Night Blooming (16 page)

“It will be done, Magnatus,” said Hradbert, reverencing his employer.

Rakoczy went out of the stable toward the bake-house, making a mental note to approach the local miller in the hope of finding one of his sons to operate the mill half-a-Roman-league distant from his villa. That would reassure the cook and lessen the worries of the mansionarii, most of whom feared being starved out of this foreigner’s service; it had happened in other places, and without plans to avoid such a fate, it could happen here. He went past the creamery, which still lacked a door—that would be a task for the next few days. He was about to enter the villa through the kitchen door when he heard a minor commotion beyond the herb-garden. He listened a moment, then started toward the voices.

Just beyond the garden wall, one of Rakoczy’s mansionarii was in a heated argument with a local peasant. They were so intent on their dispute that neither of them heard Rakoczy approach, and when he spoke, they both jumped and immediately fell silent.

“I haven’t a very good command of the regional dialect,” Rakoczy said politely, “but I gather one of you believes I have wronged you in some way.”

This mannerly interjection did nothing to induce either man to talk; the peasant began to back away.

“What is the trouble here?” Rakoczy said a bit more firmly. “If you will tell me, I will try to redress any wrong I may have done.”

The peasant let forth a torrent of words, so rough and fast that Rakoczy had trouble following them. Finally the peasant made a sign to ward off the Evil Eye and began to move away from the garden wall. “Foreigner!” he accused; he pulled his cuculla of rough-woven wool close around him as if to block out the world, and his goat-skin hood hid his features in its shadow.

“Wait!” Rakoczy ordered, and saw the peasant halt in his tracks. “What is the matter?”

“My uncle says you have put a spell on this place,” the mansionarius admitted in an abashed voice. “I have tried to tell him you have not, but he—”

“A spell?” Rakoczy watched the peasant, trying to understand his fear. “What kind of spell does he think I have cast?”

“He thinks you have come to make all the peasants your slaves, the way Comes Udofrid did by force of arms,” the mansionarius explained nervously, afraid to look either at his master or his uncle. “He says all foreigners are bound to do us harm.”

“I am not Comes Udofrid,” said Rakoczy, trying to recall what he had been told about the previous tenant of this villa and the fiscs it commanded; he had heard that the man was impetuous and irascible, but neither of those characteristics was unusual or frowned upon among the Frankish nobles. “If some wrong was done on his authority, I will do all that I can to put that to rights, though nothing of him or his attaches to my blood. I do this in the name of accord.”

“Ha!” The peasant pointed to Rakoczy, and said in a reasonably clear accent, “You are as bad as any of them.”

“Comes Udofrid was murdered by his wife’s brother, who was said also to be her lover, and the Church spoke against them for their crimes,” said the mansionarius. “Comes Udofrid demanded rents beyond what the peasants in the village could pay, and so they didn’t warn him about his wife’s brother, though they knew what was going to happen. Four leaders in the village had their eyes plucked out for not warning Comes Udofrid of the treachery of his wife.” The mansionarius stared down at his feet. “My father was one of them. Now my uncle is afraid that I will suffer the same fate.”

“Not on my account,” said Rakoczy. “I am not married, so no wife can betray me—”

“Worse, then,” the peasant exclaimed. “You will command our daughters for your pleasure. One of the women of our village has a daughter of the King’s get.” He was speaking slowly and with great care so Rakoczy would understand him.

Karl-lo-Magne had bastards everywhere, and Rakoczy knew this as well as anyone in Franksland. “She is not alone,” he said, not wanting to be drawn into speaking against the King.

“It is one thing to have a King’s bastard,” said the peasant. “It is another to have one by a foreigner who puts spells on things.”

The mansionarius caught his lower lip in his teeth. “Forgive my uncle.”

Rakoczy shook his head. “I have no reason to forgive him; he is seeking to protect his own, which any man must do.” He paused, then said, “If I give you my Word that I will not impose on your women, will that assure you?”

The peasant rubbed the back of his neck. “An oath to a peasant has nothing to bind it. You may say anything that pleases you and no one will expect you to honor it.”

“My Word to anyone is bond to me,” said Rakoczy in a quiet voice that stilled all protest.

“Until it is inconvenient,” the peasant declared. “Foreigners cannot be held to account.”

Rakoczy stiffened. “I am not used to being mistrusted. You have my Word, and that is sufficient.”

The peasant held up his finger. “If any woman should come to me and say that you have got her with child—” It was daring of him to challenge Rakoczy so openly.

“No woman has had child of me before,” Rakoczy said bluntly. “And I will not demand of a woman what she will not give willingly.”

“Fine pledges! You wear silks and have jewels on your weapons, and you have the regard of the King—do you think any woman would be fool enough to deny you?” the peasant scoffed. “Swear as you will, I’ll not—”

“Uncle!” The mansionarius had blanched in shock. “Foreigner or not, his tenancy is a grant from the King himself, and you risk all my father lost.”

“So!” the peasant burst out. “It comes to that!”

The mansionarius gave the peasant a pleading look “Uncle, leave me, I beg you. You may scorn this Magnatus, but I cannot.”

“You can, if you want to come back to the village again. Doubarth the sawyer will have you as his apprentice and heir if you return.” The peasant pointedly ignored Rakoczy.

“Doubarth has two apprentices already, and I have the joiner’s trade my father taught me while he lived,” said the mansionarius. “Go, Uncle. Please.”

“I will, but do not ask me to come again,” the peasant grumbled, and turned his back on his nephew.

Watching him go, the mansionarius sniffed back tears. “He didn’t mean anything, Magnatus. He is not always wise.”

“He seems frightened to me, and fear rarely imparts wisdom,” said Rakoczy. “Are the rest of the villagers like him?”

“Some are,” the mansionarius admitted. “The Priest has said that the King would not send such misfortune to us twice.”

“So there is a Priest in the village, even with a monastery and a nunnery so near.” Rakoczy frowned. “Why is that?”

“The village is the other direction from Sant’ Cyricus and Santa Julitta,” the mansionarius reminded him. “This villa is half-way between them.”

“Ah,” said Rakoczy, thinking again that the maps Karl-lo-Magne’s clerks had provided him were far from accurate.

“My uncle … You will not…” The mansionarius looked at Rakoczy. “He didn’t mean…”

“Your uncle is safe, for the time being. I will not allow him to encourage insurrection, for that would be against the King,” said Rakoczy, and studied the young man. “What is your name?”

It was a most unusual question, for those of high rank rarely bothered to know the names of their lesser servants. The mansionarius almost choked. “Bufilio, I am Bufilio,” he said.

“Well, Bufilio, I am grateful for what you have shown me, however inadvertently.” Rakoczy glanced after the retreating peasant. “You would do well to be careful around your uncle.”

“I doubt he will speak to me again,” said Bufilio. “He is a hard man. He has sent three of his children away from the village because they would not do as he commanded them. He has just two left, and neither would defy him in anything, lest he send them away as well.”

“Truly a hard man,” Rakoczy agreed. “But if you do find yourself in his company, caution him. I can give him my Word, but no other man of rank need abide by it.”

“I’ll tell him, Magnatus.” Bufilio coughed twice and ducked his head. “I should not stand here talking to you. It isn’t fitting.”

“Before you go, tell me your uncle’s name and his occupation.” It was an unusual request, but there was nothing frightening in the Magnatus’ manner. “In case I should need to address him again.”

“He is Marbonet, the village skinner. His cousin is the tanner. Both are leaders among the people.” Bufilio coughed. “I have duties to attend to.”

“Then leave, if you must.” Rakoczy stepped aside, causing Bufilio acute embarrassment at this very minor courtesy. As the young mansionarius rushed off, Rakoczy started back toward the villa, where he could hear the men in the dining hall singing raucously. He realized it was going to be a demanding afternoon.

The cook was in the kitchen garden cutting the last remaining winter kohlrabi out of the vegetable patch, muttering to himself and glaring at the various empty sections in the beds. He reverenced Rakoczy as the Magnatus approached. “God give you good day.”

“And you, Wolkind,” said Rakoczy. “I see you are getting ready for comestus.”

“They are gluttons, every one of them. Their prandium should have contented them through the night,” the cook grumbled. “You do not have to give them more than what you have already provided.”

“Perhaps. But we do not want it said that the new Magnatus keeps a stingy board, do we?” Rakoczy let this hang in the air between them. “You have a fine reputation—why discredit it?” His smile was fleeting. “Well? What do you say, Wolkind?”

The cook nodded. “You have the right,” he admitted. “But this garden is neglected and many of the plants have been taken away, probably by the peasants. I must have seeds in the ground, and soon, if I am to do anything beyond peas-porridge for the household.”

“Purchase cheese and milk, and cabbages, from the peasants,” Rakoczy recommended.

“But they owe you that in rents, as tenants of the fisc on which they live,” Wolkind protested. “You can claim it as your right.”

Rakoczy shook his head. “If I were a Frank, perhaps, but I know none of them trust foreigners, and will resent every claim I make on them. So I will give you silver and you will give good value to them.”

“They will not be persuaded with money,” Wolkind warned him.

“No, but that will lessen their anger,” said Rakoczy, a world-weary note in his voice. “For the time being, this will be enough.”

The cook could not keep the shock out of his face. “They are peasants! They deserve whatever you demand of them. If you accommodate them, they will become unmanageable. Make them submit to your will and that will keep them well in hand.”

Rakoczy changed the subject. “When is the first spring market?”

“In the village, or in Stavelot?” Wolkind asked, knowing it was unwise to force any Magnatus to discuss anything with a lesser person.

“Either.”

“The village will have a market in six or seven weeks, when the sows have given birth and the piglets can be taken from their mothers. Stavelot has a market the week following the Resurrection Mass, and many come from leagues and leagues away.” The cook dropped the last kohlrabi into his basket and said, “It lasts for four days, and if you will permit, I will attend the first two days, to restock my larder and my garden. I will also want to buy chicks, and ducklings, and goslings.” He hesitated. “You will have to give me silver, for the land hasn’t been harvested here in more than a year.”

“So I surmise,” Rakoczy said. “You shall have a purse of silver coins. All I ask is you spend wisely.” He saw the cook blink. “You may use the carrucum for your travels, and yoke an ox to pull it.”

“You have no oxen, Magnatus,” Wolkind reminded him.

“I will have. I will purchase oxen and a mule, if I can find one.” He started toward the kitchen, wanting to get out of the sun, which, in spite of his soles being lined in his native earth, was beginning to pain him. “See that my guests are well-fed and I will be pleased. You are not to fret about your supplies, or the cost: I will see that you are not skimped.”

Wolkind reverenced Rakoczy. “It is as you wish, Magnatus.”

The kitchen was uncomfortably hot, for a gutted and dressed pig was being turned on the main spit in the open hearth, the first effort that would become comestus at sundown. Two scullions pricked the flesh to let the fat run, and then poured beer mixed with garlic over it. The smell was just beginning to fill the room, but it would soon be overwhelming and the scullions would be drinking as much of the beer as they were slathering on the pig. Two of the mansionarii were finishing their comestus at the old table in the corner near the window; they had a loaf of black bread split between them, and each used his portion to sop up the last goose grease from the skeleton splayed on the tray they shared.

Rakoczy went through the kitchen and climbed the narrow stairs to the second floor. The songs of the men in the dining hall roared their echoes along the stone walls, turning into a chaos of sound in which all words and melody were lost. The noise followed him all the way to the next staircase, which led to the top of the villa and two sloped-ceilinged rooms that Rakoczy had chosen for his private use. He saw with satisfaction that his red lacquer chest had already been brought to the larger of the two rooms. Entering the smaller room, he saw the chest containing his native earth set up with a thin mattress atop it. He laid his hand upon it and felt the annealing presence it provided. Sighing with relief, he stood for a while, then stepped back into the larger room as he heard men coming up the stairs.

“This is heavy,” one of the mansionarii protested.

“It isn’t our right to question the Magnatus,” said the other.

“What is this thing?” the mansionarius asked.

“A stone beehive, as the camerarius said,” the second man answered, and grunted with the effort of raising the athanor up another tread. “Don’t talk so loudly. Someone will overhear us.” He steadied himself on the stair.

“A beehive? Or an oven,” the first said, guessing more accurately than the second.

“What would a Magnatus bake?” the second asked, chuckling even as he groaned. “He isn’t a baker, is he? What would he use an oven for?”