Night Blooming

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Rakoczy glanced at the monk, noting that Fratre Gaugolf was very sleepy and dragging his feet a bit as he went about this routine chore. He thought it likely that the monk would be dozing shortly; satisfied that he was not under surveillance, he chose a sheet of parchment, noticing that it had been used previously and the old text washed and scraped off, leaving only very faint impressions on the thin sheepskin. He carried this to the writing desk nearest the set of lit lamps, climbed onto the tall stool, and opened the box of quills to select the one he would use to write. He chose a sturdy goose-wing feather—the nib had already been pared—and set it in the groove at the top of the slanted desk-top, then took the ink-cake, moistened it with a little water from the small jar beside it, and using the rubbing stone, began to make fresh ink. While he worked, he did his best to compose his letter in his mind, so that he would be able to finish quickly.

  “How long will you require?” Fratre Gaugolf asked suddenly, as if aware of Rakoczy’s thoughts.

  “I should be gone by midnight,” said Rakoczy, thinking that he would then have the opportunity to visit Liuthilda in her sleep; the second wife of Comes Eggihard of Attigny, she was often left by herself for months on end, with nothing to do but supervise the Comes’ bastards. Rakoczy would never approach her directly, but he had found that in dreams she would accept him with fervor that bordered on frenzy, and that suited them both. He dipped his nib into the ink and began to write:

  To the most exalted, the most powerful Karl-lo-Magne, King of the Franks and all of Franksland, champion of the Church of Roma and the Pope, and Lord of Carinthia, Longobardia and the Marches of Hispania, the obedient greetings of Hiernom Rakoczy, Comes Sant’ Germainius, on this, the beginning of April in the Pope’s year 799.

  Optime, I have done as you requested regarding the Pale Woman Gynethe Mehaut, and I must inform you that her case is beyond my capabilities to evaluate, although I am persuaded that her condition is one of nature and not miraculous. This does not answer any of the questions you, and the Bishops, have about her. It is my recommendation that you submit her to the Pope, for his inspired opinion must be more profound than anything I, or your Bishops, may propose. I believe she would be amenable to such a resolution, no matter what the outcome may be; I offer myself as her escort to Roma, if it should be your decision to send her there.

  In all duty I sign myself

  H. Rakoczy

  (his sigil, the eclipse, and his name-sigil)

  He read it over, pleased that his small, neat hand did not take up much more than half the sheet; that would allow others to use the parchment without having to scrape off his message. He was satisfied that there was nothing in the letter that would alarm the monk who would read it for the King. Then he sanded the page and waited for it to dry before rolling it neatly. This done, he wrapped the roll in a linen band and sealed the knot with wax. He returned the feather to the quill-box and closed it again, used a rag to dry off the ink-cake, and wiped the desk-top with his sleeve. Getting down from the stool, he walked to Fratre Gaugolf and handed him the rolled scroll. “For the courier.”

  Fratre Gaugolf blinked up at him. “The courier,” he said as if he were unfamiliar with the word. “This scroll.”

  “For the King,” Rakoczy persisted, thinking that Fratre Gaugolf was more than half-asleep. “He is expecting it. You must put it into the courier’s hands.”

  The monk shook himself enough to be rid of the most obvious signs of sleepiness. “I will,” he said, taking the rolled parchment and kissing the linen that held it closed.

  “Very good,” said Rakoczy. “Optime requires our compliance with his orders.”

  Fratre Gaugolf took a deep breath, fear in his eyes. “I will comply.”

  “I am sure of that,” said Rakoczy, and turned toward the door. “If you will let me out?”

  “At once,” said Fratre Gaugolf, but took a short while to rise. “Will you be staying here at Attigny much longer?”

  “No; I am returning to my fiscs in the morning.” Rakoczy suspected that this information would be passed among the residents of Attigny before he was in the stable. “I may be gone before the courier departs.”

  “Then God keep you safe on the road, Magnatus.” He made a sign of protection. “The courier will have this as soon as he has broken his fast. A pity this couldn’t wait for the missi dominici, but they will not be here again for a month.”

  “Optime wants this letter before that,” Rakoczy said as he opened the door. “May God keep you in good health, Fratre Gaugolf. May you do honor to your Church and patron Saint.” He pulled the door closed and waited until he heard the bolt shoved into position on the far side of the door. Then he went down the corridor and out into the courtyard. He saw a line of monks coming from the chapel and going toward the entrance to the dormitory; he supposed they had finished Nocturnes. He stood, undecided, at the walkway leading to the residential part of the Royal Residence; it was possible that Liuthilda was not yet fully asleep, and it would be dangerous to visit her while he might waken her. When the monks were gone, Rakoczy considered going to the chapel, to speak with Gynethe Mehaut again. But she would be at prayers and Sorra Celinde might be with her; Rakoczy turned away from the chapel and strode toward the residential wing, hoping he would find Liuthilda caught in her dreams and ready to receive him.

  TEXT OF A LETTER FROM ATTA OLIVIA CLEMENS IN ROMA TO HIERNOM RAKOCZY IN FRANKSLAND, CARRIED BY PAPAL COURIER.

  To the distinguished Magnatus Rakoczy Sant’ Germainius, sometimes called Sanct’ Germain, currently at an estate near Stavelot and Sant’ Cyricus in Franksland, the greetings of Olivia at the end of April in the Pope’s year, 799.

  You may have heard more rumors that the Pope has been attacked, very much the same as all the others over the last years: this time, the rumors are true-Leo was waylaid by a gang of street fighters, probably in the pay of the Byzantines. They tried to blind the Pope, cut out his tongue, and make a eunuch of him, but he escaped, and apparently has fled Roma. Some say he is in Hispania, some say he has gone to throw himself on the mercy of the Patriarch in Constantinople, and some say he has died and been secretly entombed. It is agreed everywhere that it is more likely that he has gone north, into Franksland, in the hope Karl-lo-Magne will protect him. If the Pope is still alive a month from now, and in the care of the Franks, he will maintain his position, provided he has not lost his sight, his tongue, or his manhood, in which case his efforts would be for naught: he will have to resign the Papacy if he is not a whole man, which many say he cannot be. A few claim he has been delivered by God’s Grace from all his enemies, in which case I must suppose he has gone to the Blessed Isles of the Saints, which no navigator has yet to find, let alone make landfall. All these possibilities are fueling more speculation in Roma, and the city is lively as a hive. You would be well-advised to stay away until the Papacy is once again secure, one way or another. Had I not only just begun an expansion of my estate, I would go to Ravenna for a year or so, but that would look most suspicious, and so I will remain where I am.

  So much for the most recent upheavals. Now on to the more mundane purposes for this letter. I am pleased to know the stallion I sent to you has turned out so well. May he continue to provide you with foals of a quality that meets your standards for horseflesh. I am grateful to you for your offer of one of his colt-foals, but I won’t ask for him just yet Get a second generation of his line, and then I will be delighted to receive one of your foals, with enough new blood to give strength to the foals to come.

  My own herds are doing fairly well, but there has been a spate of hoof disease. I have had to destroy eleven of my stock, and that saddens me. I am determined to restore my herd in the next year, and to find something to treat the hoof disease so that it cannot harm my animals again. My horses are my wealth in these days, and I will not see them all come to nothing. I have asked Niklos Aulirios to review all the material we have on treating diseases of the hoof in the hope that there may be someth
ing we can turn to good purpose. If among your various medicinal substances you have a treatment for peeling hooves, I would be grateful to know of it. I have moved most of my sound horses to Villa Ragoczy, with the intention of keeping the disease from spreading, and if it is in the ground, to keep it from passing on to the rest of my horses.

  You will wish to know that Villa Ragoczy has been partially repaired, but I fear the old stables have fallen to ruin: there are now only stalls enough for fifty-six horses and not the four hundred that you boasted when the Villa was new. The second atrium is still in disrepair, but the larger one has been made secure and I have installed two mansionarii at the Villa to guard it and to supervise the mariscalcus and his grooms. It has very little of the luxury it had when I first saw it, when Vespasianus was Caesar, although it is no longer as battered as it was when last you saw it But then, Roma is much less than it was when I was a breathing woman. You haven’t seen your Villa in more than two centuries; the whole of Roma is like Villa Ragoczy, and you may find it a disappointing place when next you come here.

  I have recently turned away from the attentions of Ermanaricus, a personable young man who is somewhat of a functionary of the Papal Court It would probably be unkind to call him a spy. He has been a courier and has performed other services for Leo, which is why I have so much information about the attack on His Holiness. He has been a lovely dalliance, full of passion and invention, but I do not want to bring him into our life; he is under too much scrutiny and it is difficult enough to manage as a vampire in this world as a breeder of horses: to try to maintain the position of a Papal servant would be impossible and would expose all of us to precisely the kind of notice we seek to avoid. So I have bid him farewell, and that has left me in an unfortunate frame of mind, bouts of loneliness and a sense of being ancient vying for my attention.

  So I hope you will come to Roma. There is nothing like a month in your company to restore me to a sense of the world once more. I know you are still attached to Great Karl’s Court, but it may be that you can persuade him that you can best serve him in Roma. At least do not turn from such an opportunity, should it present itself. I am thankful that at least you are no longer in Hispania, or those remote Wendish marshes where you have vanished from all contact but the Bond of Blood. Come to Roma, Sanct’ Germain. You and I could recall our long years, together and apart, and indulge in nostomania for a while, until memories becoming boring and we look to the future again.

  There. I have done with my spasm of wistfulness. I will not impose on you any longer, but I will send this off with Fratre Modestinus so that it will be in your hands within a month if all goes well and his donkey doesn’t founder. He is bound north in two days and will go to three monasteries before he reaches your region. Luckily the spring has not been a wet one and I understand the roads are dry enough for travelers to get through all but the highest passes without bogging down on the road; it is a reassuring thought that few outlaws bother with monks.

  Be sure that this comes to you with all my love, and a little nostalgia as well—the love is by far the stronger.

  Olivia

  Chapter Fifteen

  LEO III, POPE OF THE ROMAN CATHOLIC CHURCH, was haggard, still unable to stand upright but considerably more alert and active than he had been a month ago when he had arrived at Paderborn in the bed of a carrucum, concealed by a load of cabbages and sweet grass and protected by monks from Longobardia. The cuts on his face were a raw-looking liver shade and were going to remain as a constant reminder of the attack that had nearly killed him. This morning he leaned on the arm of Fratre Berahtram, saying, “I believe I can walk a short distance on my own, Fratre. I thank you for supporting me all this way.”

  Fratre Berahtram looked out into the neglected garden just beyond the door, and he hesitated. “Holiness, I think it is my duty to stay near you.”

  “I understand,” said Leo, sighing a little; he sighed often these days. “And in this time and place, I am sure I should avail myself of your care. You are a most devoted assistant I am very grateful.” He coughed once and winced at the pain it caused.

  “Exactly,” said Fratre Berahtram. “I would not forgive myself if any harm were to come to you, Holiness. I have sworn to the King that I would guard you from now until you return to Roma.”

  “In a garden in the castle controlled by Karl-lo-Magne, how could I not be safe?” As he spoke, Leo flinched. “You may stay near-by, but permit me to walk in the garden on my own, if you will. You have given me excellent care, Fratre Berahtram, and you may be sure of my gratitude.”

  It was less than Fratre Berahtram had wanted, but enough that he was satisfied. “As pleases you, Holiness,” he said, and released his hold on the fragile Pontiff.

  Leo took a short while to steady himself, then started forward, his step uncertain but determined. He made his way slowly toward the rear of the garden, looking up into the summer sky as if expecting to see Heaven itself suspended high over Paderborn. His sight was still cloudy from the attempt to blind him, and although his vision was improving, he could not make out sharp details and used his sense of smell as much as his eyes to guide him down the beds of fragrant herbs and opening flowers. He made a slow circuit of the beds of flowers and vegetables, to the night garden, where a few plants still remained, their petals closed for the day; his face was drawn, and even so mild an exertion as this had left him short of breath and faintly sweating in the early August heat. So that he would not appear as weakened as he was, he went to the wall where pear trees were espaliered; the first of their fruits were ripening. There he paused, his breathing strained, for his broken ribs were not yet fully knit. Much as he wanted to, he could not summon the words to pray, which troubled him: if anyone should pray, it was he, not just because prayers were required of the Pope, but because he had such good reason to be thankful for his life and deliverance. He lingered at this corner of the garden for some little while, contemplating his salvation on earth as much as Heaven.

  Fratre Berahtram came up to him. “I was worried, Holiness,” he said, excusing his behavior.

  “Ah, Fratre. Truly they say you are a great healer. You have brought me out of the jaws of death.” He fingered the long, livid line on his chin and chuckled. “I shall remember you in my prayers every day of my life.” The Little Hour of None was fast approaching, and he would have familiar words to recite, and the opportunity to recommend those who helped him for celestial favor.

  “Thank you, Holiness,” said Fratre Berahtram, trying to sound humble and pleased at once, though he was neither.

  “When all of this problem is sorted out, and I am once again in Sant’ Pier’s Seat, I shall reward you more appropriately,” the Pope went on, his fingers moving nervously in the folds of his long dalmatica. “You have a talent for tending those afflicted in their bodies, no doubt. Your patron Saint must be a powerful advocate for you before God.”

  This kind of pronouncement did little to end Fratre Berahtram’s frustration. He wanted to say it was the potions and unguents Magnatus Rakoczy had given him that had healed him, not any patron Saint, but he could not admit that the responsibility—and therefore Pope Leo’s gratitude—belonged to another. After all, he, Fratre Berahtram, had tended the injured man; and it had been he, Fratre Berahtram, who had been summoned to Paderborn, not Magnatus Rakoczy. Surely God intended that he should receive the esteem reserved for the man who had saved the Pope, not the man who had made the medicaments that he had used. “You are all charity, Holiness,” he said, hoping his silence would be taken as awe instead of the calculation it was.

  “Yes, yes,” said the Pope ruminatively. “You are an example that more religious should follow. I will let the King know of my high regard for you, and between us we should arrive at some suitable recognition for you.” He looked up at the sky. “So few clouds today.”

  “May God be thanked,” said Fratre Berahtram, uncertain what was expected of him. His stomach growled, missing the prandium that was just con
cluding; Pope Leo had not been hungry, and so he, too, had to fast.

  “Truly. Every day. I hadn’t realized until I was spirited out of Roma, how thankful I could be.” He smiled a little, one scar pulling down a corner of his mouth. “It has been a most instructive experience, surviving to come here. I have a new understanding of the Power of God.” He coughed. “And I am every day reminded of the Power of Karl-lo-Magne,” he added.

  So Pope Leo was in one of his cheeky moods again, thought Fratre Berahtram, frowning at this realization. He had yet to gauge a proper response to these Pontifical sallies. “As the Saxons are learning,” said Fratre Berahtram.

  “I am grateful, also, that he has sent his couriers to Roma to inform the Cardinal Archbishops that I am alive and whole, and in his care,” said the Pope. “It will cause the Byzantine faction some disquiet.”

  “No doubt,” said the Fratre. He was grateful when the bell sounded for None. “Holiness?”

  “Yes. If you will walk beside me as far as the chapel, you will increase my obligation to you.” He did not hurry, knowing it would be folly to arrive at the chapel out of breath; better to be late than seem to be ailing. “I am told the Saxons have burned another monastery and killed all the monks.”

  “That is what the courier said,” Fratre Berahtram murmured.

  “A great tragedy, not only for the monks, but for those pagans, if only they realized it. They are the ones who have suffered the most. They sin against the True Faith and will suffer for it when Christ comes to reign in Glory.” They were almost to the garden gate. “The courier reported much fighting. Do you think anything will happen to Great Karlus?”

  “God has preserved him so far, and he has sons to carry on his work,” said Fratre Berahtram as he opened the gate.