Night Pilgrims

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  As we take our name from the Rose beneath which all is secret, we honor the members of our Order by keeping their work closeted. I will make no official report of this notification, nor will I record the mission given to Micheu de Saunte-Foi. Only upon instruction from His Holiness will any part of our Order’s activities be made known to anyone beyond the officers of the Order and the Pope. I pledge my silence by the Rule of our Order and my vows. You, cousin, will certainly do the same, in the Name of the God Whom we both serve, even unto the end of the world.

  Regimus di Marcellus dei Ruschelinus

  Seneschal, the Knights of the Rose

  Neapolis

  1

  Six nights after the pilgrims left Baruta, and one night since they had passed the Fifth Cataract, Gulema Pendibe suggested they move back from the banks of the Nile. “The water is nearly over the sands, and will soon spread up the ground.” He pointed to a swath in the dust. “That is as high as the river rose last year, and this year it will be higher. The tops of the reeds are almost under water. With the river rising, many animals come down to drink, some of them hunters. If we withdraw from the river’s edge yet keep in sight of the water, we will be beyond where most animals will come after us, and beyond the high water mark.”

  Sieur Horembaud drew in his bronze-grulla gelding—the most impressive of the horses Firouz had provided—while he considered this suggestion; the stars overhead showed that it was nearing midnight and their stop for supper. “I think it might be wise to do as he recommends; he’s right, the river is getting higher, and we don’t want our tents or supplies washed away,” he said, then added, “It is probably better to take the eastern track, provided there are no other hunters waiting to stop us, to rob or capture us.” He slewed around in the saddle and gave Sandjer’min a hard look that was visible in the darkness.

  “I would not be concerned about such matters at this time; very few travelers are abroad, and because of that, there are fewer hunters; there must always be more antelope than lions or the lions starve. These men are not hunters or they would have done something before now, and at night. The days are too hot for fighting, so traders and robbers are waiting out the summer in towns and oases, not searching for foreigners to prey upon. On your return there might be cause for worry, but not now,” Pendibe explained, watching Sieur Horembaud as Sandjer’min translated. “The men following us are few, and could not attack us if they have no comrades to join them. Two or three men are insufficient to challenge all of your company, whether or not you have swords with you. That would be foolhardy.”

  “What men following us?” Sieur Horembaud inquired with ill-disguised fury. He pointed to Sandjer’min as the rest of the company straggled to a halt around them. “Did you know about this?” he exclaimed. “Did you?”

  “Yes, I knew; they were clumsy at first, but they have improved in their skills for concealing themselves—not beyond my ability to find them,” Sandjer’min said calmly; his night-seeing eyes were unhampered by darkness. “There were two; for a time there were three men, but there are two again; one must have stayed in Baruta.”

  “You were aware they were in Baruta?” His outrage stifled his outburst. “And you said nothing to me?”

  “I thought they must be inside the walls. They probably had relatives in the town, which is why I did not see them in the foreigners’ quarter; I haven’t seen their faces clearly, and it would be dishonorable to accuse someone I didn’t recognize of following us, which is, in itself, not a crime.” Sandjer’min gave Sieur Horembaud a long moment to consider what he had said, then went on. “Had their numbers increased, I planned to inform you, but as it is, so long as the men—whoever they are—stay well behind us, I saw no reason to add to your burdens.”

  “Oh, didn’t you?” Sieur Horembaud was yelling now.

  Pendibe reached over to tug on Sieur Horembaud’s sleeve, and received a vitriolic glare for his trouble. He spoke in a reasonable tone. “Please tell Sieur Horembaud that yelling will only alert the followers to animosity in this company, and that could be troublesome. If they intend to do us mischief, they will try when there is discord among the pilgrims, when we will be too busy fighting amongst ourselves to see the danger from outside.”

  Sandjer’min relayed Pendibe’s warning, adding, “The followers are likely to be followers of Islam, sent to watch us so that the Sultan may know what we have been doing.” He repeated this in Coptic for Pendibe’s benefit.

  “There is a lesser route that won’t be hard to reach; it moves toward the foothills most directly.” He pointed to the bluish haze on the southern horizon. “That is the way it goes. It will keep us back from the river for two or three days, but with the water still rising, it would not be wise to remain too close, for as it rises, so also does it move faster.” Pendibe watched Sandjer’min as he translated this into Church Latin, and then into Anglo-French.

  “What lesser route?” Sieur Horembaud asked petulantly.

  “It is a short way to the east, it follows the Nile beyond flood level, and it will bring us to the Atbara River as the riverside track will do.” Pendibe paused, as if expecting something to be asked.

  “The Atbara River?” Sandjer’min inquired. “I’ve heard its name but little more, and not from anyone who has actually seen it.”

  “It is a tributary of the Nile. It dries up in the spring, and is hardly more than a trickle until the rains come, and then it is a torrent,” Pendibe told him. “Now, it will be filled to overflowing,” he said, smiling. “It is a difficult climb, but you will reach Ethiopia more quickly taking it, provided you do it before the end of summer. There is a monastery near where it joins the Nile, and there we might be allowed to stay for a few days before going on. The monks there should be able to advise us if there are problems up-river.”

  “What, by God’s Nails, is he saying?” Sieur Horembaud growled.

  Sandjer’min translated for him, and added, “It might be a good choice, Sieur Horembaud. You have said you want to return as quickly as possible once you have prayed at the Chapel of the Holy Grail. Shortening our journey into Ethiopia contributes to that end. If we arrive at your destination more quickly, then we should be able to return before winter begins; otherwise it will be spring, or summer, before you are in Alexandria again.” He translated his last remarks for Pendibe’s benefit.

  The wind was picking up, making playful gusts that sent sprays of sand into the air, like the elaborate scrolls and ornaments that all the company had seen set in mosaic designs around Arabic texts on floors and walls; Frater Anteus crossed himself, and after a few heartbeats, so did the rest of the pilgrims.

  Sieur Horembaud swore comprehensively. “This is no place to wrangle, Pendibe’s right about that. We must move on, and quickly. When we stop to eat, then we may have a proper discussion regarding the river. Or we could wait until evening tomorrow, when we are rested.” He exchanged a quick glance with Frater Anteus. “The Church informed me, when I was entrusted with this company of pilgrims, that the Blue Nile was the proper way up the mountains. Though we haven’t reached the mountains yet.”

  “We were told at the Monastery of the Visitation that the Blue Nile is the way into the Ethiopian Highlands, as well. How far is the Blue Nile’s end from Lalibela and Gonder?” Sandjer’min asked before Sieur Horembaud could speak again.

  “Both are nearer the Atbara than Lake Tana, where the Blue Nile begins. The last three days of travel is demanding, but not impossible.” Pendibe shrugged. “It is your decision, but were I traveling alone, at this time of year, I would follow the Atbara.”

  “Do you know the way?” Sieur Horembaud challenged him. “The whole way?”

  “Most of it. There is a stretch on the north face of the mountain I have not traveled, but the lower and upper ends, yes. It will allow us to go to the Church and Monastery of the Redeemer, for many of us, a place nearly as sacred as the Chapel of the Holy Grail.”

  Sieur Horembaud heard Sandjer’min’s transla
tion and answered with a scornful laugh. “Is it? Then why have I never heard of it?” He made a sharp gesture. “We will move on now, and stop to eat when we come upon a sheltered place. For now, we will say nothing more about the Atbara.” He tapped his horse’s side and turned away to take the on-side lead point, swinging his arm to the company to fall into double line behind him, and Sandjer’min to take up his place opposite him on the off-side. As they moved off, the wind capered along the sands.

  Midnight had come and gone before they reached a low ridge of weathered rocks with thorn-bushes at the base, where Sieur Horembaud ordered the company to halt, and set everyone to their tasks. By now, all of the company knew what was required, and set about making remuda-lines for the horses and asses while others started building a fire or preparing food. No one paid any attention to Sandjer’min as he walked away from their camp, for he and Ruthier never ate with them, and often checked the condition of their animals while the rest of the company were at supper.

  The fire was guttering by the time Sandjer’min returned, and the company was breaking camp. He went directly to the remuda, located Melech, and began brushing his coat with a boar-bristle brush. A bit later, Ruthier joined him, accepted the brush, and went to do a cursory grooming on the ass he had been riding for the last two nights.

  “Did you find the followers?” Ruthier asked Sandjer’min in the language of the Wends; he handed Sandjer’min the brush.

  “Yes.” He put the saddle-pad in place, then lifted the saddle onto Melech’s back, answering in Wendish, “Two men, three horses. No sign of any others.”

  “Did you recognize either of the men?” Ruthier pursued; he was keenly aware that Sandjer’min was putting a plan together, and Ruthier wanted to be part of it, whatever it was.

  “No. I didn’t get close enough to make out features. I watched them from a half-a-league distance; even in sunlight, that isn’t close enough for features.” He sighed. “They seemed more Egyptian than African. I can say nothing more specific than that.”

  “Then that would confirm that they are keeping watch on this company, keeping their distance so rigorously. That’s strange,” Ruthier remarked, still trying to draw Sandjer’min out.

  “That it is.” Sandjer’min reached under his gelding’s belly, grabbing the girth and pulling it to the saddle-buckle on his side of the horse. “The two are not as well-supplied as we are, which suggests they may be expecting help of some sort along the way, or they aren’t going all the way into the Ethiopian Highlands.”

  “Do you still believe that they mean no harm?” Ruthier shook his head slowly.

  “Not as such, no, I don’t think they intend to harm us as an end in itself, but they may be willing to tolerate harm as a secondary problem, which worries me.” He swung the stirrup-leather back into place.

  “You are convinced they are only watching us?”

  “More than ever,” Sandjer’min answered.

  Ruthier uttered an obscenity in Chinese which translated to five hundred one. “Then why would they not approach us? What would be the danger in traveling with us, if all they are seeking is information? They have not fallen behind, nor sped up to pass us, nor turned away from the track we follow, and I can only think that we are the objects of their journey. If they prefer to travel separately, they are seeking to avoid us while we travel, which cannot bode well for us. What else would explain their behavior? Why are they are watching us, and for whom.”

  “I fear I will have to find out before too many days pass, for now the company is aware that our followers are out there, our companions will feel compelled to act. And now that Sieur Horembaud knows they’re there, he will want to know their reasons for their surveillance; he may come up with a scheme to capture or trap them, which would be provoking at the least, and could bring about such a confrontation that our comrades may be seen as martyrs—assuming they are acting with others.” He picked up the bridle, released Melech’s halter, and slipped the snaffle into the gelding’s mouth before guiding the headstall over his ears. He buckled the throat-latch, pausing to pat Melech’s neck. “You’re a good horse.”

  “Are you planning to do anything about the followers?” Ruthier asked directly, his gaze flicking around the company, now gathering with their horses, asses, and pack-asses, to resume their travels.

  “Not tonight,” Sandjer’min told him. “I see Temi is saddling horses for the women. I’ll go assist him.”

  “Sieur Horembaud is growing more uneasy, my master,” Ruthier persisted.

  “That is hardly surprising,” Sandjer’min said. He took hold of Melech’s reins below the bit and went off through the company. “Master smith,” he addressed Methodus Temi in French, “would you permit me to help with the saddling?”

  “With gratitude, Sidi,” Temi responded. “If you would saddle the Bondame’s gelding—she calls him Westron Wind—I will attend to the Sorer’s jenny-ass—she won’t ride a male animal of any kind, not even clipped ones. And I’ll saddle Lalagia’s, as well.”

  “So I have been told; nuns’ Orders often have strictures against male creatures of all sorts,” Sandjer’min said, pointing to the saddle he had seen Margrethe ride. “Is this the one?”

  “Yes, and the sheepskin saddle-pad. The Bondame rides the blood bay, and will for two more days, when she will get back on the white mare with the dark speckles. That gelding you ride has more stamina than most. You have an eye for horseflesh.”

  “Travel encourages that,” Sandjer’min said levelly. “Melech is a good match for me.”

  Temi nodded at the blood bay. “What do you make of that horse?”

  “A steady creature, this Westron Wind,” Sandjer’min approved, taking a proffered brush from Temi. “You keep these horses’ coats in good condition.”

  “Sieur Horembaud expects it of me,” said Temi, setting the thick-woven cotton saddle-pad on the jenny-ass before placing the high-pommeled nun’s saddle in the proper position and buckling the girth. “We have a way to go, and Sorer Imogen needs to be held in place from time to time; Lalagia doesn’t bother with a saddle, not on an ass. All those years Crusading, she’s learned how to manage the asses. A most admirable woman.” To emphasize his point, he cocked his head in the direction of Sorer Imogen, standing with Lalagia, the nun’s lips moving in relentless prayer.

  “She will need something more than a saddle-pad and a surcingle when we start to climb into the mountains,” Sandjer’min observed.

  “I have a pair of Turkish saddles that will do well enough for those on asses who have no saddles of their own.” Temi adjusted the nose-band on the bitless bridle. “The Sorer is not very skilled at riding.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought she could be,” Sandjer’min said, and led Margrethe’s horse, along with Melech, over to the rear of the remuda where Olu’we had the saddled animals in order, and all eight of the company were waiting to mount.

  “That is for me,” Margrethe said, stepping forward. “Thank you for bringing him, Sidi.” She glanced at him from the tail of her eye, and quickly looked away, a slight flush rising in her neck and face; he felt her desire as he felt the intensity of the sun during the day.

  “If you will let me lift you into the saddle?” He did not wait for her to speak, reading her answer in her features; he took her by the waist and swung her up and over her horse’s back, setting her in the saddle with as much ease as if she had weighed no more than a child; a few of the company goggled at him, and Margrethe’s face went from pink to crimson. Aware that he had overstepped himself, Sandjer’min said, “The movement permits it, the swing makes you easy to lift.”

  Carlus nodded. “Like the swing of the pitchfork when moving hay. You can carry much more on the tines if you swing the pitchfork first.”

  Sandjer’min looked over at Agnolus dei Causi’s servant, relieved he had used such a commonplace example. “Much the same thing,” he agreed with a slight smile, though it was not the same at all; he could hear Margrethe’s rapid pul
se and her deepened breathing as he stepped away from her horse, whom she had named after an old, passionate love song from her native England.

  Margrethe stared at him, gathering up Westron Wind’s reins and fitting her feet into the stirrups. “Thank you, Sidi,” she said tonelessly, averting her face with an effort; then, tapping her heels to the gelding’s sides, she moved away from the remuda to join with the others already mounted.

  “Your servant is coming for you,” said Temi, his attention fixed on Margrethe. “A remarkable woman, the Bondame.”

  “Indeed.” Sandjer’min looked around to see where Ruthier was, and signaled him to join him, saying quietly when Ruthier reached him, leading three pack-asses, “I shouldn’t have done that. It was her fancy, not what she expected.”

  “But she must be pleased that you did, or will be, when she gets over her discomfiture,” Ruthier told him, his voice lowered to slightly more than a whisper.

  “I would like to think she will be,” said Sandjer’min, and moved off to take up his position in their line of march.

  Sieur Horembaud went up and down the line twice, hectoring the company to get in order and move out, that the night was fading toward morning and they needed to reach the oasis Pendibe had assured them lay ahead.

  By morning they had covered more than five leagues for the night, and found themselves in a small defile, at the back of which a spring burbled; its water soaked into the ground before all but a trickle ran out from the rocks. The place provided the pilgrim company not only fresh water but a fair amount of shelter. The land was rising gradually, and was not quite so arid as most of their route had been for more than five weeks. Not that there was not plenty of sand and hard earth around them still: there was, but now they also saw small clumps of scrub, stands of low-growing palms, and thickets of thorn-bushes along the course of a stream beneath the sand; there were small antelopes about, and more lions as well as jackals; Sieur Horembaud ordered Micheu de Saunte-Foi and Jiochim Menines to hunt for something to eat later that night. The secondary track they had been following was a short distance away from the underground stream, and Pendibe suggested cutting a few of the thorn-bushes and putting them at the entrance to the defile.