The leader took the coins and uttered a string of garbled phrases, the gist of which seemed to be gratitude for such payment He handed out the coins to his fellows, holding the sixth aloft in what appeared to be a dedication. Then they made their way down the bank, eased the sledge into the water, and worked it across the river, using the ropes far more easily than before. One of the men began to sing a vigorous song, and the others joined in.
“They sound like howling wolves, and they think such howling will please their patron,” Fratre Angelomus complained, looking over his shoulder at the peasants. “Hardly more than beasts,” he declared, then swung round to confront Rakoczy. “You should not have given them so much.”
“I provided money for Sant’ Wigbod, so the Church is not deprived; how can you disapprove of that?” Rakoczy said brusquely; the water left him enervated, the sun was adding to his discomfort, and his tongue was sharper than he usually allowed it to be. “Let us move on. The day will wane in a while.”
Otfrid raised his hand to order them on. “The inn is not far away now. Be glad of that,” he said. “We should all be dry by then.”
“We will have to wax the saddles,” complained Stracholf. “And all our leather.” He put his hand to his metal-studded leather hauberk, his face set in disapproval.
Rakoczy knew what was expected of him. “I can give you more of the oil I offered you before,” he said to all the men. “It will restore your leather quickly, without cracking it.”
Otfrid grinned. “Thank you for not making us ask,” he said, for asking would have imposed an obligation he was reluctant to establish with anyone to whom he was not related. “I will tell Great Karl that you have been generous with your supplies. It will please him to hear this.”
“That is good of you,” said Rakoczy, mastering his discomfort sufficiently to continue in courtly form. “I will tell him that I had good attention from you.”
Fratre Angelomus regarded the others with an air of superiority. “When I write my account of this journey, I will say that Magnatus Rakoczy came well-prepared.” He knew the advantage his literacy gave him, and he enjoyed exercising it.
“And I look forward to reading it,” said Rakoczy, adding gently, “I take great pleasure in reading.”
The group rode along in silence as the shadows began to lengthen and a breeze, warmed from the fields, strummed the leaves of the trees, lending a persistent sigh to the afternoon. Gradually the light began to change, becoming softer, more ruddy, the shadows longer and of a purple-blue that made the patches of sunlight seem brighter by contrast. The wind was brisker now, and not as warm, no longer as fragrant with flowers and growing things as it had been earlier in the day. Hawks and falcons and kites surrendered the air to owls and bats as birds came back to the forest to roost; the day creatures returned to their lairs and lays while the night-dwellers began to stir.
“There!” Otfrid cried out, rising in his stirrups and pointing. “The inn!”
It was a three-story wooden building surrounded by a stout wooden stockade; a glowing lantern built above the eaves announced there was room inside for guests; there were no visible windows, a discouragement to robbers and brigands alike. Little as most of the men in the party would be willing to admit it, they were relieved to arrive here at last, and to see the lantern burning in welcome. Otfrid rode up to the gate and pulled on the bell-rope to summon assistance, shouting, “We come in the name of Karlus-lo-Magne! Open to us, as you would serve him!” He tugged the bell-rope again, and the unmelodious clang sounded through the gathering dusk.
The wicket-gate, a short distance from the main entrance, opened, and a large-bellied man peered out. “Great Karl’s men, are you? How do I know you’re not outlaws, or worse?” He held a cudgel in his hand, and he regarded the men skeptically.
“We—Fratre Angelomus and I—are missi dominici, and we are escorting Magnatus Rakoczy and his manservant to Sant’ Martin’s, at the pleasure of the King,” said Otfrid. “Fratre Angelomus will tell you the same.”
The man laughed his scorn. “As if no monk has ever robbed anyone. Get down and bring me your staff.”
Otfrid dismounted and took his staff of office from his saddlebag, then carried it to the innkeeper. “Here. If you have seen one of these, you will know this is genuine. We have the right of tractoriae, and can command food and lodging from you, and fodder and water for our animals. If you refuse us, you can be killed for your failure to do the King’s Will.”
The innkeeper examined the staff, peering through the waning light for a short while, turning it over and over, examining it meticulously. Then he handed the staff back to Otfrid. “It appears genuine, so you are either what you claim to be, or you have killed the real missi and are raiding the places along the road. You know it has happened before.” He sighed.
“And there have been men who posed as honest landlords who have robbed and murdered those who put themselves into their protection,” said Otfrid. “We must each of us extend our trust to the other, or you will lose our patronage and we will have to make camp quickly.”
“I’ll open the gate for you,” said the landlord, stepping back inside the wicket-gate and setting its bolt in place loudly. A long moment later, the main gate was unbraced and the two doors swung open. “Enter, Majori.” His greeting lacked warmth, but he reverenced the men as they rode through, and he clapped his hands to summon his few slaves to take charge of the horses and mules. “I suppose you want a meal?”
Otfrid coughed. “For ourselves and our mounts,” he said. “Fratre Angelomus eats no meat, so bread and fish will suffice him, or cheese. My men and I would like more substantial fare.”
The landlord made a gesture of compliance. “I have a goat on the spit and I can roast geese for you, if you don’t mind having to wait a bit.”
“If you can give us wine and cheese, we’ll be glad to wait,” said Otfrid with a warning glance at the men accompanying him. “Magnatus Rakoczy has taken care of food for himself since we began this journey. I don’t suppose he’ll impose on you for his repast.” He looked at Rakoczy, who was still mounted, ducking his head. “Not that I mean to speak for you.”
“You are quite right,” said Rakoczy. “Good landlord, is there provision in your stable for my man and me to sleep tonight?”
The landlord regarded the stranger with shock. “Surely your man would—”
Rakoczy interrupted him. “I am traveling with valuable materials, some of which are part of the work Great Karlus has summoned me to do. I would prefer to guard them myself, than entrust them to others who do not understand their worth.” He did not add that he far preferred sleeping in a stable than in the cramped, windowless confines of the inn.
Fratre Angelomus interjected his own remark before the landlord could speak. “Do permit it, I ask you in the Name of Our Savior. He has done this all the way from the Wendish lands.” He sounded tired and annoyed. “It is better to let him do as he wishes.”
The landlord stared at Rakoczy, but knew better than to set himself against so august a guest. He reverenced the man again and pointed in the direction of the stable; the peculiarities of the Illustri were not his to question, and it was not worth the loss of his inn to argue. “My slaves will show you what you ask for.” He stepped back to give room to the soldiers and monk as they dismounted and surrendered their reins to the three slaves who had answered the landlord’s summons.
One of the slaves had brought an oil-lamp, and holding it aloft, he led the way back to the rear of the inn-yard to the stable. “There is water in the trough, hay in the loft, saddle pegs on the end-wall, storage in the aisles, and a smithy behind all.” He recited this as he had done many times in the past, without inflection or emphasis of any kind; he did not look directly at Rakoczy or Rorthger.
“Do you have grain for the horses?” Rakoczy asked as he led his grey to the long manger that reached the length of the stalls.
“That is extra. You will have to pay my master.” H
e bent double, then took up the task of unsaddling and brushing the horses the escort had been riding, taking care to check their legs and feet for cuts, strains, and stones. He worked slowly and with care, knowing any unreported hurt would result in a beating.
Rakoczy and Rorthger tended to their horses and mules, their work quick and easy, made so by long practice. The mules were the most tired, hardy though they were, and therefore in obstreperous states of mind. The largest mule attempted to nip Rakoczy and received a slap on the nose for his trouble. “Mars is in a bad mood,” Rakoczy remarked in the Latin of Imperial Rome as he went on unloading the packsaddle.
“He has been for the last few days,” Rorthger agreed in the same language. “But he’s eating well.”
“It’s probably the heat. I’ll add some salt to his hay. I’ll do it for all of them.” He piled the last of the crates in the aisle that ran down the center of the stable. “Break out my mattress, will you? Before I pile more chests on top of it.”
“Of course,” said Rorthger, going to do as he had been asked. “How much longer do you think we will need to get to Sant’ Martin?”
“Twenty days, probably, if there are no serious delays, and if all our animals remain sound, and we encounter no more hazards than we did at Sant’ Wigbod,” said Rakoczy, his manner detached. “But that may be asking for too much. The roads are poor, though they’re better than what the Wends have. The bridges are … well, you’ve seen them as well as I have. Some may be in better repair, but we can’t assume they will be. And we have more deep rivers to cross before we reach Sant’ Martin.”
“They’re not Roman-made roads, most of them,” said Rorthger. “Unfortunately.” He pulled the lid off one of the crates and unrolled a thin mattress.
“No, they’re not,” Rakoczy agreed. “If you’ll put that next to the—”
“Crates and chests. I know,” Rorthger said.
Rakoczy shook his head. “Pardon me, old friend. I am well-aware you are able to do all your tasks without a word from me.”
“It doesn’t bother me, my master,” said Rorthger. “I find it comforting.”
“Just as well,” Rakoczy murmured. “Hand me the stiff brush, will you? Mars has mud in his coat.”
“So do they all,” said Rorthger. “Are you planning to stay in tonight?”
“Probably,” said Rakoczy. “I don’t want to have to hunt livestock—these people have none to spare, and perhaps they keep them in pens with guards.”
“You will need sustenance soon,” Rorthger said carefully.
“Yes,” said Rakoczy, continuing to brush the mule. “I know.”
TEXT OF A DISPATCH FROM PATRE LUPUS OF SANT’ BERTIN, COELONI, PRAXTA, AND SATTO RIVA TO COMES HARTMUT OF SPEYER.
To the most illustrious Comes Hartmut, in my duty to Karl-lo-Magne and my devotion to the Church, I send this report on the current state of affairs in my district, in the sure knowledge that it will serve both the King and the Pope to do this.
I have been assigned to these four villages, as Church records reveal, and I do my utmost to see to the souls of all those who live in these villages. In humility and obedience, I have prepared this account for you:
Coeloni has recently been visited by a pestilence that brings cough and fever. We have petitioned Christ to succor those who have taken ill, and most have recovered. The pestilence has not yet spread to the other villages, and to that end, we offer up thanks for the preservation Our Lord has given to us.
In Sant’ Bertin, the peasant Adalung who has prospered in recent years, has died suddenly and terribly. His widow has taken a man into her house and she has said she must have him there to protect him from Adalung’s kin, who have sworn to claim Adalung’s goods, lands, and chattel in spite of anything she may do. They say that Adalung died by her hand, and that vengeance is required of them. If it is true that she brought about his death, she should suffer for it, and the family gain all they seek, but if she is innocent, they defame her by their claims. I earnestly entreat you to put this matter in the hands of Bishop Fridugis for judgment.
Also there was a sheep born with what appeared to be a second pair of eyes and a part of a nose beside its proper head. The animal was left in the forest for the cats and wolves to fight over, for no one was willing to bring curses on their knives and axes by killing anything so unnatural. The ewe that brought forth this dreadful creature has been butchered and her meat given to the slaves. I have prayed for the end of these horrible occurrences, and I have sworn to rid the village of any such monstrosity should one be found again.
In Praxta an escort of missi dominici and soldiers passed two days along with the Magnatus they were taking to Sant’ Martin at Tours. They were generous with the people, and sponsored a feast in honor of the Apostles, which was a grand occasion, but did not become too festive, so that the Apostles would not be shamed by what transpired.
Also at Praxta, there was a mad dog, and the men clubbed it to death, but only after it had bitten four people of the village, including, I regret to tell you, my wife. All have been laid to rest at the side of the road with crosses to mark them, so that other mad animals will be warned away. I have kept watch for my wife, to be sure that her ghost does not wander, unsaved, but I have not seen her, so I thank Our Savior for preserving her and bearing her to Paradise.
In Satto Riva the orchards have been struck with a blight, so that the apples form but do not increase, leaving only small, hard lumps hanging on the trees. Some wish to cut down the orchards and burn the wood, but others believe that the bad fruit should be removed and new grafts made. No final decision has been made, but with famine only a year behind us, I cannot think that anyone would decide to take down trees. It is only the apples that have been stricken: lemons, peaches, and berries continue to thrive, and so the specter of hunger does not loom over us as it did two years ago. I have asked the monks of Sant’ Luchas to pray for us, and the Abbott has said that they would, for their orchards have also seen apples fail them this year.
At Harmut the shepherd with the largest flocks has been accused of using his daughters as his wife. This has angered his wife’s family, for they fear he will not honor her in age, and will send her back to them while he has his daughters to pleasure him and give him sons, which his wife has failed to do. We are taught that this is wrong, but in these villages, it is not so uncommon that the people understand why a man might do this. I cannot bring him to the Bishop because the villagers would rise against the Church if I did. So I must pray for his deliverance and the delivery of his wife, who may yet suffer. Perhaps if I find husbands for the daughters, all this will pass and the village will not be shamed by his actions. I have urged him to Confess to God all he has done, but he sees no error in the urges of his flesh, for he says that he is guarding himself against lust—without his daughters to assuage him he might be tempted to impose on women who are not entitled to his protection. He says that Karlus himself keeps his daughters with him, and all the world accepts it. Nothing I say can change his view of that. I know many in the village share his sentiments, and so I cannot confront him, or ask for more concessions to the expectations of the Church.
Submitted in duty on this day, the Feast of Sant’ Evurtius, Bishop of Orleanus, for your consideration and your contemplation, by
Patre Lupus,
witnessed by Fratre Boddulf of Sant’ Luchas.
Chapter Three
SANT’ MARTIN’S DOMINATED TOURS, although it was a short distance from the town itself, connected by a road that bristled with impromptu businesses, like a traders’ carnival that had set down for a short while, though it had been there for decades. People traveled between the monastery and the town in ox-drawn carts, on donkeys, horses, mules, and on foot, many of them with their trades on their backs, some hoping for sanctuary, a few preying on all the rest. The abbey was a sprawling cluster of buildings surrounded by high walls that enclosed all the amenities of a small town: dormitories; dining halls; stables; barns;
pigstys; a goat shed; a sheepfold; a brewery; a creamery, a bakery; a mill; an oil-press; a winepress; a tannery; a grainery; a smithy; a workshop for turners and coopers; a weavery; two bathhouses; rabbit coops; chicken coops; beehives; an infirmary; a hostel for travelers and another for refugees seeking sanctuary; four latrines; a laundry; a school; a library; an herb garden; a vegetable garden; a night garden; four ambulatories; a muniment hall; a scriptorium; a petitioners’ court; and a collegium where manuscripts and maps were copied, studied, and stored; and rising above it all, the Cathedral of Sant’ Martin itself, a strong, impressive structure with clerestory alabaster windows, a lantern that rose four stories, and chapels huddled around it like its nursing young.
Otfrid led the way through the town toward the monastery, avoiding the two big markets where many peasants and merchants gathered with their animals and families to trade or, more rarely, sell their produce and goods. The excitement today was a bit feverish, as if the weather had infected everyone; it was a hot, overcast afternoon at the end of August, hazy and strength-sapping. The city and the road buzzed and stank, the shimmering air like water about to boil.
“That is the swine-market,” Otfrid explained unnecessarily, pointing off to his right. “The cattle-market is just beyond.”
“Away from the central wells, I see,” said Rakoczy, approving of that precaution.
“The best wells are inside the monastery walls,” said Fratre Angelomus, a bit smugly. “They are pure and flow all year around. They are the blessing of Sant’ Martin himself.”
“That’s why the monastery was built there,” said Rakoczy, recalling how the Church had come to control wells and streams as part of its vigorous expansion; this served a double purpose, for it made the monasteries relatively safe from siege, as well as taking over many sites of traditional pagan worship. “A wise choice.” His smile was not entirely pleasant, for his face was reddened by his prolonged exposure to the sun; he longed for a quiet, dark cell where he could recover from his reaction to sunlight that not even his native earth in the soles of his heeled Persian boots and padding his saddle could entirely counteract, particularly in these bright days of the waning summer.
Night Blooming Page 5