Night Blooming (28 page)

The smith laughed once, harshly, and flung up his hands. “What is that?” He pointed to a small ceramic vessel that Rakoczy had set beside the ingots.

“A crucible for the iron. It helps increase the heat” Rakoczy was becoming preoccupied with his work, and when he spoke he sounded distant. “It will help keep your tools from damage.”

Utto thought this over for a long moment, then said, “Very well. I’ll leave you to it See you do the forge no harm.”

Rakoczy gestured his compliance as Utto reluctantly turned and left. The Magnatus went on working the bellows until the smithy was as hot as the Holy Land at midsummer; but strain as he did at the stifling forge, no sweat shone on any part of his body, or darkened the clothes he wore, as he labored through the night.

T
EXT OF A LETTER FROM NOVICE
F
RATRE
L
OTHAR AT
S
ANT’
Z
ENO THE
A
FRICAN TO
F
RATRE
B
ERAHTRAM AT
P
ADERBORN, CARRIED BY TERTIARY BROTHERS OF THE MONASTERY.

Amen, and the Peace of God upon you, good Fratre Berahtram, for your many charities and good care that spared my life for God’s work.

I have entered my novitiate here near Langres at the monastery of Sant’ Zeno the African. Bishop Lemhaerht is master here, and of Sant’ Agabus the Prophet. He is a man of great zeal, wholly dedicated to the Word and to the preservation of the faith. It is said that before he entered the Church he fought against the Saracens and the Basques for Great Karlus, and was accounted a hero. With such great deeds to recommend him, I am determined to model myself upon him. Not that I anticipate achieving his position-it is far from my intention to do so—but I am eager to devote myself to God as he has done, and to hope to rise in virtue for it. It is frightening to face so enormous a task as the one that lies before me now, and I ask for your prayers to help keep me steadfast in my purpose.

You need have no such fears as I, for you have done more to advance the cause of God than many I have ever encountered. Your unstinting care of me has earned my gratitude until my death, and a place in my prayers from now until the dead are summoned to Judgment. I am certain that your reward at that glorious time will be great indeed, as God is just and repays each man according to his worth. In this regard, you will wear a crown as bright as any martyr’s.

My hand is still crabbed, and so this is being written by Fratre Estinnius, who is the senior scribe at Sant’ Zeno. He has been willing to do this for me in return for me serving as his guide about the corridors and rooms, for although he sees well enough close at hand, he cannot distinguish features or objects that are more than a pace away. In this partnership of adversities we have come to be truly friends, and I am grateful to him for all he has done to aid me as I accustom myself to this life.

How well you serve me as an example in that endeavor. I have struggled to keep myself patiently, to be obedient to the Rule, and to observe the Hours of the Canon in a manner worthy of such a monk as you are. I have been given no task more important than tending beehives, which is not the same as saving lives, but I strive to do it as if it were as significant as the work you have done, particularly when you brought me back from the brink of death.

My Abbott insists that I tell you that when I first began to improve, I wanted to curse you, and that foreigner who assisted you, for saving me. I could not think of myself as anything but a soldier, and a soldier whose right hand is shattered is useful to no one. But you showed me by your fine example, that a man might retire from the world and not be a coward for doing it, and that a vocation could be won as well as given. I thank you for all you have done, first to preserve my body, and then to preserve my soul. Few men in Orders have been able to demonstrate the meaning of service as you have done for me. It may be wrong to set my sights beyond the gift of vocation, but if ever God should grant that to me, then I pray He also makes it possible for me to extend my expression to succoring the hurt and ill, so that I may also provide an example for others as you did for me.

In humility and gratitude, on the Pope’s Good Friday, in his year 798, my supplication to God to bless you for all you have done for me,

Fratre Lothar

by the hand of Fratre Estinnius

Chapter Eleven

O
DILE STRETCHED OUT HER ARM
in languorous invitation; she lay on a low bed piled with furs and rough-woven blankets, her stolla open at the throat, her dark hair, unbraided, fanned out around her; she had anointed her body with oil of lavender-and-rosemary, and the scent was like a nimbus around her. “I’ve missed you, Magnatus; I’ve missed what you do to me,” she said softly as Rakoczy approached her. Although a fire burned in the hearth, the room was chilly; truant drafts skittered about the room.

“And I you. It has been ten days,” he said, his voice low and musical. He came nearer still, so that he stood over her, a faint smile on his attractive, irregular features.

“I didn’t think you’d keep track, being gone so long from my bed and still here at Aachen,” she said, her manner flirtatious and petulant at once. “Men usually don’t bother with such things.”

“But you did,” said Rakoczy, making this observation a caress.

“It is right that I should, being your mistress; the King expects it of me,” she told him as if he were unaware of a basic truth. “I was afraid you were bored with me.”

“No, Odile; not bored,” he said as he sank down beside her, one knee tucked under him, the other straight so he could rest his foot on the floor.

“You’re ready to fly,” she said, noticing his posture. “And you say you aren’t bored.”

“Hardly that. Rather I hope to keep from falling off, amid all this fur,” he said, amusement lending light to his dark eyes.

“Oh, don’t,” she protested playfully. “How could that possibly happen?”

“Do you tell me you have never slid on fur?” Rakoczy inquired as he fingered a tendril of dark hair that lay against her cheek.

“No,” she said, “not off the bed, in any case.”

“Well,” said Rakoczy, “it is possible.” He had a quick, sad recollection of Nicoris and the night they had spent in the Hunnish tent in the snow.

“I suppose I must believe you,” said Odile, letting her hand fall against his neck, using all her art to engage him. “You have been gone too long, Magnatus. I have yearned for you.”

Rakoczy opened the neck of her stolla more widely and bent to kiss her throat. “As I have for you,” he whispered, and felt a pang of regret, for as much as he had awakened her body, he had never reached her heart, or her soul, and that left him with a quiet desolation of spirit that he was determined to conceal from her.

With a deep sigh, Odile took hold of his hair, pulling him closer to her, murmuring, “Then why did you wait so long? We are no longer free to do all that we might wish. It is the Lenten season, and the Bishops forbid sexual union between husband and wife.” She was amorous and fretful by turns, and just at present her vexation was stronger than her desire.

“That means nothing to you and me,” said Rakoczy, touching the slight cleft in her chin. “We are not married, and we do not practice what they forbid. We are always within the limits of their limitations, be it Lent or any other penitential feast.” He pushed back from her a little. “The Bishops themselves are lax in obeying their own strictures. Let us follow their example, for how can they be wrong?”

“So I think, too,” said Odile, giggling but unwilling to relinquish her grip on him. “Optime does not stint in his dalliances for Lent.”

“And were this Passion Sunday, still, you and I have never done anything that violates their ban,” Rakoczy reminded her.

“For your goodness, no, you haven’t,” she said, a bit wistfully.

“For my nature, you mean,” he said, and touched her mouth with his, lightly but with the promise of passion to come.

It was some little time before she could speak again, her whole attention on the feel and texture of his lips, and when she did, she was a bit breathless. “Your nature. Yes. You told me about your nature.”

“You knew from the first that I would not be as other men have been to you,” he said gently. “Nothing has changed, for any reason. Not Lent, not the orders of Karl-lo-Magne, nor the hosts of Heaven can change what I have with you. Nor can anything change what I am. Since I came to be what I am, there has been no hope of returning to what I was.”

She managed to smile. “Do you think I would mind? If you wanted me as other men would.”

“I think you would have much more to lose if I were as other men are,” he said kindly but with a direct, pragmatic note in his tone. “Your husband’s brothers have said you would be cast out and compelled to enter a nunnery if you became pregnant by any man but your husband, and you have said you will abide by all they demand of you. The King allowed you to undertake this liaison for his own purposes, and your husband’s family has acquiesced in it, but they will not accept a child, so it would be an unkindness to give you one, even if I could,” he said, reminding her of what she had told him from their first evening together.

“And my husband is dead, and most of my children, so I have little solace in this world but what you and the King begrudge me, the King most of all,” said Odile, her mien an unreadable mask. “You swore that you could not impregnate me, but men have said this many times to women, and still they bear children, either as a miracle of God’s Grace, or a sign of men’s lies. You, though—I never thought it would be…” Her words trailed off, and she began again in a more rallying voice. “I don’t care, Magnatus. It may be that this is for the best. I am pleased to have you with me, and I will be glad of what you offer me. Who knows what may become of us? Life is short and uncertain, as my husband and children learned.”

Genuinely puzzled, Rakoczy looked deeply into her ice-blue eyes. “If you know having another child is so dangerous for you, why do you want to take the risk?”

“I want something that is my own. My son isn’t mine anymore, and my husband’s relations will permit me no consolation, no matter what I may promise, and only seek to use me to increase their position at the King’s Court.” She stared deep into his eyes. “Though they take it from me, I wish I had a child.”

“Because you are lonely,” said Rakoczy, comprehending at last.

She nodded. “I want something all my own,” she repeated, her face setting into stubborn lines. “I will give the baby to the Church, if I must, but I want to bear a child, just one more time. Can you understand?”

He could feel her yearning as he felt the heat from the fireplace; he hoped to comfort her. “Yes, I can understand loneliness. Still, how can you want to risk having a child by me, or any man? You tell me you would be sent into Holy Orders and any child you birth would become a foundling. How could you seek that for yourself or your infant?” Rakoczy found her emotions difficult to sort out and strove to clarify her intentions. “Unless you have a calling to such a life, I cannot believe it would be honorable of me to put you in such a position where that would be imposed upon you.” He had a sharp, unhappy recollection of Csimenae and Aulutis and reminded himself that for some women, the protection of children excused any excess.

“It would not be,” said Odile. “I have had a dream that shows me that I could go to my cousin, who would take me into his household. It would not be an easy way to live, but I could keep my child for as long as God let me have him.” She tried to smile again and very nearly succeeded. “So, if you want more of me than you have had thus far, I will not deny you.”

Rakoczy cupped her face in his hands. “I am more grateful to you than I can say, but I cannot do more than I already have. And after tonight, it may be too much.” He knew he would have to describe her peril from him, and doubted she would be much inclined to listen, not with such longing in her.

She laughed, a wariness making the sound edgier than she had intended. “How can what you have done be too much? You have given me pleasure and taken none for yourself.”

“Ah, there, Odile, you are wrong,” said Rakoczy with a knowing look in his eyes. “Every pleasure you have had, I have shared. Your satisfaction has been mine, and I am more grateful than I can tell you that you have allowed me to know this with you.” He bent and kissed her, savoring her lips, continuing a little ruefully when he could speak again. “But what we have done has a danger all its own, and you are not safe from it. I don’t wish to bring you any harm, if I can prevent it—”

“What harm could you do me?” she asked, becoming coquettish again. “You have awakened me to more pleasure than I have ever known before.”

“That pleasure is part of the danger,” he said, kissing the corners of her mouth.

“Do you impregnate with kisses? It is said that some men are potent enough to do it.” Her face was eager, and she gave him her full attention. “Is that what you have done with me?”

“No, Odile. No man is that potent, no matter what tales you hear,” said Rakoczy.

“Fastrada’s servant Angilberhta said that she was got with child by a kiss, and surely she delivered a girl,” said Odile, her shoulders growing tense with indignation. “You say it cannot be possible, but you have not seen everything. Angilberhta—”

Rakoczy knew better than to continue the debate. “If there are such men,
I
am not one of them.”

Odile sighed. “And you will not do the act to give me a child?”

“No, Odile, I will not, because I cannot.” His voice was low and steady, without chagrin, for he had long ago become accustomed to his nature. “None of my blood can.”

She laughed. “But they must. Or your line would die out.”

It was tempting to say that that was precisely what had happened, but he held his tongue; anything he said to Odile would be reported to Karl-lo-Magne and Bishop Agobard. “Well,” he admitted, “our numbers are few, and we are scattered about the world like so much chaff.”