“If only Bishop Freculf hadn’t insisted on a decision; he and Bishop Iso are at loggerheads, and many others have begun to take an interest in their dispute,” said Alcuin. “There are those who believe she is the Anti-Christ, because of her hands.”
“She should have been content to remain at Sant’ Audoenus, among the mad and crippled. No one would have questioned keeping her there,” said Karl-lo-Magne.
Rakoczy remembered the albino woman he had met on the road to Aachen. “Who is this Pale Woman, and what do you want me to decide?”
Alcuin answered. “Two Bishops are in dispute about her, and it must be resolved before the controversy spreads. This is not a time for division in the Church, or in Franksland.”
“I am not a religious, and I am not…” Rakoczy faltered, not knowing how to continue without putting himself in a compromised position. “Surely One of your kinsman would be a better choice?”
“If the Bishops would agree, very likely,” said Karl-lo-Magne. “But they will not accept any kinsman of mine, and other Illustri or Potenti are unacceptable for similar reasons. So it must be you, or someone like you. I intend to present your name to the Bishops for their approval.”
“And I will support his request, for you are not affiliated with any of the Bishops, or their kin,” said Alcuin. “Then the Church may be sure that there has been no slight.”
Rakoczy nodded, knowing he could not refuse. “Very well; I am at your service. When do I see this Pale Woman?”
“As soon as the Bishops can agree on a time.” Karl-lo-Magne grinned. “There is a conclave soon, and I will see that some arrangement for your inspection of her is made before it concludes, if it can be done. If not on this occasion, then at the next conclave.” His glance toward Alcuin was eloquent, making it clear that the Bishops were not yet inclined to hear the matter.
“Then it will not be at once,” said Rakoczy, relieved.
“It will not be much before the end of the year,” said Alcuin, “if then.”
Rakoczy managed to smile. “If I might have a month to return to my fiscs to supervise the work being done? My camerarius has been in charge, but there are many problems developing, and it is fitting that I resolve them before the next harvest.”
It was a trade, and Karl-lo-Magne recognized it. “You may have a month at the end of spring.” Satisfied with his night’s work, he waved Rakoczy away and went back to dealing with his maps and debating with Alcuin. As Rakoczy reverenced him from the door, Karl-lo-Magne looked up at him. “See you serve me well, Magnatus. What you have done so far is excellent, but you cannot rely on past glories.”
Rakoczy knew that this was more than a warning; he offered a second reverence, saying, “I understand you, Optime,” as the door was pulled closed in his face.
TEXT OF A LETTER FROM FRATRE GRIMHOLD IN ROMA TO BISHOP FRECULF, CARRIED BY CHURCH COURIERS, WAYLAID AND KILLED BEFORE THE LETTER COULD BE DELIVERED.
To my most excellent master, Sublime Freculf, the respectful greetings of Fratre Grimhold at the beginning of summer in the Pope’s year 798.
The Byzantine faction is gaining power. Already it is rumored that three of the Curia have embraced their cause and made common cause with the Patriarch of Constantinople, in anticipation of great rewards when Roma submits to Byzantium at last This is a very dangerous turn of events, and many of the Archbishops are reluctant to remain in Roma while the danger exists. Four have left already, to return to their own Archbishoprics with the intention of waiting out the peril. They have taken their monks and priests with them, planning to maintain the Church away from Roma, should it fall. Many of them depend upon Karlus Rex to protect them and preserve the True Church if there is trouble.
In this difficult period, any gesture of support you might make to aid the Archbishops and other high Churchmen will redound to your benefit when Roma triumphs. This is a very good time to devote yourself to the goals of the Church and to ally yourself with the great men who aid the Pope. It will not only advance the Church for you to do this, it will also make it possible for you to advance your own position within the Church, and that must be part of your considerations, for there is no shame in following your own cause while defending the True Church.
The mal aria has already come to Roma, and the fevers are everywhere. Pope Leo has offered daily Masses for the preservation of the people and for Heaven’s willingness to heal those already afflicted. The Pope has ordered that a mass grave be dug in anticipation of more deaths. He has blessed the ground so that anyone who dies of this malady may be assured of Heaven’s blessing, whether the dead perished shriven or not There are many churches in Roma that have elected to keep Hours all through the night both Nocturnes and Vigil, so that the dead need not lie in the streets where dogs and swine will gorge upon their flesh.
It is a terrible thing, to see this city under so many ills, and some see it as a sign that the Church is failing. It is truly a hard thing to hear their fears spoken in whispers. Others say that this is the final test of faith before God comes in Glory to judge the world. It may be that the End of Times is upon us. I cannot help but wonder how Christ would see His Church in this perilous time, and how He, Who suffered so much for us all, would view those who have turned away from the Church when a little adversity is put upon it For this reason, unless you order me to leave, I will remain here, in Sant’ Pier’s See, for the purpose of supporting the Pope as you have ordered me to do, and I will advance you within the Church for as long as I have breath in my body to do God’s Will.
Be certain that I will send you word when the fevers have passed, or when the Byzantines have committed some indignity that exceeds what they have done thus far. In that regard, you may have heard that Empress Irene has assumed the control of the Eastern Empire; her son, Constantininus, has been blinded and imprisoned on her order and his place wholly usurped by her. I have had it confirmed that this is truly what happened, and that the Empress Irene is determined to hold the Empire within her command with the help of the army. With all of this upheaval, it would be dangerous to rely too much on any promises made by the Byzantines, and so I advise you to be circumspect about them. If Great Karlus should seek your opinion, keep in mind all I have told you. It could save you and the King many difficulties.
In every assurance of my devotion and continuing loyalty to you and the Church, I ask your blessing and prayers for deliverance from the mal aria.
Fratre Grimhold
Chapter Twelve
TWO OF THE BISHOPS HAD GOT INTO A CLUMSY FISTFIGHT, both of them drubbing at one another ineffectively, for they were too drunk to do any real harm to anyone; they scuffled and tottered about the space between the dining tables, oblivious to their fellow Sublimi, each trying to remain upright. Most of the rest of the company was in a similar condition, and a few of them egged on the hostilities. The two long tables at which the nineteen Bishops sat were spattered with the remnants of the huge meal that had been served and was almost finished; now the scullions were trying to keep the Bishops’ cups filled with wine or beer.
Bishop Iso swayed on his bench and reached for the last meat clinging to the boar’s ribs sticking up like an unfinished bridge in the middle of the table; he was tipsier than he had intended to be, but not so inebriated that he was behaving as badly as some of the others. Pulling a scrap of meat from the bone, he popped it into his mouth, chewed quickly, and swallowed, washing the lump of pork down with another generous amount of beer. Watching the fight degenerate into occasional shoves, he laughed, taking consolation in the certainty that in the morning none of them would remember the battle or its cause. He licked his fingers and then wiped his mouth on his silken sleeve. At least, he thought, he was not sitting anywhere near that arrogant fool, Bishop Freculf. Plenty of time to deal with him in the morning, he decided. For now he would make the most of the evening. While a scullion refilled his cup, he helped himself to the honied fruit that the mansionarii were bringing out from the kitchen.
&nb
sp; “Sublime,” said Bishop Dagoberht, slurring the title; he sat on Bishop Iso’s left, his dalmatica stained all down the front, and the alb smirched with grease and a red stain from the Longobardian wine he preferred. “Sublime, how can you suppose that those two will be able to settle anything, carrying on like that?” His censure was ruined by a belch.
“They won’t,” said Bishop Iso, letting the honey on the pears he had chosen dribble all over the last of his wheaten trencher.
“It has been a fine banquet. Archbishop Reginhalt has done himself proud.” He pointed to the High Table, where three Archbishops sat together in all their splendid regalia; they, too, were drunk, and they had reached the point of not caring that they were. “I doubt the Pope dines so well as we have.”
“Not in these days, certainly,” said Bishop Iso. “Archbishop Ebroin and Archbishop Sigiberht are also pleased with themselves, and will no doubt be claiming credit for the whole occasion.”
Bishop Dagoberht yawned suddenly and hugely. “We’ll all sleep well tonight. Thanks be to God.”
“And Bacchus,” said Bishop Iso, and drank another mouthful of beer. “Even Roman Emperors could not achieve what we have done.”
“And with God’s blessing, not His curse,” said Bishop Dagoberht. “But you are not drinking as much as the rest of us. Don’t tell me you’ve take a vow of soberness.”
“No, but I have a cause to plead before the Archbishops in the morning, and I would not like my head to be ringing.” He managed a dry smile. “Let Bishop Freculf drown himself in strong drink, I will not be so lax.”
“It will be a chore to arise at Matins,” Bishop Dagoberht muttered, and drank the last of his wine, then gestured to a scullion to refill his cup. “But with three Archbishops in attendance, and one bound for Roma in four days, we must be diligent in our observations of the Hours.”
“And the sooner this evening is repented, the sooner we can banquet again,” said Bishop Iso, biting into the honied wedge of pear. “This is very good. Optime’s orchards have been bountiful.”
“Thanks be to God. Optime has tried to keep the bounty of Franksland in Franksland against another famine. It is a most prudent thing, making stores of food. He doesn’t want his people to starve again.” He watched the scullion pour him more wine.
Bishop Gerbergius gave a wild punch at Bishop Worad and both staggered and fell, Bishop Gerbergius striking his head on the edge of the dais as he dropped. Around him the other Bishops laughed and pointed as their fellows lay, cursing futilely, between their double rows of tables.
“They will have a hard morning,” said Bishop Iso as if pleased with that certainty.
“They will,” said Bishop Dagoberht.
More fruits were being brought out, a few of them fresh, but most preserved in honey or spices; the dried plums in pepper were especially popular and the Bishops grabbed for them unashamedly. The aroma of plums, pears, apples, and quinces was intense, cutting through the odor of grilled meats. The scullions looked around to see who needed more food. The banquet was concluding, and the fire in the open fireplace was dying; on the dais Archbishop Sigiberht was nodding, almost asleep, and his two companions were weaving as they moved in their high-backed chairs. Slowly two Bishops rose, reverenced the Archbishops on the dais, and unsteadily tottered toward the door at the rear of the dining hall. One of them called out, “Thanks be to our hosts, to God, and Karl-lo-Magne for the opulence of our feast.”
“Amen,” said Archbishop Ebroin for all three of them.
Gradually the other Bishops began to struggle to their feet and take their leave of the Archbishops; four of the Bishops went to kiss the Archiepiscopal rings of their hosts, but most were content to reel out of the room to their various chilly cubicula and suites set aside for them at the Royal Residence of Attigny.
Bishop Iso rose slowly, glad he had abstained from carousing as much as the rest; he could tell that even with his reservations he was going to have an aching head in the morning, and he cursed himself for being foolish. He saw Bishop Freculf swagger from the dining hall and told himself that tomorrow he would be less confident and would feel less well than Bishop Iso would. As he reverenced the Archbishops, Bishop Iso hoped they would remember his conduct when they sat after Prime to hear the debate about the Pale Woman. But first there were the prayers of Nocturnes to recite and then a few hours for sleep before Matins. He intended to observe all the Hours no matter what the other Bishops might do.
When he reached his cubiculum, Bishop Iso found Sorra Celinde waiting for him, a hint of impatience in her manner as she greeted him. “I said we would be late,” he told her bluntly.
“So you did. But it is after Nocturnes, and the Guards have changed. That is later than I anticipated.” She sat on his bed, her arms folded and a determined expression in her soft features. “I could hear the roistering all the way from the dining hall.”
“Hardly surprising,” said Bishop Iso, tugging off his alb and looking at it; even in the poor light he could see it was smeared with grease from the meat and butter as well as honey from the fruit. “This will have to be washed. It’s too stained to wear as it is.” He fingered the messy silk. “A pity we must all wear fine clothes for these occasions. But we could not refuse. The Archbishops demand it.” His tone revealed his contempt for such excess. “The Archbishops may command us anything—more than the King does. And now this fabric is no better than a rag.”
“Then you ought to be more dainty in your eating,” said Sorra Celinde as she inspected the garment in the dim light. “You will never get this stain out.”
“Very likely not,” said the Bishop as he knelt at the foot of his bed facing the crucifix that hung on the opposite wall. He began the Nocturnes prayers, reciting the words by rote, rushing through them impatiently. “Are you ready for bed?” he asked between Psalms.
“In a moment,” said Sorra Celinde and pulled off her stolla, then pulled down her loose underdrawers. Naked, she slipped under the blanket. “There. As soon as you are done.”
“That will not be long,” he promised and went back to praying, paying no attention to her as he spoke the verses from memory.
Sorra Celinde lay in bed watching him, the sputtering lamplight making him seem to appear and disappear. She smiled contentedly, thinking that for a fisherman’s third daughter of four she had done very well for herself—certainly better than her other three sisters, all of them burdened with families and husbands. She, at least, had a powerful lover, and the assurance of a place to live until her dying day. The Bishop could be difficult, but so could all men; she had known that from early childhood. She echoed his “Amen” and lifted the blanket for him as he came back to the bed and tugged his dalmatica over his head. His breechclout came off quickly; he pinched out the last lamp and got in beside her.
“I need sleep tonight,” he said as she reached for him.
“As you wish,” she said, disappointed but accepting. She snuggled up to the Moorish pillow, preparing to fall asleep.
“Gynethe Mehaut,” said Bishop Iso suddenly. “What do you make of her now?”
“I think she is a very puzzling woman; I can understand why there is confusion about her,” said Sorra Celinde cautiously. “I have watched her as you asked, but if she has cut her hands herself, I have not seen her do it, or even so much as touch a knife but to eat.”
“Bishop Freculf does not accept that this woman is the Anti-Christ, or his messenger,” said Bishop Iso. “It is a test of our faith, putting her in our midst. God will judge us as we judge her.”
“No doubt you are right,” said Sorra Celinde, yawning.
“Bleeding at the hands. What clearer sign could there be than that? Isn’t it obvious that she is the opposite of Christ? She has nothing to claim as her kingdom. She has no disciples. She has no chrism. Yet her hands bleed, and she is female. Man came to grief through Eve; it must not happen again, or we will no longer deserve salvation, or Christ’s Sacrifice.” He stared up into the
darkness. “Surely the Archbishops will see that she must be cast out.”
“You will explain it all,” murmured Sorra Celinde.
“As I must. But that idiot Bishop Freculf will dispute all this. He believes she is a messenger of Grace, and that her white skin and bleeding hands are signs of her gift.” He could feel his body tensing, and he ground his teeth. “How can he not see?”
“He hasn’t your knowledge, Sublime,” said Sorra Celinde.
“But he is a Bishop. Karl-lo-Magne chose him as much for his piety as his kinsmen.” He reached for her suddenly, rolling onto her and forcing her legs open. He was fully aroused, and he was determined to fulfill his need. “This may bring catastrophe upon us all.”
Sorra Celinde pretended her desire was as swift as his own, sighing and scratching at his back, but she was almost indifferent to his bucking and grasping. She was relieved when it was over, but she held him as if reluctant to be apart from him.
“How good of God to provide you to me,” said Bishop Iso as he got off her.
“I will serve you always, Sublime,” she said with complete sincerity.
Bishop Iso patted her shoulder. “Of course you will.”
When the first chime of Matins sounded, Bishop Iso stirred but did not open his eyes; beside him Sorra Celinde woke and sat up. The second chime rang, and this time the Bishop responded, sitting up and blinking. “My camisa—where is it?” he muttered.
“In the chest, on top, with your gonelle.” Sorra Celinde was already out of the bed reaching for her stolla. “If you hurry you will be among the first into the chapel.”
“And thus show my devotion,” said Bishop Iso. “You’re a clever woman, thanks to God for it.” He put on his breechclout and stumbled to the chest to take out his camisa. As soon as he had this in hand, he pulled it over his head, struggling with the sleeves, and then felt for his gonelle. “My pectoral crucifix—the silver one with the pearls. Where is it?”
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