Night Blooming

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

“I am in no position to seek a wife,” said Rakoczy, his manner respectful but firm. “And I am not one who takes pleasure in male flesh.”

  “The Church will be glad of that—often though the clerics may choose such for themselves,” said Karl-lo-Magne. He thumped Rakoczy on the back. “Then it’s settled. You’ll get your four fiscs, you will maintain a fighting man—”

  “I will maintain two,” Rakoczy corrected him. “That should still any quibbling from your kinsmen, who may believe that they are more entitled to the fiscs than I.”

  “Two. Very good,” said Karl-lo-Magne. “And you will select your mistress from among the widows I will recommend to you.”

  “As you wish, Optime,” said Rakoczy, offering another reverence.

  “How can you say so little and mean so much?” Karl-lo-Magne marveled. “I am astonished at how well you contain yourself.”

  “When a man is an exile, he learns such methods,” said Rakoczy.

  “Yes. Exile exacts a price. Alcuin told me that you come from what is now Avar territory.” He yawned abruptly.

  “My father ruled there,” said Rakoczy, not adding that that had been more than twenty-seven centuries in the past.

  “I must assume he is dead,” said Karl-lo-Magne.

  “Long ago,” said Rakoczy.

  “How fortunate that you are still alive,” Karl-lo-Magne remarked in his offhanded way.

  Rakoczy’s expression was bleak. “I am the only one.”

  “Such is the fate of failed Kings,” said Karl-lo-Magne, then he cleared his throat and spat to keep a similar fate from befalling him.

  “Amen,” Rakoczy made himself say.

  There was a brief silence between them; then Karl-lo-Magne patted Rakoczy on the shoulder again. “Well, you have made a life for yourself.”

  “In my way,” said Rakoczy, with a quick, enigmatic smile.

  “Well and good,” said the King, and shoved the foreigner gently. “Get you to bed. Almost everyone is asleep, and we should be among them. Morning comes too early even in the dark of the year.” He gave a crack of laughter at his own mild joke. “Tomorrow is the New Year and the day of Christ’s birth. Fortunate is the man who has such a birth for a blessing.”

  Rakoczy shook his head. “Not always a blessing, Optime. Today is the day of my birth; some of the Church have called that blasphemy,” he said lightly, remembering how the accident of being born at the Winter Solstice had marked him for the priesthood of his people, and his long, vampiric life.

  “Every man has that day, and God Himself determines it,” said Karl-lo-Magne. “If this is truly the anniversary of your birth, it must be a sign of distinction.” He waved Rakoczy away. “God send you good sleep, Magnatus.”

  “Thank you, Optime. And God guard you and yours.” He continued down the corridor, his night-keen eyes having no need for torches or rush-lights.

  Rorthger waited for him in his chamber, an L-shaped room with two clerestory windows and a single cot; Rakoczy’s chests were stacked against the far wall, and Rorthger had opened two of them and had rolled a mattress on top of the largest of them. “You seem pensive, my master,” he observed as he took Rakoczy’s black wool mantellum from his shoulders.

  “I am more than that, old friend,” said Rakoczy, reaching for his capa and pulling it on. “I will not be gone long; but I need to get some sustenance.” He managed a quick, self-deprecating smile. “I fear I cannot go to the larder, as you do; I must seek out other sources.”

  “Have you chosen a woman to visit?” Rorthger asked, more out of habit than doubt.

  “Yes. She is the daughter of one of the Potenti, sixteen and not yet married. She’s restless in her soul, and she will want such a dream as I provide.” He held up his hand to forestall any other observation Rorthger might make. “She isn’t another Csimenae; she is more like Nicoris was at first—full of longing and eager for more in life than what she thought was before her, though she does not know it.” A frown flicked between his brows at the recollection of the two women.

  “Two different pains,” said Rorthger neutrally. “I cannot argue with your plan; I have raided the larder, as you said.”

  “I should be back well before Matins,” said Rakoczy as he reached for the door; here Matins was sung between midnight and dawn, followed by Lauds. “Oh, by the way, the King is willing to grant me four fiscs in exchange for gold.”

  “And do you want those fiscs?” Rorthger asked, keeping all color out of his question.

  “It will depend on where they are,” said Rakoczy. “But I believe Great Karl was in earnest when he said he would like to keep me at summoning distance.”

  “Then you are minded to accept his grant,” said Rorthger with a hint of a sigh.

  “I was hoping for it,” said Rakoczy with a hint of amusement. “It will keep us within the scope of Karl-lo-Magne’s Court without having to be part of it.”

  “Do you suppose you will need it?” Rorthger asked. “The grant, I mean.”

  “Do you suppose we will not?” Rakoczy countered. “These Franks do not love foreigners, and they don’t trust those who are not connected to them by blood or marriage. This is a dangerous Court, and no matter what Great Karl says, he is mercurial; he turned away the Comes Althuhard because of something he saw in a dream. He might well do the same for me, with less incentive. If I have a grant of land, he will be more likely to keep to his bargain with me because of the soldiers I will have to maintain for him.”

  “He is loyal to Alcuin,” Rorthger reminded him. “The Bishop may not be willing to part with you.”

  “Yes, he will. Alcuin is faithful to the Church and defends Karl-lo-Magne, and his clerics report on everything. He will not risk that because of one foreigner.” Rakoczy slipped out into the corridor. “At least the Court sleeps. The monks will doze between Nocturnes and Matins.”

  Rorthger gave a single chuckle. “Do not be too long. The Court may sleep, but there are Guards awake, and slaves.”

  “I will avoid them,” Rakoczy said, and stepped away into darkness. He moved quickly and silently along the stone passageway, going along toward the main part of the palace, where Karl-lo-Magne housed his Frankish guests. He found the place he was seeking easily enough and stopped at the door to the young woman’s chamber—a slave lay across the doorway, stretched out on a sheepskin and snoring. Rakoczy had encountered such barriers before and had learned to regard them with respect. Moving through the gloom with care, he leaned over the slave and very slowly eased the door open. The moan of the hinges was almost enough to persuade him to abandon his efforts; but the slave remained asleep, and after a long moment, Rakoczy resumed his gentle pressure on the door until it provided him room enough to slip into the chamber.

  The cubiculum was hardly more than a cell, with a single, narrow window. The bed was good-sized and took up most of the apartment, leaving just enough space for a trunk. His vision unhampered by darkness, Rakoczy made his way toward the bed, looking down at the young woman who lay there, sleeping, beneath a linen coverlet and a bearskin, her braided hair lying like ropes around her head, her young face already marked by discontent. There was a bruise on her cheek, the token of her father’s disapproval.

  “You are dreaming, Aelis, dreaming in the deepest, sweetest sleep,” Rakoczy said just above a whisper. “All your delight is in your dream. You have no fear, no wish unfulfilled. You are free of all fetters, and nothing you desire is withheld from you.” He sank onto the bed beside her, his soft, musical words continuing as if with a song. “Let your dreams take you wherever you wish to go. You are able to have the things you seek, and you are content with what you choose for yourself. Let your dreams carry you, let them lift you up, let them become all your joy.” Lightly he touched her face, and more lightly he moved aside the coverlet and bearskin, revealing her breasts and belly. “Your body is your dream, Aelis. Your skin is like a harp: it awakens to the touch.” His fingers grazed the swell of her breasts; she sighed and her face softe
ned. “Be filled with music, Aelis. Let yourself be the melody.”

  She rolled away from him, languorous in her readiness; she stretched out one arm, revealing more bruises.

  Rakoczy shifted his position gingerly, taking care not to do anything to lessen her sleep. As he stroked her side and back with the feather-touch he had learned so long ago, he felt her respond. “You are consumed with delight, Aelis,” he murmured. “You are all pleasure, all joy.” He continued his discovery of her body, and as she became more aroused, he whispered, “Take your pleasure. Fill your hands with it. Fill your flesh with it. Be the music that rings in your soul, Aelis.”

  She spasmed, and his lips brushed her neck as she gave herself up to her release and her dream. As the last delicious convulsion shook her, she said “Monchriet,” with such longing that Rakoczy felt an instant of envy for the man who had been in her dreams.

  “Fortunate Monchriet, whoever you are,” he whispered, and saw the edge of her smile. He shifted one of her pillows to support her shoulders, and then he slid out of the bed, gratified and unassuaged at once. He eased the door open and stepped over the slave; he told himself it was just as well that Aelis would have Monchriet in her dream and not him, but this realization sharpened his longing to be known, to have a lover once again who would not be repelled by his true nature. That had happened so rarely in his centuries of life that he regarded such recognition as a treasure—to have a lover who would not only accept him for what he was but would desire it as well, that was a dream beyond hoping for, though he yearned for it. Feeling somewhat restored, he took the most direct route back toward his quarters, not wanting to have to make his way through the warren of corridors twice in one night. He had almost reached the stairs to the gallery he sought when a fatigue-roughened voice stopped him.

  “Halt, in the Name of the King.”

  Rakoczy went still; inwardly he chastised himself for failing to observe the Guard in the atrium. He put his hand on the hilt of his poignard, which lay along his back under his capa. “I have halted.”

  The soldier who approached Rakoczy was a man of middle years, his face lined and pitted, his expression a pugnacious sneer. “Where are you bound?” he demanded, and pointed along another corridor. “The latrines are that way.”

  “I do not seek the latrines,” said Rakoczy haughtily, suspecting that arrogance would succeed with this Guard better than concession. “I have been asked to meet—”

  “Not on the Eve of the Mass of Christ’s Birth,” said the Guard. “The Pope has said that men are to keep themselves chaste in honor of the night.” The Guard apparently had a poor opinion of this order, for he spat to show his disgust.

  “I didn’t say that the meeting was for pleasure,” Rakoczy declared, and offered the Guard nothing more.

  “Go back to your quarters,” the Guard ordered. “If I have erred in keeping the King’s Peace, then I will accept my punishment.”

  Rakoczy shrugged. “What is your name, Guard?”

  “I am Usuard, son of Ansgar.” He glowered at Rakoczy.

  “I will remember you,” said Rakoczy, and turned on his heel, going back the way he came.

  The Guard swore, watching Rakoczy until he vanished in the darkness of the hallway.

  TEXT OF A LETTER FROM ATTA OLIVIA CLEMENS IN ROME, WRITTEN IN THE LATIN OF IMPERIAL ROME AND CARRIED BY THE POPE’S MESSENGER.

  To the renowned foreigner Hiernom Rakoczy de Sant’ Germainius currently in attendance on the Frankish King Karl-lo-Magne at Aachen, the greetings of Atta Olivia Clemens near Roma.

  You cannot imagine how pleased I was to have your letter, for it has been some time since I had the pleasure of reading of your venture. It is a fine thing to know you are so near to me, and that you are not in lands that are at war. How good to know you are no longer off in the Wendish marshes in that dismal castle you had built for yourself, but have come into Franksland, where I can send letters and have some hope that they may eventually reach you. I was also pleased to learn that you have come to give service to a King who has allied himself with the Church. I have long known the advantage of serving the Papal Court, and accommodating the occasional requests of the Pope for a private place for discreet meetings. You may want to encourage the same for Karl-lo-Magne. You must surely know the advantage of having the most important man in the region in your debt.

  Roma is a sad place these days: it is no longer the way you remember it, for much of it is falling to ruin, even greater than what you witnessed when last you came here. It has been sacked and portions rebuilt from the wreckage left behind so often that it is now a kind of parody of the city it was. Villa Ragoczy still stands, but it is in poor repair, and I have not been able to get the needed permissions to set it to rights. There is a wall around the main building, to protect it—that, I have been able to do. It is much the same at my estate, except that the wall encloses the stables as well. Not that I have been able to keep the horses. I have had to give up mares and stallions to all manner of lords and Churchmen. I do not want to discourage you, but this is no longer the capital of the greatest Empire in the world, it is a battered town with less than a quarter of the population of Nero’s day, a poor relation to the splendor of Byzantium.

  Still, it is Roma, and my native earth. I cannot help but love every worn stone of it; I have done all I can to keep my estate intact, which has proven to be more difficult than I thought it could be. Yes, making myself useful to the Pope has helped to stave off the most outrageous depredation, but as I am determined to stay here for another eight years at least, which will make a total of twelve, I must make myself valuable to the Pope or risk official disapproval of a sort that would be more than inconvenient I have not yet decided where I should go next when the twelve years are done, except that I have no desire to return to Constantinople. One stay there was more than enough to persuade me that I have no wish to live there.

  I will, of course, supply you with horses. I have half-a-dozen yearlings that would suit you, and a good number of three- and four-year-olds; the latter are ready to ride, and schooled to the saddle and the rigors of the road. Do you want any mares, and if you do, do you want them in foal? I can provide you as many as four. I will send along one of my chief grooms and Niklos Aulirios, if you like. I would feel more comfortable if he were to bring the horses to you. I await your answer most eagerly, for I know the Pope’s courier is as speedy a messenger as any in the world today; he can go from Roma to Aachen in just over six weeks, remarkable speed for these times, and possible because of King Karlus.

  While we are on the subject of travel, do you think you might come here to visit? I confess I would be delighted for your company. You would be welcome at any time, and no one could question a respectable widow like me entertaining my blood relative. I can bring a nun to share my villa if the Pope is displeased. You and I haven’t had an opportunity to spend time together for more years than I like to think. No doubt we have much to learn from one another. I have those around me who claim to be my friends, and perhaps a few of them are sincere. But, as you know, courtiers of any stripe cannot be trusted, particularly not with great secrets, such as the one you and I share. It would give me much happiness to see you again, for it has been a long, long time.

  Niklos Aulirios, as I have said, is busy seeing to the breeding of my mares and is doing so with more optimism than he has in the last five years. I have had the good fortune to purchase two fine stallions, one from an Avar, and one from an Egyptian. I am certain that the foals of their get will be fine animals, and that, in turn, will make the Pope inclined to continue to allow me to carry on in this place, for Leo III considers himself a fine judge of horseflesh, and it would be impertinent of me not to agree with the Pope. I have told Niklos to make His Holiness a gift of the second-best filly foaled this spring, and, after some reluctance, he has agreed to do it He wants to have another generation before making such gestures, but the fillies foaled this spring will not be bred for another five years, and by
then I will be in another part of the world, and any advantage I may have gained from such a present will be lost So for the time being, Niklos is willing to accommodate my demands. He will not be so recalcitrant in regard to the horses he chooses for you: he is well-aware that you taught me all I know about these animals, and his respect for you is very great.

  The winter has been a wet one, but I have hope of an early spring, which will mean fewer dreary days, but could also bring trouble to Roma, for once the rains are stopped, armies and other bands take to the roads, and, as the old saying has it, all roads lead to Roma. Not that that is any great achievement, for the roads have served only to ease the way of conquerors to Roma’s gates. The city has not been sacked in several years, so it is not impossible that one group of barbarians or another may take it upon itself to remedy that lack.

  Magna Mater! Will you look at how cynical I have become! And I am cynical enough to say that this is more realism than cynicism. Still, anyone having so long a life as those of our blood have must occasionally remark on the nature of the world, and the many ways that the worst of man’s nature is made to supercede the best Heretical as that notion may be, I have seen nothing to suggest that I am in error. Should I mention it to my Confessor, I wonder, or keep it to myself and risk perpetual damnation? There are those who would say that damnation is already assured for me.

  I am rambling, and before I say something truly foolish, I will say farewell to you, and ask you to write to me when you have the opportunity to do so. Be sure that this brings you my undying friendship and the full measure of our blood bond,

  Olivia,

  At Roma, the beginning of February,

  in the Pope’s Year 797

  Chapter Six

  TWO CARPENTA CAME LUMBERING down the muddy track that served as the road to the walled villa Karl-lo-Magne had granted Magnatus Rakoczy, one of them laden with furniture, the other with crates of fabrics, furs, and household goods that would be needed here in the days ahead. The carpenta were accompanied by four armed men and a clerk who was under orders to make an inventory of everything Rakoczy brought to the villa It was the first warm day of spring, and in accord with this promising change in the weather, the place now seemed more hospitable than forbidding; the woods were bustling with squirrels and birds, and in the small, newly fenced pastures, ewes and nannies were nearing the birth of their young.