“There is a messenger from Roma. He has arrived but a moment ago, seeking audience with you. He says it is of crucial importance.” The senescalus stood very straight, anticipating a reprimand for interrupting so private a comestus.
Karl-lo-Magne looked about as if he expected to be overheard, and kept his tone low. “What is his purpose?”
“He didn’t tell me, Optime,” said the senescalus. “I cannot force him to reveal anything to me. He says it is for your ears alone.”
Sighing, Karl-lo-Magne shoved himself out of his chair. “I think I should probably speak to him, then, although it is insolent of him to present himself in this manner. It offends me to be summoned like a servant. Still, it may be that he is ordered by His Holiness to demand an immediate audience, and to refuse it would traduce the honor of the Pope.…” He picked up his knife and tucked it back in his belt. “You need not wait for me if the food is getting cold. Otherwise, assume I will be with you in a short while.” With an abrupt movement he swung around to leave the room.
“Cherished father,” said Gisela, “we will wait for you before we continue to eat.” She slipped out of her chair and knelt while Karl-lo-Magne strode to the door. “Bring more beer,” she ordered as soon as her father was gone. “If we cannot eat, at least we can drink.”
There was an awkward silence among the women and Rakoczy as all tried to fill the moment without slighting the King. Finally Rotruda nudged her half-sister and clapped her hands. “Where is the beer?” she demanded, and leaned forward, her arms on the table-plank.
One of the scullions almost dropped his end of the spit he was carrying with another scullion. He ducked his head, confusion making him clumsy, and looked about for some means to support the spit while he hurried to carry out the King’s daughters’ orders. His distress made the women laugh, and one of them pointed to the unfortunate scullion and made a scandalous suggestion about the state of his femoralia and his buttocks; the youngster turned scarlet and fled.
“He’d better bring the beer,” said Rotruda, scowling at the scullion as he bolted from the room, leaving his fellow to struggle with the hot, laden spit. “I have a great thirst upon me. Hurry! If you do not, I’ll have you beaten!”
“Father does not like drunkenness,” said Gisela with a sigh. “He doesn’t like to fuddle his wits. He doesn’t mind if the rest of us drink, thank all the Saints.”
“Well, I do like drinking,” said Rotruda, petulantly. “I am ready to fetch our beer myself if someone doesn’t bring it, and quickly.”
“Someone will,” said Bertrada, named for her grandmother and inclined to take on grand airs because of it. “Else they’ll be whipped.”
“They may be whipped anyway,” said Gisela. “The buttocks on that scullion almost demand whipping.”
Rotruda laughed, her good-will restored. “Optime does not want us neglected. You must see that.” She giggled and looked down at the four widows and Rakoczy. “We know his favor will never falter. You cannot be so certain.”
Ermentrude sniffed. “At least we have been allowed to marry.”
The three women at the High Table exchanged looks. “Our father does not want to part with us. He doesn’t forbid us to have our pleasures. He only forbids us husbands.”
“It isn’t the same thing,” said Ermentrude smugly, and drank the last of her beer, “having lovers. We have the protection of our husbands’ family.”
“And we the protection of our father,” said Rotruda smugly.
Three scullions—none of them the chagrined lad who had scurried from the room—came from the kitchen, each with a pitcher of new wheaten beer in his hands. They bustled about the tables, taking care not to brush their greasy camisae against the gonellae of the women. In a short time they had refilled all the cups and left the pitchers on the table for further servings. Immediately Bertrada reached for the pitcher nearest her and claimed it for her own use.
“We will want more, by and by,” she warned the scullions.
The scullions exchanged uneasy glances, and one of them, staring down at his feet, dared to say, “We are told to keep the rest for the banquet tonight.”
Bertrada glowered at him. “Set aside three more pitchers for our use or it will be the worse for you.”
“There is wine, Illustra. Let us bring you wine.” The desperation in his voice intrigued Gisela, who leaned forward.
“I didn’t think we had much wine,” she said with exaggerated sweetness. “I was under the impression that all we could drink is beer.”
“There is enough wine to meet your needs,” said the scullion, increasingly anxious under this continuing scrutiny of the King’s daughters. “There isn’t enough to serve all the guests at a banquet.”
Bertrada decided for them all. “Wine will do. See you bring it at once. Bottles for each of us. That means seven of them, since the foreigner doesn’t drink.” She looked directly at Rakoczy. “Or eat, at least not in company, after the custom of his people, strange though it is.”
Taking advantage of this shift in attention, the scullion bustled off toward the kitchen.
“Beer first, then wine,” said Gisela, nudging Rotruda with her elbow.
“It is acceptable,” said Rotruda, drinking down her beer and holding out her cup for more. “We’ll be drunk as Bishops.”
All the women laughed and tossed off the contents of their cups; Rakoczy noticed that Odile was less eager than the rest to become intoxicated, which intrigued him. He studied her profile and noticed she was aware of his interest, for she smoothed back a wayward tendril from her face and smiled uncertainly.
“What are you thinking, Magnatus?” she asked in an attempt at boldness.
“I was thinking that you are an interesting woman, Good Widow,” he replied, determined to end any awkwardness between them. “And I am trying to decide which of my books you might find most engaging to read.”
Her smile became more genuine. “Optime told me you have books with you. How fortunate for you, that you can keep books. I have two of my own, and would have more, but I cannot read Greek; I learned Latin when I was with the nuns of Santa Burgundofara.”
“You were taught there?” Rakoczy asked, encouraging her to talk.
“I was a novice for three years, when I was younger.” She glanced at him, then went on. “I was a third daughter and my father gave me to the Church. But then my oldest sister died in childbirth and my other sister took a fever and became an invalid.” She reached out for her cup of beer and drank. “So I was recalled from the nunnery and married.”
Rakoczy heard this out with a mixture of sympathy and resignation. “Your father required it of you?”
“All my family,” she answered. “With my only living sister unable to marry, it was left to me to make sure our House was not extinguished, although our name may be lost.”
“A heavy burden for you to bear,” said Rakoczy.
“Possibly, but it is mine,” said Odile with a touch of pride. “My husband was a fine man, of good rank and excellent reputation, and I was proud to give him children, although God wasn’t willing to allow me to keep most of them. With just one son left alive, I am thankful to God for preserving our House, for we might have lost the whole of it.”
Rakoczy heard her out, paying close attention to her nuances of tone. “Still, you have lost much, and such losses demand a toll in grief.”
Odile looked away in confusion. “I wouldn’t have said so.”
“Perhaps not,” said Rakoczy. “But it remains with you, however you name it.”
Four scullions bearing spits came into the hall, with knives in their hands, ready to cut meat to serve the diners. The most senior of them had a platter balanced on his head, and this he held out to be filled once the spits were set on trestles.
“Boar, bison, goose, and lamb,” said the senior scullion, pointing to the meats on the spits. “Tell me which you will have.”
Bertrada got to her feet and made an inclusive gesture.
“Cut from all of them, and we’ll take what’s to our taste.” Her color was high and there was a certain recklessness about her that alarmed her sisters; Gisela nodded to Rotruda, and both women motioned to Bertrada to sit down.
The senior scullion did as the King’s daughters wished, slicing generous portions from the meat on the spits. When the platter was well-laden, he summoned two of the scullions to carry the platter to the High Table, where Karl-lo-Magne’s three daughters stuck the cuts they wanted with their knives to carry the meat to their trenchers.
“The aroma is very good,” said Rotruda, pulling a bit of the boar off the rib with her fingers. “And it is tender, for a change.”
“We rubbed the meat with butter and honey,” said the senior scullion, going well beyond what was permitted of servants.
Rotruda scowled at him. “If I wish to know this, I will ask the kitchen staff.” She lowered her eyes. “You forget yourself.”
“My father will order you beaten if you forget yourself,” said Gisela sternly. “Servants think they’re better than they are.”
The senior scullion reverenced the women at the High Table and retreated into silence. As he served the low table, he refused to speak, communicating by gesture alone and doing what he was called upon to do with as much dispatch as he could manage.
“I will have bison and goose,” said Odile when the senior scullion came up to her. She poured wine into her cup and watched as the scullion offered the platter. When she had retrieved the meat she wanted, she set to work with her knife, trying to cut her portion into smaller sections.
“The food is getting cold,” said Bertrada from the High Table. “We should eat.”
At that the seven women fell to, eating rapidly and with gusto, washing down their mouthfuls with wine. For a short while the small dining hall was silent but for the sounds of chewing. Then there was an impatient step in the corridor, and Karl-lo-Magne strode back into the hall, glowering fiercely. He stepped onto the dais and back to his chair at the High Table. All the women stopped eating and watched him attentively.
“Magnatus,” said the King. “Come up to me.”
Rakoczy obeyed promptly, wondering what had so distressed Karl-lo-Magne that he should have lost all trace of joviality. He concealed his apprehension with an expression of cordial interest, his bearing respectful. “What may I have the honor of doing for you, Optime?”
“The messenger from Roma brings most troubling news,” Karl-lo-Magne muttered. He got out of his chair again and tugged on the black sleeve of Rakoczy’s gonelle, drawing him into a corner of the room. “There is a plot against the Pope.”
“Surely more than one,” said Rakoczy, recalling all the rumors he had heard.
“This one is more serious, and more treacherous. It is driven by ambition and apostasy,” said Karl-lo-Magne. “There are bands of scoff-laws in Roma who can be bought for all manner of mischief. It is said that money has changed hands, to secure the services of these marauders: there is an indication that two of the bands have been paid to waylay and murder Leo, or at least it is what His Holiness fears.”
“Is there any reason to think this more likely to happen than any of the other plots against His Holiness? Is there some reason to fear this present threat more than any other? Why should you think so?” Rakoczy asked, wanting to provide Karl-lo-Magne with as many options as he could. He wished he had been allowed to bring Rorthger with him, for now he wanted as much information as he could gain; Rorthger was always alert to the talking among servants, often more reliable than the rumors spread in Courts. But the missi dominici who had escorted Rakoczy to Paderborn had had no provision for including a servant for the Magnatus, and so Rorthger remained at the fiscs, in charge of the walled villa and the lands around it.
“I wouldn’t think so, but for the urgency and the source of the message: it came from one of my Bishops, and under Church seal.” Karl-lo-Magne pulled on his beard. “I cannot ignore this appeal for protection. Much as it would be difficult to arrange to protect the Pope, it is preferable to being forced to accept a Byzantine tool as Pontiff. If Leo is killed, who knows who will sit on Sant’ Pier’s Seat?”
“Then what do you plan?” Rakoczy asked, aware that Karl-lo-Magne expected the question.
“I suppose I must be prepared to send a company of soldiers to Roma to be guards for the Pope, and I must authorize the arming of monks faithful to Leo himself, if it comes to that” He tugged on his beard again, his scowl directed at a place on the floor. “This must be settled within the year, or Constantininus and his mother in Constantinople will have the advantage, and the Papacy will be lost to the Greeks.”
“What do you want me to do?” Rakoczy inquired with a minor reverence.
“I don’t know yet, but I want you to stay near at hand. I may have use for you, and when I do, you must not be away from my Court.” He laid his hand on the hilt of his dagger. “If the Pope falls, then we will be at war with the Byzantines.”
“It would seem urgent, then, to be sure Leo lives,” said Rakoczy.
“That is why I must ready soldiers to go to Roma. I hope I will not have to send them, for it would provoke all manner of trouble.” Karl-lo-Magne looked directly at Rakoczy. “There are many peoples who may want to take advantage of the change in Roma. I will have to be ready to hold my borders here in Saxony and in Longobardia and in other places. This will be a demanding time, no matter what I must do to protect the Church. But if I lose what I have gained in maintaining the Church, I will forfeit the strength that the Church depends upon me to provide.”
Rakoczy heard him out. “You will have to decide how to balance these matters, Optime. And, as I am a foreigner, I can only tell you that your Kingdom is a rich prize and you have enemies beyond those you share with the Pope.”
Karl-lo-Magne uttered a single, angry laugh. “Of course I have enemies. All men have enemies.” He folded his arms. “I cannot let it be known that I have received this message, or my enemies will act at once to align themselves with the Moors in Hispania or the Greeks in Byzantium.”
“That is nothing new, Optime, and so far no such alliance has survived long enough to damage anything you have achieved.” Rakoczy looked over his shoulder. “Your daughters are listening.”
“Let them,” said Karl-lo-Magne. “They will hear about the whole of it soon enough.” He shrugged. “So will all the Court. I must be prepared before any word gets out.”
“Cherished father,” called Rotruda. “Our meal is getting cold and our wine is getting hot.”
“Then eat and drink,” said Karl-lo-Magne testily. He put his hand on Rakoczy’s shoulder. “Stay near, mind. I may have need of you, and I don’t want to wait upon your arrival. For now, return to your place.”
“I will,” said Rakoczy, reverenced the King, and went back to the lower table where he once again sat beside Odile.
“Optime shows you distinction,” Odile remarked.
“I am much honored,” said Rakoczy.
Odile smiled. “How very well you keep his confidences.” She reached out for another helping of meat—lamb this time—and dropped it into her trencher.
Ermentrude reached across Rakoczy to secure another portion of bison for herself. “There are men who will watch you, Magnatus. Not all of them are your supporters.”
“I am aware of that,” said Rakoczy as graciously as he could.
“And you must realize that you are watched in suspicion,” Ermentrude added, reaching for her cup of wine for another long drink, as did Leoba Baldhilde.
Rakoczy did not bother to answer her; he could see she was feeling her beer and wine, and therefore could not be held accountable for anything she said. He reached for the platter of meat and offered it to Ermentrude, and when she had helped herself to another slab of boar, he held the platter out to Odile. “What would you like?”
“Nothing more,” said Odile, suddenly looking bashful.
“Don’t refuse food on my account,” said Ra
koczy. “If you are hungry, eat.”
“And you?” Odile asked, pulling a bit of bread off her trencher and eating. “Do you deny yourself?”
“From time to time,” Rakoczy replied. “As all men must.”
Odile shuddered. “Yes.” She made a sign to ward off bad fortune.
Rakoczy thought of her husband and children dead of famine, and told her, “You have had great losses; I am sorry that cannot be changed.”
She shrugged and said in a rush of candor, “If I am to be your mistress, I must also be Optime’s spy.” Then she clapped her hand to her mouth as if to keep more words from escaping.
Very gently he touched her cheek. “I know,” he said.
TEXT OF A LETTER FROM RORTHGER TO HIERNOM RAKOCZY AT PADERBORN, WRITTEN IN THE LATIN OF IMPERIAL ROME, AND CARRIED BY MISSI DOMINICI TO PADERBORN.
To my most esteemed master, Hiernom Rakoczy, Comes Sant’ Germainius, the greetings of Rorthger at his master’s fiscs at the longest day of the year.
Most puissant Magnatus, I am pleased to report that the crops are flourishing and it is likely that you will return to a good harvest I am relieved that this has been a good spring, and that the summer bids fair to continuing along fruitful lines. I have also taken the first of the spring lambs to market, as well as five shoats, and traded them with local peasants slightly to the peasants’ advantage, but not so much that they will seek to dupe you in future. I have secured beer for the mansionarii and the masons I have engaged to restore the walls of the villa, in accordance with your instructions. The two brewers in the village have agreed to keep the villa supplied so long as we provide fruit and berries, along with a few silver coins, which is reasonable enough.
In order to keep on good terms with the Church, I have arranged to purchase wine and mead from the nunnery of Santa Julitta, and from the monastery of Sant’ Cyricus I have asked to purchase parchment and ink; I have made donations to both communities in your name, with the assurance that you will continue to support a portion of their endeavors on a yearly basis, an arrangement which the Abbott and Abba have accepted, at least for the time being. I have also promised the nuns of Santa Julitta that you will send medicaments to their infirmary when you return from your service to the King, which the Superiora has welcomed.
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