Sandjer’min put a very little more oil of blue lotus in the tiny spoon and spread it on Sieur Horembaud’s lips. “There.” He got up as soon as Sieur Horembaud released his sleeve, turning to the two servants. “He will sleep heavily with so much of the oil in him. If he should have trouble breathing, come to me.”
Florien ducked his head respectfully. “We will, Sidi,” he said, adding impulsively, “How are we to get home, once he dies?”
“Speak to Frater Anteus. He will know what to do,” said Sandjer’min, and hoped that the monk would be willing to assist servants for the sake of their master.
Almeric glowered at him. “Foreigner. Who is to say you aren’t making him suffer more, not less?”
Aware of the threat in Almeric’s remark, Sandjer’min answered, “It is because I am a foreigner and not a Christian that I direct you to follow the orders of Frater Anteus, who is the Pope’s monitor for the pilgrimage, and who is responsible for your protection, whether or not Sieur Horembaud is leading the company.” He saw the servants exchange startled stares. “Didn’t you realize that?”
“I thought it was d’Urbineau, that all his talk about being defrocked was to throw us off the scent,” said Almeric.
Florien shrugged. “We will talk to him. If he will not help us, we will implore you.” He went to unhitch the pallet’s drag-poles from the disgruntled jenny-ass.
Almeric gave Sandjer’min a measured scrutiny before saying, “It won’t be much longer.”
“No. A day or two at most. I’d speak with Frater Anteus now, if I were you.” He saw Sieur Horembaud wince as the hood over his pallet was taken away, exposing him to the refulgency of the sunlight. “Get him into his tent as soon as possible. The sun is bad for him.”
“Then why not put his hood back over him?” Florien asked impertinently.
“Because it is bad for me, as well, and I need to shelter from it at once.” Sandjer’min hurried toward his tent that Ruthier was just beginning to erect. “Which is—” he began in the language of the Khazars.
“The lower chest contains your native earth; can’t you tell?” Ruthier answered in the same tongue.
“Not in this light. It is all like the rays off a polished mirror, like pins in the eyes,” Sandjer’min admitted, his body beginning to ache, leaving him queasy and weak, in response to the gathering might of the sun. “I ask your pardon, but I’m growing edental.” His attempt at a joke got no laughter from Ruthier.
“Toothless is the least of it.” He set the last cross-bar in place. “Sit down and restore yourself, my master. Even I find this sunlight harrowing, and I’m only a ghoul.” He helped Sandjer’min to move the trunk of clothes that rested on the larger one that contained his native earth. Watching Ruthier attend to getting their tent up, he indulged in wondering what this group might do if they became aware of his true nature. “More to the point,” he whispered in the long-vanished language of his people, “what would Bondame Margrethe make of it?” He had been wondering since he joined the pilgrims how he would explain his vampirism to her without giving her a disgust of him, or worse, a loathing.
“You can go in now, my master,” Ruthier’s voice speaking Anglo-French cut into his disturbing reverie. “I’ll bring your chest for you.”
“I appreciated that,” he said, hoping most of the camp would shortly be asleep, enabling him to go to the remuda-line to recruit his failing strength with a little blood from the horses being held in reserve; a cup or two of their blood would keep him from becoming so enervated that he would have to rest until sunset. Having Sieur Horembaud in so perilous a condition made Sandjer’min keenly aware of how untenable his own situation was becoming. He looked toward the tent-flap and made for it as if he were in the river and had seen an uprooted tree in the current, for as miserable as running water could make him feel, riding a log was preferable to having to attempt to swim. As soon as the sun was off him, held at bay by the heavy sail-makers’ canvass, he began to relax, to let himself seek out his mattress, to help Ruthier spread it on the chest of his native earth. The vertigo that had possessed him began to fade.
“Go to sleep if you can,” Ruthier recommended.
“After I have visited the horses,” Sandjer’min said.
“Better to visit Bondame Margrethe,” Ruthier rejoined.
“But much less safe,” said Sandjer’min. “At least Sieur Horembaud is silent. That should help everyone to sleep.”
“I will wake you when the pilgrims have fed. You should be able to get what you need from the horses,” said Ruthier, knowing better than to argue this with him. “Two monastic Hours’ rest should help you.”
“I suppose it should,” said Sandjer’min, and let himself lie back, slipping quickly into the profound stupor that counted as sleep among his kind. When Ruthier shook him awake some time later, the sun had moved westward overhead, and most of the two companies were asleep. “What is it like outside?”
“The cooking-fires are out, the griddles and pots have been cleaned and put back in their chests. Pendibe has said we must go on when the sun reaches the fork in the rocks to the west.”
“And how many guards are there?”
“Five, two at the remuda, the other three at opposite ends of the road, and one in the center of the camp,” said Ruthier.
“Two at the remuda,” Sandjer’min repeated, sounding displeased.
“They’re from Pater Venformir’s company,” said Ruthier. “I told them that you will come to bleed the horses suffering the most from the sun, and that you may find some way to dispose of the blood, in order to keep the lions and wolves and jackals away from the camp that might otherwise be drawn here by the scent of blood, and follow us.” He said it all seriously, but Sandjer’min knew him well enough to hear the mirth in his voice.
“How very … useful of you,” said Sandjer’min with a sleepy smile. “I’ll bear that in mind.”
“The cooks will be preparing a light meal shortly, when most of the two companies—”
“—will be sitting down to eat. I do understand,” Sandjer’min said as he got off his bed, his black linen old-fashioned dalmatica dripping a little coarse-grained sand onto the mattress. “If you would, brush this before you pack it away again.”
“I always do,” said Ruthier. “The sand would wear the cover to tatters if I didn’t.” He pointed to a shallow basin. “If you’ll wash your face, I’ll shave you.”
“Most welcome,” said Sandjer’min. “Perhaps while we’re at the monastery you would trim my hair?”
“I plan to,” said Ruthier. “It must be the very Devil to lack a reflection.”
“Often it is,” said Sandjer’min as he went to wash his face.
When Ruthier was through with him, Sandjer’min rummaged in the smaller clothes chest and came upon a wide-brimmed straw hat with thin leather chin-straps. “This will help,” he announced as he removed his dalmatica and put on his least-damaged paragaudion. “I smell bean stew and salted greens. Nothing of meat, and none of it raw.” He added this last with a note of warning in his words.
“I am told there are birds along the Atbara and Nile, vast numbers of them. I will dine well in the next few days.” He adjusted the angle of Sandjer’min’s hat. “Tie your chin-straps and have what the horses can give you.”
“I will, thanks to your cleverness, old friend,” said Sandjer’min as he raised the tent-flap to leave.
Under the watchful eye of Frater Jurg, one of Pater Venformir’s pilgrims, Sandjer’min drained a small amount of blood from the necks of three horses, tasting each in turn. “These three are too hot to be ridden; their blood is imbalanced and they must be allowed to become cooler,” he announced when he was done. “See they are in the remount line.”
The Slavic monk shook his head in astonishment. “Your servant said you could discern much from blood, and that you might drink a little of it, to be sure the horses did not have so much choler that they would not be able to carry a rider safely. I di
dn’t quite believe him, but now I see he spoke the truth.”
“As I have asked of him,” said Sandjer’min so smoothly that Frater Jurg was wholly unaware of the relief welling inside him. “When do you saddle the horses and asses?”
“Shortly; Vidame Bonnefiles has gone to ask the guides if he may ride with Sieur Horembaud. He says it is his duty to stay with his countryman and his leader.” Frater Jurg thought briefly. “I would probably do the same thing in his position.”
“Ah,” said Sandjer’min, and heard Frater Anteus call out loudly in Church Latin that it was time to strike the camp, that everyone had to wear a head-covering, and that servants were to carry hunting-spears, not to kill game but to keep lions and leopards and wolves at a distance.
“I’d best go and tell the Ethiopians what Frater Anteus just said,” Sandjer’min remarked as he turned on his heel and left the remuda-lines. Once he had taken care of the translation, he searched out a small patch of shade, sat down, and let the horses’ blood infuse his body, slowly regaining a measure of strength from it, even as the weight of his loneliness bore down upon him; as simply nourishing as the horses’ blood was, there was none of the nourishment of closeness that came from a knowing and accepting partner. For a suspended moment he contemplated the intimacy that Margrethe so poignantly sought from him, and which he desired as ardently as she did, but then reminded himself, she might not welcome his true nature once she learned of it, and that would be worse than what he felt now.
A short while later Ruthier found him. “The horses are ready,” he said, troubled by the inaccessible anguish he saw in Sandjer’min’s blue-shot dark eyes.
Sandjer’min got to his feet. “I should examine Sieur Horembaud,” he said, and stepped out into the glare of the afternoon, concealing the pain it gave him as best he could. He mounted the grulla mare. As he started her at a walk through the crowded camp, he was aware that Ruthier had mounted the dark-chestnut gelding and was leading three asses. Turning in his saddle, Sandjer’min called out in Visigothic Spanish, “Where is Sieur Horembaud?”
“Behind the guides and Vidame Bonnefiles,” Ruthier replied.
“In other words, ahead of where we are,” said Sandjer’min, working his way to the front of the line.
“There you are,” Almeric yelled as he saw Sandjer’min coming nearer. “Stop. He has started moaning again.”
“He has had a great deal of the oil of blue lotus,” said Sandjer’min, dismounting to have a look at Sieur Horembaud as he lay under the improvised hood. “Have you given him water?”
“Yes, Sidi, we have,” said Almeric.
“He needs more,” said Sandjer’min. “He will need two large cups of water once I put the oil on his lips.”
Sieur Horembaud turned glazed eyes in Sandjer’min’s direction. “Who … is that?”
“I am Sandjer’min,” he said, removing the vial and small, narrow spoon from his medicaments bag. “You have no reason to fret.”
Sieur Horembaud blinked. “It’s you. You have the oil. I want it.” It was an effort for him to speak without yelling, but he managed it.
“No doubt,” said Sandjer’min, removing the vial and the spoon from his bag. “Here.”
“How long will it last?” Sieur Horembaud asked.
“That will depend. I will check on you from time to time, and your servants will attend you as we travel.” He put a little of the oil into the narrow spoon, then smeared Sieur Horembaud’s mouth with it. “You should feel its relief shortly.”
“Not soon enough for me.” Sieur Horembaud swiped at Sandjer’min, missed him, and cursed, exhausting himself with his minor effort; tears leaked from his eyes. “Too many foreigners. The other pilgrims are foreigners. You are a foreigner. You’re not even a Christian.”
“If you will try to rest, you will feel relief sooner,” said Sandjer’min, rising and getting back on Eyael.
“That hat is foolish,” Sieur Horembaud shouted.
“Perhaps; but it keeps the sun off.” Sandjer’min tapped the grulla mare with his heels and she moved off at a fast walk.
Ruthier followed after him, glancing over his shoulder once to see how the three women were managing in the afternoon heat. “Do you want me to assist the women? Sorer Imogen seems a bit upset.”
“What is she doing?” Sandjer’min asked as he reined in.
“She’s refusing to mount,” said Ruthier. “If you wish, I will hold our place in order of march. You can see to Sorer Imogen.”
“This shouldn’t take long,” said Sandjer’min, taking his bag of medicaments and slinging its strap over his shoulder as he dismounted; he went back along the forming line of march to where Sorer Imogen was kneeling and praying loudly, her face covered only by a thin veil. He looked at her, and then at Margrethe. “How long has she been—”
“She started when we went to eat. She wouldn’t take food or water,” said Margrethe, who was standing beside her horse, holding the lead to Sorer Imogen’s ass in her hand. “Now she insists we wait for night.”
“Has she said why?” he asked as he approached the nun. “Good Sorer Imogen, it is time we were away from here. The Monastery of the Redeemer is near and it is our duty to go there with all haste.”
She glared up at him, but continued her prayers.
He came to her side and said, “Let me help you to mount, Sorer. You will need to keep your place in line, and this can only happen when you are in the saddle.”
“We are night pilgrims. We should not be abroad in the day,” she said suddenly, her orisons stopped.
“For the most part, that is true. But Sieur Horembaud is in need of treatment, and it is essential that we bring him to the monks, who will care for him.” He bent down and joined his hands on his knee. “Use these to mount.”
Sorer Imogen shivered and resumed her prayers, ignoring everything around her.
A moment later, Micheu de Saunte-Foi came up to her, picked her up, and set her down in the saddle, securing the leather bands that held her in place. “There,” he said, giving Sandjer’min a hard look. “Now we can leave.”
Sandjer’min studied Micheu, then went to offer Margrethe a leg up. “I will leave a calmative with you. It isn’t as strong as the syrup of poppies, but it will keep her from being anxious as we move on.”
“She is worried about Pater Venformir’s company, though they are Christians,” Margrethe said, impulsively touching his shoulder as she prepared to get into the saddle, then self-consciously averting her eyes. “They are strangers, and that frightens her. Her world is growing smaller as we go farther and farther from places she knows.” Before he could speak, she set her foot in his hands and swung up, adjusting her skirts before she gathered up the reins. “In all this vastness, she longs for a convent cell.”
“You cannot give her what she seeks,” he said gently. “Had you to offer her what she says she wants, she would refuse you, because it must come from God.”
She nodded. “You do understand,” she said as she gave a tug on Sorer Imogen’s ass’ lead-rope.
Taking this as a dismissal, Sandjer’min went back to his mare and returned to his place in line. “I believe we’re almost ready to start now,” he said to Ruthier in Imperial Latin.
“Yes. Pater Venformir is hearing Confession, but will be through quite soon and as soon as he is, we are off.”
Ruthier was right. A little bit later, Pendibe raised his hand and called out “Onward!” in Church Latin, one of the few words he knew. In response the line began to move, following the westering sun; they moved at a slow trot, keeping to the merchants’ road as they climbed into the hills. Day faded into night, and the pilgrims lit their lanthorns, arranging themselves in two columns. Coarse sand gave way to hardpan in a small valley where there was a stream with small trees and thickets with thumb-sized orange fruit marking its course. The night rustled with the sound of animals in the undergrowth, and the horses and asses grew nervous as the two companies of pilgrims circled to ha
ve their midnight meal.
Sieur Horembaud was listless, drinking only a little water but refusing all food, and Sorer Imogen was caught up in a kind of daydream that held her attention more than anything offered to her.
“Don’t worry. The monastery is not far, and she will be welcome there,” said Pendibe as he accompanied Sandjer’min among the pilgrims and servants.
“Pray God it is so,” said Margrethe, and pointed her lanthorn’s beam toward the bushes with the odd orange fruit. “May we eat those?”
Pendibe laughed. “If you want, but the taste is very bitter.”
“Are they poison?” Sandjer’min asked.
“No, but they aren’t good for much,” Pendibe said. “The little black kernels that grow at the base of the goats’-ears bush are sweet but few in number.”
“I may pick some,” Sandjer’min said, planning to offer them to Margrethe. “If there are any at the monastery.”
They continued on as soon as the meal was over; the road rose gradually toward a shoulder of the mountain. Reaching the crest, they looked down into a broad, green valley in which a long line of lanthorns were shining in the night, approaching the huge opening of a cave halfway up the valley’s far side.
“What are those?” Pater Venformir asked Sandjer’min so that he could ask Pendibe.
“Pilgrims, of course. You didn’t think you were the only ones, did you? Pilgrims come here from all Christendom, to pray for healing or to die in a holy place,” Pendibe answered. “The Monastery of the Redeemer is inside that cave.”
Vidame Bonnefiles stared. “A monastery inside a cave!”
Sandjer’min translated again, then said, “Do we join the other pilgrims? At the rear of the line?”
“Of course,” said Pendibe. “Come. We will be at the cave by sunrise.”
* * *
Text of a letter from Viviano Loredan at Arsenoe in Egypt to Virgilio Ca’Sole in Venezia, written on vellum in the Venezian dialect, and carried by Venezian courier ship; delivered thirty-nine days after it was written, along with a demand for ransom of two hundred ducats for the release of Viviano Loredan and his servant from someone signing himself Al-Ahbad.
Night Pilgrims Page 40