Come Twilight (6 page)

“We should see the monastery,” Recared exclaimed. “Where is it, if it is only two thousand paces ahead?” He was one of three men other than Rogerian who held leads in their hands, and guided a short string of mules with them.

“Probably in that stand of oaks,” said Sanct’ Germain, taking care not to challenge the men by this observation; they were touchy of their reputations and could find any questioning of their competence an insufferable slight. He shifted in the saddle, renewing his grip with his calves, and pointed ahead. “It is about two thousand paces to that grove of trees.”

The men grudgingly accepted this. “As far as the trees, then,” said Childric. “If we find nothing there, we will come back here and make camp for the night. I don’t want to have to fight any of the people hereabouts. They’re not fond of us. They are treacherous fighters, given to ambushes and traps. And with all these laden mules, we’d be singled out for a fight.”

“They weren’t fond of the Romans, either,” said Sanct’ Germain, recalling the many accounts he had heard from Legion officers of battles with the various tribes of Hispania. “Nor of one another.”

“Then we will find shelter for the night,” Wamba said, glancing back at the fading light. “We haven’t much longer until it is full dark.”

“Shouldn’t the monastery have a travelers’ light?” asked Egica. He, too, held a lead. “I can’t see one.”

“Let us keep moving,” Leovigild said, urging his horse to a jog-trot. “It won’t take long to reach the trees if we don’t dawdle. Wamba. Sit up, man. And keep a grip on the lead. The mules could get away.”

Wamba righted himself, gathering up his mount’s reins and doing his best to look prepared for a long ride. “I am not myself, sartrium.”

“All the more reason to be alert,” said Leovigild, and brought his horse alongside Wamba’s. “This will be over soon.”

Childric grumbled, but fell in just ahead of Sanct’ Germain. “I can’t see very much,” he warned. “If there is no travelers’ light . . .”

Sanct’ Germain waited a moment, then said, “I see fairly well in the dark; those of my blood have such talent.” In fact, he saw almost as well at night as he did in the day, but he knew such an admission would bring suspicion upon him. “I can make out the road, and if there is a travelers’ light, I will not miss it.”

“If you say so,” said Leovigild, apparently reserving judgment. “Keep a keen watch, then. It is going to rain tonight, or snow.”

“Yes, it is,” said Sanct’ Germain. “And the wind will get keener.”

Leovigild pulled his mantel more tightly around him. “In the morning, we will need pluvials.” This was a concession, for it was rare for any man-at-arms would admit that any man not a soldier could reckon such things; not even peasants were thought to know anything about weather.

Rogerian pulled on the lead again. “The mules are getting restive.”

“They are taking it from our escort,” said Sanct’ Germain, and once more looked toward the trees. “There!” he said. “A travelers’ light.”

Leovigild checked his horse. “Where?”

“Just there,” said Sanct’ Germain. “It’s deep in the trees and not easily seen, but—there it is again.” He pointed, and hoped that Leovigild’s eyes were able to make it out.

“A flash,” Leovigild conceded. “Are you certain?”

“Yes,” said Sanct’ Germain. “No peasant puts a lamp on the roof.”

“True enough.” Leovigild hesitated. “Might it be a trap? Wouldn’t robbers try such a ruse?”

“Perhaps, but I doubt it, not on a main road, and not at this time of year.” He looked about at the others. “If there are robbers, we are armed, and they would be fools to attack us.”

The men gave half-hearted agreement, and Rogerian made a warning signal to Sanct’ Germain.

“There has been fighting in the mountains, they say,” Wamba muttered.

Sanct’ Germain shook his head. “If you have to fight anyone tonight, I will pay three Byzantine Emperors to each of you, beyond the fee we have agreed upon. My Word on it.”

Childric grinned, the wind whipping his hair about his face as if he were one of the ancient storm gods; he drew his sword from its scabbard. “Well and good. Let us be about it, then.” He tightened his seat on his horse and picked up the pace to a fast trot. This gained the attention of all the men-at-arms and they, too, readied themselves for a skirmish.

“No faster!” shouted Leovigild. “Think of your horses. No faster! If your horse goes down, you ride a mule!”

This disgraceful prospect curbed the men to a jog-trot once more, and the mules on leads did their best to slow the pace to a walk.

“We will be there soon enough,” said Childric, still showing his enthusiasm for battle by waving his sword. “Any robbers would be wise to flee while they may.”

“Do not distress the monks!” Sanct’ Germain ordered. “They will refuse you shelter if you do.” He had the satisfaction of seeing Leovigild nod in approval. “You want hot food and a bed tonight, do you not?” Without waiting for an answer, he went on. “If you ride in like the robbers you are ready to fight, will the monks not turn you away?”

Childric said nothing, but drew his horse down to a fast walk. “You may be right. Monks are as easily frightened as women.”

Egica patted his sword. “If I need it, I can draw it,” he said, paying little or no heed to the sharp look Childric shot him.

In the wake of sunset the sky was dulling in the west as night closed in; the travelers’ light was now more readily seen against the darkness.

“Should someone ride ahead?” Leovigild asked after they had gone on a bit further. “The turn-off is not far, and it might be wise, there being so many of us, to alert the monks before we arrive.”

“A prudent notion,” said Sanct’ Germain, and gave his attention to Rogerian. “Will you do that for me, old friend? Will you ride ahead? I’ll take the lead you hold.”

Rogerian nodded once. “Of course I will,” he said, holding out the lead to Sanct’ Germain. “I will not race, but I will go as quickly as this horse can trot as long as the road is smooth.” He tightened his hold on the horse’s body and wiggled his heels against the animal’s sides; in response the gelding extended his trot, quickly pushing to the front of the group, then pulling ahead of the rest; Rogerian’s garments flapped around him like winged shadows. The sound of the hoofbeats carried back to the others even as Rogerian and his bay horse became indistinct in the gathering night.

“Watch where he goes,” Sanct’ Germain said. “He is showing us the way.”

“If the monks will admit us, then well and good,” said Egica gloomily.

“They dare not refuse.” said Childric. “We are their champions.” He put his hand on his sword again, as if to assure himself he could pull it from the scabbard at the first whiff of trouble.

The men-at-arms were growing more restive; the mules, laden as they were with crates, chests, bags, and sacks, grew fretful at having to keep up this pace. One brayed in protest and was struck across the nose with a whip.

“Don’t do that,” said Sanct’ Germain quietly, but with authority that stilled Recared’s hand as he prepared to lash out again.

“The animal is impertinent,” said Recared. “He must be submissive to—”

“If he is to be struck, I will do it,” said Sanct’ Germain levelly. “But I have heard far worse from you and your companions than I have from that mule, and no one has wanted to whip you.”

“If you want disobedient animals, what is it to me?” Recared asked the air, lowering his whip. “He is your mule.”

“That he is,” said Sanct’ Germain, thinking of how many mules he had left behind at his villa just outside Toletum. He had sustained many losses over his long, long life, but each loss had a poignance of its own, and the mules and horses he had been forced to leave were no exception.

“The turn’s coming up,” said Leovigild, this observation more convincing to the men-at-arms coming from him than from Sanct’ Germain. “There look to be ruts on the side-road.”

“Then we will have to walk the beasts,” said Childric, sighing with disgust. “If it starts to rain, I will curse Heaven for it, and the monks will not stop me.”

Sanct’ Germain kept a steady hand on the lead as he pulled his handsome Lusitanian gray onto the road to the monastery; he listened to the wind in the trees and had a long moment of discomfiture as he imagined what he and these men would do if they had to fight on the churned-up road in the middle of the grove. He tried not to be uneasy, though the speculation was worrisome; he reminded himself that this was Hispania and not the Greek mountains, that no enemy forces waited ahead. Taking a firmer hold on the lead, he tugged the mules secured to it to keep them from balking altogether. “Keep moving,” he called out, as much to the mules as to the men-at-arms as he pressed on.

As they reached the first of the trees, there was a sudden flare of light ahead of them as the monastery doors were flung open, and half a dozen monks surged toward them. Two of the horses whinnied in dismay, and one of the mules almost sat down like a dog in an attempt to halt.

“All is well,” cried out Rogerian. “Hold your hands!”

“Weapons down!” Sanct’ Germain ordered. “You are in no danger here.” He urged his horse to the front of the group, the mules for once responding to the pull on the lead with alacrity, sensing the end of the day’s journey; their jarring trot shook the burdens strapped to their saddles noisily adding to the milling confusion.

The monk in the lead stopped still. “When your weapons are sheathed, you may come in.” His voice was that of a man used to command, and he stood as straight as any captain would. “These Fraters will see to your animals. You must dismount before you enter our monastery.”

Childric glowered but slid out of his saddle. “I’ll lead my own horse, thank you. Fraters,” he muttered as he dragged his red-roan’s reins over her head. “Tell me where your stable is.”

“Frater Roderic will show you the way,” said the senior monk, and motioned to one of the others to tend to this task. “Lead one of the strings of mules, Frater Roderic,” he added before he came up to Sanct’ Germain. “You were wise to send your manservant ahead to us. Now that night is fallen, we would not have opened our gates to you.”

“A monk refusing to shelter the stranger or feed the hungry?” Sanct’ Germain said with mild surprise. “What would your Episcus say?”

“He would commend us, since four monasteries on this side of the Iberus have been sacked since winter began.” He stepped aside as one of his monks went past leading a string of three mules.

“Then why shine the travelers’ light?” Sanct’ Germain asked in a carefully respectful tone.

“It is part of our Rule.” He ducked his head. “I am Primor Ioanus.”

“I am Franciscus Sanct’ Germain of Ragoczy,” he said, using everything but the two titles he could claim in this part of the world. “My journey began at Toletum,” he went on, thinking that this was hardly the truth, but it would do for now. Then he was dismounting and preparing to lead his horse and mules within the monastery’s gates. “I thank you for admitting us.”

“Your manservant is a most convincing fellow,” said Primor Ioanus. He turned toward the open gates as his Fraters secured horses and mules. “If you will go along to the stables, I will send word to the kitchen to prepare meat and bread for you.” He cocked his head. “You are fortunate: we slaughtered two goats yesterday.”

“For which we give thanks,” said Sanct’ Germain. “I ask only that you feed my men-at-arms; I have provision for myself.” This was also not the truth but he knew the Primor would accept it without reservation.

The monastery was built around an open court, with the monks’ dormitories on the north, the hostel dormitories on the south, the chapel to the east, and the kitchen and stables on the west side. A small, low building adjacent to the kitchen Sanct’ Germain took to be the refectory, for there was the unmistakable chimney of a bake-house at the far end of it.

“I will see it is done.” He motioned to the monks to hurry. “There are only three other travelers within our walls tonight, and one of them is suffering from blackened feet.” He crossed himself.

Sanct’ Germain stopped still. “How severe is the blackening?”

“It is bad enough that the man has no feeling in them. He has put himself in God’s hands.” Primor Ioanus shrugged. “We are praying for him and keeping him abed, not that he can rise unaided.”

“How long has he been here?” Sanct’ Germain asked, aware that once feet blackened and lost feeling the whole body was at risk.

“Four days. When he came, he said robbers had taken his boots as well as his donkey and goods. He was cold to touch, but claimed to be warm except in his feet.” He pointed to the stable at the far end of the long, rectangular court. “There are many empty stalls, and hay in the loft for the animals.”

“Very good,” said Sanct’ Germain, and led his horse and mules in that direction. He had almost reached the stable when Rogerian caught up with him. “You have done well for us, old friend.”

Rogerian waved his hand in dismissal. “It is going to be a hard night. The weather makes demands of all of us. None of us wanted to be in the open, not with rain and cold coming on the wind.” He lowered his voice. “There are between forty and fifty monks here, and room for as many travelers.”

“The Primor says that they have few guests tonight, and that one has blackened feet,” Sanct’ Germain remarked as he stepped inside the stable, and glanced at the long rows of stalls on either side of the central aisle; Childric had already claimed the stalls across the way and was busying himself with giving his horse a quick grooming.

“Yes, so I understand,” said Rogerian.

Sanct’ Germain halted. “But you doubt this,” he said, having caught a note of disbelief in Rogerian’s tone.

“Yes, I do,” said Rogerian. “I know what the monks are saying, and they are frightened. Why should blackened feet frighten them?”

“Some say the Devil causes blackened feet,” Sanct’ Germain reminded Rogerian; he started moving again, pulling his horse and mules with him. “A few steps more and you will rest,” he said as he coaxed the animals along.

“Primor Ioanus has made this his fiefdom, or I know nothing about it,” Rogerian added quietly.