Night Blooming

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  * * *

  As always, there are a number of people to thank for various kinds of help in researching this novel: Barry Carlton for campaign maps of Karl-lo-Magne’s conquests and expansions; Louise Sagan for information on languages and dialects in Karl-lo-Magne’s territories; J. K. Grunning for information on the religious institutions and structures of the Carolingian epoch; Desmond Creary for references on Carolingian art and manuscripts; Raymond Vassar for untangling the ninth-century political interaction of Byzantium and Rome; Philippe Cartier for information on Frankish social history; Hudson Scarpard for his knowledge of the state of learning and education in Carolingian times; Leonard Pasterman for information on Karl-lo-Magne’s movements, with apologies for occasionally putting him fictionally where he was not actually; Angelica Wilson for her information about domestic production and village-level sufficiency in Frankish territories; and Lorinda Nohl for access to her material on Frankish domestic and agricultural innovation. Any errors in historicity are mine, and none of these good people’s.

  On the other end of the process, thanks to my agent, Irene Kraas, for all the hard work; to my editor Betsy Mitchell, Larissa Rivera, and the good people at Warner Books, especially Laurence Kirshbaum; and with a nod to Stealth Press for their fine editions of the early Saint-Germain titles—and the handsome covers by Muran Kim. Other thanks are due to Lindig Harris for book searches and the newsletter, Yclept Yarbro (lindig@mindspring.com); to Sharon Russell, Stephanie Moss, Elizabeth Miller, and Katie Harse for their continuing enthusiasm; to accuracy readers Joel Weissberg, Libba Campbell, and Ernestine Maxwell; to clarity readers Imelda Veasy, David Green, and Susanne Lyleson; to regular readers Maureen Kelly, Jim Watkins, and Megan Kincaid; to Bowling Green University for archiving my manuscripts; to Robin Dubner, my attorney, who looks after Saint-Germain’s interests; to George Meckel for some excellent advice; to Tyrrell Morris for maintaining my computers in the face of viruses and worms, as well as my Web site (www.ChelseaQuinnYarbro.net); and to the bookstore owners and readers who continue to support this series—without you, this might all be an exercise in futility.

  Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Berkeley, June 2001

  Part One

  KARL-LO-MAGNE

  TEXT OF A LETTER FROM ALCUIN OF YORK, BISHOP AND ABBOTT OF SANT’ MARTIN AT TOURS TO HIERNOM RAKOCZY, COMES SANTUS GERMAINIUS, AT TORUN TO THE EAST OF WENDISH TERRITORY, WRITTEN IN FRANKISH LATIN, AND CARRIED BY OTFRID OF HERSFELD AND FRATRE ANGELOMUS, MISSI DOMINICI OF KARL-LO-MAGNE.

  The greetings of Alcuin of York, to the magnatus Hiernom Rakoczy, de Santus Germainius of Torun, on behalf of Karlus, King of the Franks, at the behest of whom I request that you come to Sant’ Martin at Tours where eminent grammarians, calligraphers, and geographers have gathered to aid in the work of various itineraries on the order of the King’s Will. This must serve as a summons to you to join our efforts, as I shall delineate further.

  Your fame has reached us from even so far as the territories where you have come to live. We have been told that you have been much about the world, even as far as the lands of the Great Khan, and can add to our geographic exercises, as well as our efforts to expand our description of the greater realms of the earth. Your knowledge, therefore, would receive the utmost respect and attention, and in time you may earn the regard of Great Karl himself, as well as the gratitude of Holy Church.

  It is also said that you have skills in mathematics which rival the Arabs for subtlety and potency, the which you may be persuaded to include in your instruction of us. It is known that the use of numbers is a most erudite talent and one that would benefit our King most truly. If you will agree to teach us what you know, the value of your presence here will exceed that of any other single scholar. If this distinction can add to any argument I might put forth to bring you into Frankish lands, then consider it and let it be the final factor in your deliberations.

  The missi dominici who carry this letter will provide you escort to Sant’ Martin at Tours. They are proven men, worthy of the King’s trust, and stalwart in their purpose. Otfrid of Hersfeld and Fratre Angelomus have served Great Karlus for many years, and you may trust them as you trust in the King. They have the right of paravareda, allowing them to requisition horses on your journey once you have crossed into Frankish lands. Until that time, you will need to provide horses for your own travel, as well as all provisions, for as great as his power is, Karlus cannot command beyond his own borders.

  You will be permitted to bring four servants and three soldiers with you, but no more than that. You will be allocated housing here until Karlus makes other provisions for your keep. If you can afford to provide for your own maintenance, then you may apply for such grants as the King may wish to accord you.

  This travel will bring you into Great Karl’s lands in the month of September if God is good and your passage is swift, and you meet with no misfortunes in your travels. Your place will be ready for you at the Feast of Moses, and for every day thereafter to the Nativity, when, if we have no word of you or of your escort we will command a Mass of Remembrance for the repose of your souls, and your names will be enrolled among those to be prayed for, as an acknowledgment of your service to Karlus.

  It would be most ungracious of you to refuse this generous offer from Karlus, who only extends such invitations as this one to the most worthy of foreigners. Karlus has a long memory and a longer arm, and would not be pleased to learn that you returned his kindness with impertinence. Consider the advantages our King may offer you, and come with the missi dominici willingly. You will not regret accommodating our King, but you may well rue refusing him.

  May God speed you here, and may you rejoice in the favor of Karlus. Written by my own hand on the Feast of Barnabas the Apostle in the 796th Year of Grace as proclaimed by the Pope in Rome.

  Alcuin of York

  Abbott, and Bishop, Sant’ Martin at Tours,

  and of Cormery, Ferrieres, Sant’ Loup, Sens,

  Flavigny, and Sant’ Josse

  Chapter One

  NUDGING ONE OF HIS SLAVES with the toe of his boot, Bishop Freculf waited for him to bring a stool so he could dismount with the dignity of his station. He was dressed for summer hunting, his russet gonelle of heavy linen just now wrinkled, pulling out of his girdle, torn at the shoulder, and stained with the blood of deer. His femoralia were covered with tibialia over which the broad bands of his high brodequins were laced, and all were spattered with mud. His only sign of rank was his massive pectoral crucifix on a collar of crosslets, which he had wiped clean of dust and mire. He rose in his stirrups and looked at the Priora of the convent. “What was it you wanted me to see?” he asked, his aristocratic accent giving him added authority beyond his powerful position. “I have left my escort outside. They will wait for me.”

  The slave put a mounting stool in place and knelt, holding it in position, while Bishop Freculf came out of his saddle.

  Priora Iditha dropped to her knees before the Bishop. “You cannot imagine, Sublime, what has been put upon us.”

  Bishop Freculf laid his hand on the Priora’s head. “Then you must show me, Sorra. That is why you summoned me.” He motioned her to rise, and added to his slave, “Hold my horse. And better harm should come to you than to him.”

  The Wendish slave nodded to show his devotion, got to his feet, and took the big roan gelding’s reins in his hands. He did not look directly at the Bishop, for that affront would earn him a beating.

  The convent of Santa Albegunda was a relatively small establishment on the road between Stavelot and Reims, housing 118 nuns, their 149 servants, and 175 slaves. Famous for its miraculous cures of bodily malformations, it was handsomely endowed and maintained a fisc larger than many other similar establishments. It was comprised of eleven buildings, including a barn and a stable, in addition to an herb garden, two orchards, four fields, a vineyard, and a pond, all enclosed within its stout outer walls. The Abba, Sunifred, was the daughter of the local Potente, a pett
y noble called Hilduin, and as such was able to command more support from the people of the region.

  The Priora led the Bishop through the courtyard toward the smaller chapel, saying as she went, “We have had no guidance in this situation. We must rely on you to tell us how to proceed.”

  “Of course,” said Bishop Freculf, tapping his short whip against his thigh as he walked. It had been a hot afternoon that was now turning to a warm night, and he was still sweating freely. “Do you think this will take long?”

  “I cannot tell,” said Priora Iditha, and stepped into the narthex of the chapel. “Look for yourself.”

  “What am I to see?” asked the Bishop, crossing himself as he glanced along the narrow aisle toward the altar.

  “She is praying,” said the Priora, lowering her voice slightly.

  “Prostrate?” The Bishop was mildly surprised. “Is she a penitent?”

  “That isn’t for me to say,” Priora Iditha answered. “We are in something of a quandary about her. Abba Sunifred has not been able to determine what to do about her. She has proven a difficult case, as you can understand she might. Her father—a tanner and seller of hides—brought her to us when their village priest said he could not deal with her any longer.”

  “Is she willful?” Bishop Freculf asked, perplexed by this continued evasion.

  “Not that we can discover. Come speak to her; determine her demeanor for yourself,” said the Priora, motioning to the Bishop to follow her.

  The Bishop hesitated. “Should we interrupt her praying?”

  “If we wait for her to finish, we may be here well past nightfall, and you will not have the banquet that your cooks are preparing for you even now,” said the Priora, who knew enough about the Bishop to be certain of his evening plans. “You have musicians and jugglers at your villa, have you not?”

  Bishop Freculf smiled. “I am a most fortunate man.”

  “May God be thanked,” said the Priora.

  “I do thank Him, Sorra, every morning and every night in my prayers.” He smiled wolfishly. “Come, then. Let us see what has caused such an uproar in this holy place.”

  The Priora led him down the aisle, her attention on the figure lying prone with arms outstretched before the altar. “Gynethe Mehaut,” she called. “Rise. Bishop Freculf is here.”

  For a moment nothing happened, and then a figure materialized in the swath of a dust-colored linen stolla belted with rope. She was pale as new curds, thin to the point of gauntness, and somewhat less than average height. Her hair was the color of ivory in a single braid down her back. She might have been a ten-year-old child if not for the rise of her breasts. As she looked up, Bishop Freculf gasped, for her eyes were red as garnets. “Sublime,” she said.

  Bishop Freculf stared at the young woman, then turned to the Priora. “This is most … unusual.” He contemplated the young woman, assessing her oddities and trying to determine what they might portend. “Most unusual,” he added. He stroked his beard and stared at her. “Are you ill?”

  “Not that I am aware of, Sublime,” said Gynethe Mehaut.

  “This is not the whole of it. Gynethe Mehaut, hold out your hands,” the Priora said.

  Turning her red eyes away, she lifted her hands, palms up, her manner suggesting distress and shame. There, against the white flesh, was blood in the center of both palms, sluggishly wet.

  The Bishop stared. “What have you done?” he demanded, his face flushing with outrage. “How dare you do this?”

  “I have done nothing,” said Gynethe Mehaut, her voice just above a whisper. “I pray and this happens.”

  “How?” he demanded. “What do you do to yourself?”

  “Nothing,” she insisted. “I do nothing. I pray.”

  “Then why should you have hurts like that? They are blasphemous!” The Bishop strove to contain his growing sense of outrage.

  “I don’t know how I come to have the marks, Sublime, and I have prayed deeply in the hope of learning the reason for them,” Gynethe Mehaut whispered, about to hide her hands in the capacious sleeves of her stolla. “God has not revealed that to me, no matter how I supplicate.”

  “They began when she achieved womanhood,” said the Priora. “She bleeds, and not just woman’s blood.”

  He caught her hands in his own. “You have cut yourself.”

  “I haven’t,” she murmured.

  “You must have,” the Bishop insisted. He glared at her, then averted his gaze, his brow knit; he was badly shaken.

  “We have watched her, Sublime,” said the Priora. “She has not cut herself that we have seen, and yet she bleeds.”

  The Bishop shook his head vehemently. “No. No. Those wounds are only found in Christ Jesus. No other may have them.”

  “Unless they are inflicted as a punishment, when the hands are nailed so that sins may be expiated,” said Priora Iditha. “But this woman has not been punished.”

  “Perhaps she was punished before she came here,” suggested the Bishop, his indignation barely controlled.

  “She has been here for many months. The marks haven’t changed in all that time,” said the Priora. “Tell him, Gynethe Mehaut.”

  “I have had them for more than five years,” said the pale young woman. “I was sent here to be cured of them. I have prayed I would be cured.”

  Bishop Freculf shook his head. “There is something very wrong here. The prayers of the Sorrae and the water from the well should have salved your … injuries.” His eyes narrowed. “Unless you are not a child of the Church, but are sworn to old gods or to the Devil Himself.”

  Gynethe Mehaut drew back in horror. “No, no, Sublime. Nothing like that. I have lived within the care of the Church all my life. I have always been faithful to Christ and the King.”

  “It’s true,” said Priora Iditha. “She was taken by the Sorrae at Sant’ Osmer in Rennes, just a babe. They cared for her until she was a woman, and then the Sorrae sent her back to her parents and the care of their priest. I have the account from the Abba, Serilda of Nerithe, if you wish to review it. She has a most excellent reputation for piety, and she gives a good account of Gynethe Mehaut.”

  “Indeed I do want to see this,” said Bishop Freculf. “I will examine it at once.”

  “It will be given to you, along with what Patre Ermold wrote about her. We have both to show you,” said Priora Iditha. “And a letter from the Bishop of Rennes, telling of his agreement in sending her here.”

  “And I will look at them closely, never fear,” said the Bishop. “Where is Abba Sunifred? I would like to have a word with her.”

  “She is out hunting, Sublime, as I told you,” said the Priora apologetically. “I do not expect her until sunset.”

  “She’s with her father, no doubt,” said the Bishop. “Very well. I will see these accounts; then, when the Abba is back, she and I must talk.” He let go of Gynethe Mehaut. “I should have been told about this before now. Why did you wait so long?”

  “We were praying for a cure for her, Sublime. That’s why Patre Ermold sent her here, with his blessing, the blessings of her parents, and her Bishop. Abba Sunifred said we could not stop our prayers—”

  “She wanted the glory for this convent,” said the Bishop. “As well she might. Santa Albegunda is a most puissant patroness.”

  “I am grateful that you understand,” said the Priora, turning her back on Gynethe Mehaut, who had prostrated herself before the altar once again. “Remain here. If we need you, we will summon you.”

  “Yes, Priora,” said Gynethe Mehaut, her voice muffled by the sleeve of her stolla.

  “She seems obedient,” said the Bishop as he and the Priora left Gynethe Mehaut alone in the chapel.

  “That she is. And devout as well. I have no doubt that she is sincere in her faith. She fasts on Sunday and Wednesday, and attends Vigil faithfully. She keeps herself before the altar for most of the night and half of the day. She claims that she has to do this for the sins of the world.” Priora Idi
tha shook her head vehemently. “It is most troublesome to see her hands as they are.”

  “She is a woman, and as such, heir to all the sins of the flesh in this sinful world. It is not fitting that she should have the marks of Our Savior on her flesh, but that she does so to profane the wounds. What woman can have this honor?” The Bishop entered the largest building, the one that housed the nuns and their servants. “Where are these records?”

  “If you will go to the church, I will bring them to you there. Or you may remain here, Sublime. The Sorrae are preparing for the evening meal, and so it would not be fitting for you to come any deeper into the convent.” Although the Priora said it subserviently enough, it was clear that she would require the Bishop to stay in the public portions of the building.

  “Perhaps I should await you in the courtyard,” the Bishop murmured. “The Sorrae are not to be compromised, particularly not by a Bishop.”

  “No, most surely not,” said the Priora with feeling.

  With a gesture of dismissal, Bishop Freculf returned to the courtyard, where he ordered one of the convent’s slaves to bring him a cup of wine. “Use one of those from your own kitchen,” he added. “My cup is packed in my saddlebag and I do not wish to get it out.”

  The slave abased herself and went to do as he ordered.

  Left to his own devices, Bishop Freculf drew a knife from the scabbard on his belt and began to pare his fingernails, taking care to collect all the bits when he was done so that no one could use the parings against him. He was just finishing up when the slave returned with a cup of wine, which she held up to him as she knelt before him. He dropped the bits of his nails into the wine and took the cup from her, swirling the wine in the cup and gesturing to her to leave him. He was half-finished with the wine when Priora Iditha returned, three rolled scrolls in her hand.