“You could ride in one of the carpenta,” Rakoczy pointed out, indicating the three large, ox-drawn wagons in the center of their traveling group; he had no wish to discuss his age.
“Alcuin of York? In a carpentum? Behind two oxen? How could I hold up my head if I rode like a woman, or an ancient? Or one of those old pagan priests?” the monk exclaimed in false indignation. “I am not doddering yet, thank you, that I need to be tended by slaves. The Merovingians may have been satisfied with riding in a carpentum, and they may have reserved that honor for warlords and sacerdotal nobles, but I take my example from Karlus, and will stick to my horse in spite of all.” He shook his head and said more calmly as he patted his mare’s neck, “Besides, those wheels rattle worse than the hardest trot.”
“True enough,” said Rakoczy. “How much farther do we go today?”
“We will reach Santi Raffaell and Gabraell the Archangels in time for Vespers,” said Alcuin. “Then another day and we will be with Great Karl at Aachen by the end of it, praise be to God for it! The road will be better tomorrow.”
“Because we’ll be approaching Aachen?” Rakoczy suggested.
“That, and because at the end of harvest, he has the local peasants drag logs over the road, to lessen the ruts. The logs then go toward building his palace.” Alcuin smiled stiffly. “Karlus doesn’t like waste.”
“You mean the logs,” Rakoczy said.
“Logs, or anything else. He says the Greeks waste everything in vain display and will suffer for it. The Romans are almost as bad.” Alcuin pulled at the hood of his pluvial. “It will be good to be warm again.”
“Does he often send for you after harvest?” Rakoczy asked, who had heard mutterings about this at Sant’ Martin, not all of them favorable to such travel, for the dark days at the end of autumn were known to be especially dangerous, short hours of light and treacherous weather adding to the ever-present hazards of bandits and fever.
“He has before,” said Alcuin, a hint of resignation in his remark. “I wasn’t surprised to be summoned this year. There was famine in the country just two years ago, and it is important for Karlus to have all the information we may offer him, against the possibility of greater starvation.” He glanced back at the leader of the missi dominici. “Comes Gutiger is not pleased at the favor I show you.”
“Nor should he be,” said Rakoczy. “I trust you will let him ride with you for a time, or I will have him for my enemy.”
Alcuin sighed. “I suppose you’re right. A man has enemies enough in this world without seeking to make more for himself.” He motioned to the Comes, who was one rank behind them. “My son. Come join us.” He indicated his left, for Rakoczy already rode on his right.
Comes Gutiger looked about suspiciously, as if expecting to be the butt of a jest. “Why do you want me?” He carried the hanging banner displaying Karl-lo-Magne’s sigil, ensuring their preferential passage on all roads in Franksland.
“To help pass the time. This is a dull day to be abroad, and the road is wearisome. Magnatus Rakoczy has been telling me tales of foreign climes, so that I need not dwell on what we endure now, although I do not doubt that such places as the one with mountains to the sky too high for men to climb, and forests filled with monkeys, tigers, and elephants may be a trifle fanciful; no other traveler in the East has told us of such wonders.” Alcuin cocked his head in Comes Gutiger’s direction. “You have campaigned in the land of the Longobards, haven’t you? Surely you must have seen strange sights there, and done things that you can boast of with honor. You have gone into the mountains at the north and east of the Longobards’ land.”
“Not as strange as you might think: trees, rocks, rivers, poor roads, small hamlets, fortresses, monasteries, pagan groves, merchants, and pilgrims. Where there were unbelievers, Great Karl tore down the old shrines and built monasteries and churches instead. Where there were Celts, he ordered that Frankish should be the tongue they speak, or Latin. Where there were fortifications, he seized them and garrisoned them with his own men. Longobardia is much like other places Great Karl has subdued,” said the Comes, who was a russet-haired, square-faced, bellicose man of twenty-nine. “The people there are stiff-necked and treacherous. And the air of Longobardia is very bad. Many die of fevers from it.”
“All of Italy has bad air,” said Alcuin. “Not even the Pope can escape it.”
“And the Longobards suffer from it, too,” said Comes Gutiger. “As many of their soldiers die as ours. It is a great misfortune.”
Rakoczy nodded; he had seen the ravages of the bad air—the mal aria—from the shores of the Adriatic and Aegean Seas to the western reaches of Spain. He made a gesture to ward off misfortune. “Who can escape the dangers of pestilence?”
“The man with a fast horse,” said Comes Gutiger.
Alcuin shook his head. “No. When a man’s hour is come, nothing will avail to save him. The end comes for all of us, and it is beyond our reckoning to know the hour. Who shall live and who shall die is in the Hands of God.” He touched his pectoral crucifix through his pluvial. “Let the physicians do their best, it is God Who will decide.”
“Amen,” said the Comes.
“Amen,” Rakoczy echoed.
“You must see that there is Heavenly favor in age,” said Comes Gutiger, determined to make the most of his opportunity. “God has given Great Karl many, many years and kept him hale. And you, Bishop Alcuin, you have lived long. This is surely a sign of God’s love of you.”
“Today I am not so certain as I am on days when my joints don’t hurt,” said Alcuin, and laughed at himself. “But I think where life is long, God is good.”
Rakoczy thought back to his centuries in the Temple of Imhotep and the thousands upon thousands he had watched live and die there, and found himself now, as he had become then, unable to turn away from pain he could alleviate. He took a deep breath. “I do not offer this for any reason more than it is fitting to alleviate suffering where it is possible: I have among my things an unguent that may ease your hurts. When we stop for the evening, I will give you a vial of it.”
“After prayers, I will thank you,” said Alcuin. He looked over at Comes Gutiger. “It is a hard day when the leagues are so long in passing.”
“It would be harder still if this company were larger.” He nodded to the carpenta. “We can go no faster than the oxen.”
“It is the way of traveling,” said Rakoczy.
“For many,” said Comes Gutiger. “It is the plan of Great Karl to have all his army’s carpenta, plaustera, and carruca drawn by horses. They will speed the march of his forces.”
“Horses will need more food than oxen. And better food than oxen require: horses cannot subsist on thistles and dry grass; that could make your campaigns more difficult. You may have to carry your own grain and hay,” Rakoczy pointed out. In the Year of Yellow Snow, when the frost had killed all the spring grass, the Avars had lost more than half their herds for that reason.
“There is truth in what you say,” Comes Gutiger admitted. “But it is fitting that the army move more quickly than the enemies of Great Karl. Horses are faster than oxen.” He glared at Rakoczy, daring him to contradict this military truth.
“Oh, I have no disagreement with you on that point,” said Rakoczy, his voice level. “I only observe that there is a risk such strategy.”
“Um,” said Comes Gutiger.
“Let us have no discord,” Alcuin interjected. “We all travel at the Will of Karlus, and it is mete that we do so in comity and good-fellowship.”
Rakoczy ducked his head compliantly. “I have no desire to incite ill-will, good Comes,” he said, and added, “Being foreign, I may sometimes transgress, but that is not my intention and I ask your help in rectifying my errors. Should I do anything that offends you, tell me at once, that I may offer you an apology. I have been shown only cordiality since I came into Franksland, and I would be ungrateful to return that with anything but couthy ecomania.”
“S
o you tell me,” Comes Gutiger said curtly, inwardly dismayed by Rakoczy’s concessions. He had anticipated a sharp defense, not this smooth talk.
“A most elegant sentiment,” Alcuin approved.
“A sincere one, in any case,” said Rakoczy, more for Comes Gutiger’s benefit than Alcuin’s.
“Demeanor is always important,” approved Alcuin. “As a traveler, you must know that better than most others do.”
“It does seem so to me, and has served me in good stead,” Rakoczy assured him. “Particularly as I am no longer young.”
Alcuin swung around as far as his saddle would permit. “You are hardly doddering, Magnatus. You are sound in limb and wind. Your wits are not addled. What does it matter that you will not see twenty again? Who among us will?” He laughed aloud, startling his mare.
Comes Gutiger snorted, his face showing the disgust he dared not speak aloud. “Age touches all who do not fall in youth.”
There was a party of travelers ahead of them, moving more slowly than the travelers from Sant’ Martin; it consisted of an escort of three armed men and two enclosed carruca, the curtains drawn over the frame of the vehicles painted with illustrations of a female saint.
Alcuin signaled his party to slow down and said to Comes Gutiger, “You, and Magnatus Rakoczy, come with me.” He put his mare to the trot; he did not bother to see if the two others accompanied him.
At the sight of the banner Comes Gutiger carried, the leader of the travelers ahead of them brought the party to a halt, and the men-at-arms lifted their right hands to show them empty. “Victory to Karlus!” they cried in ragged chorus.
“Very good,” said Alcuin. “We must ask you to keep to the side of the road while we pass you. I hope you will not be inconvenienced.”
“We are bound for Sant’ Audoenus,” said the leader of the three armed men. “At the order of Bishop Freculf and the Abba Sunifred of Santa Albegunda. We will reach our destination tomorrow.”
“Sant’ Audoenus,” said Alcuin in some surprise, for he knew Sant’ Audoenus’ reputation as a haven for the ill and the tormented. “Are your charges afflicted?”
“One is…” The leader fell silent as the curtain over the carrucum lifted and a habited nun emerged.
“I am Priora Iditha, and I am attending a woman in the charge of my Order. She rides with me to Sant’ Audoenus, at the pleasure of our Abba and Bishop Freculf. Two other Sorrae ride in the other carrucum. They will return to our convent with me, or without me, when Bishop Iso decides what is to be done with our—” She indicated the curtain concealing the other passenger. “I am prepared to remain with her, should the Prior and Abbott of Sant’ Audoenus deem it best, and have leave to do so.”
“Very good; your Bishop and Abba are wise,” said Alcuin, then changed his tone. “We will not keep you long, and we will wish you Godspeed on your journey.” He was about to swing his mare around, but faltered, and turned back. “Why do you take this woman to Sant’ Audoenus?”
Priora Iditha was clearly torn, for she knew she should say nothing of the duty entrusted to her, yet she could not refuse the order of someone traveling under the King’s banner. “She has need of the care and the prayers of the monks.”
“Of course she does,” said Alcuin bluntly. “Why would you take her there if she did not.” He waited with ill-concealed impatience.
There was a gentle cough from inside the carrucum. “I will step out,” said a pleasant voice, and a moment later, Gynethe Mehaut stood beside Priora Iditha. She was habited like Priora Iditha, and her hands were swathed in strips of linen.
Comes Gutiger swore and backed his horse away half-a-dozen paces. Alcuin stared, transfixed. Only Hiernom Rakoczy leaned forward, unafraid and unalarmed.
“Our Abba has asked the Sublime Iso to take her in,” said Priora Iditha as calmly as she could.
“May God give her peace,” said Alcuin hurriedly, and tugged on his mare’s rein to turn her around.
“Red eyes. It cannot be good to have red—” Comes Gutiger broke off and followed after Alcuin.
“Take care to stay out of the sun,” Rakoczy said kindly, addressing Gynethe Mehaut directly. “And bathe often: skin such as yours can become injured when it isn’t clean. Do not worry about vanity: there is none in saving your body from damage. You have a most exceptional condition, and it imposes its burden upon you. Do not be frightened or ashamed: you are a singular woman; that is the whole of it.” He nodded once to Priora Iditha. “Watch after her, Priora. Care for her. She is a most delicate blossom, like the jasmine; she cannot easily sustain the blows of the world.” With that, he made a little reverence, then nudged his grey with his calf and went back to the Sant’ Martin group.
While they watched the Santa Albegunda travelers move to the side of the road, Alcuin whispered to Rakoczy. “In all your travels, have you ever seen anyone like that?”
“Yes, I have,” said Rakoczy. “Very rarely,” he added.
“I should hope so,” exclaimed the monk. “What a most terrible affliction! God visits strange suffering upon His children.”
“Is she a leper? So white?” the Comes asked, his voice raised half an octave in fear.
“No,” said Rakoczy before Alcuin could answer. “There is no rotting of her flesh, and no thickening of her features. The whiteness was on her when she was born, or I know nothing of the matter.”
“It may be a sign of great blessing, to be white as a newborn lamb. How remarkable.” Alcuin made a gesture of protection, just in case.
“No doubt,” said Rakoczy, a sardonic note creeping into his voice. “And that, as you say, good Alcuin, does not, perforce, mean un-Godly. Sometimes such singularity is a mark of favor.”
Alcuin nodded. “Yes. It could be so.”
Comes Gutiger shook his head emphatically. “Nothing so pale—she is whiter than a bled corpse!—can be—”
“The Lamb is white as fresh-fallen snow,” said Alcuin thoughtfully, pursuing his own ruminations. He made a gesture, and his party moved forward again. “The garments of the Angels are white.”
“But red eyes!” Comes Gutiger protested.
“Yes. That is troubling,” said Alcuin. “Well, let us pray for her preservation from all harm, and her deliverance from sin.” They were almost abreast of the carruca, and the monk averted his eyes. “How long will she remain like that?”
Rakoczy reminded himself that for Alcuin, the miraculous was an expectation of faith. “All her life, Sublime. I have never known of anyone born as she was to become as other humankind are.”
“How can that be? May not God intercede and transform her?” Alcuin asked. They were past the carruca now, and the leader of the men-at-arms held out his empty right hand in salutation; Alcuin sketched a blessing in his direction. “Surely God or one of His powerful Saints may bring about a change in her, so that she would be made like you and me.”
This was precarious ground, and required a careful answer. “Say rather how could any change come, since God has been pleased to make her in this wise,” Rakoczy corrected him gently. “I should worry for the health of anyone whose skin suddenly changed color, particularly for one born so pale. It could mean that she would have more to suffer than she has now.”
“Well, you have cared for the sick in many lands; I will suppose you have learned much.” The dubiety in his voice warned Rakoczy to change the subject shortly. “You have learned a great deal, haven’t you?” It was clearly a challenge.
“Not nearly enough,” said Rakoczy with genuine feeling, unwilling to dispute the matter. “I cannot tell when a man ails and nothing will avail him, why it has been so.”
The Comes snorted and tried not to laugh. “You aim high, foreigner.”
“Certainly. What else is worth my time, or the time of any man?” Rakoczy put a slight emphasis on the last word, and almost at once regretted it, for he was worried that this might be noticed and attributed to something more than his awkwardness with the language.
; Alcuin chuckled, a sound like falling pebbles. “I should not like to debate you, Magnatus,” he declared, and ended on a cough. “And not while riding on such a dreary day as this one, for what inspiration is there in such lowering skies?”
“I should not enter into such a dispute; it would be churlish of me to compel such a contest upon you after the courtesy you have shown me,” said Rakoczy, and stared along the road so that he need not continue his attempts to avert more discord. He wished he could bring Rorthger up from his place behind the carpenta, but he knew it would not be tolerated; he settled back in his earth-lined saddle and listened to Alcuin discourse on the nature of the season while Comes Gutiger did his best to assume the look of someone interested in the subject, for it was prudent to humor Alcuin, who enjoyed Great Karl’s trust and favor.
It was growing dark and the rain had turned to a persistent, clammy mist when they arrived at Santi Raffaell and Gabraell; the warder who answered their summons on the bell outside the gate—a tertiary Fratre with a missing eye and scars on his face and hands—let them in with something approaching a flourish; the sound of chanting accompanied his welcome. “They are at Vespers, but as soon as they are finished, the Abbott will come to greet you, and the Prior. Come in, and dismount. I will summon slaves to tend your animals.” He clapped his hands excitedly. “Hurry! The Sublime Alcuin of York is here!”
Alcuin climbed out of his saddle with the slow care of a man whose knees and back were stiff. He tried to stretch and gave up the attempt, blessing himself instead. “God reward you,” he said automatically to the tertiary Fratre.
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