Night Blooming (6 page)

“We’re ready,” said the head of the peasants, and stepped aboard the ferry, putting the rudder in place to swing it down once the ferry was fully in the river. Beside him, two of the soldiers set their horses splashing into the current, Adalgis whooping at the relief from the heat.

The smallest of the mules balked just before he began to swim across the deepest stretch of river; he craned his neck as high as he could and angled his ears back in disapproval of what he had to do. Rorthger clicked his tongue and tugged on the lead, and the mule finally caught up with his fellows just as Rorthger’s dun gelding began to scramble up the bank, water streaming off his now-mud-colored coat. The mules came after him, far more surefooted than the horse, and tried to shake themselves off—they succeeded only in loosening the girths of their packsaddles. Rorthger led them to the side of the road, leaving a clear path for the ferry, which was now almost at midstream, holding its course precariously as the three peasants aboard it struggled to pull it along the guy-ropes while their leader held onto the rudder for dear life and his companion held the guy-ropes steady.

Rakoczy tapped his grey with his heels; the horse moved into the sunlight and the river behind the ferry, bringing his head up as the water rose above his chest; Rakoczy wrapped one hand around the high pommel of the saddle to keep from swaying with vertigo. He kept his hand on the reins but relied on the horse to choose the most direct crossing, for weakness overwhelmed him as he strove to maintain his seat. The pull of the current insidiously sapped his strength, his vision wobbled, and he felt his skin start to burn. Pressing his lips firmly together, he concentrated on reaching the far bank. He could feel the grey swimming, and that added to his discomfort, for even that tenuous connection to the earth was gone now. When the horse’s front hooves struck the first rise of the bank on the far side, a little of his misery abated.

The peasants were busy struggling to haul the ferry out of the river and up the bank. They shouted to one another and gave terse commands; Otfrid ordered Rorthger to bring the mules to help, which Rorthger did at once, moving them into position with the ease of long experience, setting the draw-lines across the mules’ chests and starting them pulling. The sledge lurched forward, then slid up the bank, coming to a stop ten strides from the river, the peasants leaping off to unload the sledge.

“Come on, then!” Otfrid called out to Rakoczy and the men still in the river.

Rakoczy sighed as his horse clambered up the bank to stand next to the sledge. He did his best to conceal his discomfort, but he also took the time to press as much water out of his clothes as he could.

“Don’t worry, Magnatus,” said Fratre Angelomus. “On such a day as this, you’ll soon be dry.”

“That will please me very well.” Rakoczy watched while the peasants put his crates and chests back on the mules’ pack-saddles under Rorthger’s supervision.

“You dislike swimming?” Fratre Angelomus inquired with false concern.

“I am not comfortable in running water,” Rakoczy allowed, knowing that the monk had watched him in the river.

“You fear drowning; many do, for they do not put their faith in Christ and His Mercy,” said Fratre Angelomus. “A pity. Karlus himself is a great swimmer. He has a pool, such as the Romans of old enjoyed. He expects his companions to swim with him.”

“I shall keep that in mind,” said Rakoczy. “Thank you, Fratre, for telling me.” He did not mention that he had heard of this swimming pool some years ago, when the project was first begun.

“If he calls you to his Court at Aachen, you will have to swim; all his Majori, Potenti, Primori, Illustri, and Magnati are required to swim with him,” Fratre Angelomus said, clearly enjoying himself.

“And so I shall,” said Rakoczy, and peeled back his glove to get the silver coins he had placed there. He counted out the six of them and held them out to the leader of the peasants. “One for each of you, and an extra for your patron saint. You have served us well.” He wondered where the shrine of Sant’ Wigbod was, for he saw no sign of it at the ford.

The leader took the coins and uttered a string of garbled phrases, the gist of which seemed to be gratitude for such payment He handed out the coins to his fellows, holding the sixth aloft in what appeared to be a dedication. Then they made their way down the bank, eased the sledge into the water, and worked it across the river, using the ropes far more easily than before. One of the men began to sing a vigorous song, and the others joined in.

“They sound like howling wolves, and they think such howling will please their patron,” Fratre Angelomus complained, looking over his shoulder at the peasants. “Hardly more than beasts,” he declared, then swung round to confront Rakoczy. “You should not have given them so much.”

“I provided money for Sant’ Wigbod, so the Church is not deprived; how can you disapprove of that?” Rakoczy said brusquely; the water left him enervated, the sun was adding to his discomfort, and his tongue was sharper than he usually allowed it to be. “Let us move on. The day will wane in a while.”

Otfrid raised his hand to order them on. “The inn is not far away now. Be glad of that,” he said. “We should all be dry by then.”

“We will have to wax the saddles,” complained Stracholf. “And all our leather.” He put his hand to his metal-studded leather hauberk, his face set in disapproval.

Rakoczy knew what was expected of him. “I can give you more of the oil I offered you before,” he said to all the men. “It will restore your leather quickly, without cracking it.”

Otfrid grinned. “Thank you for not making us ask,” he said, for asking would have imposed an obligation he was reluctant to establish with anyone to whom he was not related. “I will tell Great Karl that you have been generous with your supplies. It will please him to hear this.”

“That is good of you,” said Rakoczy, mastering his discomfort sufficiently to continue in courtly form. “I will tell him that I had good attention from you.”

Fratre Angelomus regarded the others with an air of superiority. “When I write my account of this journey, I will say that Magnatus Rakoczy came well-prepared.” He knew the advantage his literacy gave him, and he enjoyed exercising it.

“And I look forward to reading it,” said Rakoczy, adding gently, “I take great pleasure in reading.”

The group rode along in silence as the shadows began to lengthen and a breeze, warmed from the fields, strummed the leaves of the trees, lending a persistent sigh to the afternoon. Gradually the light began to change, becoming softer, more ruddy, the shadows longer and of a purple-blue that made the patches of sunlight seem brighter by contrast. The wind was brisker now, and not as warm, no longer as fragrant with flowers and growing things as it had been earlier in the day. Hawks and falcons and kites surrendered the air to owls and bats as birds came back to the forest to roost; the day creatures returned to their lairs and lays while the night-dwellers began to stir.

“There!” Otfrid cried out, rising in his stirrups and pointing. “The inn!”

It was a three-story wooden building surrounded by a stout wooden stockade; a glowing lantern built above the eaves announced there was room inside for guests; there were no visible windows, a discouragement to robbers and brigands alike. Little as most of the men in the party would be willing to admit it, they were relieved to arrive here at last, and to see the lantern burning in welcome. Otfrid rode up to the gate and pulled on the bell-rope to summon assistance, shouting, “We come in the name of Karlus-lo-Magne! Open to us, as you would serve him!” He tugged the bell-rope again, and the unmelodious clang sounded through the gathering dusk.

The wicket-gate, a short distance from the main entrance, opened, and a large-bellied man peered out. “Great Karl’s men, are you? How do I know you’re not outlaws, or worse?” He held a cudgel in his hand, and he regarded the men skeptically.

“We—Fratre Angelomus and I—are missi dominici, and we are escorting Magnatus Rakoczy and his manservant to Sant’ Martin’s, at the pleasure of the King,” said Otfrid. “Fratre Angelomus will tell you the same.”

The man laughed his scorn. “As if no monk has ever robbed anyone. Get down and bring me your staff.”

Otfrid dismounted and took his staff of office from his saddlebag, then carried it to the innkeeper. “Here. If you have seen one of these, you will know this is genuine. We have the right of tractoriae, and can command food and lodging from you, and fodder and water for our animals. If you refuse us, you can be killed for your failure to do the King’s Will.”

The innkeeper examined the staff, peering through the waning light for a short while, turning it over and over, examining it meticulously. Then he handed the staff back to Otfrid. “It appears genuine, so you are either what you claim to be, or you have killed the real missi and are raiding the places along the road. You know it has happened before.” He sighed.

“And there have been men who posed as honest landlords who have robbed and murdered those who put themselves into their protection,” said Otfrid. “We must each of us extend our trust to the other, or you will lose our patronage and we will have to make camp quickly.”

“I’ll open the gate for you,” said the landlord, stepping back inside the wicket-gate and setting its bolt in place loudly. A long moment later, the main gate was unbraced and the two doors swung open. “Enter, Majori.” His greeting lacked warmth, but he reverenced the men as they rode through, and he clapped his hands to summon his few slaves to take charge of the horses and mules. “I suppose you want a meal?”

Otfrid coughed. “For ourselves and our mounts,” he said. “Fratre Angelomus eats no meat, so bread and fish will suffice him, or cheese. My men and I would like more substantial fare.”

The landlord made a gesture of compliance. “I have a goat on the spit and I can roast geese for you, if you don’t mind having to wait a bit.”

“If you can give us wine and cheese, we’ll be glad to wait,” said Otfrid with a warning glance at the men accompanying him. “Magnatus Rakoczy has taken care of food for himself since we began this journey. I don’t suppose he’ll impose on you for his repast.” He looked at Rakoczy, who was still mounted, ducking his head. “Not that I mean to speak for you.”

“You are quite right,” said Rakoczy. “Good landlord, is there provision in your stable for my man and me to sleep tonight?”

The landlord regarded the stranger with shock. “Surely your man would—”

Rakoczy interrupted him. “I am traveling with valuable materials, some of which are part of the work Great Karlus has summoned me to do. I would prefer to guard them myself, than entrust them to others who do not understand their worth.” He did not add that he far preferred sleeping in a stable than in the cramped, windowless confines of the inn.

Fratre Angelomus interjected his own remark before the landlord could speak. “Do permit it, I ask you in the Name of Our Savior. He has done this all the way from the Wendish lands.” He sounded tired and annoyed. “It is better to let him do as he wishes.”

The landlord stared at Rakoczy, but knew better than to set himself against so august a guest. He reverenced the man again and pointed in the direction of the stable; the peculiarities of the Illustri were not his to question, and it was not worth the loss of his inn to argue. “My slaves will show you what you ask for.” He stepped back to give room to the soldiers and monk as they dismounted and surrendered their reins to the three slaves who had answered the landlord’s summons.

One of the slaves had brought an oil-lamp, and holding it aloft, he led the way back to the rear of the inn-yard to the stable. “There is water in the trough, hay in the loft, saddle pegs on the end-wall, storage in the aisles, and a smithy behind all.” He recited this as he had done many times in the past, without inflection or emphasis of any kind; he did not look directly at Rakoczy or Rorthger.

“Do you have grain for the horses?” Rakoczy asked as he led his grey to the long manger that reached the length of the stalls.

“That is extra. You will have to pay my master.” He bent double, then took up the task of unsaddling and brushing the horses the escort had been riding, taking care to check their legs and feet for cuts, strains, and stones. He worked slowly and with care, knowing any unreported hurt would result in a beating.

Rakoczy and Rorthger tended to their horses and mules, their work quick and easy, made so by long practice. The mules were the most tired, hardy though they were, and therefore in obstreperous states of mind. The largest mule attempted to nip Rakoczy and received a slap on the nose for his trouble. “Mars is in a bad mood,” Rakoczy remarked in the Latin of Imperial Rome as he went on unloading the packsaddle.

“He has been for the last few days,” Rorthger agreed in the same language. “But he’s eating well.”

“It’s probably the heat. I’ll add some salt to his hay. I’ll do it for all of them.” He piled the last of the crates in the aisle that ran down the center of the stable. “Break out my mattress, will you? Before I pile more chests on top of it.”

“Of course,” said Rorthger, going to do as he had been asked. “How much longer do you think we will need to get to Sant’ Martin?”

“Twenty days, probably, if there are no serious delays, and if all our animals remain sound, and we encounter no more hazards than we did at Sant’ Wigbod,” said Rakoczy, his manner detached. “But that may be asking for too much. The roads are poor, though they’re better than what the Wends have. The bridges are … well, you’ve seen them as well as I have. Some may be in better repair, but we can’t assume they will be. And we have more deep rivers to cross before we reach Sant’ Martin.”

“They’re not Roman-made roads, most of them,” said Rorthger. “Unfortunately.” He pulled the lid off one of the crates and unrolled a thin mattress.

“No, they’re not,” Rakoczy agreed. “If you’ll put that next to the—”

“Crates and chests. I know,” Rorthger said.

Rakoczy shook his head. “Pardon me, old friend. I am well-aware you are able to do all your tasks without a word from me.”