Night Pilgrims

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “You are too severe with yourself, Margrethe.”

  “I want to forsake my marriage vows, and I want you to … to…” she said in a soft rush of words, her face darkening again.

  “Nothing you can have from me will compromise your marriage vows: believe this,” he said, aware that though she was fortunate enough to have a fondness for her invalid husband, theirs had been a political marriage, intended to seal alliances rather than confirm their mutual love.

  She shook her head. “Not those vows alone; my vows as a pilgrim.”

  “How have you broken them?”

  “I have yearned for … You have wrought such tempests in my soul, that I cannot think of my holy purpose without gladness that you will be with me—it makes me unworthy of my vows, any of them.”

  He started to move away from her, but she reached out and clung to him. “Margrethe,” he said softly. “Then what do you want of me?”

  The question surprised her. “I told you.”

  “You’ve told me what you don’t want from me.” He waited for her to decide what to do, saying only, “The wind is growing stronger; we may not be able to travel tonight.”

  Margrethe turned to him, her eyes alarmed. “Truly?”

  “If the wind keeps rising, yes,” said Sandjer’min; he laid his hand over hers. “It isn’t safe to travel in a sandstorm.”

  “But Torquil … It would not be wise to leave him … where he is for a full day, let alone two days.”

  “I’ll speak with Sieur Horembaud about it,” he assured her. “If we can travel on tonight, we should take him with us, if the company is willing. Otherwise, an arrangement of some kind must be made.”

  “You cannot mean to leave him to the sands,” she declared, her voice raised. “He is a Christian, and must be protected.”

  “No, not in the sands,” he said. “There are some broad shelves in the rocks above us. If we lay him out on one of them, he should be safe from sands and scavengers.” There were vultures, he knew, and a few others, who could find the body in very little time, but he wouldn’t be left to the caprice of the dunes.

  “Do you think we should leave a cross for him? In case?”

  “If you would be solaced by it, I will see it’s done,” he told her, and rose, pausing to kiss her hands, then going to the other side of the tent. “I should wrap the body. It will have to be done whether we stay here for the night or not.”

  She watched him as he went to one of his two smaller chests, from which he removed a linen winding-sheet, and went down on one knee to begin his task. “Shouldn’t he be bathed? Aren’t bodies washed before burial?”

  “More of his blisters will rupture if they’re washed, and we haven’t water enough to spare,” he said, going to a smaller chest to remove long, broad rolls of linen, then coming back to where Torquil lay.

  “No, I suppose not,” she said with growing doubt. “If we have to spend the night here, and the next day.”

  “Indeed,” he said, and began the wrapping at Torquil’s feet, working steadily, never needing to stop and undo his work.

  “You’ve done this … before, haven’t you?” Margrethe asked as she watched him.

  “Yes. More times than I like to think.”

  “To watch you, one would think that he weighs nothing now that he’s dead,” she remarked, needing to say something.

  He cursed himself inwardly for not being more circumspect. “He’s barely more than skin and bones; Heneri could lift him without difficulty,” he said, and saw that Margrethe accepted this without question.

  “Poor man,” she whispered.

  “He ate little while his fever raged, and that burned the flesh away from him,” said Sandjer’min, sounding more composed than he felt. “The body cannot sustain such demands for months on end.”

  “With God’s aid, it can,” she said, for the first time with an edge to her voice, and the line of a frown between her brows. “I have seen it for myself.”

  Sandjer’min realized she was speaking of her husband, and said nothing, busying himself with making the winding-sheet lie in flat, even turns across Torquil’s chest; when all that was left to wrap was his head, Sandjer’min glanced up at Margrethe, saying, “I’ll need Ruthier’s help to set Torquil up high on the rocks.”

  “He’s supervising the animals, isn’t he?” she asked, grateful to have something ordinary to talk about.

  “He is; they’re often hard to manage in high winds,” he said, then looked down again at Torquil’s devastated face. “I should go waken Sieur Horembaud so that he can identify Torquil officially as deceased.”

  She nodded, trying to make herself tend to the duties that were now upon her. “I ought to go tell Sorer Imogen, but I’m…”

  Silence like a gulf yawned between them; neither moved for twenty of Margrethe’s heartbeats, then Sandjer’min got to his feet. “You may stay here with Torquil until Sieur Horembaud comes, to continue your vigil. Then, if you wish, you may tell Sorer Imogen of Torquil’s death, or leave the task to Frater Anteus. But Torquil shouldn’t be left alone.” This last was for Margrethe’s benefit; in his view the body was now an untenanted shell, deserving respect in order to provide comfort to the living, not the dead.

  Her smile was brief, yet it conveyed a gratitude that was almost as vivid as her sudden kiss had been. “I’ll do that. You’re right; he should not be left alone, not yet.”

  “Would you like me to ask Sorer Imogen to join you now?” he asked, seeing her hesitation in her response; he wondered if Margrethe did not want to have to tell Sorer Imogen of Torquil’s death.

  “No; it’s better she should pray for him as long as possible. I will stay with him.” She waved him away. “Time enough to summon her when you return.”

  “This is kind of you, Bondame,” he said, his compelling eyes on her face with all the force of a caress. “I will not be any longer than I must,” he assured her as he went to unfasten the tent-flap; the wind caught it and snapped it vigorously. He lifted the hood of his black cotton coule froq and stepped out into the raging sun and the blowing sand; for a long moment he stood, his eyes shaded with both hands as he looked toward the horizon, his attention on the grayish haze that was approaching, confirming his worst fears. The wind battered at him as he made his way among the tents to Sieur Horembaud’s, which was painted with his recumbent, crowned stag on a green field, and called out, “Sieur Horembaud!”

  On his fourth shout, a very sleep-groggy Florien lifted the tent-flap. “Oh. It’s you.” He moved back, allowing Sandjer’min to enter. “Sieur Horembaud is laid down on his bed,” he said, an obstinate angle to his jaw.

  “Don’t worry; I’ll wake him. You won’t be blamed.” Sandjer’min went past the broad curtain that separated the sleeping portion of the tent from the meeting area; there he found Sieur Horembaud stretched out on a simple, straw-filled mattress, a single linen sheet pulled over most of his chest; a straw-filled pillow was stuffed under his neck. A large tankard lay, overturned, beside him, the last of its wine running from it like a rivulet of blood. Sandjer’min bent down and picked it up. “No wonder he rests so well,” he said, loudly enough to disturb Sieur Horembaud’s slumber.

  The leader of the pilgrims wadded up the sheet and grasped it to his chest, his under-froq gathered up around his waist, showing legs and groin covered in a dense growth of ruddy curls. There was a sweaty shine on his face and shoulders. He grunted and flung out one arm as if to deliver a blow to anyone having the misfortune to be sleeping next to him. Finally he spat, pushing himself up, grumbling, “Have to piss,” while reaching for his pot. As he relieved himself, he raised his voice. “Who the Devil woke me up?”

  “I did,” said Sandjer’min with unruffled imperturbability. “I regret to inform you that Torquil des Lichiens is dead. I’ve wrapped the body, all but the face, so that you may verify that this has happened.”

  “Why couldn’t he wait until tomorrow?” He set his pot aside and scrabbled to his feet.
“We could leave him in good hands.”

  “It would make no difference if he had lived another day—not in that sense,” said Sandjer’min.

  “We’ll be at the Gold Camp tomorrow, won’t we?” He tugged his under-froq down to his knees and reached for his pilgrim’s habit, brushing off the front of the modified cotehardie where his heraldic device was displayed. “Sand gets into everything,” he complained as he pulled the blue garment over his head.

  “No, we won’t. We will be here.” Sandjer’min saw Sieur Horembaud scowl, and went on, “There is a large sandstorm coming, and we will need to stay where we are until it passes. Here we have some shelter from the wind and sand, gained by the rocks around us, and we have time enough to take more precautions.”

  “Are you sure of this? I don’t want us to waste a day for no reason.” He glared at the tent wall that was billowing inward under the force of the wind.

  “Nor do I. Which is why I tell you now that to go out into this not only means risking our animals, it means we could become lost. Ask Firouz, if you doubt me; he knows this desert and I don’t. We should plan to wait out the storm for the sake of the animals.” He said this genially, not wanting to create unnecessary disputes. “But for now, I need your statement of Torquil’s death so Ruthier and I may set about moving his body to a sheltered place high in the rocks.”

  “What are you talking about?” Sieur Horembaud exclaimed.

  Sandjer’min outlined Margrethe’s reservations about such a burial, knowing that most of the pilgrims would share them, and ended by saying, “The primary consideration here is that it is very hot, and his body is deeply corrupted. A day, and we will have vultures all around us if the wind drops.”

  “There is nothing you can do to preserve him until we reach the Gold Camp? You don’t have anything in that chest of yours that will delay his rotting?” Sieur Horembaud asked, punctuating his question with a clicking of his tongue. “I’ll talk to Frater Anteus, but I’m fairly sure he won’t like it. Surely there must be some way to—”

  “I have nothing that I can do here. And since, if Bondame Margrethe is right, he could not be buried in any churchyard, I believe finding him a place that is as permanent as anything in the desert is will be the best we can do for him. I am afraid that having his corpse with us could be cause for the men of the Gold Camp to turn us away. He smells now, and that will only get worse.” Sandjer’min paused long enough to give Sieur Horembaud a little time to think, then said, “With Ruthier’s help I can get him to a safe place before the heart of the storm hits.”

  Sieur Horembaud brightened a little at this. “You’re going to take care of the burial, then?”

  “If that’s satisfactory to you. The monks and d’Urbineau might protest, for all he’s defrocked.”

  “How soon will the storm arrive?”

  “Mid-day, or a little after,” said Sandjer’min. “From out of the southwest.”

  “Then you may have the best answer, no matter what the company thinks: if they won’t bury him—and they won’t—then they mustn’t complain at what I authorize.” He clapped his hands. “Almeric, come dress me. I have a duty that can’t wait for evening.” With a sigh of ill-usage, he turned to his servant as Almeric moved the curtain aside.

  “What has happened?” He was dilatory in his manner, his glance going from Sieur Horembaud to Sandjer’min and back.

  “Torquil died and as leader of this pilgrim company, I must verify it.” Sieur Horembaud folded his arms. “The solers, I think, and the knitted braies. Then go waken Frater Anteus and tell him to bring his writing materials.”

  “Yes, Sieur Horembaud,” said Almeric, opening Sieur Horembaud’s clothes chest and pulling out the shoes and leggings that Sieur Horembaud had requested.

  “We’ll need black and red ribbons for Bondame Margrethe and Lalagia. Sorer Imogen shouldn’t wear them, of course. You can find some at the bottom of the chest,” Sieur Horembaud went on. “We’ll be here through tonight and tomorrow-day, and resume our travels when the wind has ceased to howl.”

  “Very good, Sieur Horembaud,” said Almeric, removing a stack of garments from the chest.

  “I suppose we’ll have to wake the camp after I’ve seen Torquil and Frater Anteus has recorded it. They will have to be told.”

  “I doubt you will have to do that,” said Sandjer’min. “The servants guarding the animals will talk, and soon all the company will know.”

  “You sound certain of that,” said Sieur Horembaud as he sat on a three-legged stool and waited for Almeric to bring his braies and solers.

  “When servants learn a thing, everyone knows,” said Sandjer’min, and went on more vigorously, “And speaking of servants, I am going to find Ruthier so that he may aid me in making the device that will allow us to lay Torquil to rest.”

  “Do you require his help?”

  “I do. And Ruthier will need to put up more containing ropes for the animals, as well. We will try to move Torquil before mid-day, so I will have to make the arrangements quickly.” He inclined his head. “I will return to my tent shortly, and will meet you and Frater Anteus there, if that suits you? You will find Bondame Margrethe keeping vigil over Torquil’s body.”

  “Praying?” Sieur Horembaud asked nervously. “Not for Torquil?”

  “Not for Torquil, for the pilgrims, yes,” said Sandjer’min. “She will inform Sorer Imogen of Torquil’s death once you have verified it, or you may ask Frater Anteus to deliver the news.”

  “You seem to have the matter in hand,” said Sieur Horembaud readily enough, but with the suggestion of truculence.

  “I am pleased to be able to help you at this difficult time,” said Sandjer’min, making his way toward the tent-flap; he paused for Florien to open the flap for him, and went out into the whipping sands. He lifted his hood and drew a length of cotton over the lower part of his face as he went toward the L-shaped boulders where the animals had been penned, protected by the rocks and the sail which fluttered over the animals like a huge, ungainly bird.

  Ruthier emerged from the shadow of the sail and approached Sandjer’min. “My master,” he said in six-hundred-year-old Spanish. “We’re going to have to stay here today and tonight?”

  “We are,” Sandjer’min agreed. “But this is a bit more pressing than having to make preparations for the storm.”

  “So. Torquil died.” Ruthier looked down at his dusty hands. “It is over for him.”

  “Not quite,” Sandjer’min said, squinting and peering up into the rocks above them. “He has to be put up there.”

  “And you have offered to do it,” said Ruthier with some exasperation. “What do you need me to do?”

  “Get the sling from the camels’ saddles and rig it so that I can sink a rod for the block-and-tackle into the rock; it’s in the fourth chest. The rope and a draw-line as well.”

  One end of the sail flailed as its stay-line came loose; Ruthier shouted for Salvatore to fetch a rake and come catch the sail’s end, then turned back to Sandjer’min. “This must be done soon.”

  “Yes; it must,” Sandjer’min agreed. “I don’t want to be on that rock-face when the heart of the storm arrives.”

  “I will get to work on it,” Ruthier said.

  “Good. I need to see Sieur Horembaud, and as soon as the verification of death is done, I’ll come back.” He started to move away, but stopped as Ruthier called after him.

  “I’ll order the servants on duty to get as much of the food and tack that they can into the tents, so we won’t have to try to dig them out when this is all over. We won’t be able to move it all, but I should think that more than half can be sheltered.”

  Sandjer’min offered Ruthier a tired smile. “Thank you, old friend,” he said, and resumed his trudge back around the end of the outcropping to the cluster of tents, his hand raised to shade his eyes from the blurry sun.

  Sieur Horembaud was in Sandjer’min’s tent with Frater Anteus beside him, his wax tablet and iron s
tylus in hand; Margrethe had sat down on one of the smaller chests, waiting patiently to see what the two men would do next. Sieur Horembaud looked up as Sandjer’min came in through the flap and inclined his head. “Are you ready to do it? To raise the body up into the rocks?”

  “Yes. I’m going to take a mallet and an iron rod up with me and use his sling to pull him up.”

  Frater Anteus looked aghast. “How can you do that? It would take more strength than three men possess to pull him up so far.”

  “That is why I’ll have a block-and-tackle; I have a very long rope with me, in case it might be needed.” He did not add that there had been a number of times when he had needed such devices and did not have them.

  “Will you be able to bring the block-and-tackle down with you?” Sieur Horembaud asked as if he had no particular interest in the answer.

  “That is my intention,” said Sandjer’min, and bowed slightly to Sieur Horembaud and more deeply to Margrethe, and for most of the rest of the morning, he pulled and climbed his way up the promontory that thrust out between the tents and the animals, while the wind grew louder and sand scoured his hands and the side of his face, so that when he at last reached a small plateau that included a shaded declivity, he readied himself for the more difficult part of his task: he set the rod, pulled his netted pack from his back, tugged on the feed-line, rigged the block-and-tackle, then signaled to Ruthier, from more than two hundred hands above the tents and pens. By the time he had moved Torquil’s body into the trough-like declivity, it was almost mid-day and the air was buzzing loudly with wind-borne sand. Sandjer’min looped his rope around the iron rod, secured it with a releasing knot, and carefully let himself down, then tugged to loosen the knot that held the rope, motioning to Ruthier to collect the block-and-tackle as well as the rope before he stumbled toward his tent, his face aching from sunlight and scouring wind. The last thought that he could later recall was the realization that the sandstorm would keep the vultures away from Torquil’s corpse until the company of pilgrims moved on.