Come Twilight (7 page)

“So I think,” Sanct’ Germain agreed. “He may be a younger son, or a bastard.” He considered the matter. “A younger son, I presume from his manner. Or a stepson. Yes,” he went on, thinking aloud, “a stepson, raised with all the trappings of power but with no way to gain it for himself: except here.”

Two monks had come into the stable, each with horses and mules in tow. Rogerian indicated a row of empty stalls. “These should do,” he recommended. “We will look after them.”

“As well we should,” said Sanct’ Germain, and gave the mules’ lead to Rogerian, then pulled his gray into the nearest of the stalls. “I’ll tend to the packs as soon as I am finished with my horse.”

“I’ll secure their halters,” said Rogerian, and went about his self-appointed task with the ease of long experience.

By the time Sanct’ Germain set about removing the pack-saddles and their loads from the mules, the monks had left the stable; Childric had gone before the monks, and now only Sanct’ Germain and Rogerian remained to tend to the animals and what they carried. Two small oil lamps provided a faint, luminous glow to the center aisle but did little to mitigate the gloom beyond.

“Bring me that barrel,” Sanct’ Germain said as he struggled to unfasten the breastplate on the tallest mule. “I need somewhere to rest this that will not break the saddle-tree.” He had removed his paenula, leaving it hung on the end of the gatepost that closed the stable in for the night; if the cold bothered him, he did not show it.

Rogerian hastened to obey, rolling the barrel close to the stall and securing it with an old paving stone so that it would not rotate once the packed saddle was set upon it. “It is ready,” he said.

“Let us hope no one is watching,” said Sanct’ Germain as he lifted the laden saddle in his arms and carried it to the barrel. “I would be hard-pressed to explain why I am able to—”

“The Primor is coming,” Rogerian interrupted him.

“Just in time,” said Sanct’ Germain; he settled the pack-saddle atop the barrel and went to gather an armload of hay for the mule. He lowered his head in a sign of respect as the Primor came down the central aisle toward him. “Thank you again, Primor, for letting us stay here for the night, for giving my escort a bed, and for providing for my animals.”

“It is as God commands us,” said the Primor, not quite able to conceal his satisfaction at this expression of gratitude.

“I will shortly finish with feeding the mules. The horses are already attended to—brushed, watered, and fed—and the mules will be shortly.”

“Do you actually brush your mules?” Primor Ioanus exclaimed.

“Yes. I do not want them hindered by the saddles riding badly on their coats.” He went to the mound of hay that had been forked down from the loft, gathered an armload of it, and went back to the mule in the stall. “Here you are,” he said to the animal as he put the hay in the long trough that served as a manger.

Primor Ioanus watched with mild astonishment, shaking his head in disbelief. “You do this yourself when you have a servant to attend to it.”

“My servant manages the tack, I care for the animals,” said Sanct’ Germain as if this were the most ordinary arrangement in the world. “This way if my horses or mules come to grief, I have only myself to blame.”

“Ah,” said Primor Ioanus in comprehension. “You do not trust anyone but yourself. In that case, I can understand why you might decide to do these things.” He sighed. “Would that others were as vigilant.”

Knowing it was expected of him, Sanct’ Germain asked, “Why do you say that?”

“Oh,” Primor Ioanus said in an off-handed way, “that there are unscrupulous men who prey on travelers, pretending to provide aid and actually preparing the unsuspecting man for disaster. They are active in many places in the mountains, where the steep valleys and deep forests give them protection. They are cruel to their victims. We see many such at this place, men who have been robbed, often beaten, and left to live or die as God pleases.”

Curious to know where this was leading, Sanct’ Germain responded, “My manservant and I are no strangers to the hazards of travel, but I am obliged for the timely warning.”

“A man abroad with as many goods as you carry would be well-advised to exercise care in all you do: robbers long for the opportunity you provide. You have men-at-arms, but they are not always proof against the bandits. There may be other means to guard what you carry.” He put his hands together in silent prayer. “If it is not overbold of me, may I recommend another precaution to you?”

“I would welcome it,” said Sanct’ Germain as he picked up the stiff brush and began to go over the mule’s coat.

“I am half-brother to Gardingio Witteric, whose estates are east of here. If you would avoid the perils of the road, may I recommend you go to him and ask for hospitality until the thaw? You might find the road too hard if you try to get through the mountain passes.” He indicated the mules. “These are fine animals, but even they would not be proof against the cold. My half-brother is a most worthy man; his donations have supported this monastery for many years.”

Sanct’ Germain studied the Primor for a long moment, then said, “I had thought to pass the winter with the Gardingio Theudis, although that may not be possible now. I have an introduction to him from Episcus Luitegild of Toletum.” He watched to see what response this information would evoke.

“Aqua Alba in Iberus,” said Primor Ioanus, nodding. “A most worthy man, but one much burdened by a visitation of the Great Pox. He is receiving no travelers until the miasma has lifted from Aqua Alba.”

“The Great Pox,” Sanct’ Germain said studiously. “I had not heard that it was abroad.”

“The Exarchs have decided not to bruit it about, for fear of making the Pox worse.” He crossed himself, and waited until Sanct’ Germain put down his brush long enough to do the same. “One who has traveled as much as you must have seen how speaking of Pox brings it upon the people. I should not have spoken of it had you not said you were bound for Gardingio Theudis’ estates. I will pray tonight that God will forgive my lapse and spare my monks.”

“I thank you for the warning,” said Sanct’ Germain, his expression grave, for he had seen what the Great Pox could do more times than he liked to remember; he had also seen the cruel scars it left behind on those fortunate enough to recover from it. “I will consider what you have told me,” he assured Primor Ioanus, resuming his brushing of the mule. “Are my men-at-arms being fed?”

“Yes. We have bread and baked cheese and a bean-and-rabbit stew. It will warm them and give them strength against the cold.” He coughed gently. “It will be a hard night.”

“All the more reason for me to care of my animals,” said Sanct’ Germain, going into the next stall to start brushing another mule.

“You will be hungry,” said Primor Ioanus.

“I will bear it as well as I am able,” Sanct’ Germain said philosophically. He was ironically amused at his predicament, for he would find nothing to sustain him in this community of monks. “Tell me more about your half-brother.” He hoped his prompting was not too obvious.

“He is a man of substance, highly regarded by all who know him,” said Primor Ioanus, his family pride tinged with envy. “He is a stalwart man, known for his strength. He maintains a suitable court; not so grand as some, but good enough to do him honor. He keeps a household of forty fighting men, and controls more than two hundred peasants. His estate is in the mountains, so he has not gained the fame that some have, but the holding is a Roman one, fortified, and it has served him well.”

Sanct’ Germain heard him out as he worked, thinking that this Gardingio was probably a bully given to exploiting his dependents and abusing his inferiors, as most of his kind were inclined to do; with a fortified villa, he could live in safety while he preyed on the countryside he controlled. But, he asked himself, were any of the others much better? and knew the answer better than he liked. He paused in his brushing as he reached the mule’s flank. “If the other Gardingi are worried about travelers, why should I suppose your half-brother would receive me and my escort?”

“A discerning question,” said the Primor, not quite smiling. “You would have to rely upon my powers of persuasion in the letter I am willing to write for you, and the honor of our family.” He waited a short while, then said mildly. “You need not decide yet. You will be kept here for at least one full day. Tell me if you want my aid before sunset tomorrow, after you have had time to rest and pray.” Without waiting for Sanct’ Germain’s reaction, he blessed the stable before he turned and left it.

The monastery was almost silent by the time Sanct’ Germain left the stable; freezing rain was pelting down through the trees, driven by a demented wind. As he closed the stable door and put the bolt in place, Sanct’ Germain had the uneasy sensation he was being watched. He had pulled his paenula around his shoulders and was puzzling out where he should go when Rogerian came out of the travelers’ dormitory, an oil lamp shielded by his hand.

“My master?” he said quietly.

“Have they all gone to their beds?” Sanct’ Germain inquired. He moved into the small overhang of the doorway. “Wretched weather.”

“That it is,” Rogerian agreed. “And likely to get worse.”

Sanct’ Germain nodded. “Did the monks say anything about the Great Pox? The Primor told me it has broken out in the mountains ahead of us.”

“Nothing,” said Rogerian, but there was a hesitation to his answer that kept Sanct’ Germain silent while Rogerian considered the question. “One of the monks did say it was more dangerous to travel than we knew. The others hushed him at once.”

“They’re afraid to speak about disease.” He sighed, thinking how far the western world had slid in the last three centuries; had there been a report of an outbreak of Great Pox in the ninth century of the City, the Romans would have instituted a quarantine, offered prayers to the gods, and sent physicians from the Legions to survey the problem. But that was four hundred years ago, and those times were gone.

“The Great Pox is terrifying; you cannot blame them for being afraid,” Rogerian observed. “If it has broken out, that would explain why the hostel is nearly empty. The weather cannot be the entire cause, nor the bandits in the mountains.” He looked toward the monks’ dormitory across the courtyard, his faded-blue eyes narrowing. “I will try to learn more, come morning.”

“Very good,” said Sanct’ Germain. “In the meantime, where shall I rest?”

“I have set up two chests of your native earth in the last cell on the second corridor. I doubt the men-at-arms will venture there.” Rogerian muttered a curse as the wind blew the little flame of the oil lamp out. “We had best get within,” he advised.

Sanct’ Germain made a sign of agreement, but did not move. “Rogerian,” he said in the tongue of his long-vanished people, “have you noticed anyone watching us?’

“Do you mean as the monks have done, or something more covert?” Rogerian had opened the door, but half-closed it in an effort to hold in what little heat the building contained.

“I have had the sensation of being monitored since I went into the stable.” He did his best to shrug off this unwelcome intuition; he glanced over his shoulder as Rogerian swung the door for him, and then he was gone into the dark corridor and on his way to the earthfilled chests that served as his bed.

Text of a report from the monastery of Archangeli near Roncesvalles, entrusted to lay-brother Terio for delivery to Gardingio Theudis on the 28
^th
day of January, 622; never delivered.

To the Gardingio Theudis, the greetings of the monks of Archangeli on this most dreadful day, with the prayers that you will be spared what God has seen fit to visit upon us for our impiety and failings.

As soon as the weather clears, this message will be carried to you with all dispatch. I have already chosen who is to carry it, and with God’s Grace, he shall reach you before the end of February, for I have told him this work is urgent, and he must travel from sunrise to sunset on every day the sun can be seen in the sky, for this tomus is of importance not only to us, at this monastery, but to you and your family.

It is the sad duty of this monastery to inform you that your cousin, the Primor Gaericed, has been called to the Throne of God to answer for his life. He has the company of many of the Fraters of this monas tery to comfort him, as the Great Pox has claimed many lives here, but none so much valued as that of your cousin, for whom those of us who remain alive pray night and day.

There is no way that we, as religious, may abandon our place here, and so we will remain, to honor our Primor and our vows. Should the Great Pox spare us, we must hope that God will not let us die of hunger, for there is so much death about that no one ventures to bring food to the monastery; it being the depths of winter, we have only our onions and turnips and cheese to feed us. God has laid His Hand upon us
heavily, and it is for us to bear the burden rather than be cast down by it, for in such wise, we fail our God as much as if we had placed the Crown of Thorns upon His Head. We will submit to God’s Will, and His Mercy, however it may be shown, and praise His Name.

Your cousin is ready for burial, and we have sung his funeral prayers, but he cannot yet be buried, nor can fourteen other monks, as the ground is yet too hard. We have disposed all the dead in their winding sheets and placed them in the smaller chapel, so that they may be in a holy place and safe from storms and thieves and wolves alike. As soon as the snow has gone, we will seek to lay all of those who perish, to good, Christian rest.

The Frater-tertiary who carries this to you will vouch for all I have said here. He is a simple man, and humble, but his devotion to truth is beyond question. On behalf of your cousin, who brought the Frater-tertiaryTerio to Archangeli, I ask you to house and clothe and feed him in your cousin’s memory. You will find him reliable and faithful; God has given him great strength of body, that he may make his way in the world. I should tell you that he is easily frightened and therefore unsuited to the battlefield; his strength is best employed in building and similar tasks.