Night Blooming (8 page)

“Amen,” said Fratre Angelomus.

“Godspeed,” said Otfrid, and set his horse trotting away from the monastery.

Rakoczy raised his hand in farewell, then said to Rorthger, “Well, shall we go in?”

Rorthger tugged on the mules’ leads and fell in behind Rakoczy. “I am ready.”

“I wonder if I am,” said Rakoczy in Greek. “What if we should follow after Otfrid, leave Sant’ Martin’s, and return to the Wendish marshes?”

“We would have made a long journey to no purpose,” said Rorthger in the same language. “And you would disappoint Karlus without good reason.”

“Yes. But it is temp—” He broke off as he came up to the monks guarding the gate. “I am Hiernom Rakoczy; your Abbott, Alcuin of York, sent for me.” He spoke in Latin and repeated himself in Frankish.

“I am Fratre Berengarius,” said the man with a silver crucifix hanging from a thong around his neck. “Our Abbott is expecting you. If you will come with me?”

Rakoczy inclined his head. “Of course.” He gestured to Rorthger to come with him.

“Your mounts and pack animals will go to the stable.” Fratre Berengarius pointed off to his right. “Your manservant may deal with settling them. He will have stalling provided for your horses and mules. When that is done, have the slaves bring your chests and crates to the collegium where rooms have been set aside for your use.” He stood still while Rakoczy dismounted and handed his reins to Rorthger. “The slaves will know where to take your things.”

“Fine,” said Rakoczy, and gestured compliance to Rorthger. “I will join you in a while, I must suppose. I don’t know how long the Abbott will keep me in attendance on him.”

“As you say, my master,” said Rorthger. “You must suppose.” He did not quite smile, but there was a quirk at the corner of his mouth that told Rakoczy that Rorthger was amused.

“Exactly,” Rakoczy responded, and went to the monk. “Lead on, Fratre Berengarius.”

The Fratre did not like Rakoczy’s lack of what he considered appropriate reverence for the monastery; his lips were set in a thin, disapproving line as he nodded toward a large building on the west side of the Cathedral. “That is the way to the collegium. I will escort you to Abbott Alcuin, who will receive you as soon as he can. He has many duties that require his attention.”

“And my arrival is the least of them,” said Rakoczy patiently. “I am aware of it, and I am wholly at his service.”

They went off through a group of people huddled together, their clothes unlike the costume of this region; one of the men leaned on a pair of stout walking sticks, trying to favor a grotesquely swollen ankle.

“They are from the Pyrenees,” Fratre Berengarius said. “They have come here for succor and the hope of getting land to work.”

Rakoczy had a fleeting image of Csimenae and her unholy tribe in their self-made mountain fisc; then it was gone, and he remarked, “The monastery must take in hundreds of refugees in the course of a year.”

“That we do. It is worst now, with the harvest coming, but all year, even in winter, they seek us out, from all over Karl-lo-Magne’s lands, and beyond.” He was unabashedly pleased to announce this. “Sant’ Martin is a powerful patron.”

“No doubt the presence of Great Karl’s chief advisor is not a disadvantage,” Rakoczy said.

Fratre Berengarius shook his head. “Christ leads them to us, for the salvation of their souls. We must protect them in the Name of Christ or disgrace our vows.”

Rakoczy looked up at the shoulder of the Cathedral, the transept that bulged with chapels and oratories. “A most remarkable building, this Cathedral. Indeed, the whole monastery is impressive, so well laid out and carefully kept.”

“The Prior is strict, and so is the Superior. The Rule is upheld here.” He pointed to a group of monks rolling newly made barrels toward the monastery brewery. “There is labor for all of us, and we know we must do it for the Glory of God.”

“How many monks live here?” Rakoczy asked, doing his own calculations.

“Two hundred twenty-six at present, forty-three novices, three hundred thirty-nine slaves, and sixty-one lay-Fratres, most of them one-time soldiers who have left the field of battle forever, and have given themselves to God instead of the King.” He was proud of these numbers and carried himself a bit straighter as he led Rakoczy past the brewers.

Rakoczy interpreted the vocation of the former soldiers as being the result of some disabling injury rather than a sudden awakening of fervor, but he said, “A great credit to Sant’ Martin.”

“Amen,” said Fratre Berengarius. “That passage to your right—take it.”

Rakoczy suspected that he was being taken the long way around to his destination, and assumed that Fratre Berengarius had been asked to do this, either to delay his arrival, or to show him the extent of the monastery. This right-turning path led past a cloister and a chapter house, then along the flank of the Cathedral toward a two-story building with a Roman arch over the center entrance. Rakoczy went toward the entrance, Fratre Berengarius immediately behind him. “Is this the collegium?”

“It’s the scriptorium; the collegium is behind it, facing the petitioners’ court. Go through the arch and across the courtyard. The next building is the collegium. It is larger and has more rooms than the scriptorium. Two or three will be assigned to you. Your manservant will be taken there with your belongings. A bed will be prepared for him in the corridor, to guard you.” Fratre Berengarius made this sound like an unearned honor. “He
is
a servant, isn’t he—not a slave?”

“I have no slaves,” said Rakoczy with utter finality. “And he will occupy my rooms with me. He can guard me better from inside than from the hallway.”

Fratre Berengarius had no answer for this idiosyncracy, attributing it to Rakoczy’s foreignness; he took advantage of their entry into the courtyard to change the subject. “You will see there are three passages. The one on the left is for Fratres, the others are for Magnati, Illustri, Sublimi, and Potenti. Bellatori are housed in the dormitory, when they are admitted here at all.”

Rakoczy smiled. “Which am I to use?”

Fratre Berengarius stared at him. “Which—?”

“Passage,” Rakoczy said patiently.

“The central one, at least today. The Abbott will say which you are to use in future.” He indicated a staircase. “Your quarters are that way. I’ll show you where when the Abbott is done with you.”

“Thank you,” said Rakoczy, making note of the narrowness of the flight, and the steepness. “You must go single file up and down those stairs.”

“As our Rule requires,” Fratre Berengarius agreed.

Rakoczy nodded. “Sant’ Benedict said little about staircases.”

“Our Rule enlarges his dicta,” said the monk, pointing to a corridor on their left. “If you will turn here?”

“Of course,” said Rakoczy, doing it. The long passage was two stories high, the upper level galleried with a series of small arches. The sounds of many hushed voices made the air rush and whisper like the waves of the sea.

“There is an alcove ahead. Enter it,” said Fratre Berengarius.

The alcove proved to be large, the size of a reception room, but lacking a fourth wall and a door. There was a long trestle table set up across it, and half-a-dozen men in habits stood around it, frowning down on a swath of silk marked with red dye; Rakoczy recognized the object of their scrutiny as an Imperial map from the Court of the Emperor of China. It was at least two hundred years old; age made it fragile, something the monks took into consideration in their handling of it.

“Sublime Abbott,” said Fratre Berengarius in a respectfully lowered voice.

A white-haired man whose tonsure no longer needed the barber’s efforts to maintain looked up, blinking as those with short sight were inclined to do; he approached Rakoczy in a friendly manner, not overly familiar, but genial enough. He stopped an arm’s length from the new arrival. “So you’re Rakoczy. Your reputation precedes you.” He came up to Rakoczy’s chin, an angular man with snapping blue-green eyes, a large nose, and hairy ears.

“And you are Alcuin of York?” Rakoczy inquired, knowing it was possible that this man could be his deputy. “Your reputation is known far beyond the territories of Great Karl.”

“I am he,” he said with a modest ducking of his head. “You came in good time. I hadn’t thought you would arrive for another two weeks at least.”

“The missi dominici and the escort who brought me urged us to travel with dispatch,” said Rakoczy, then took a chance and added, “I see you have a map from China.”

“We think so,” said Alcuin. “Perhaps you can assist us on this point.”

“Certainly,” said Rakoczy, and stepped up to the table. “It is an old map, as I’m sure you know.”

“Yes,” said Alcuin. “I thought so, too.”

Rakoczy had the uneasy feeling that this was some kind of test, and that the whole encounter had been staged for his benefit. He reverenced the monks around the table, then bent over the silk. He read the names of rivers and cities, but decided not to say too much of this, for he did not know what the monks had already been told about the map, or what they had decided on their own about it. “This is of the northern part of China, from the ocean to the far end of the Chinese lands, near the Celestial Mountains, from the lands of the Mongols on the north to the edge of the Land of Snows on the south, a considerable area to cover,” he told them. “Those mountains are extremely high, and they cannot be easily crossed, so the route is an important one, and also vulnerable. The trade routes go along the northern side of their foothills, where the lands are long, empty plains and arid wastes.” The last time he had traveled the Old Silk Road had been in the Year of Yellow Snow, when the cold never released its grip on the land at any part of the year, and the skies had dulled and darkened. “There is a city here.” He touched the silk lightly. “Kara-khorum. Many caravans go through it, from Byzantium and the peoples north of the Caspian Sea, the inland sea beyond the Black Sea.”

“There is no such sea,” one of the monks said scornfully.

“But there is,” Rakoczy countered mildly. “I have seen it.”

“A man may claim anything when no one can challenge him,” the monk persisted, his demeanor resistive. “You could tell us anything and expect us to believe you.”

“Fratre Roewin,” Alcuin admonished him gently. “Let the Magnatus tell us what he knows.”

“But he takes us for fools, Sublime Abbott,” Fratre Roewin protested. “He is repeating fables for credulous imbeciles.”

“Which we may be, and ignorant as well,” said Alcuin. “Therefore it behooves us to listen. We will judge what he says later, when we have had time to discuss it.”

Rakoczy was now certain that this was a test and that it had been prepared for him. He studied the map, choosing what to tell them about it, cognizant of the fact that the monks had already received some information about this treasure that they were measuring against what he told them. “This map is old, good Fratres, more than a hundred years, by the look of it, and you ask me to tell you what I know about it, though it is ancient How long have you had it?”

“Is that important?” asked the young monk.

“Not particularly, but I know that from time to time spies smuggle maps out to the Mongols, who want to raid in China.” Rakoczy lifted his fine brows inquiringly. “Consider the use such a map could have, how misleading it could be. A foe, with such incorrect information, might make crucial errors, which the Emperor of China would turn to his advantage. And regional warlords could have a misleading map prepared that would give his men the advantage against their rivals. This does not appear to be one such, but if it is a successful ruse, it should not appear deceptive in any way. Such maps are more readily to be had, and they are often sold to the credulous, and such maps are occasionally and deliberately smuggled out of China, intentionally deceitful, to confound the Mongols, and other enemies beyond the borders of China; this may be one such.”

“It came into our hands a decade ago,” said Alcuin, waiting expectantly.

“From what source? Can you tell me?” Rakoczy said.

“There was a delegation from Byzantium, and this was among the gifts they brought to Great Karl,” said Alcuin. “More than that, we do not know.”

“Well, it is from China, that is beyond question; it is authentic, not a copy, so you may rely on what it depicts, unless it was designed to cozen the enemies of China. It is accurate as far as I can tell, but that may be part of its usefulness,” said Rakoczy, who was certain this was not the case; he was certain the map was authentic, but he did not want to speak against the group wisdom. “The Emperor of China has many maps, but whether this is one of them, I cannot tell.” In fact, he had read the characters on the side of the map that said it had been commissioned by the Governor of Kuan-Nei Province for the use of his couriers; he decided to keep that information to himself. “It marks fortresses and towns, and merchants’ roads. It also shows rivers and lakes, with information about how to cross.” He indicated two of them, then pointed to the next features on the silk. “These towers are the fortresses, and this walled house means a village.”

“How can you be sure?” The monk who asked was young, perhaps no more than twenty. “Couldn’t they be something else?”

Rakoczy wondered what the monks had been told, and by whom. “I have seen other Chinese maps,” he said. “That is their tradition. They distinguish such buildings in that manner.”

“How do we know you are reporting aright?” The young monk folded his arms into the sleeves of his habit.

“You invited me here so that you could ask these questions of me, and I have come. Why would I lie to you, or mislead you—particularly now, when I have only just arrived?” Rakoczy fixed the young man with his dark eyes, waiting until the monk lowered his eyes. “I have no reason to—”

Alcuin made a gesture that stopped the rankling. “I think we must accept Magnatus Rakoczy’s good-will and just intentions until we find otherwise.”

“He comes from the East,” said the shortsighted monk. “The Byzantines rule in the East.”

“So they do,” said Rakoczy. “And the Bulgars. Beyond them is the Khazar Empire, and dry realms of the Turks and Mongols, Finally there is the vast land of China, that reaches to the Unknown Sea.” He recalled his cold journey again, and said, “Byzantium is only a small part of the world, Fratres, and great though it may be, there are greater still to be found.”