Come Twilight (11 page)

The mention of Gardingio Witteric brought a frown to Rogerian’s face. “His gratitude left much to be desired.”

“He had no reason to be grateful,” said Sanct’ Germain. “The juggler died of fever. Not I, not anyone could have prevented it. The bone was too badly splintered. The sickness had gone too deep. The sovereign remedy was not enough to preserve his life.” He swung around to look directly at Rogerian. “And do not tell me my blood would have spared him: I had no time to prepare him for my life even had he sought it.” He thought briefly of Nicoris, who had ultimately refused the gift he gave her; she had died the True Death not quite two hundred years ago but the memory of her loss was still a stern rebuke within him.

“He need not have died,” said Rogerian stubbornly.

Sanct’ Germain came back toward his bondsman. “Many others have died before now and you did not resent it; there is little place in the world for those of my blood: we are tigers, not wolves, and our nature makes us solitary by necessity. Those who are prepared to live as vampires must are few in number and far apart, for their own protection as well as the protection of those around us. You have understood this from the time you first learned what I am. What was it about Alboin that was different?”

Rogerian pulled up the bucket before he answered. “I do not know. Perhaps it was his youth. He seemed so . . . so cheated by life.”

“Ah,” Sanct’ Germain said, nodding his understanding. “He had that about him, did he not.” He went toward the other street in swift, long strides. “I will find a place we can shelter for the night, and then I will go into the forest and find a meal we can share: blood for me, flesh for you.”

“That would be welcome,” said Rogerian, giving water to Sanct’ Germain’s gray.

Sanct’ Germain stood still for a short while, then said, “I am sorry I could not save him; the sovereign remedy is usually sufficient to stop fever, but this time it could not.”

“That does not mean he had to die,” said Rogerian at his most blunt.

“No, it does not,” Sanct’ Germain conceded. “If I had more time, and an athanor to make more of the remedy, he might have lived.” He looked about the village. “You cannot doubt that I have done all that I could to preserve the lad.”

“Oh, I know that,” said Rogerian with uncertainty. “But the fact of the matter is that I expected your skills to save him, and if you did not, that your blood would bring him to life again.”

“And you are angry because of it,” said Sanct’ Germain.

“Not angry: disappointed,” Rogerian allowed.

“For that I am truly sorry,” Sanct’ Germain said before he started down the second street; this one was slightly narrower than the first, and the stone houses huddled together like a flock seeking companionship and warmth. They had the look of sudden desertion about them.

“Mind how you go,” Rogerian called after him.

Sanct’ Germain nodded, although he knew that Rogerian could not see this. He kept his senses alert and his thoughts marshaled to the exploration he had undertaken: there was a mounted whetstone in front of one of the houses, Roman in design, which told Sanct’ Germain that this place had not remained wholly isolated while the Romans held the region. This, he told himself, was an excellent sign. He hoped that if he found an inhabitant, they could understand one another well enough to converse, for if they could not, he had no doubt that he would have to move on. The whole village still had the faint odor of humanity about it; the occupants had not been gone more than two or three days at most. A half-dozen steps farther along the street he came upon a vat lying on its side. Stopping beside it, he was aware of the penetrating savor of olives.

A half-open door flapped in a sudden gust of wind; the sound made Sanct’ Germain jump as he realized that there was something moving inside the house; this was confirmed by a soft clatter, as if a chair had been overset. “Is someone there?” he called out first in the Visigothic dialect and then in Latin. “Is anyone there?”

His question was met by a whimper and a low cry that made Sanct’ Germain move forward hurriedly, for he could tell that the voice that made the sound was human, and that the human was in distress. He took his Greek dagger from its sheath as a precaution just as he crossed the threshold into the dark interior of the house.

The house consisted of two rooms separated by a large stone fireplace open on the front and back, flanked by plank walls, with a loft above the far chamber. There was a long table in the nearer room, with a long bench drawn up beside it. Two chests, standing open and empty, were against the west wall, mute testimony to the abrupt departure of the household; a basket that had once contained bread lay on its side and open on the floor. On the far side of the hearth eight cooking pots hung on brass hooks, showing the residents had some wealth. Sanct’ Germain stood facing the fireplace, listening intently. Finally he heard a soft moan coming from the loft.

“Are you ill? Are you hurt?” Sanct’ Germain called out, beginning in Latin this time, and repeating in the language of the Visigoths.

“Ill,” said the voice in Latin, panting with the effort of talking; the voice was low and cracked, more a croak than speech.

Sanct’ Germain was already looking for a ladder to gain access to the loft. “I will come up to you.”

There was a silence, and then the voice spoke again. “I . . . I have . . . a knife.”

“A knife?” Sanct’ Germain hesitated as he picked up the ladder that lay beneath the loft. He wondered briefly how long the ladder had lain there, and if the person in the loft had been trapped there because of it: or had it just been kicked over, and that was the sound that had attracted his attention? “I will not hurt you; I mean you no harm.”

“I . . . have . . . knife,” the voice repeated.

“You need help,” Sanct’ Germain said as he put the ladder in place. “I am going to climb up to you. I will not hurt you.”

“. . . knife . . .” the voice breathed.

Sanct’ Germain went up the ladder slowly, talking as he went, hoping to reassure the person in the loft, “My bondsman and I came here on our way toward Tolosa. The main road is not passable, and we were told that there was another way. It led to this place. We found the village empty. People and most animals were gone. There was no one guarding the gate. I saw the new graves, and I supposed that the place had been struck by sickness.”

“Great Pox,” the voice said just as Sanct’ Germain climbed into the loft. “I have—”

“—a knife. Yes; I know,” said Sanct’ Germain, ducking his head to fit into the low space. He could smell the sweat from the huddled mass of bear-skins and rough-woven blankets. “You have more than a knife. You have had a fever.”

“It’s gone,” the voice told him.

“How long?” Sanct’ Germain asked; he crouched down, waiting for his opportunity to move forward. “When did it end?”

“. . . Two days?” There was a flash of metal as the person brandished the knife weakly.

Sanct’ Germain reached out and with surprising gentleness took the knife. “You will not need that.”

The person in the bed gave a distressed cry and flailed out with one arm, knocking over the ewer of water that stood on the little shelf beside the wall; water spilled onto the bed. As if trying to escape, the person hunched back against the wall, the bear-skin an engulfing-but-cumbersome protection. “I am pregnant,” the voice announced with as much strength as the speaker could summon.

“All the more reason to accept my help,” said Sanct’ Germain after an infinitesimal pause. “Come,” he went on persuasively. “You cannot want to remain here in a wet bed. You are probably hungry and thirsty.” When he received no answer, he added, “You cannot remain here forever. Let me help you down the ladder. I will start a fire to keep you warm and my bondsman will make you a meal as soon as I have gone hunting.”

The woman peered suspiciously at him, her large, black eyes bright with emotion. “I am . . . hungry,” she admitted at last.

“If you are pregnant and recovering from a fever, this is not remarkable. It is also necessary that you eat, for the sake of your child as well as your own,” he said dryly. “Keep the bear-skin, if you like. I would not want you to take a chill.” He held out one arm to offer her assistance. “Lean on me. I can hold you.”

“If you will?” She stared at him, sensing his foreign clothes. “Who are you?” Her voice cracked half-way through the question and she had to ask it again.

“Sanct’ Germain,” he said. “You will tell me who you are when you are downstairs and fed. That is our first concern—to see you are not starving. And you will tell me how it happens that you are in this deserted village.” He steadied himself on one knee and held out both hands to her. “Come.”

She was just about to take his hands when Rogerian called out from the doorway, “Is all well, my master?”

The woman retreated as far up the bed as she could, hunkering down in the bear-skin.

Doing his best not to show his exasperation, Sanct’ Germain answered Rogerian over his shoulder. “I have found someone. If you will build up a fire and start it burning, we can help this unfortunate woman to restore herself.” He glanced at the woman. “You would like that, wouldn’t’ you?”

The woman made no move. “Are there . . . more?”

“My bondsman and I, and our horses and mules: no one else.” He tried to reassure her. “You must not fear us, good woman. We mean you no harm.”

She glared at him.

“I cannot think you want your babe to suffer,” Sanct’ Germain said, taking the chance that she would be more protective of her unborn infant than herself. “Let me help you down the ladder and let my bondsman tend to you while I hunt. It will be night soon, and without a fire, you will surely be cold.” He continued to hold his hands out.

After a long moment, the woman sighed with exhaustion as she gathered the bear-skin close around her and began to move toward Sanct’ Germain.

Sanct’ Germain waited for her to take his hands, making no further move that might frighten her. “I will back toward the ladder; you may watch as I do it,” he said as he began to guide her; he could feel her shaking as she gripped his hand and arm. “I will go down ahead of you, and you may come after, so that if you should slip, you will not fall. That should reassure you.”

There was a soft light coming from below; Rogerian had found a number of oil lamps and lit them; the scent of olives filled the air.

As he reached the edge of the loft, Sanct’ Germain hooked his foot over the top rung of the ladder to make sure it was still in place. When he was satisfied, he began his descent, taking care to guide the woman’s hands to the ladder.

“I am going out to get wood,” Rogerian called up to Sanct’ Germain.

“Very good,” said Sanct’ Germain a bit distantly, his concentration on assisting the woman down the ladder. “Your foot will need to be a little lower, and you will have to kick it free of the bear-skin,” he warned as he went down another rung. He could see by the way she moved that her pregnancy was well-advanced; she was probably in the seventh month. “Hold on tightly,” he said as he guided her foot onto the next rung.

She made her way gingerly down the stairs, shaking with the strain of it; she clung to the bear-skin as best she could, and dragged it closely around her when she finally reached the floor. “Cold,” she said, her voice hardly audible.

“Rogerian will build up your fire. Never fear.” He smiled at her, trying to ease her apprehension. “Is there somewhere you would like to sit?”

“Chair,” she muttered, and pointed. In the lamp-glow, her face looked yellow but Sanct’ Germain did not let this alarm him; morning light would tell him if she was jaundiced.

“You will have food in a while. Is there anything here I can give you now.” Sanct’ Germain took a step toward the covered shelves he assumed held food.

“Gone,” said the woman. “Cowards. All cowards. They ran and left me here.” She had found the chair she had wanted and now squatted on it, trying to make herself as comfortable as she could. Snuggling into the bear-skin, she watched Sanct’ Germain narrowly.

“Did the others take it when they left?” he asked as he opened the shutters to reveal empty shelves.

“Not all,” she answered, and grunted, rubbing her belly where her baby had kicked her; she sighed as her discomfort eased.

There was more to be learned, but he did not want to press her. “You need rest,” he said. “If you can doze there, I will instruct my manservant to see to your comforts. I must go hunting if we are to have sustenance before midnight.” He did not add that he would dine first, on the blood of the animal he caught.

She yawned and looked about anxiously, obviously struggling to stay alert; the climb down from the loft had sapped what little strength she had.

“You are not to worry,” Sanct’ Germain told her, understanding her distress. “We will do nothing to harm you.” He had said so already, but realized she had not believed him then, nor did she now.

Rogerian came back through the door, a load of wood in his arms. “There is plenty of this; they left most of it behind, by the looks of it.” He set the pile down in a heap and turned his attention to the hearth. “I put the horses and mules in the barn behind this house. I’ve given them all some grain. I will find hay for them later.”

“Very good.” Sanct’ Germain rubbed his jaw. “I should not be too long. Night is coming on, and there will be deer about.”

“And wild boar,” Rogerian reminded him by way of warning. “You should be wary.”

“What about wolves and bear?” Sanct’ Germain asked lightly as he slipped out of his pluvial and handed it to Rogerian; he wanted nothing to encumber him on the hunt, and cold did not trouble him nearly as much as wet did. “They run in these mountains as well as boars. Something is always hunting, old friend.” He shrugged, showing his acceptance of the danger the animals posed. “I will try for deer and be back as quickly as I can. See that the woman stays warm.”

“That I will,” Rogerian said, and began to lay wood in the fireplace. Sanct’ Germain slipped out into the dusk; he went to the village gate and let himself out onto the hillside, tasting the coming night. Moonrise would be late tonight but that was no inconvenience to him; he saw at night as readily as a fox. The nearest stand of trees was just beyond the new graves and he made for them at a speed that would have astonished anyone seeing him, for now that the sun was down, all Sanct’ Germain’s strength flooded through him. The forest promised game and good hunting. Once into the trees he stopped to listen, his senses extending into the darkness as if to embrace every living thing on the mountainside.