advance another argument. “All you advocates think about is winning your points; you have no mind for practicalities—not even you, Noreberht, though you may think otherwise.” Sieur Horembaud’s smile was more a show of teeth than an expression of good will.

  Noreberht chuckled ill-naturedly. “You will not let me forget why I am a pilgrim, will you?”

  Sieur Horembaud turned away from him. “You know which boat is yours. Get aboard the second boat. And take that fussy Italian slave of yours with you.”

  Noreberht signaled to the young man who served him. “Come, Baccomeo; the Sieur wants to be gone.”

  Another of the French contingent came up to Noreberht. “Sieur Horembaud wants me with you.”

  “Why? Because we are French?” Noreberht asked at his most ungenial. “He could claim as much himself.”

  “It is what he told me to do.” The man had a brand on his forehead, identifying him as a violent felon; at forty-one, he was regarded as the oldest of the pilgrims. He wore a penitent’s dull-blue habit, and his graying hair was cut close to his head so that he looked to have a narrow halo of silvery bristles. Almost every one of the pilgrims was afraid of Micheu de Saunte-Foi, which pleased him more than he liked to admit.

  The riverman who was serving as their guide, a middle-aged Coptic Egyptian returning home to Edfu, came up to Sieur Horembaud. “How much longer? We want to be underway as soon as possible,” he said in poor Greek, the only language he and Sieur Horembaud had between them.

  “As soon as everyone and everything is loaded. Talk to that man—Rakoczy. He knows more tongues than I do.”

  Sandjer’min had already got aboard the barge and was directing the slaves in placing his chest filled with his native earth next to the pallet, the rolled mattress tucked in next to it. As the riverman came up to him, he looked around. “Yes? What do you want?” he asked in Arabic, and then in Coptic.

  The man answered in Coptic, bowing slightly, “Sieur Horembaud said I should speak with you. I am Iri’ty—”

  “A name of excellent omen,” said Sandjer’min. “What are we to speak about?”

  Iri’ty answered with formality. “Matters that he and I cannot; you have both our tongues, and you will explicate what he cannot. He says we are to leave when everything and everyone is loaded.”

  “No doubt,” said Sandjer’min.

  Iri’ty shook his head. “He wants me to talk to you rather than to him. And after our voyage from Alexandria, I would rather speak to you, Sidi.” He smacked his hands together to show his frustration with the Aquitanian knight. “Well, at least I know there is someone here who understands my speech. That’s something to be thankful for.”

  “How have you managed so far?” Sandjer’min inquired, wondering what it was that Sieur Horembaud was up to now. “By the sound of it, coming up the river with him was not easy.”

  “Sieur Horembaud is not an easy man. Frater Anteus did his best to provide translations, but neither of us was satisfied, nor was Sieur Horembaud,” said Iri’ty, his demeanor showing that this had been a trial for them both. “You do speak Coptic fairly well, and that will make the last part of the trip easier. I wish I could ride aboard this barge, not in the first boat.”

  “There are two monks with my manservant. They can speak to you as well as I, if not better.” Sandjer’min gave Iri’ty an understanding look. “Do not be vexed by Sieur Horembaud: he has been deprived of the means of making war, and that makes him peevish.” He shifted his stance, already feeling the debilitating drag of the water.

  Before Iri’ty could agree, a nun came up to the barge and said in Church Latin, “I am Sorer Imogen. I have been told I must assist you in caring for Torquil des Lichiens.”

  “That is what Sieur Horembaud has told me, as well,” said Sandjer’min, exchanging short bows with Iri’ty before the riverman returned to the boat that would lead the way south. “You are most welcome, Sorer.”

  Two slaves approached the barge with the shelter, carrying between them a man lying on a plank and covered by a linen sheet, with a broad strip of linen across his eyes; one hand had slipped from beneath the sheet, showing ravaged skin marked, like his face, with weeping blisters. They stood, unspeaking, until Sorer Imogen stepped aside, and then they carried the plank onto the barge and moved to the shelter, where they lifted the covered man and set him onto the pa
llet, stood the plank on end against the stack of chests and cases at the rear of the shelter, and left the barge. The man on the pallet sighed.

  “I believe our charge has arrived,” said Sandjer’min to Sorer Imogen, wanting to discover what degree of care she was prepared to give, and in what manner.

  “Gratia Dei,” she exclaimed, and carefully stepped aboard. “Tell me what I am to do.”

  “Have you done any nursing of burned men or women?”

  “No; I have prayed. We Annunciationists pray and weave.”

  Sandjer’min showed no sign of the disappointment he felt, saying to Sorer Imogen, “Then for now, we should take turns watching him, for we will be underway shortly. I will attend to him until it approaches mid-day, during which time, I urge you to rest,” said Sandjer’min, struggling a bit with Church Latin.

  “I will pray,” she announced.

  “Not aloud; we must give Torquil every opportunity to sleep.” He said it kindly, but saw her stiffen. “There is room on the barge for you to find a place to pray without—”

  “The oarsmen will hear,” she said.

  “Then they may be uplifted by your piety,” said Sandjer’min, doing his best to keep the asperity from his tone.

  Her face softened. “How true,” she said as she came up to the boarding-plank. “For even a seed dropped on a stone may yet take root.”

  Sandjer’min took a moment to collect his thoughts, and wondered what he would have to do to achieve Sorer Imogen’s approval; he had seen women like her in many places and in many times: ones who placed their commitment to an idea above all else, including good sense, and felt vindicated for doing it. He had a brief recollection of Tamasrajasi, of Csimenae, and of Rhea, which he thrust aside. “Perhaps you should have a look at our patient?” he suggested, offering his hand to help her onto the barge.

  “It will be fitting that you pray with me,” she told him, ignoring his hand. “God will guide us if we pray.”

  “If you like,” he said at his most conciliating, “but I pray to other gods than yours.” He went into the shadow of the simple tent, and looked down at the man lying on the pallet there, only his face showing, and looking like spit-roasted pork. “Most of the skin on his arms are burned, and his legs to the knees.”