Night Pilgrims

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Would pilgrims be worth holding?” Margrethe asked before she could stop herself. “Would slavers even bother to try to collect a ransom?”

  Lalagia shrugged. “They might hold you—you’re a noblewoman. But me? Who would ransom a camp-follower?”

  Sorer Imogen crossed herself, and continued to pray.

  Margrethe could think of nothing to say, so she leaned a bit forward and strained to listen to what the men were saying.

  “—serve no purpose to wait here for four months before going south into the mountains,” Sieur Horembaud was proclaiming, his loud voice overwhelming all the others at the table.

  “I agree,” said Agnolus dei Causi. “I cannot afford to be so long away from my business and my family. I said I would be back in Genova by Easter next year, and that would mean I would have to abjure my vow, which would compromise me in the eyes of the Church even more than I am compromised now.”

  “Then we proceed as we planned,” said Sieur Horembaud, smacking the table with the flat of his hand; his wine-cup tipped over and the red liquid ran out of it, staining the cuff of his broad blue sleeve.

  A whisper passed among the pilgrims, all of whom knew that the omen was not a good one.

  Sieur Horembaud forced himself to laugh. “There, you see? We’re encouraged to keep to our purpose. We have been reminded that Communion at the Chapel of the Holy Grail is our goal. You need only look on my habit to garner up your resolve when it flags. Our bodies will endure our travail for the good of our souls.”

  Nicholas Howe nodded his support, saying, “We cannot allow ourselves to be tempted to laxness and melancholy.”

  “And say we all Amen,” Vidame Bonnefiles declared at his most pious.

  The rest of the pilgrims echoed the Amen, and the women repeated the Amen loudly enough to be heard by the men.

  Jiochim Menines half-rose as three youthful scullions came toward the table, each holding a large platter of grilled meat: one carried goat, one carried sheep, and one carried speckled fowl, sliced and ready to eat. “Our meal is here,” he announced. “Let us ask God’s blessing on this bounty.”

  One of the cooks brought a tray of flatbread to the table, and a gruel of coarse-ground beans with garlic. He laid this in the center of the table and stood back to permit the scullions to set down their platters. The cook said something and withdrew to the kitchen.

  “What did he say?” Sieur Horembaud asked.

  “The same thing he’s said every night since we came here,” Sandjer’min told him patiently. “He will have his wife take bread to our women.”

  “And the women will have the meat we don’t eat,” Sieur Horembaud finished for him. “Of course. Yes. We know this.” He reached out with his small knife and pronged a slab of goat, dropped it on the flatbread he had already seized, and then he added a wedge of fowl to the pile. “They put onions in the goat before they turn it on the spit,” he went on, whetting his appetite with words. “Gives it a good flavor. You should really have some.” Before Sandjer’min could speak, Sieur Horembaud held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “I know. I know. Those of your blood dine in private by custom. You’ve told me that more than once. Why that should be your custom, you haven’t told me. But it troubles me that you do not take your meals with us. It would be better if you did, for all of us.”

  This did not surprise Sandjer’min; he was aware of the suspicions several of the pilgrims had of him. “I follow the customs of those of my blood, as we agreed at the first. Enjoy your meal.” He got up. “The next leg of the journey may not be so pleasant.” His warning brought uneasy glances from others at the table.

  “You’ve told me that before, as has Firouz. I think we’re prepared to endure what God sends us.” Sieur Horembaud hacked off a chunk of goat, stuck his knife-point into it, and began to eat it off the end of his knife.

  Others at the table were scrambling for their shares of the flatbread and meat while the scullions brought bowls of chopped cucumbers, shredded herbs, mustard seeds in olive oil, mashed onions, honey with garlic, and fresh curds with pepper in them. A cry of approval went up from the pilgrims; two tables away, a pair of Greek monks with a flock of young men scowled in disapproval.

  Sandjer’min stepped away from the table. “I will have a word with Ruthier: we were interrupted.” He ducked his head respectfully, then turned away from the pilgrims and threaded his way back through the various groups and their drone of conversation to the small table near the kitchen; it was the hottest place in a very warm room; from the women’s table behind the screen, Margrethe looked through a crack in the carving so she could watch his progress through the dining room.

  Ruthier had almost finished his dinner; two bones were lying on the untouched flatbread, and he had already wiped his face. “My master,” he said as Sandjer’min approached.

  “The copper-dun mare may be casting a splint,” said Sandjer’min, glancing back at the pilgrims as if he expected to be summoned again. “She shouldn’t be ridden.”

  “No, she should not, particularly in this sand,” said Ruthier. “She’s a favorite of Sieur Horembaud’s.”

  “I know. He considers her a bringer of good fortune.” Sandjer’min took a long breath and let it out slowly.

  “Should we take her with us as a remount, or do we leave her here?” Ruthier began to weigh the advantages to each solution in his mind.

  “I don’t know. I’ve done as much as I can, but if Sieur Horembaud insists that we depart tomorrow night, I won’t yet know if she’s improving.”

  “Can she keep up if she’s not ridden?” Ruthier asked.

  “It’s possible, but I don’t know,” Sandjer’min said, sounding frustrated. He shook his head. “Perhaps Loredan will take her as a remount.”

  “Veneziani don’t know much about horses,” Ruthier pointed out.

  “Zekri does, and I can give him instructions,” said Sandjer’min, looking toward the kitchen as two of the cooks came out carrying the carcase of a calf on a spit, taking it to be turned by the scullions.

  “You are hungry,” said Ruthier in Persian.

  “I have fed not long ago,” Sandjer’min replied in the same language.

  “Not truly fed; you are losing flesh, as always happens when you take too long to find a willing consort; you have been a dream for too long. It’s time you seek a knowing woman,” Ruthier said, and felt the distance between them widen. “You needn’t deny yourself. The Bondame yearns for you.”

  “I know. When she looks at me, I can feel the power of her desire. She is like the heroine in an epic story, and a sworn wife at the same time. Yet I know she is determined to keep her pilgrims’ vows, and that she is unable to admit to the emotions that have been stirred within her,” he said slowly. “You know that there is no advantage to either her or me if I should press my suit with her.”

  “Lalagia might be willing, if you should ask her,” Ruthier suggested.

  “She is a pilgrim; she took the vow, though she’s looking for her man, not the Chapel of the Holy Grail. She would be scorned by the rest if there were any suggestion that she had broken her vow; the others already regard her as tainted.”

  “I understand,” Ruthier nodded, waiting until the cheering for the trussed calf died down. “The other pilgrims would not sanction—”

  “No, they wouldn’t,” Sandjer’min agreed, cutting Ruthier short. “And pious or not, I do not want this to be another encounter like the road to Baghdad.”

  “It wouldn’t come to that, surely,” said Ruthier in alarm.

  “I would hope not,” said Sandjer’min. “But I cannot be … sanguine.” His smile was quick and ironic.

  Ruthier answered the smile with one of his own that exposed his worry. “You are clever, my master.”

  “I need cleverness with this company,” Sandjer’min admitted.

  Another cheer went up as another dressed-and-trussed goat was carried out from the kitchen, ready for basting over the fire-pits.
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  “Do you think we will leave tomorrow night?” Ruthier asked when the cooks withdrew.

  “It is certainly Sieur Horembaud’s plan,” said Sandjer’min, in the Venezian dialect.

  “But with Loredan leaving…” Ruthier’s question trailed away. “I’ll make our chests and cases ready, in case.”

  “Thank you, old friend,” said Sandjer’min. “I apologize for adding to your annoyances.” He started to rise, but was stopped when Ruthier reached out and took hold of Sandjer’min’s wrist; this was so uncharacteristic of the man, that Sandjer’min sat down again at once. “What is it?”

  “You’ve continued to watch for our followers; I know you have,” said Ruthier in a brisker tone.

  “Yes.”

  “Are we still being followed?” Ruthier asked.

  “There are three of them, on camels, now. I know they are somewhere in the Gold Camp, but not in the travelers’ quarter, which suggests to me that they have associates here, or they have bribed the tax collector.” Sandjer’min took a little time to stare around the room. “No one here resembles the two I have glimpsed from time to time, and I have yet to get a good look at the third.”

  “Have you told Sieur Horembaud?”

  “No; I don’t think we’re in immediate danger—not if there are only three of them. We may have only hunting weapons, but there are enough of us to hold three men at bay.” He stared down at his hands. “What troubles me is the possibility that they are scouts for robbers or slavers. I have only a guess that they might be, but I have just the guess, no proof, and if I should report this and be wrong, Sieur Horembaud could send us away.”

  “That might not be the worst that could happen,” Ruthier remarked.

  “Two men alone in the desert are at more risk than a party of pilgrims,” Sandjer’min said. He heard a shout of approval go up from the slavers’ table as pale-rinded melon was brought to their table.

  “They’re on their second jug of palm-wine,” Ruthier said.

  “I’ve been told it is strong and quite sweet,” said Sandjer’min. “It will quickly go to their heads.”

  “I believe they want that; they have not tasted palm-wine, and it’s that or beer.”

  “Then I hope the landlord is prepared to deal with their celebrations,” said Sandjer’min dryly. “It sounds as if they are hoping to carouse.”

  “So it does,” Ruthier said with a knowing nod; he released Sandjer’min’s wrist. “I will plan to leave here shortly.”

  “And I will leave now. I have guard-duty on the animals tonight, with Olu’we.” This time he got up unimpeded. “Carlus and Firouz will guard the tents.”

  “I thought it was Salvatore, not Firouz, who—” He pressed his lips together.

  “Firouz is reserve; since Salvatore will be leaving with Loredan, he will be in no position to stand guard tonight,” Sandjer’min reminded him. “They will have to move their tent and goods before morning.”

  “There is something you should know,” Ruthier said in a rush.

  “What is it?” Sandjer’min recognized the distress in Ruthier’s outwardly calm demeanor.

  “Frater Giulianus is going to stay here in Gold Camp. He says the village needs someone to tend to the sick.”

  “How do you come to know this?” Sandjer’min asked, glancing at the pilgrims’ table where Nicholas Howe was deep in conversation with Frater Giulianus.

  “I know it because he told all the servants, in case anyone should care to join him.” Ruthier pressed his lips together as if to stop saying anything more.

  “Sieur Horembaud won’t be pleased,” said Sandjer’min.

  “Nor will Nicholas Howe,” Ruthier said.

  “When will Frater Giulianus tell the others that he is staying here?” Sandjer’min asked.

  “After Loredan and Salvatore go to the other company of travelers.” Ruthier nodded in Sieur Horembaud’s direction. “Will Sieur Horembaud provide the animals Loredan and Salvatore need, do you think? or will he force them to buy others? He will have two asses free with Frater Giulianus remaining behind.” Ruthier gazed in the direction of the pilgrims’ table.

  “He cannot abandon them because they are leaving: that would break his vow. He’ll provide the camels, asses, and horse that is requested or his pilgrimage will be in vain; Frater Anteus will not be able to vouch for him to the Church.” Sandjer’min nodded to Ruthier, then turned and moved through the dining room as quickly as the crowd of diners would allow. And all the way to the door, he felt Margrethe’s eyes upon him, as hot as the fires that burned to cook the calf, and goats, and sheep, and fowl.

  * * *

  Text of a letter from Aba’yam Elshaday of the Coptic Christian Chapel of the Holy Spirit at the Gold Camp to Respected Bebe Moges, at the Coptic Church of Jesus the Redeemer in the ancient town of Anibe, carried by courier monks and delivered fifteen days after it was written.

  To the most holy teacher and leader, the Respected Bebe Moges, at the Church of Jesus the Redeemer, the devoted salutation from Aba’yam Elshaday at the Chapel of the Holy Spirit at Gold Camp, on this, the third day of June in the Christian Year 1225.

  Most holy Bebe Moges,

  After long consideration, meditation, and prayer, the monks of this church have agreed that it is our duty as Christians to continue to provide food for the leper colony, four Roman leagues distant from the Gold Camp, for another year. Their oasis is small and the heat of summer is severe, but they do have a spring to give them water, and so long as we bring them food, they will not starve. The caves around the spring provide them shelter, and we have given them blankets for when the nights are cold. We include them in our daily prayers, and we carry such messages as they entrust to us, all in the spirit of charity. I fear that if we have another summer this year as we did last that the lepers may have to find another location for their colony, for the heat has been greater than before, and at some point, their spring may prove insufficient. Already we have heard that many of the small springs that run along the flank of the hills are lower than they were last year, and may dry up entirely.

  One of the lepers, a man from the County of Austria called Jaroslaw, has died and the leader of the colony asks that notification be sent to the Templars in Alexandria so that the dead man’s family may know his fate. Four more of their number have shown a marked worsening of their affliction and neither we, nor their leader, expects them to sustain life much longer.

  There are three new lepers in the colony: Gabra, a goldsmith, an Abyssinian; Simeon, a guide, the son of a Greek father and Egyptian mother, who has a wife and child in Abydos; and Sieur Arnoul, a Roman Christian knight fighting the armies of Islam, from a place called Brabant, who asks that no notification of his condition be made, for he would rather be thought lost or dead than have it known he has the White Disease.

  We were also informed by the leader of a company of pilgrims, one Sieur Horembaud, bound for the Chapel of the Holy Grail, that one of their company died as a result of putrescent burns; he was put in a winding sheet and left high in the rocks at what is probably the place called The Sighing Stones, where the wind blows almost constantly. The dead man, Torquil des Lichiens, was an excommunicated Templar seeking redemption through penance. Sieur Horembaud asked that we notify his Order; if you will grant us permission, we will do so. We must also inform you that one of Sieur Horembaud’s company, Frater Giulianus, has asked to join our numbers to assist us in tending the sick. He understands that means treating lepers as well as those with cough and broken bones and burns of all sorts, and he says that he is willing.

  You spoke recently of your desire to see our Chapel of the Holy Spirit enlarged, with a greater number of monks among us, and two or three more priests. I would welcome such a change, that we might demonstrate our faith more completely to those who work the mines here, and who cater to the travelers who pass this way. It is a great task for us to provide the Christians who come here with the comforts of our shared faith. During the cooler h
alf of the year, there can be as many as one thousand men in the Gold Camp, miners and travelers combined; had we more monks to attend to them, we might increase the respect and dignity of Christians who pass through our gates. The men of Islam have established themselves in a most persuasive way, and we have lost souls to them. If our chapel were a church, or a monastery, those who have turned away from our religion may see the advantage of returning to it. I, and the seventeen monks living here, thank God for your plan, and we pray that the day is coming when your wish is made manifest here in Gold Camp. We await your orders and we thank God for your kindness and greatness of soul.

  Amen

  Aba’yam Elshaday

  The Chapel of the Holy Spirit

  Gold Camp

  5

  If it had not been for the thorn-bushes growing out of the rocks, they would have missed the well completely, for the wind was coming from the southwest, bearing only the scents of the desert, not the tempting aroma of water hidden in the rocks to the northeast. They had left the Gold Camp six nights ago and had been making fairly good time along the sandy wastes for this time of year. The thorn-bushes, spiny, unwelcoming, and sparsely leaved, jutted out from the pile of boulders, and wreathed around the base of them, concealing the dark blot in the sand. It was well past midnight and the pilgrims had been following the ill-marked trade route for more than half the night, going along the hip of an escarpment that gradually sank into the sand, and now could be traced in rocky spurs and boulders lying along the same line as the ridge had done.

  Sandjer’min rose in his stirrups and pointed off to the left, his night-seeing eyes fixed on the spindly plants. “There! The Daughter of Water!” he shouted, while behind him, the company straggled to a halt; it was nearer dawn than midnight and the demands of the night’s travels were telling on the pilgrims. Everyone was tired, and most were thirsty, so that the promise of water was more tantalizing than the urge to continue on.