Night Blooming (20 page)

There have been better markets in the last month, and there is hope that this year will finally bring an end to the shortages after the famine of three years ago. There are more swine and lambs for slaughter, and they say that there will be a good wine harvest, so that in two years all the casks will be filled again. Grain is still in short supply, but by August there ought to be enough to feed the city properly. If your holdings in Longobardia are in good heart, you may plan to sell grain in Roma to your advantage. It is worthwhile for you to bring your grain as late as you can, for there will be grain from the south early in the harvest, and it will soon be gone. Later in the harvest, grain will be rare again, and that from the north will be sought eagerly. If you allocate two fiscs for sale in Roma, you will be pleased with the profit, and you will serve the Pope’s cause, as well. Be prudent and keep your plans to yourself, for if others bring much grain to market, you will not be able to command the price that you can now.

Let me urge you to come to Roma as soon as you can. The Greeks must be checked or the Pope and the Church will suffer. When you come, bring soldiers, for they may be needed. If you send me word when you depart, I will make arrangements for your stay, so that you will be housed and fed in the manner you deserve. Do not assume the Church can do this, for it may be too hazardous to entrust your welfare to the Church.

I am always devoted to you, your family, and the Church, and so I swear before the altar of God, and set my hand:

Fratre Grimhold

Chapter Eight

T
HERE WERE FOUR WOMEN
sitting before the hearth in the private reception room, one of them carding wool, the others pretending to admire her work. All four were widows, their ages ranging from nineteen to forty-one. They were vaguely aware that they were being watched, and they were determined to make the most of this opportunity, for Paderborn had proven far more dull than they had hoped it might be when Great Karl had ordered them to accompany him. It was a drowsy afternoon, heavy with summer warmth and the ripe odors of the busy city; the shadowy interior of the room provided shade without much coolness, for the two narrow windows were high up the wall and faced east, away from the desultory breeze.

“Have you seen anyone, aside from servants?” asked Hathumod, the youngest of the four, whose girlish prettiness had recently started to fade, leaving behind soft features without much character to shape them; she was dressed in dark red to show she was still in mourning.

“Not today,” said Odile, at thirty-six, the second-oldest of the four; she had been a widow for nearly three years and no longer wore official mourning, but braided wine-colored bands into her chestnut-colored hair to show her status. “The Court has been off to some kind of market—horses, I think.”

“The King and his search for a proper horse,” said Ermentrude, the oldest; her hands were crabbed and her hair was the color of frost; she wore deep blue as the King’s mother Bertrada had done during her long widowhood. “He is as bad as a boy.”

Hathumod laughed aloud. “He is a giant. He must find strong horses, with long legs, or they will drop from under him.”

Leoba Baldhilde, who was carding, shook her head. “It is right for a King to have the finest horse. It would insult his dignity to have less than the finest.” She was a purposeful woman, needing to be busy all the time; her sister was a distinguished nun and had been encouraging Leoba to take the veil. “What Frank would want to see the King on an inferior mount? Not one, I suppose.”

There were murmurs of endorsement, and finally Ermentrude raised her hand to quiet them. “You cannot know who’s listening. We should not make light of the King.”

“Probably not,” said Hathumod, “but what else is there to do?”

“Odile could read to us,” Ermentrude suggested.

“The only books here are a
Rerum Naturae
and a book of
Descriptiones.
I don’t think either would interest you,” said Odile apologetically. “When Karlus returns, then we can ask for something else to read.”

From the gallery where he was watching behind a carved screen with Karl-lo-Magne, Rakoczy said just above a whisper, “Is she the only one who reads?”

“Odile, widow of Aistulf of Sens who died at Paris during the famine three years ago, along with most of their children,” said Karl-lo-Magne, nodding and keeping his high-pitched voice low. “Yes. She reads. Hathumod knows her numbers, but she reads very little.”

“Hathumod is little more than a child,” said Rakoczy.

“She has already borne three sons. Her husband died last year of a fever. She is willing to have a lover if he will honor any children she produces.” Karl-lo-Magne smiled.

“But she cannot marry again or she will not be supported by his family—do I understand that aright?” Rakoczy asked. “None of these women can.”

“It is true. Consider Hathumod: she is biddable, and she will not demand more of you than you are willing to give.” Karl-lo-Magne raised a single brow. “Well?”

“Does Odile have any children still alive?” Rakoczy inquired. “For it appears to me, Optime, that you are eager for Hathumod yourself.”

“She is a tempting morsel, and her youth can warm my cold, old bones.” The King licked his lips. “I can show her children honor, those of her husband and mine as well.”

“Then tell me about Odile,” Rakoczy pursued.

“I will,” said Karl-lo-Magne, and spoke a little louder. “She has a son, named for his father, who is in service to a Longobard noble who is faithful to me. He has been there two years. It is a good arrangement for the lad, and his mother, as well, since she has only her widow’s portion to keep herself. The boy is eleven now, as I recall, and will one day enter the ranks of my fighting men, if God spares him fevers and broken bones. There were other sons, and a daughter, I think, but none lived through the famine.” He studied Rakoczy’s face. “Are you certain about Odile? She is said to be somewhat willful. I can understand why you might not like Ermentrude, but Leoba Baldhilde is pleasing and industrious, and aside from her convented sister is unencumbered, but for her husband’s family.”

“She doesn’t read,” Rakoczy reminded the King. “I have a great many books.”

Karl-lo-Magne clapped his hands and paid no attention as the four women looked up. “I have been told that you do, by Alcuin. He remarked upon your books, in number and in quality. He was impressed with your Greek texts in particular. How many books do you own?”

“I have seventy-three with me in your Kingdom; twenty-two are part of the property I brought here when you summoned me,” said Rakoczy, fairly certain that Karl-lo-Magne knew that already; he said nothing of the hundreds he owned and kept in other places, and for a moment longed for the hundreds more he had lost over the centuries.

“So many!” Karl-lo-Magne marveled. “You must have spent a fortune on them.”

Rakoczy shrugged. “Books are a wealth of their own.”

“But seventy-three! Most men—if they must read—would be content with ten, or fifteen.” Karl-lo-Magne did not wait for any comment Rakoczy might offer; he leaned forward so that he could speak to the women below. “You will join us at comestus.”

The women all looked up sharply, and Leoba Baldhilde inhaled sharply, the color mounting in her face. All four women reverenced the King.

“Optime distinguishes us too much,” said Ermentrude, recovering enough to be gracious for all of them.

“Optime seeks a little relief from the rigors of the day,” said Karl-lo-Magne, and chuckled. “You good ladies will succor me.” He indicated the man in the black gonelle and femoralia beside him. “Magnatus Rakoczy will join us, although, unless I am mistaken, he will not eat with us. It is a custom among his people to dine privately, and there is wisdom in such practices.”

Rakoczy whispered an apology and prepared to leave the gallery.

“Optime,” called out Odile, “have you a book you could spare us? Your clerks must have some they have brought with them.”

“You are bold in your request,” said Karl-lo-Magne, not entirely pleased with her forwardness.

“We are bored, Optime,” said Odile, reverencing him again. “If we must spend hours alone, at least spare us a book, or a music-maker.”

Karl-lo-Magne stared at her for a long moment, then said, “Rakoczy has books, a great many books. Direct your pleas to him.” He turned toward the stairs that led down to the main level of the castle. “Do you have a book with you that you could allow the women to use for a day or two that it would not trouble you to lend? Something that would entertain them?”

“I have some poems, Roman poems in Latin, from many centuries past,” he said, thinking that Publius Ovidius Naso’s
Metamorphoses
would make strange reading for these women.

“Good. Excellent. The Romans always provide edifying texts,” Karl-lo-Magne approved. “If you will be willing to let them have the volume? If they harm it, I will command a copy be made for you.”

“It is my honor, Optime,” said Rakoczy, aware that the King would be annoyed if Rakoczy failed to comply with his request, yet certain that few monks would be willing to copy such a work as
Metamorphoses;
he decided it was a necessary risk.

“Very well, then,” said Karl-lo-Magne as he reached the bottom step. “You may use the book as a reason to spend time with Odile, if that suits you.” He waved his hand. “Since you will have a woman who reads.”

“I believe she would find me a better companion for that reason as well, for she would have, beyond the joys of the flesh, the additional pleasure of reading,” said Rakoczy. “She will share my high regard for books.”

Karl-lo-Magne sighed. “It is a fine thing, to be able to read. I always sleep with a tablet and stylus, in case God should bless me with the ability to read and write while I sleep, as He bestows so many other favors through the agency of dreams and visions.”

Rakoczy had been told about this habit of the King’s, and so said nothing disparaging of the practice. He reverenced Karl-lo-Magne, saying, “You have those who can read for you, Optime, which is a great gift. If God should inspire you, so much the better, but you still have the written word within your ken. Many have not the gift of reading, nor the clerk to read for them, a sad thing indeed.”

“You speak truly enough, foreigner,” said Karl-lo-Magne. “Well, come along with me. The mansionarii will have a place prepared for us shortly. I will not ask for any food for you, but I would like your company. It is a pleasurable thing to have a simple meal upon occasion, and in such company. Most of my Court will not dine until later, and I must sit at the High Table in the Great Hall then, but just now, you and the ladies are sufficient companions for me, delightful and undemanding. And the High Table need be nothing more than two steps above the company.”

“Optime honors us beyond our deserts,” said Rakoczy, knowing many of the courtiers would be jealous of this sign of favor.

“Nothing of the sort. You have brought me two armed men, as you said you would do, and I would be lax if I made no show of approval. It would also incline my courtiers who are less diligent in their duty to me than you have been to honor their pledges. For that alone I am grateful; know that you give me occasion to remind them of the benefits in not shirking their obligations.” He ambled along the broad corridor, the narrow circlet of gold on his brow his only sign of rank. “You have behaved well, especially for a foreigner. I will acknowledge your service, and so others will be taught to fulfill their vassalage.”

“If Optime wishes,” Rakoczy said, keeping half-a-step behind Karl-lo-Magne.

“I do wish,” said the King. “Do not question me.” The warning was plain, without apology, and determined. He paused in the archway of the Great Hall of Paderborn Castle. “There. You see? My Court will dine here tonight. The mansionarii will make it splendid with flowers and boughs, and a rhymer will tell of the exploits of Saints and heros. But that is for later. Shortly you and I will go to the women’s dining hall and sit with the ladies.”

“I look forward to such an opportunity,” said Rakoczy, and almost meant it.

“Be careful that you do not choke on a lie, Magnatus,” Karl-lo-Magne recommended with a wag of his finger. “You are troubled because you fear the jealousy of my Court. I will tell them what will happen if they do anything to harm or disaccomodate you. None of them will risk my displeasure for the sake of a foreigner without blood ties in Franksland.” He clicked his tongue. “It is your lack of relatives that inclines me to listen to you and to believe what you say: you have no good reason to lie to me, and many reasons to be truthful.”

“I am relieved to hear you say so, Optime,” said Rakoczy.

“If you should fail me, you know I will exact retribution from you, but if you continue to behave in this exemplary way, I will honor you, and be glad that I need not also show favor to your family.” Karl-lo-Magne touched his shoulder in salute. “You are worthy of my high regard, at least thus far.”

Inwardly, Rakoczy was sure this distinction would only serve to make the jealousy of the Court worse, but he reverenced Karl-lo-Magne, saying, “I am here to serve you, Optime.”

Karl-lo-Magne chuckled. “You are, foreigner; you are.” He strolled away, still chuckling, leaving Rakoczy alone in the gallery.

They did not meet again until shortly after the start of comestus, when Rakoczy entered the women’s dining hall that Karl-lo-Magne reserved for his more intimate meals. The King was seated at the High Table with three of his daughters, the four widows occupying a single table two steps below his; the intimacy of this arrangement was high tribute to the four women, and all of them were aware of it. Slaves and scullions were bustling in with spits laden with broiled pheasants and ribs of lamb, working the meat off the hot iron rods and into the fresh-baked trenchers set in front of all the diners. The odor of the food was strong and greasy.

“You are late!” Karl-lo-Magne bellowed, frowning angrily. “You should not be late.”