Night Blooming

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “As soon as you’re done eating, you can rest.” Niklos put more water in her cup.

  “I wanted to bathe, but not tonight,” said Gynethe Mehaut. “Will it be possible tomorrow? At the nunnery we bathed before the Lord’s Day; oftener was called Vanity.”

  “You may bathe when you wish, for as long as you wish,” said Niklos, and stood aside so that another scullion could offer Gynethe Mehaut a dish of stew.

  She broke off the last of her bread and put it into the stew, then picked up a bit of the well-flavored meat. “This is very good, too.”

  “Rabbit may be common, but there’s no reason it has to be plain,” said Niklos, and retired to a corner of the magnificent room to wait for Gynethe Mehaut to finish her meal.

  “I am done,” she said a short while later, licking her fingers. “I’m going to need new wrappings for my palms.” Looking down at the floor, she saw there were more mosaics.

  Niklos noticed how her attention had shifted. “There are mosaics everywhere on the ground floor,” he told her. “Tomorrow, when it is light, you may look at them as much as you like. The smaller reception room has the most interesting ones, I think; it shows the seasons of the year in fruit and flowers.”

  She rose, swaying a bit, and put her hand to her pectoral crucifix. “I should probably sleep now,” she said, color suffusing her cheeks and neck. “I’m ready for my bed.”

  Obediently Niklos led her out of the dining hall to the nearest stairs. “Your rooms are at the end of the corridor. The door is painted russet and there is a brazier just outside. I can send you a maid to attend you: my mistress has four of them and she has put one at your disposal.” He paused. “Would you rather I escort you?”

  It was what she wanted, but she dared not ask for it. “No. I’ll find my way,” she said, and began to climb the stairs, her steps a little unsteady. “What is the name of the maid?” she remembered to ask when she was almost to the top.

  “Dysis. She’s Greek,” said Niklos. “As I am.”

  Gynethe Mehaut repeated the name twice to fix it in her mind, then resumed her climb; below her, Niklos watched until she was through the door to her rooms; then he went off in search of Sanct’ Germain and Olivia to tell them his impressions of their remarkable guest.

  TEXT OF A LETTER FROM RORTHGER IN FRANKSLAND TO HIERNOM RAKOCZY IN ROMA, WRITTEN IN ARCHAIC LATIN AND CARRIED BY HIRED MESSENGER AND DELIVERED IN MID-SEPTEMBER.

  To my most excellent master, the Magnatus Hiernom Rakoczy on this, the end of July in the Pope’s year 800, at the house of Atta Olivia Clemens in Roma, the greetings of Rorthger from the Magnatus’ fiscs near Sant’ Cyricus on the Stavelot Road.

  I am sorry to have to tell you that another complaint has been brought against Waifar, this one more serious than some of the previous ones: it is said that he raped and murdered a ten-year-old girl. The child is certainly dead, but I cannot yet determine who has done it. The villagers are convinced that Waifar is guilty, and nothing I have done has changed their minds. I have warned Vulfoald that if he tries to manage Waifar’s punishment himself, I will have to inform the King’s Court of this, and it is likely that their village will be razed and the population dispersed throughout Great Karl’s Empire: it has happened to other villages before now, and I do not doubt it will happen again. Vulfoald has said that he intends to have revenge on the criminal who has done this, and to that end has vowed before God to see Waifar suffer for what he has done. I have implored the monks of Sant’ Cyricus to speak with him and his villagers, to admonish them to leave this matter to you, but I have no confidence that this will be possible; revenge is so important to these people that threats mean nothing.

  On happier subjects: the foals are all doing well; Livius has two more since I last wrote to you, and they are doing well, although I have had to put one on to the speckled mare, for his dam is not thriving, and has been unable to produce enough milk. The yearlings are being worked as you have ordered, and I am pleased to say that the chestnut is showing real promise. I know you will be pleased to see him when you return.

  I have purchased a donkey and given it to the monks of Sant’ Cyricus. It seemed the prudent thing to do, given how testy they have been of late; their orchards have been blighted, and the fruit is shriveling before it can be harvested, which is a disappointment to the monks, as well as to the villagers, whose fruit trees have also fared badly. With poor yield from the orchards, the hives are not doing well, either, and so I am arranging a trade with the villagers of Santa Famiglia, which is distant enough that their orchards have thus far been spared: for their fruit and honey, your fiscs will supply them with cut wood and tanned hides, both of which they lack. I trust this meets with your approval, and that you will continue the trade as long as it is needed.

  Barley and oats are doing well, wheat a little less so; the end of next month should tell the tale for grains, but I see nothing to worry me in that regard. I have told Vulfoald that the new cooperage had better be ready to have barrels for flour, and soon, for once the harvest has gone to the miller, it will be wise to store it in barrels rather than sacks; rats find it harder to get into barrels. There are peas in plenty this year and they can be dried and stored for the winter; I have already set that in motion.

  Swine fever has struck the nuns at Santa Julitta and seven Sorrae have died. I have sent over two vials of your sovereign remedy, but the Superiora has declined to use it, saying it betrays her nuns’ faith in God to protect and preserve them in their hour of need. I have told her that she may avail herself of this offer at any time, but that it is important that she keep the Sorrae—all of them—within the convent walls until the fever passes. I have also told them not to take in travelers, for swine fever spreads easily, as you and I have seen many times before. I was not too adamant about your remedy because I don’t want it said that you lack dedication to Christ: that could work against you when next you must deal with the Bishops of the region.

  I have received a requisition from Karl-lo-Magne, brought by special courier, not his missi dominici, requiring nine horses from your stable for his journey to Roma. I have complied without cavil, as you instructed, and chosen the largest of the younger horses for the King’s use. I have also, without his order, sent three mules to him; from what you have said, he will need them crossing the mountains. He has campaigned in Longobardia often enough to value mules on such a trek.

  I have authorized three market-days for your fiscs to be held at the end of August; this has been well-received, although the Abba at Santa Julitta has asked that they include a morning fast with prayers for her Sorrae. I will arrange something with her that will not be too encumbering for the villagers. This is not the time to impose prayers on them, no matter what the Abba may think. I am trying to maintain cordiality throughout this region, my master, but it is a complex task. I will write to you again at the conclusion of the market-days. I will probably have to hold the letter until spring, or send it with the King’s troops, for once Karl-lo-Magne and his soldiers take to the road, no merchant will want to, and no private courier would be willing to carry messages. So, until the end of August may you enjoy the favor of all the gods, and the high opinion of the King.

  Rorthger

  by my own hand

  Chapter Nine

  LATE SEPTEMBER HAD TURNED BLUSTERY, with sharp-tempered squalls blowing up the Tiber from the sea. All through Roma tree-limbs broke and fell, slates crashed from roofs, and parchment window-coverings were torn off their frames. Men and women seemed to catch the spirit of the wind, for arguments flared over nothing, extending farther and doing more damage than was usually the case. Even horses and dogs became disgruntled, striking out at humans in displays of unprovoked pugnacity that brought immediate and heavy-handed repercussion. The morning was overcast, layered, frayed veils of clouds sweeping across the sky ahead of the increasing winds that promised a storm by the next day.

  In her plant-filled atrium, Olivia held up the parchment that Niklos Aul
irios had just carried to her, waving it at Rakoczy. “Sending out messengers on a morning like this! What was he thinking? The poor monk might be swept up into Heaven on such a day. Who is this Bishop Iso that he should make such demands? And by what right does he summon you to the Lateranus?” She put her hands on her hips. “The Pope is still at Spoleto. Why should you have to obey this upstart Frank?”

  “I probably don’t have to,” said Rakoczy as he packed earth around the roots of a young hissop sprout. “But it would be advisable.”

  “Nothing of the sort,” Olivia scoffed. “From what Gynethe Mehaut has said, the Bishop is trying to condemn her. Why should you help him?”

  “Because if it appears I am not willing to cooperate, it could result in added suspicions about Gynethe Mehaut. It would be very bad for her if it’s decided that she is not doing all she can to make herself available to the Church, all the more so because Bishop Iso is one who is convinced she is damned. I would rather not give him any more reasons to think ill of her; or of me, for that matter. He’s as vindictive as a cobra.” Rakoczy walked across the mosaic tiles, his attention on the parchment Olivia still held. “Tell me, when does the Bishop want to see us? How soon?”

  “According to this, this afternoon, between prandium and Vespers. At least that’s what I suppose he is saying.” She continued to read. “His Latin is atrocious—he has no elegance and he uses words like a bored student, with no regard for correct grammar, or form. And he assigns endings all anyhow.”

  “They all do,” said Rakoczy. “It is one of the many things that have been lost in the last five centuries, particularly in the north.” He picked up another small plant from its rough ceramic tray and carried it to a waiting pot.

  Olivia relented. “The Church isn’t much better.” She held out the parchment. “What are you going to do about—?”

  Rakoczy sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to inform Gynethe Mehaut of this—”

  “This what?” she asked from the door. She was dressed in a green stolla and bronze gonella, with a golden crucifix hanging from a chain around her neck. In the weeks since they had arrived in Roma, she had spent most of her time inside Olivia’s metal-gated house, seeking to avoid the kind of observation she had come to dread.

  “Summons—to the Lateranus,” said Rakoczy, and deferred to Olivia with a gracious nod.

  “So the impertinent Bishop Iso has ordered that you—” She broke off as she saw the expression on Gynethe Mehaut’s face.

  “He has … spoken with me before. He sent Priora Iditha away and set his Sorra to watch me.” She went to a shadowed bench and sat down, dismay growing within her. “If he is in Roma, she must be here, too. He wouldn’t leave her behind.”

  Rakoczy put the plant into its pot and wiped his hands on a cotton square. “If she travels with him, as she did in Franksland, I should suppose she is.”

  “I don’t want to see her,” said Gynethe Mehaut bluntly. “She pretends to have high regard for me, she watches me, she accompanies me everywhere, engaging me in conversation, and then tells the Bishop all he wants to hear. I don’t trust her. She’s dangerous.” She put her hands to her eyes. “I thought she liked me, but it was sham.”

  Olivia gave a harsh laugh. “Churchmen, and their women, rarely like anyone but those who can advance them in the Church, and even then, liking isn’t necessary: think how many of the Cardinal Archbishops despise Leo. He, at least, is discreet in his private tastes, which is more than you can say of most of them.” She rubbed her arms through her woolen sleeves. “What can you do about it? Is that woman apt to—”

  “The Bishop will insist that she remain with me,” said Gynethe Mehaut miserably. “I can do nothing more than comply, or face greater reprobation.”

  “But you are my guest, and I haven’t invited her into my house. I doubt the Bishop is so lost to propriety that he would foist his spy upon us,” said Olivia, trying to mitigate Gynethe Mehaut’s disquiet. “After all, I am a well-reputed Roman widow, my prestige is high in the Papal Court. To send a nun here would impugn my reputation. I will speak to the Cardinal Archbishops: Urbinus and Donatus will listen to me—and they’re Romans, so will uphold my honor, no matter what Franks may say.”

  “But Bishop Iso might—” Gynethe Mehaut attempted to protest.

  “Let him try,” said Olivia, a martial light in her hazel eyes. “Urbinus has ruled the Cardinal Archbishops—unofficially, of course—for more than a decade. And Cardinal Archbishop Urbinus has been my good friend for years. Your Bishop Iso will be at a disadvantage without Cardinal Archbishop Urbinus’ support, and I shall exert my influence to ensure your safety.”

  Gynethe Mehaut wanted to believe her; she took a deep breath. “I pray you are right, but I know what Bishop Iso has done before.” She rose. “When must we leave here?”

  “After prandium,” said Rakoczy. “We’ll go by biga, if Olivia will spare us one.”

  “Certainly,” said Olivia. “I have a fondness for those old, open chariots, myself. Besides, getting through the streets is easier in a biga than in a carpentum or carruca.” She pointed to a small tree in need of transplanting. “You can deal with that one next.”

  “With pleasure. Where does it come from?” Rakoczy studied the handsome evergreen.

  “Somewhere in Hind, or so the ship’s Captain told me; I haven’t seen one before,” said Olivia. “I like its smell—don’t you?”

  “It is pleasant,” said Rakoczy, and looked about for a sufficiently large tub to hold the little tree. “How large will this grow?”

  “I’m informed it will be as high as the second story.” She shrugged. “I haven’t actually seen one at full size.”

  “All right, then I’ll err on the side of growth. That tub with the lion’s head on it should do.” He carried the little tree to the tub and dropped a dead fish from a small wooden cask into the earth in the tub before setting the plant in place.

  “Why did you do that?” Gynethe Mehaut asked, coming closer.

  “It feeds the plant,” said Rakoczy, and explained. “They do this in parts of the East, and their plants flourish.”

  Gynethe Mehaut shook her head. “How can a … oh, as a symbol of Christ and life everlasting!” She held up her hands in an attitude of prayer. “That must be its virtue.”

  Olivia bit back a retort, and only said, “You may look at it that way if you like.”

  Rakoczy completed his work and saluted Olivia in the old Roman manner. “If you will order a biga, I will change into garments more fitting than these for the Lateranus.”

  “Of course,” said Olivia, and called out to Niklos, “Have the larger biga hitched up for Sanct’ Germain.” Then she studied the clothes Gynethe Mehaut wore, her head cocked and her lips slightly pursed in thought. “You’ll do well enough, though I would advise you to put clean bandages on your hands. You don’t want to draw attention to them.”

  “No, I don’t,” said Gynethe Mehaut, hiding them behind her back and ducking her head.

  “Not that you should be ashamed of them, either,” said Olivia, shooting a cutting glance at Rakoczy. “But you want to present a good appearance. This is all that is left of the old Imperial Court of the Caesars and the Cardinal Archbishops know it; they live like Princes, at least as much like them as they can with the world so changed from those times. You will do well to keep this in mind. Slovenliness may be very well for hermits and holy fools, but for handsome young women, it will not do, not in Roma, not at the Lateranus.” She went over to Gynethe Mehaut and laid her hand on the pale woman’s shoulder. “You want to give them as few reasons as possible to question you about what has happened to you. If you go among those vipers—meaning the Cardinal Archbishops—as if you are guilty, they will be glad to assume you are. But if you carry yourself as one blameless, they will respect you.”

  “They will say I am Prideful,” said Gynethe Mehaut, remembering all she had been taught.

  “Then they will be wrong,” Olivia countered. �
�I have seen enough evil in the world to know you are no part of it.” She gestured to Rakoczy. “Sanct’ Germain, go make yourself ready. Gynethe Mehaut will have something to eat—”

  “I’m not hungry,” said Gynethe Mehaut.

  “All the more reason to eat,” Olivia exclaimed in ruthless geniality. “You will not be faint when this upstart Bishop Iso talks to you.” She almost shoved Gynethe Mehaut to her feet and pointed her in the direction of the smaller withdrawing room. “Nothing fancy, just enough to keep you from getting light-headed by Vespers.”

  “You had better go with her,” Rakoczy recommended with a wry smile. “It’s easier than resisting her: believe this.”

  “Oh, I do,” said Gynethe Mehaut, her demeanor showing more anxiety than amusement. “I will do as you insist,” she said to Olivia, and went off with her.

  Rakoczy met the two women again at the vestibule of the house; he was very grand in a dalmatica of heavy black silk shot with silver thread and girdled with embossed black leather. His Persian boots were deep red, with thick black piping and thicker soles. A silver collar clasped with his eclipse sigil hung around his neck, gleaming against the silk. He reverenced the two women, and asked Olivia, “We’re almost ready to leave. Do you have a veil you can spare for Gynethe Mehaut?”

  “I have a full measure of sea-green silk that will serve; I’ve sent my attire-woman to fetch it,” she answered; it was apparent that she had decided upon this well before Rakoczy asked about it, and was glad to offer it to her guest. “It will reach almost to your knees, and that will cover your hands.”

  “Thank you,” Gynethe Mehaut murmured. “I don’t know why you should be so kind to me.”

  “Is there any reason I shouldn’t be?” Olivia asked, and when Gynethe Mehaut could not answer, she went on briskly, “Well, then, you will please me if you do this.”

  “The biga?” Rakoczy asked.

  “Niklos went to the stable to order it when you went to change your clothes,” Olivia answered. “It should be waiting. I’ve had my blue roans harnessed to it. They’ll certainly create a stir; they’re quite striking. Full brothers, both geldings; you’ll like them.”