Night Blooming

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “So he has told me, as well,” Gynethe Mehaut breathed. Her throat was so sore it was hard for her to think of anything but surmounting the pain.

  “You may have your meal,” she said, indicating the bread, water, and wine. “Water first,” she added.

  Gynethe Mehaut was famished, but the thought of swallowing anything was appalling—she doubted even the water could go down her throat without intense agony. She ducked her head obediently and went to the stool. She lifted the skin of water and took the plug from its neck, then tried to drink. The water was sweet, and her thirst began to slake as she drank, but her throat shot new anguish through her with every gulp. When the skin was almost empty, she set it aside and reached for the bread, breaking off a bit of it and soaking it in the wine, hoping this would ease it down. She chewed carefully, trying to soften the coarse-milled grains. The pain was fierce but endurable, and she broke off more bread to soak in wine.

  “Are you well, child?” Abba Dympna asked, noticing the difficulties Gynethe Mehaut was having. Her manner was careful, as wary as it was gentle.

  “Sore,” she said hoarsely, pointing to her neck.

  “Your penance is severe,” said the Abba. “If the Bishop were not here, I would modify it. There is little merit in demanding such stringent disciplines.”

  Gynethe Mehaut shook her head emphatically. “No,” she whispered. “The Bishop has done what he has vowed to do.” She wanted to scream but kept silent.

  “It can’t be necessary to impose so much on you.” She sounded genuine but her eyes flicked from Gynethe Mehaut’s face to the crucifix above the cot. “You cannot be as dangerous as they say.” The doubt in her words leached the sympathy from them.

  “The Bishop…” She stifled a cough; her whole body felt warm, and her clothing seemed scratchy.

  “You don’t seem well, Sorra,” said Abba Dympna, taking a step back from her, as if afraid of taking contagion from her.

  “I’m … hot,” Gynethe Mehaut murmured.

  “If your penance is making you ill, you are being overly austere. God does not ask us to compromise our repentance with illness. When you are well, you may resume your penance, but now you need a nurse.” She sighed uneasily, keeping her distance from her charge. “Bishop Berahtram is a devout man, and full of good works. He doesn’t always see that others do not have his capacity for rigor.”

  Coughing again, Gynethe Mehaut was hardly able to say, “I will do … what I must…”

  “You are feverish,” said Abba Dympna, beginning to be frightened; if disease visited the nunnery, all of the Sorrae were vulnerable to sickness. “You should be taken to the infirmary. We must tend you, and end your suffering.”

  It was difficult to listen to this; Gynethe Mehaut knew it was meant in kindness, but she also knew it was dangerous for her to listen to such seditious words. She busied herself with eating the wine-soaked bread and inwardly asked God’s Mother to intercede for her and accept her suffering for the expiation of her sins. She was almost finished with her meal when she tottered and stumbled back, landing half-on, half-off her cot, a wail of dismay renewing the burning in her throat. Her face, flushed from wine and fever, was an alarming shade of red, almost as ruddy as her eyes.

  Abba Dympna stared at her in shock. “Demons!” she shouted.

  Gynethe Mehaut wanted to say no, that it was the wine—it had gone to her head, creating the color that so alarmed the Abba—and her overwhelming tiredness, not demons. She could not speak, and her attempts to breathe out the words went unheeded.

  “Demons! She is being taken by demons! Look at her! There are Hell’s fires in her! Oh, God, God, save me! Deliver me from this evil!” Abba Dympna used the flagellum, bringing it down hard across Gynethe Mehaut’s cheeks and neck. “Drive the demons out!” She struck again, beginning to sob with fear. “The Anti-Christ! The Anti-Christ!”

  The sound of running footsteps in the corridor brought another peal of ghastly laughter from Sorra Riccardis Vigia, and a jumble of shouts and cries as Bishop Berahtram and a group of nuns rushed toward Gynethe Mehaut’s cubiculum.

  As he pulled open the door, Bishop Berahtram rapped out an order. “Someone go to Sant’ Yrieix and bring Patre Drasius. Tell him to bring his pyx.” He did not bother to notice if anyone carried out his order; he knew a slave would be riding a mule down the mountain before Vigil.

  Abba Dympna was flushed and shaken as she struck at Gynethe Mehaut again, whooping in dread as she used her whip again and again. She screamed prayers and petitions to God for His intervention, then retreated to the far side of the cubiculum as the Bishop flung into the room. “See! See!” She pointed at Gynethe Mehaut, her eyes huge.

  Bishop Berahtram snatched the flagellum from her and stared around at Gynethe Mehaut, who huddled, blood spattering her clothes, her face bleeding from gouges and scratches left by the Abba’s attack. He came up to the White Woman and looked down at her. “So. It is known.”

  “No,” Gynethe Mehaut whimpered. She pressed her bandaged hands to her face.

  “This is the proof, isn’t it?” Bishop Berahtram exclaimed; this was all he had hoped for, a vindication of what he had done to Gynethe Mehaut. “Now we are sure.” He tried not to smile and almost succeeded.

  “She is foul! She is corrupted!” Abba Dympna shouted, doing her best to escape from the cubiculum; she could hardly stand for shaking.

  “We shall contain her,” said Bishop Berahtram. “Go to your chapel and pray. Cleanse yourself, Abba.” He took her elbow and all but thrust her out of the cell, shoving the other nuns aside.

  The nuns who crowded in the door showed a mixture of trepidation and rapt excitement as they peered in at Gynethe Mehaut. One of them, a woman with a withered leg, said, “She is dangerous.”

  “Not if we keep ourselves staunch in our faith,” said Bishop Berahtram, unwilling to give up his victory to such pessimism. “Pray for God’s protection, and you will be proof against anything that Satan might do. Go away, all of you. Go to your chapel.” He bent down and grabbed Gynethe Mehaut by her wrists and hauled her to her feet. “You are hot. It is a foretaste of Hell.”

  Sorra Riccardis Vigia’s laughter turned to howls that were enhanced by the echoes they created.

  “Anti-Christ,” accused a soft-faced nun whose mouth was square with hatred.

  Gynethe Mehaut cowered, struggling to master her skittering thoughts; the ache behind her eyes was sharp as fangs, and she could not overcome the hurt in her throat or the pain in her torn face. She struggled with the Bishop, trying to break free of him as she heard the door of her cubiculum slam closed, leaving her alone with him. She stole a look at him and saw the triumph shining in his face. “No,” she tried to say.

  “You are everything Bishop Iso said,” Bishop Berahtram gloated. “You are sacrilege incarnate. You are the font of evil.” He pulled her toward the cot and pushed her down upon it. “You summon up all the Deadly Sins, and you profane everything holy. You will be immured. You will be held captive here so that you cannot spread your contagion to other faithful Christians.” He held her down. “Your blood is the blood of perdition. Your breath is the breath of damnation.”

  Gynethe Mehaut felt the sting of tears in her scored face, but she could not stop herself from weeping. Why she wept she could not determine. Was she, in fact, the pernicious thing the Bishop claimed? Was she so treacherous that she could be the vessel of all iniquity and not know it? She had heard that Satan was a subtle foe, filled with lies and preying upon the weakness of men, but how was it that she had become so vile? Her woe grew, and with it, a grief she could not name. To have endured so much and have it all come to this! She keened, the high, piercing sound stopping Sorra Riccardis Vigia’s laughter at last.

  “You will be exorcized,” said Bishop Berahtram, his voice cutting through her wail with its icy determination. “When Patre Drasius comes, Satan will be driven out of you, and then, for your own salvation, and the salvation of all the Sorrae, you will be immured
. May you be redeemed.” He spat the last as he began to tie her to the cot, using his girdle to bind her wrists to the frame.

  “Too tight,” she muttered as the Bishop tightened the leather around her wrist.

  “You must not escape,” said Bishop Berahtram. “Satan is wily, and he will use you to bring down any who approach you.” He used his knee to hold her body down while he tugged at the girdle. He pulled her girdle from around her waist and used it to bind her foot to the bar at the end of the cot. “You will be restrained until Patre Drasius arrives.”

  “But…” She began to cough, her body wrenching against the bonds that held her.

  The Bishop pressed his knee down more firmly and worked on tying her other ankle. “You will not move! You will vomit up devils if you move!” He got off her and worked to tighten all his knots. Behind his outrage there was a hint of terror; Gynethe Mehaut sensed it and found it difficult to believe. “You will recite all the prayers of Vigil, and you will keep praying until Pater Drasius comes, and then you will Confess to him and to me. If your Confession is sufficient, and your repentance genuine, we will grant you Absolution, and—”

  “Immure me?” she asked, nearly inaudibly.

  “You should be thankful that God in His Mercy will let you expiate your sins, not question the means of being restored to Grace.” Bishop Berahtram was panting a little, his face shining from effort and ardor. “I will watch you through the night, and if you sleep, I will see that you regret it.”

  “I will not sleep,” Gynethe Mehaut promised in an undervoice. She knew her hands would shortly ache and then begin to lose feeling.

  “No, you will not.” This was a grim vow. He picked up the water-skin and sprinkled what little remained of it on her face and then used the cuff of his sleeve to wipe away the worst of the blood on her face. “You have been a trial to all of us, which the Sorrae have borne for the sake of their souls and the sanctity of the convent.” He put his hand on her forehead. “You are burning.”

  “I … hurt,” she strained to say.

  “If you are ill, then it is God’s punishment. But you will have to appeal to God for your healing,” said Bishop Berahtram.

  “You are supposed to be a healer,” Gynethe Mehaut challenged, the sound of it like ice breaking.

  “My skills are for the afflictions of the world, not the visitations of Satan or God,” he said, resenting again that he no longer had the medicaments he had been given at Paderborn. Not that he would want to use such valuable substances on such as Gynethe Mehaut. Panting, he turned around and flung out of the room, leaving Gynethe Mehaut in darkness.

  It was too difficult for Gynethe Mehaut to speak again, so she lay back as much as her tied ankles and wrists would allow; she was grateful that her arms and legs were pulled too tightly for her to relax for she was so worn out that if she had the least opportunity to fall asleep, she would. She stared up at the ceiling, trying to make out the various cracks and fissures that had held her attention during the long isolation of her days here. The room was too dark to see much more than the faint spill of light from the grate in the door, and she longed for a lamp, hoping that she would be provided one so that while she was watched, her guardian would not be lulled into sleep. She waited, anticipating the arrival of Abba Dympna and, after her, Patre Drasius. These two would provide an end to her uncertainty, one way or another. She recalled the time she had spent with Rakoczy, and it seemed to her to have been ages ago, so remote to her now as to be the stuff of tales. It had been sweeter than she knew to be with him, to enjoy his courtesy and his wooing. Few women were shown such high regard as he had shown her; he had been as noble a lover as anyone could wish for, no matter how he chose to love her. And how peculiar it was to think of love without addressing God or the Emperor. It was a difficult concession to admit that she wanted what she had had from him, and lying here tied as if for slaughter, she worried that she might remember the time with Rakoczy as finer than it was because her life had become so limited. Suddenly she realized she had been half-speaking her thoughts, her wrecked voice too hushed—she hoped—to be heard, but ruinous in what she said. At once she pressed her lips together and told herself that she should say nothing more, particularly when anyone could listen to her. She must not reveal anything about Rakoczy beyond what they already knew; she must never hint of their love. The word alone frightened her, and if it had that capacity, she could not bring herself to think what it would mean to admit the whole to others.

  The sound of the door opening startled her; she jumped as much as she could, given her bonds.

  “So you are held down,” said Abba Dympna, holding up a single oil-lamp. “Just as well. Who knows what mischief you might—”

  “No … mischief,” said Gynethe Mehaut.

  “Have you spent the time praying?” the Abba asked in disbelief.

  Gynethe Mehaut could not bring herself to answer. She made a sound that was not a cry of protest or a cough, but something in between.

  “You are bringing death to the convent,” said Abba Dympna, her voice sharpened by her barely controlled dread. “You are unnatural and you’re marked by sin.”

  It was too hard to answer, so Gynethe Mehaut shook her head repeatedly, and saw this did nothing to soften the Abba’s convictions.

  “You will Confess, and when you do, we will begin to rid the convent of your baleful influence. You will be walled up so you may harm no one else for the rest of your days. Then the demons may come to you as they will, and harm no one but you, who are already their servant” Abba Dympna stepped back two steps to the wall and leaned on it as if to be held up by it. “Your Confession is the only thing that will save the rest of us, so you will make it.”

  For a long moment, Gynethe Mehaut contemplated Abba Dympna, all the while vowing inwardly that she would do everything that she had to in order to satisfy the Abba and the Bishop, for she could not endure much more of the demands they put upon her—she would tell them everything, that was, but what had passed between her and Rakoczy: that was her one treasured secret, and she would keep it safe within her as long as she had breath left in her. As she promised this to herself, she hoped she could uphold her determination, not just for Rakoczy, but for the sake of her own soul.

  TEXT OF A DISPATCH FROM KARL-LO-MAGNE AT AACHEN TO HIERNOM RAKOCZY AT HIS FISCS, CARRIED BY SPECIAL IMPERIAL COURIER AND DELIVERED AUGUST 2, 801.

  To the highly reputed and esteemed Magnatus, Hiernom Rakoczy, Comes Sant’ Germainius, at his fiscs near Sant’ Cyricus, the greetings of Karl-lo-Magne, Emperor of the Franks and Longobards and Imperial Governor of all the Romans in the West on this, the 9th day of July in the Pope’s year 801.

  My dear Magnatus, loath as I am to act against you after the many services you have rendered me and duties you have undertaken without the promise of advancement or favor to give you the inclination to act, certain accusations have been laid against you that demand my most attentive response. In other circumstances I would not be moved by these various charges, for I have seen for myself how devoted you have been to my work But there are those who see this dedication as subtle enmity, and are alarmed that I have been willing to put as much reliance upon you as I have, and for that reason, I must reconsider the favor I have extended to you and assign it elsewhere, among my own Franks, so that no one can claim you as an enemy again.

  It is unfortunate that these accusations should come just now, when Bishop Iso is claiming all manner of vindication for himself regarding the woman Gynethe Mehaut, who, as you must have heard, has admitted to having congress with demons under the impression that they would take the whiteness from her skin and the red from her eyes, though they told her that marked her as their kinswoman. Had you not been her escort to Roma, few calumnies could be made to hold against you, but as you have been in the company of a Confessed diabolist—one who has been immured and for whom the Mass of the Dead has been sung—you have taken her taint, for all believe that no man can resist the lures of female
demons. I cannot stand against such certainties, as you must understand, and I am fully aware that there are cogent reasons for the men who are afraid to have such fears, for well we know that there are many devils and other agents of Satan loose in the land, all determined to bring down the True Church and leave the world in the hands of the most dreadful fiends.

  Therefore, reluctant though I am to do it, I am rescinding my grant of fiscs that I gave you, and I am requiring that you depart from them within ten days of receiving this notification. My courier will inform me of the day on which you read this, and he will remain to see for himself that you have departed. My second cousin Magenfrid will come in September to occupy the fiscs, and he will have my authority to imprison you if you have not left the fiscs by then. You may take your own belongings, of course, and as many horses and mules as you may need for your journey. I am sorry that I cannot provide you an escort to whichever border you seek, but as you know, the Great Pox has been rampant in the center of Franksland and I cannot spare soldiers, nor missi dominici, to guide you. I trust to your resourcefulness to bring you safely to the border you seek. You will be allowed to leave Franksland or Longobardia without any taxation being imposed upon you in my name, for in leaving your horses behind, you have supplied enough value to make silver an unnecessary addition to what I have already received. So long as you are gone by the time I have stipulated, you will be excused further charges against you. It is not much of a concession but it is the best I can offer you.

  So that your passage will be unhampered, I am including with this a passagius, which will authorize you to traverse all Frankish and Longobardian roads without let or hindrance. The passagius will be enforced for forty days, after which time, if you are still within my territories, you will have to make what arrangements you can for your journey, and on terms that are not supported by my favor. This may seem harsh, but it is as lenient as I dare to be, given the feelings that have been aroused against you here in Aachen. It is a sad thing when I must turn away from so resolute a hobu as you have proven to be—and if you were a Frank, I would not—but these are difficult times, and, as you know yourself, I am not in a position to risk offending my own, for it is their support that has made my Empire flourish; much as I hold you in high esteem, I will not compromise all I have worked for all these years. I am sure you will show your fealty in the speed of your departure. If you do not leave in the time I have ordered, soldiers will be sent to the fiscs and you will be taken into custody in my name, and brought before my Court to answer for your defiance; I must warn you that if this should happen, your enemies will have an opportunity to strip you of everything you own and to cast you into prison for the rest of your life. As much as I would want not to condemn you, I cannot make an exception of you, a foreigner, and then impose such sentences on Franks, for that would lead to insurrection and war.