Night Pilgrims

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “She should be calmer,” he said. “You and Lalagia need not hover over her. I’ll send Ruthier to come by your tent frequently today.”

  “Oh. Thank you.” This time she actually took her hand in his, and impulsively kissed it. “I am so grateful.”

  He disengaged his hand and touched her cheek before slinging the strap of his sack over his shoulder. “You needn’t effuse for my benefit, Margrethe,” he said, trying to restrain his impulse to answer her passion with his own.

  “It’s not that,” she said, looking confused as she stepped away from him. “I often fear I can do nothing to help my sister-in-law, so when you lessen her travail, I am thankful not only for your care of her, but for sparing me from helplessness.”

  His dark eyes were enigmatic. “Then I am honored to serve you, Bondame.”

  “Is it really safe for both Lalagia and me to sleep? Shouldn’t one of us stand guard?” she asked, her face pale. “I’m so sorry she scored your cheek. You’ll be scarred.”

  He touched her again, his fingers light as thistledown. “There will be no marks,” he said. “And you did nothing to cause them.”

  The south side of the tent bellied inward, then flattened once more.

  She seemed to master herself. “Then give me the mixture you spoke of, so that we may make the most of the day.”

  “This will let you rest until sunset.” He opened a small box and removed two round pills. “Drink a cup of water with them, and when you wake.”

  She took the pills. “Thank you, Sidi,” she said, turning back to pull a thin coverlet over Sorer Imogen.

  He gave two more pills and the same instructions to Lalagia, and left the women’s tent; he walked a short way to his own, and called for Ruthier as he entered through the flap.

  “Yes, my master?” he said, checking on the tension of the tent on the four upright poles and cross-poles. “With the wind rising, I want to be sure we will not lose our poles’ footing. The tent could be torn away from its tethers.”

  “Do you think there is a risk of that happening?” Sandjer’min asked, cocking his head to listen more closely to the skittering sands.

  “Pendibe is trying to persuade Sieur Horembaud to remain here for the night; he says it will rain before nightfall, and this is no time to be traveling in the dark.”

  “Ah,” said Sandjer’min, “Sieur Horembaud is not likely to agree to remain here. He wants to press on to show faith that God will spare him a soaking.”

  “How like him,” said Ruthier at his driest.

  Sandjer’min coughed diplomatically. “In the meantime, I have a favor to ask of you: would you be willing to go by the women’s tent five or six times between now and sunset? Sorer Imogen has had a difficult time of it, and may need extra help to sleep.” He paused. “I gave her olive oil with syrup of poppies mixed into ground valerian, hemp-blossoms, and hyssop, which I should hope would keep her asleep for some hours.” He rubbed his eyes. “The solution was a strong one, but her case is extreme.”

  “Even Sorer Imogen should sleep with such a mixture in her,” Ruthier observed. “You’ve set broken bones on that formulation.”

  “Let us hope it is adequate,” said Sandjer’min. “After such a day as she has had.”

  “It sounded as if she were distraught,” Ruthier said, admitting that he had been listening while Sandjer’min was in the ladies’ tent.

  “She had convulsions,” said Sandjer’min quietly.

  Ruthier said nothing for a long moment, then, “What of Bondame Margrethe? What of Lalagia?” he asked. “Is there any danger to them?”

  “I gave them something for sleeping as well. And I assured them that you will go past their tent with some frequency.” Ruthier bowed. “Yes, old friend; I know. Neither of us bargained for this when we left the Monastery of the Visitation, but remaining there was not possible, so— Fetch me if there is any sign of trouble. With what they have taken, any tossing or talking in sleep is going to mean more problems.” He stretched. “I’ll visit the remuda-lines come evening. I’m feeling … depleted, and a day on my native earth isn’t going to be enough to revitalize me. The dark-bay Barb will provide sustenance.” This admission bothered him, so he added, “I’ll have to tend that copper-dun mare, since Sieur Horembaud is determined to ride her again.”

  “But the splint—” Ruthier protested.

  “I’ve attempted to explain several times, without success,” said Sandjer’min. “It was bad enough in deep sands, but with all the sharp pebbles underfoot, more animals than the mare may suffer because of them.” He pulled off his paragaudion and reached for the black cotton Roman dalmatica Ruthier handed him. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll visit the women’s tent as you asked,” Ruthier said. “Do you want me to wake you, or let you rise when you like?”

  “If I’m asleep beyond sunset, then wake me,” Sandjer’min said as he made for his thin mattress that lay across the chest of his native earth. He stopped, and looked up at the top of the tent. “Odd,” he mused. “Look; the sunlight is fading.”

  “A cloud passing over the sun, perhaps,” said Ruthier. “I noticed a great gathering of them in the southeast, and the wind is blowing from that quarter.”

  Sandjer’min nodded and got atop his bed. “Wake me if there’s any trou—”

  “Trouble. Yes; I will,” said Ruthier, and went to pluck the crane that waited for him at the rear of the tent while the wind snapped about the camp and clouds thickened and darkened overhead, making the asses and horses restless and the pilgrims uneasy.

  About mid-afternoon, the rain began; fat drops of warm water pelted the mountainside, and brought the Nile to a state that made it appear its water was boiling. Sleeping pilgrims were splashed awake as seams in the tops of the tents became saturated and leaked. Occasionally thunder trundled through the sky as the rain continued to fall.

  Sieur Horembaud’s two servants, Florien and Almeric, went about the camp informing all of the company that they would not be moving on that night, and that their dinner—such as it was—would be served under the latine sail that usually protected the animals from the direct sun. Almeric stopped Ruthier on his way back from the women’s tent to pass on this information and to ask if the women needed any help.

  “They’re still asleep. I think it might be wise to send someone in to be sure they aren’t getting wet.”

  “Is your master still asleep?” Almeric asked. “Since he is treating Sorer Imogen, shouldn’t he be the one to care for her?”

  Ruthier knew that Sieur Horembaud would expect Sandjer’min to care for Sorer Imogen, and the women who shared the tent with her, so he said, “I will speak to him as soon as I return to the tent.”

  “I will explain to Sieur Horembaud that you will take responsibility for the women.” Almeric bowed his head, saying emphatically, “For the benefit of the company,” accompanied by a fortuitous mutter of thunder.

  “Certainly,” said Ruthier as politely as he could. “For the benefit of the company,” then turned on his heel and continued on to their tent, water running off his cotehardie and slicking his hair to his head as the wind continued to rise.

  * * *

  Text of a letter from Annis de Santo Andreas, secretary to the Spanish mission in Roma, to Pater Ruiz de la Sangre Sagrada with the Poor Knights of the Temple at Alexandria; written on vellum in Church Latin and delivered by Papal courier to Pater Ruiz twenty-six days after it was written.

  To the most revered priest, Pater Ruiz de la Sangre Sagrada presently serving with the Poor Knights of the Temple in Alexandria, with the Spanish Templars, for the Glory of God and Christ, the most sincere greetings and blessing from Annis de Santo Andreas with the Spanish mission in Roma, on this, the 4th day of August in the 1225th Year of Redemption,

  Most honored Pater,

  Recent news from Hungary confirms what your letter of February 12th of this year told us: that the devilish armies of the Mongols are continuing toward Europe and Christendom,
although some of the followers of Mohammed have attempted to arrest the Great Khan’s progress, but if the rumors are right, without success. Those who have survived to flee the Mongols speak of numbers beyond reckoning, moving at astonishing speed; they are rumored to be able to cover more than twenty-five Roman leagues in a day, which is a number that amazes us all, for how can they move their cavalry mounted on squat little ponies so much farther than the Templars can move their armies in a day? It speaks of the Devil’s work, and sorcery. Some say their horses are not horses at all, but demons, and that the riders take the fury from them. It therefore appears that we must prepare to face these heathenish fighters, and to keep a strong front against them, or risk losing much of our eastern territories to barbarians more savage than anything the Sultan may command.

  You intimate that the recent increase in forced enlistment in the Egyptian Sultan’s armies has been due not to the presence of European chivalry in the Holy Land, but to the dread of the coming of the Mongols, and upon prayer and reflection, it is apparent that this is a pressing situation. If it becomes necessary for our soldiers to join with the Sultan’s for the purpose of sparing both them and us from the Great Khan, then you are not to acquiesce in any plan until you have the approval and support of the Church behind you. The Devil works in the Sultan’s causes, and we must not allow ourselves to be misled by the illusion of a threat that conceals some stratagem that is truly pernicious. No matter how piously presented, any scheme to defend our faith and our territory must be acknowledged by the Pope before you or any other servant of the Church may act upon it. If the Orthodox Church decides to side with the Sultan, then we must consider posting our fighting men to other sites than the ones they presently occupy.

  His Holiness has declared that since Jenghiz Khan has ravaged so much of Russia, if our reports are to be believed, it is not just the Holy Land that is in danger, it is Poland and Bohemia and Moravia and Austria and Hungary, as well. We have received requests from the Hungarian Poor Knights of the Temple to be permitted to leave the Holy Land in order to return to their homeland to participate in its defense. This is a matter of some gravity, and a final decision has not yet been made, but it may be necessary to divert more than Hungarians if we are to preserve Europe for God. If that should be the case, you will be informed as quickly as Papal couriers may bring you instructions, but without such confirmation, it is your duty to stand against all those who would pull our Christian troops into wars that aid our nearest enemies.

  Any news you have for the Pope, we ask that you provide a bona fides copy of the same to this mission. Speed is of the essence in these rapidly changing times, and secrecy is vital. Who knows where the Devil may have his servants waiting to misguide and befuddle the armies of Christendom? I am sending a warning similar to this one to our Spanish mission in Constantinople, with the same information and requests, and recommend you be in contact with them, for only in sharing what we have learned in the most timely manner we may can we hope to defeat this scourge which is being visited upon us. We do not seek to obstruct the Pope, the Poor Knights of the Temple, or any other Christian force, but we ask that you, in your capacity as priest to the Alexandrian Templars, keep us informed so that we will not be unprepared to do our part to defend our Roman faith.

  In the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen

  Annis de Santo Andreas

  Secretary to the Spanish mission in Roma

  3

  As the second night of rain got underway, Sandjer’min was interrupted in his treating of Nicholas Howe’s abrasion by Micheu de Saunte-Foi, who stepped inside Howe’s tent, his garments sodden, and with a polite bow said, “A word, when you’re through?”

  “Of course; as soon as I’ve completed this,” said Sandjer’min, as much out of curiosity as courtesy. “I will not be long.”

  Micheu withdrew, and trod heavily away toward the tent he shared with Cristofo d’Urbineau, the sound of his splashing footsteps marking his retreat.

  Howe twisted on his bed, now set atop two planks laid across Howe’s four chests, for the ground beneath the tent floor was soggy, and the seams of the tent were dripping. “Strange fellow,” he remarked as Sandjer’min spread a thin film of honey over the ointment he was using to treat Howe’s wound, then covered it with a pad of loose-woven cotton and secured it with a wide band of linen.

  “He is doing penance,” Sandjer’min reminded Howe, “as some others are as well.”

  “I think he used to be a fighter. He doesn’t look like he’s spent his life in contemplation and prayer,” said Howe firmly. “He’s got much the same bearing as Sieur Horembaud. Pity he’s illegitimate.”

  Sandjer’min handed Howe the end of the linen band. “If you will pass this under your hips.”

  The brazier in the middle of the tent that provided both heat and light in the fading day spat a trail of sparks into the air; neither Howe nor Sandjer’min paid much attention to it as Howe complied with Sandjer’min’s request.

  “He says little about the reason for his penance,” said Howe, a speculative lift in his voice. “He may have done something sinful as a former soldier; that’s what Noreberht thinks.”

  “He may have,” said Sandjer’min, gathering up his supplies and standing up. “Whatever he was before, he is a pilgrim now.”

  “True, true, as are we all, or almost all,” said Howe, a little too eagerly. “How much longer until I may be rid of this treatment?”

  “Not very long. The skin is growing back, and there is no sign of putrescence. The wound should close in a handful of days, provided no further hurt is done,” Sandjer’min told him.

  “And the ointment you treat me with: do you use it on your own injuries? Those gouges Sorer Imogen gave you are likely to leave scars, or worse.” He indicated the three deep marks on his cheek.

  “They won’t,” Sandjer’min said simply; since his death and awakening more than thirty-two centuries ago, no wound, no matter how grievous, had left any lasting mark on his body. “Those of my blood have few scars.”

  “You treat yourself with your potions and balms?” Howe inquired.

  “When it is necessary,” he said truthfully enough; he had never had reason to serve as his own physician. “The rain is beginning to slack off; if tomorrow is clear, we can dry our tents and our clothes, and be on the road again by tomorrow evening. I’ll have a look at your scrape at the dawn of the following day.”

  Howe did not quite sigh. “Very well. Frater Anteus is not convinced that this constant remedication is not a sign of vanity.”

  “If he had such a wound on his hip as you have on yours, he would think otherwise,” Sandjer’min assured him as he stepped out into the rain, and started toward his own tent, wondering as he did if Sieur Horembaud would order another attempt at building a cooking-fire for the sunset meal; the one that had been assayed at dawn had been drowned before any porridge could be cooked, and so the company had made do with dry lentil-and-bean cakes.

  “Sandjer’min,” said a voice at his elbow.

  “Micheu?” Sandjer’min replied, turning to peer into the dripping shadows between Vidame Bonnefiles’ and dei Causi’s tent and Sieur Horembaud’s.

  “If I may step into your tent so we can talk?” He was a bigger man than Sandjer’min: taller and with a breadth of shoulder that spoke of many years of demanding labor, for although Sandjer’min was stocky and of average height, he lacked the knotted masses of muscle that marked Micheu de Saunte-Foi as a man accustomed to hard work and the disciplines of combat. For all his pilgrim’s habit and a formidable crucifix on a brass chain around his neck, there was an air of violence about him. To emphasize his determination, Micheu leaned in Sandjer’min’s direction.

  There was a subtle change in Sandjer’min’s posture; his compelling eyes met Micheu’s, his attention sharpened, his stance seemed to increase his height, and then, somehow, without a challenge or a threat, Sandjer’min became master of their encounter. “Certainly
,” he said cordially, and led the rest of the way, raising the flap to give Micheu the chance to enter ahead of him. “What do you want to discuss?”

  Micheu, still flummoxed by his loss of mastery of their situation, stammered, “I … I have a t-task to perform. I wondered if you would be willing to accompany me?” He was appalled at how he sounded, like a servant or a vassal.

  “What task might that be?” Sandjer’min took flint-and-steel and set a spark to the lumps and peelings of wood in the brazier next to his bed. As Micheu collected his thoughts, Sandjer’min raised his voice a little. “Ruthier, is there any of the plum wine left?”

  Ruthier emerged from among their stacked chests and said, “Two or three bottles, my master.”

  “Will you give a large cup of it to Micheu and take the rest to the women’s tent?” Sandjer’min asked; he pulled a tall stool out from the stack of chests and crates and sacks. “Micheu?” he offered.

  “At once,” said Ruthier, and went back into the stack to open a medium-sized chest of light-colored wood with Sandjer’min’s eclipse device carved in its lid.

  “Most gracious,” said Micheu, determined to recover his conversational footing. He sat down, perching warily on the stool as if he expected some trick or mishap could befall him at any moment.

  “It is cool tonight, and a little wine will serve to warm as well as a fire.” Sandjer’min sat on the edge of his bed.

  “I have missed rain. I hadn’t realized how much until this storm,” Micheu admitted. “I knew I would miss cool days.”

  Sandjer’min studied Micheu’s demeanor. “Tell me: what it is you propose in coming to me.”

  “It is not my choice; I would prefer to do this alone. Sieur Horembaud would like me to go and capture the two men who have been behind us for so long; as a protector of the company, I am bound to follow his orders, and he has forbade me to act alone,” Micheu said, doing what he could to regain his control of their discourse. “Since the company will not travel tonight, this is the time he would like to have them caught.”