Night Pilgrims

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Night Pilgrims Page 23

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro


  Two of the horses raised their heads and one of them whickered.

  “The spring! God be thanked!” Frater Anteus exclaimed.

  Sieur Horembaud, who had taken the lead on the narrow track that forced the company to go single-file rather than in the safer two- and three-across formation they had used for most of their overland journey, pulled in sharply, and shouted, “Follow Sandjer’min!”

  A few of the company had been dozing in their saddles, and now were jarred awake as their mounts hurried to get as close to the water as they could, for although the pilgrims’ company still had two days’ worth of water in their casks, by now it was brackish, and the spring was fresh and sweet.

  The spring itself was in a deep recess in the tumbled rocks, the thorn-bushes sprouting out between the smaller boulders; as Melech bore him to the base of the cluster of rocks, Sandjer’min swung out of the saddle and began to climb up toward the spring, following the damp patches on the rocks; the gelding stood expectantly at the foot of the rocks while the rest of the company came up, Sieur Horembaud in the lead, on the copper-dun mare he regarded as lucky, and whom he rode in spite of her occasionally favoring her leg.

  “Get me some pails,” Sandjer’min called out, and held up his hands to catch the first one to be tossed to him.

  Carlus flung one up, missed, and grabbed it as it clanked down the flank of the rock.

  Ruthier took some mid-weight rope, tied it in a knot, and flung it upward to Sandjer’min. “You’ll need this!”

  “I will,” Sandjer’min agreed, snatching the rope out of the air, and immediately after grabbing Carlus’ pail. He tied the rope to the pail, lowered it down through the gaps in the rocks to the spring, wriggled the rope so that the pail would turn on its side and sink. As soon as he felt the pail drifting downward, he pulled it up and lowered it down to the waiting pilgrims and their animals. “Tie on another pail!” he called down. “Keep them coming. The Daughter of Water is deep enough to fill all our casks five times over.”

  The pails tied to Sandjer’min’s rope made twenty-nine trips up the rocks and into the spring before the casks were all once again filled with fresh water and each one of the animals had had sufficient water to drink. Sandjer’min tossed down the rope with the last pail and made his way down to the ground, brushing off the front of his black cotehardie before gathering up the rope. He stood for a few moments in silence, then said, “The next water is four days away, according to what we were told. Firouz, what do you think?”

  “Four, perhaps five,” he replied with remarkable calm.

  “Then we ration for six, or seven,” said Sieur Horembaud, striding purposefully up to Sandjer’min. “You did well. We would have had a hard time of it had we not restocked our casks.”

  “Firouz would have seen the spring if I had not,” said Sandjer’min.

  “Do you think so?” Sieur Horembaud asked, his dubiety unapologetic. “Why would he?”

  “Because he is part of this company, and he, too, is thirsty,” said Sandjer’min. “He has been this way before.”

  “He would have seen it,” Heneri interrupted, having overheard this exchange. “He was watching for it, too.”

  “Be quiet, whelp,” Sieur Horembaud told the young man.

  Heneri said something in Arabic that did not sound flattering.

  “Amend your tone,” Sieur Horembaud barked out, adding, “Perhaps you should not study Arabic any longer.”

  Heneri shook his head and took a step back. “I meant no disrespect,” he said in exaggeratedly proper Anglo-French.

  Most of the pilgrims had not yet remounted their animals, and a few of them began to offer their opinions, only to be cut short by Sieur Horembaud. “Dawn comes early these nights, and the days are long. Spare your words until we have stopped to rest at dawn,” he declared. “We need to go another two leagues before we make our camp for the day. So you pilgrims and your servants and slaves, prepare to move on.”

  Everyone complied; before he mounted his camel, Micheu de Saunte-Foi stopped beside Sandjer’min, saying very quietly, “Be on your guard, Sidi. Sieur Horembaud is jealous of you.”

  Sandjer’min nodded and vaulted into Melech’s saddle, gathering up his reins and taking his place in the line of march. In the last few days, he had wondered if this might be the cause for the tension growing between him and Sieur Horembaud. He had thought it unlikely; Sieur Horembaud had no reason to be jealous of a foreigner. His opinion had been that Sieur Horembaud was worried at their slow progress and expressed his concerns by fixing the blame on someone in his company who was not a pilgrim, or a Christian. Now, in his second-in-line position in the pilgrims’ caravan, he let himself think again of the possibility of jealousy as he listened to the faint whistle of the desert wind; he began to realize that he might have been wrong before, and Micheu de Saunte-Foi right, a perception that troubled him for all the last of the night’s march.

  When they made their camp in a flat stretch of hardened earth, the eastern horizon was paling, a high, thin haze making the edge of the rising sun shine like a polished metal shield in the east; there was little sand drifting over the baked ground. The track of the trade route they were following was readily discernable in the long-shadowed sunlight, a shallow rut running almost due south, and lost in the sands about half a league ahead. The animals were weary, so Ruthier ordered the men assigned to guard them for the first half of the day to feed them well, providing them with a handful of grain for the horses and asses, and three or four dried figs for the camels. He, himself, undertook the task of grooming the horses and asses, assigning the camels to Baccomeo, who glowered but consented. While Ruthier, Olu’we, and Baccomeo attended to the animals, the tents were set up by Ifar, Vitalis, and Carlus; as soon as the pilgrims’ goods had been properly stowed in the lee of the tents, there was a general rush to get to bed before the day grew any hotter and made sleep impossible. Frater Anteus led them in brief morning prayers, reminded them of their pilgrims’ vows, and made his way to his place in the tent he had shared with Frater Giulianus and now shared with Vidame Bonnefiles. Agnolus dei Causi was given the command of the first watch, and Jiochim Menines would be wakened at mid-day to command the second. All the rest sought slumber just as the sun heaved itself into the eastern sky.

  The camp drowsed through the morning and into the afternoon, the animals keeping under the shadow of their sail-tent as much as they could, the pilgrims in their pavilion-tents, the servants and slaves keeping to the shade of the stacked chests. The sun rose higher, the sands grew hotter, even the wind was reduced to nothing more than a low, slow breath; the pilgrims’ company lay suspended in the heat.

  At mid-afternoon, the peace of their rest was shattered by a loud cry from Sorer Imogen’s tent, the one she shared with Margrethe. It tore at the stillness; when it came the second time, it was more distressing than before.

  Everyone came awake, a few of the pilgrims looking about for anything they could use as weapons to defend themselves. Sieur Horembaud came roaring out of his pavilion, his bow and three arrows in one hand; his hair was mussed from sleep and he was not yet wholly awake. “What is going on!” he bawled; his camisa was damp and clung to his chest and shoulders, revealing his profusion of coppery hair.

  Sandjer’min, who had been grinding herbs in a pestle, emerged from his tent, his light-olive skin lighter than usual, his cheeks a bit hollower; only Ruthier noticed, and it bothered him. “It sounds as if someone has had a bad dream,” Sandjer’min said as the shrieks gave way to hysterical weeping. “No one is approaching the camp, and the wind hasn’t got stronger.”

  The pilgrims remained wide-eyed and edgy; Sieur Horembaud looked around, trying to discern who, among his company, was missing.

  The shriek came again, at a higher pitch, this time with a new element of gagging horror in it. There was a short silence for a breath, and the keening resumed.

  Olu’we began to pray in a soft, steady murmur.

  “Sounds like
one of the women; men don’t cry like that,” said Micheu de Saunte-Foi as the scream got louder. He looked about at the faces around him. “Only Lalagia is with us. The other two women are not.”

  “Sandjer’min, go to their tent and make sure all is well,” Sieur Horembaud ordered, who then gave his full attention to his company. “All of you: stay out of the direct sun. We don’t want another of us dying as Torquil did. Get into the shadow of your tents if you don’t want to go into them.”

  Vidame Bonnefiles muttered something under his breath, and faced Sieur Horembaud. “We must prepare for danger,” he announced. “A scream like that means trouble. There could be a beast stalking us, on four or two legs.”

  “The guards didn’t see either,” Sieur Horembaud told the Vidame.

  “Perhaps the stalker is keeping its distance,” Vidame Bonnefiles said, undeterred from his purpose. “We should make ready to defend ourselves.”

  “Not yet, I think,” said Firouz, watching Sandjer’min walk toward the two women’s tent. “Only the woman has trouble. The animals are calm. This is dangerous to just the woman.”

  “Unless God is working to command us,” said Frater Anteus, his handsome features made less attractive by the repellant turn of his mouth. “I wouldn’t want to have to deal with any woman who screamed like this.”

  The nearer Sandjer’min got to the flap, the more he worried that Margrethe had had a nightmare in the heat of the day; it had happened to him more times than he cared to remember, in those long-ago centuries at the Temple of Imhotep. He paused before he raised the flap, calling out, “Bondame Margrethe? Are you well?”

  Almost at once, the flap was lifted and Margrethe motioned him to come inside. “It’s Sorer Imogen,” she said. “I think she’s had a vision.”

  “A vision?” Sandjer’min repeated. “May I come in?” he asked for form’s sake. “What kind of vision?”

  The howling was growing rougher, a sign that Sorer Imogen was getting tired.

  “If you would, please,” said Margrethe, relief making the words rush. She took two steps up to him, and indicated the sheet that divided the interior of the tent down the middle. “Sorer Imogen is … lying down on her pallet, all in a knot, and you can hear how she is weeping.”

  “Indeed,” he said, for the wailing was loud enough to require both Sandjer’min and Margrethe to raise their voices to be heard over Sorer Imogen’s sobs. “Have you any thoughts on why she is so distrait? Has she told you anything of her vision?” He could feel her pulse, and it distracted him; he forced himself to ignore his esurience and her burgeoning passion.

  “Not directly, no,” Margrethe said, not meeting his eyes, aware she should not be in his company for the danger of his presence. “How could she, when she is so overcome with horror?”

  “Then we must pursue our answers without her. You are closest to her,” he said, speaking as sensibly as he could, trying to find a way to diminish Margrethe’s dread. “How has she been of late? I have seen her praying at all hours of the day, when the rest of the camp was sleeping. Has she exhausted her strength in her praying?”

  Margrethe laid her hand on his arm and started to lean on him, then pulled away as if she had been burned; she was sorry now that she had not taken the time to pull on her pilgrim’s habit, for in his company, she felt vulnerable to things she knew it was a sin to think on. “I have told her that her constant prayers have been too zealous for our travels, that she would do well to curtail her observances,” she explained, speaking more loudly as the wailing from the other side of the tent grew louder again. “Since Torquil died, she has become increasingly despondent. She has said that all of us have failed to honor our pilgrims’ vows and are getting a foretaste of Hell for our sins. I tried to tell her that this place is always hot through the summer, but she … she … doesn’t believe it.” Margrethe took his arm, and this time did not release it. “She will strike out at you if you approach her. She has slapped me once, and attempted to bite my hand.” She held out her right hand, which bore the beginnings of a formidable U-shaped bruise from the base of the thumb to the middle of her palm.

  Sandjer’min looked at it quickly. “Such a bite can be dangerous; I will dress it for you later,” he said with far less anxiety than he felt; at least, he thought, the skin is unbroken. “Can you move your fingers and your wrist?” he asked.

  Margrethe demonstrated that she could, saying impatiently, “Go through to her, but be wary.”

  “I will,” he said, as much to reassure her as to show he was prepared for Sorer Imogen’s distressed state. “It was good of you to warn me.”

  “I want to help her—I tried—but there’s nothing I can do,” she said, condemnation for her own fear making her explanation harsh.

  “Will you get a cup of water, Margrethe? And hold yourself ready for my call to bring it to Sorer Imogen?” he asked, wanting to provide her something to do other than to listen and worry. “Her throat will be dry, and water will help calm her.” It was not entirely true, but the very act of drinking it would impose its own relief.

  “Yes,” Margrethe said, and moved away from him.

  Sandjer’min went around the sheet, taking stock of what he saw: Sorer Imogen was, as Margrethe had said, curled into a ball at the foot of the pallet that served as her bed, her rosary wound around her hands; her eyes were closed tightly. Pale strands of close-cropped hair stuck out from her head at odd angles, testimony to her hot, troubled sleep; there were bruises on her face and hand where she had struck herself with her rosary beads, and her sweat soaked most of her rumpled night-rail, smelling bitter and civet-like. Her light coverlet had been flung off her during her slumber, and now lay in a tumble at the side of her pallet. She continued to screech, as if in the throes of an appalling dream that held her more completely than the reality of their journey could.

  “Salva me. Salva me. Salva me,” she screamed, and let out another agonized cry.

  Going down on one knee beside the distraught nun, Sandjer’min touched her shoulder very lightly, noticing as he did that she was hot even for this place. He moved his hand near her mouth, and felt the heat of her breath as she screamed. When she took her next breath, Sandjer’min spoke her name, quietly but with enough authority to demand attention. “Sorer Imogen, the day is ending. We must be on our way.”

  Sorer Imogen blinked, then struck out with her hands, now made into fists with the added power of rosary beads that were still in her hands. “Apage, Satanas!” Her second blow caught him on the shoulder; the third struck the edge of his jaw.

  He did not attempt to move away. “I am not Satan. I am Sandjer’min,” he said in the same steady voice. “You are sleeping, Sorer Imogen, and it is now time to waken. You are making yourself ill.”

  “No, no, no,” she whimpered, drawing herself into an even smaller ball, her knees jammed against her chest and under her chin. “No, no, no, no.”

  “You must. As a nun, you must turn to God,” he said, hoping it would break the grip fear had upon her. “Come. Open your eyes. I will help you to your feet, and Bondame Margrethe will bring water to soothe you.”

  “Go away, Demon!” she yelled, and hit him on the nose with her rosary’s crucifix. “Be gone, in the Name of the Savior.”

  “I am Sandjer’min,” he repeated, doing all he could to spare her more abrupt measures. “I am here to wake you. It is late in the afternoon and we must soon have our supper, break camp, and continue southward. You have pledged to travel to the Chapel of the Holy Grail.”

  She went limp and silent, then she began to strike herself in the face with the heavy beads of her rosary. “It is all doomed. We are bound to Hell,” she said, sounding half-asleep and disoriented. “Our pilgrimage is hopeless.”

  “How could that be?” Sandjer’min asked, to keep her talking.

  “Vanity, vanity,” she murmured. “It is an unforgivable sin. Vanity. All is vanity…” Her voice began to trail off.

  Sandjer’min knew it was danger
ous to allow her to drift back into her dream; he spoke a bit louder. “Your sister-in-law is waiting for you to rise, so that the servants can make ready to depart. You, yourself, need to rise and dress yourself so that the servants may attend to their chores.” He gave her a little time to pull herself out of whatever part of her dream still held her.

  From her place by the curtain Margrethe said, “If it would help, I will send for Frater Anteus.”

  Sorer Imogen blinked, and faced Sandjer’min without truly seeing him. “Spare me that,” she pleaded, as if aware of his presence for the first time.

  “Spare you from what, Sorer?” he asked, coaxing her into wakefulness.

  “The visions. God has shown me Hell, that it is all around us.” She shuddered, her face set in a rictus of horror.

  “Then Frater Anteus will help you to be free of—”

  “No. No. Not that one,” she said, for the first time opening her eyes without the dazed look of lingering sleep.

  “Then who among the clergy?” he inquired.

  “None of them. Not the monks in the company. Not them. Not them. No. The unfrocked one. D’Urbineau. I will tell him what has been revealed to me. He may hear my Confession.” She now sounded slightly drunk, which Sandjer’min knew was impossible; the dream had not yet released her.

  “If you will rise, I will leave you, or send in Bondame Margrethe to assist you. It isn’t fitting that you should face a man, even one in holy Orders, in your bedclothes.” His manner was unflustered, but it concealed his growing alarm; it was more than illness that had brought about her daytime nightmare. Soft words and quiet persuasion would not diminish the power of Sorer Imogen’s dream, he realized, and so he got up from where he was kneeling and said, “I shall send Bondame Margrethe to you, and then I’ll ask Cristofo d’Urbineau to come to listen to what you have to tell him.”

  Sorer Imogen had made it as far as her knees, where she remained, praying softly; she seemed wholly unaware of Sandjer’min’s presence.

  Margrethe was waiting as he came around the end of the sheet. “She is awake?”

 

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