Night Blooming

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Night Blooming Page 20

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro


  TEXT OF A LETTER FROM BISHOP ISO OF SANT’ AUDOENUS TO BISHOP AGOBARD AT AACHEN, CARRIED BY CHURCH COURIERS.

  To the most puissant, most Sublime Bishop Agobard, the greetings in Christ of Bishop Iso of Sant’ Audoenus on this, the Feast of the Apostle Sant’ Luchas, and a fortnight before the Feast of Toutti Santi, with the prayers that God has looked upon you with favor and given you peace and plenty in these great times. In your capacity as Bishop to Karl-lo-Magne, I seek your wisdom and assistance in coming to a most difficult conclusion, as well as your endorsement of what I must do in order to serve God and King aright.

  Now that Great Karl and his Court have returned to Aachen for the winter, I make bold to approach you regarding certain matters that are needful of your immediate attention, for as great as my faith may be, I am convinced that there are considerations here that I have not sufficient wisdom to address without inspiration of the Holy Spirit which, although I have prayed for such, has not yet come to me. So I seek to avail myself of the advice of my fellow-Sublimi, and I pray that you will not begrudge me your thoughts and prayers.

  I have in my charge at Sant’ Audoenus a most perplexing woman. She is not mad, but she is not free of contamination, or so it appears to me. She was entrusted to my care by Abba Sunifred of Santa Albegunda, who had received her from her parents and from Abba Serilda of Nerithe of Sant’ Osmer. No one has yet determined the appropriate manner in which this woman is to be treated. I must inform you that her skin is pale as wax, her hair equally white, and that the pupils of her eyes are red as garnets. This is distressing enough, but there is more to the problem she presents, for her hands bleed as if from points being driven through them, which wounds have not been made by any mortal hand, I can affirm this because I have appointed my own attendant, Sorra Celinde, to watch over her, and to ascertain if this young woman is in some way doing herself injury in order to present the appearance of one who has been stricken by the Will of God, or the power of the Devil. According to what Sorra Celinde tells me, the young woman does nothing to promote these wounds.

  This young woman is called Gynethe Mehaut, and I implore you to grant me leave to bring her to Aachen while the full Court is there, as well as the most learned Alcuin of York, who has left Sant’ Martin at Tours to wait upon the King in Aachen. With such Sublimi as you and Alcuin, it must be that God will finally show His Will in all of this strangeness. I ask you to permit me the opportunity to submit her to your scrutiny and your judgment, for I have no guidance, either from prayer or dream, that can reveal to me all that I must know before I consign this young woman to a penitent’s cell or cast her out upon the world as a creature devoid of Grace, or consign her to death as a messenger of Hell. Among you, and your brother-Sublimi, there must be some means of achieving a decision that will be pleasing in God’s eyes. If you cannot decide, I can always bring her back to Sant’ Audoenus, until such time as God shall reveal His intention to me, and I may do as He commands me.

  If this is suitable to your purposes, send me word of it with the courier who brings this message. I want to be on the road before the dark of the year is full upon us, when travel becomes more arduous and the hazards are so many that no man may be prepared for them all. I have prepared a carpentum to carry the young woman, and I have demanded of the regional Potente an escort of five armed men, with horses and mules to bear them and their supplies. The oxen to draw the carpentum will come from Sant’ Audoenus, and we will carry fodder for them along with foodstuffs for ourselves so that we will not be a burden to any Abbott or Abba who opens doors to us in our travels, or any hobu who extends hospitality to us.

  May God guide you in your considerations, even as I ask Him to guide mine, and by Whose Hand I have been moved to ask this of you.

  Amen

  Bishop Iso of Sant’ Audoenus,

  Santisimus Salvator Mondi,

  Santi Agnelli, and Sant’ Fokas

  Chapter Ten

  ECHOES RESOUNDED ALONG THE VAULT above the large Roman swimming pool, the shouts of Illustri, Optime, Potenti, and Bellatori creating the cacophony, augmented by the splashes of the swimmers; to join Karl-lo-Magne in his pool was a coveted honor, and most courtiers were eager to make the most of such an opportunity. Today the pool was more crowded than usual, and the men in it more rambunctious, stimulated by warmth and rivalry. Steam rose from the surface of the water, making the large room misty, and in spite of the huge fire in the broad fireplace, the air was chill, touched by the first, early snow that was falling on Aachen, beyond the thick stone walls of the swimming pool.

  Karl-lo-Magne sloshed energetically as he swam the length of the pool, well ahead of his courtiers. It pleased him to send a fine spray with every stroke of his powerful arms. Reaching the end of the pool, he stood up, the water coming half-way up his chest, and laughed. “More! You men, try harder! Swim, damn your eyes! Swim!” Then he laughed again at the efforts the rest made. He leaned back against the marble sides of the pool and smiled, thoroughly enjoying himself.

  His kinsman, Einhard, reached him slightly ahead of the rest and grabbed hold of the lip of the pool; he was much shorter than his cousin, and when he stood on his feet, his head was almost completely underwater. “You carry the day.”

  “Of course,” said Karl-lo-Magne, not quite as smug as he would have been a decade ago, but still satisfied that he could best the others. “We’ve raced enough for now. I have duties I must attend to, as much as I prefer to spend the afternoon swimming.” He glanced at the fire. “The bath will be warm for a while yet. If you would like to remain here, do so. I must be about my work.” With a sigh, he pulled himself out of the pool and stood up, water streaming from his body; a slave hurried over with a linen drying sheet that had been kept warm near the fire. Wrapping himself in the cloth, Karl-lo-Magne sighed again. “A man my size needs two lengths of cloth to cover everything that should be covered. God save the weaver who gives short shrift in Franksland.”

  Einhard was bold enough to smile. “So there is an advantage to being smaller. I confess I hadn’t thought it so until now.”

  Five other men were gathered at the end of the pool now, and another three were continuing to swim as if their race were not yet over. The steam in the room was getting a bit thicker as the water in the pool continued to get warmer. The slaves tending the fireplace poked carefully at the lower levels of burning logs that augmented the natural warmth of the water that flowed into the pool; one of them added a thick section of branch to the fire, and the other used a long iron staff to shove it down deep into the furnace.

  “I will expect you all to attend on me at prandium,” said Karl-lo-Magne as he rubbed himself dry. “There is goat and geese tonight, I am told.” He thrust his drying sheet at his slave and received his camisa in its stead; the garment was made of fine wool, intended for winter wear. This he pulled over his head and tied at the neck, then reached for his clout and secured it around his loins before drawing on his leather femoralia. “That’s better,” he declared, and took his heavy woolen gonelle dyed a dark, dull-russet shade, pulled it on over his head, girdled it, then went to sit on the bench across from the fireplace to pull on his tibialia and then secure his brodequins over them. Fully dressed but for his small gold diadem, he got to his feet, and casting a last, reluctant look at his swimming pool, he turned away toward the corridor leading out of the bath complex and into the light, blowing snow. His damp hair clung to his head in a clammy embrace, chilling him as much as the warmth of the swimming pool had heated him. He ignored the slight discomfort, keeping up his brisk pace until he entered the main part of the castle, where he bellowed for his camerarius. “Roberht!”

  The middle-aged man rushed up to Karl-lo-Magne, the diadem held reverently in his scarred hands. “Optime!” He reverenced the King.

  Karl-lo-Magne clicked his tongue impatiently. “Yes, yes. Enough of this. I’ll put that on when my hair’s dry.” He looked about him, noticing that there was a group of nine Burgundians standing ne
ar his reception room, their wide pleated britches identifying them as much as their outlandish accents. “What do they want?”

  “I wish they would tell me. They say they have to speak to you, no one else. It is most grave, and they will give no more information than that.” He handed the narrow band of gold with the three small, blunt crosses worked into its simple design to the King and was secretly distressed when Karl-lo-Magne slipped it negligently onto his arm.

  “I’ll hear them. Open the doors. And bring beer and bread for them. I will have spiced hot wine and pickled fruit. Where is the senescalus? The Burgundians will need a meal when they have finished. Use the room on the west side of the reception room. That will show them dignity, but I will not have to spend more time with them. Tell Bishop Iso and Bishop Agobard I will see them when I have finished with the Burgundians.” He clapped once to send Roberht on his way, then took the side corridor to his private entrance to the reception room. As he approached his door, he signaled two of his Guards to accompany him. “Just spears. These are not dangerous men. Speak firmly and they will comply without force.”

  “As you say, Optime,” said the Bellatore nearest him.

  Pulling the door open by himself, Karl-lo-Magne went to his polished wood sedes where it stood two steps above the rest of the room and sat down, resting his arms on the broad, carved arms of the sedes. He coughed, spat, and nodded to his Bellatori. “Let them in. Keep them at least ten steps back from me: they are not my invited guests.” He took his diadem and set it in place on his brow.

  The taller of the two Bellatori went and opened the reception room door with a bang and had the satisfaction of seeing the Burgundians jump. “Attend and give all honor and heed-fulness to Karlus Magnus, King of the Franks and all Franksland, Guardian of the Holy Catholic Church of Roma, who will hear you. Which of you shall speak?”

  A man with a white beard and hunched shoulder said, “I will. I am Eutado, the Majore of our region.”

  “Majore, are you?” challenged the Bellatore.

  “I am,” said the old man firmly. “And have been since my old father died these twelve years gone; he was Majore after his father. I am also the carpenter.” This line of inherited authority was impressive enough to demand the Bellatore’s attention. “We have been true to Karl-lo-Magne as those who should be have not.”

  “That must be what you wish to say to the King,” said the Bellatore. “Come and approach him, and when I tell you to halt, reverence him.”

  Eutado nodded to show his understanding. “If there were others, less exalted, we would have gone to them,” he said as he kept up with the Bellatore, making his way across the floor in a painful limp toward the enormous man with the small golden diadem circling his head who sat on the huge formal sedes. When the Bellatore held out his spear to halt the Burgundians, Eutado led the others in reverencing the King.

  “Very well,” said Karl-lo-Magne. “Tell me what you seek from me.”

  Apparently the King’s high, harsh voice took the Burgundians by surprise, for Eutado hesitated before beginning to speak. “We are from Sant’ Yrieix, which has been in the fiscs of Ansegisus of Solignac.” When he saw no sign of recognition in the King’s blue eyes, he explained. “Sant’ Yrieix is an isolated place, and we have been depending upon your missi dominici to carry word to and from our village to our Potente, which Ansegisus has ordered us to do.” He paused, looking toward the man nearest him. “Ansegisus saw in a dream that he would die in Sant’ Yrieix, and so will not come to our village.”

  Karl-lo-Magne nodded. “I have heard this.” He gave an impatient gesture to indicate he wanted them not to dawdle over details. “You rely on my missi dominici.”

  “Yes. Fratre Cuvhild and Irmold of Chur have been the men to come to us in your name and the name of Ansegisus. They have said that they are conducting themselves in accordance with your Will, Optime.” Eutado stood still while the others mumbled their agreement.

  “Where is the difficulty?” Karl-lo-Magne demanded. “I see nothing distressing in what you describe. It is thus in many parts of Franksland. That is the purpose of the missi dominici.”

  “Yes,” said Eutado, his voice dropping and becoming unsure. “But do you give them rights to order men killed and women taken for their pleasure, and wealth seized, for the purpose of paying taxes they say we owe you, Optime?” He managed a touch of defiance. “All this they do in your name, and because of that we come to you to say that we do not believe that your honor is vindicated by what they have done.”

  “Whom have they killed?” asked Karl-lo-Magne, making no effort to hide his doubts.

  “They have killed my daughter’s son Marbettou, for one,” said Eutado, “and Riesina, the miller, and Dobando, the potter. They took Grasaneau, the joiner, away and we have not seen him again.” His voice became thick with emotion. “I myself saw these things.”

  “Why were these men killed?” Karl-lo-Magne demanded.

  “The missi dominici said it was your law they upheld,” said Eutado.

  Karl-lo-Magne’s patience was wearing thin. “Which law was that?”

  One of the other men—somewhat younger than Eutado, but still a man of mature years, with grizzled hair and beard—answered, his manner respectful but with an underlying dissatisfaction. “They said it was because we did not always speak Frankish or Latin. They took all the money these men had, and left their families with only their empty houses—no food, no firewood, no beds. How are their families to live? The men are killed or gone and the monastery will not take them for fear that the Bishop will punish the monks if they do. Some of the people in the town have given them what they can spare, but it is very little. We are in a harsh place and we still suffer from the famine of three years ago.” He stopped abruptly.

  “I have banned all tongues but Frankish and Latin,” said Karl-lo-Magne, “but I did not mandate death as punishment, except when such use is an act of defiance, and therefore against my rule.”

  “This was no such case. It has been our intention to abide by your law, when we can. We have not had much instruction in Latin or Frankish, the monks at the monastery using our language as often as the rest of us,” said Eutado. “They pray in Latin.”

  “Still, they should be more obedient to my laws. Yet you are not to blame for the monks’ failure to teach you as they ought.” He frowned at the Burgundians. “You say these killings were done with my authority, by my missi dominici?”

  “That is true,” said the younger man. “I saw all, and I will swear on God’s Altar that this is what happened.”

  The King stared into the middle distance. “How were the men killed?”

  “They were beheaded with Frankish axes,” said Eutado. “In the market-square. Two on the same day, the other half a year earlier. Soldiers were sent by Ansegisus to do the killing, both times the same number. There were six of them, all mounted, armed and spurred.”

  “You,” Karl-lo-Magne said, pointing to the younger man who had spoken. “Who are you?”

  “I am Nonateo. I am the cow-herd. I own sixty-two head.” He stood a bit straighter. “I am among the Elders of Sant’ Yrieix, and I am a man of respect, which is why I have been doubly troubled by the disgrace that has been visited upon my family: my sister was taken by the missi dominici to warm their beds, though she said she had no wish to do so.”

  “What did she say when it was over?” Karl-lo-Magne asked, smiling slightly.

  “I don’t know. I wish I did, for my sake as well as hers. They took her with them and we haven’t seen her again. Her name was Fellmeris, a pleasant girl with red hair and a winning smile, and she had hoped to be the woman of the master mason next year. The missi dominici were drawn to her, and they demanded she he with them in spite of the master mason: he would not have her now, no matter what has become of her.” Nonateo’s color heightened, and he could not look at the King directly.

  “You say there were other women taken,” Karl-lo-Magne reminded them.

&
nbsp; “Other than Fellmeris, there were sisters hardly women at all, though they were comely. Two of them, no older than twelve, and they, too, have not been seen since the missi dominici summoned them to their beds. They were called in the night and by dawn, the missi dominici and the sisters were gone.” Nonateo went pale as he spoke. “And there was a woman who had often served the men who gathered at the brewer’s house. No one begrudged the missi dominici her use, for that was her worth.”

  “You have seen nothing of these women? Have none of them sent word to you? Has no one seen any of them?” From the way the King asked he was far from troubled by the information.

  “No. We have learned nothing,” said Eutado. He looked to the men with him for their concurrence and was rewarded by their immediate nods.

  Karl-lo-Magne took a long breath while he thought. “And you came all this way to make this report because you supposed I would punish my men?”

  “We want justice for our kinsmen and our women,” said Eutado. “We know Ansegisus will do nothing, for he will not come to our village, and the Bishop will not hear us, for he leaves all to the Patre. Besides, the missi dominici are your men, and their acts account to you.”

  “They are my eyes and ears and good right arm; they are my voice to my people, and my promise to all of them of my regard,” Karl-lo-Magne agreed.

  “They bring disgrace to your name, and they dishonor the Bishop, who also is Bishop in Solignac and is rarely in our village,” said Eutado.

  “He has three bishoprics,” said Karl-lo-Magne. “The third is Sant’ Leonhard of Noblac near Nevers. It is a most important monastery in its region.” He pulled slowly at his beard. “It is no great crime for a man to use a woman.”

 

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