Night Blooming Read online

  “God give you good day, Magnatus!” called out the leader of the armed men, addressing the closed gate. He looked as rugged and raw-boned as the clay-colored horse he rode; his manner suggested he had more experience of battle than courtesy. He signaled the company to halt a short distance from the gates, from which position he called out again. “Magnatus Rakoczy!”

  “God give you good day,” said a pleasant voice not half-a-dozen steps away from him as Rakoczy emerged from the thick underbrush that flanked the approach to the villa. “You come in good time. My household has just completed their prandium, and it will be an easy thing to prepare such a meal for you, for you must be ready to eat.”

  “I have the honor to bring you—” the leader began only to be interrupted by Rakoczy.

  “My goods and supplies; yes, I can see that. You and your cargo are most welcome.” He walked past the carpenta to the gates and slapped his palm on one of them. “Rorthger. Open up!” He turned back to the men behind him. “I haven’t had time to install a warder-bell yet. The old one had been removed when the former tenant left, three years ago.”

  A muffled response was followed by the unmistakable sound of a bolt being drawn back, followed at once by the grumble of hinges as the gates swung wide. “Enter in the name of Karl-lo-Magne,” said Rorthger as he stepped out of the opening. “There will be food and drink for you in the dining hall. The stables are to your left, and the keep—” He pointed to the main building within the walls.

  “Summon your slaves,” said the leader of the armed men.

  “I keep no slaves,” said Rakoczy calmly. “My mansionarii will tend to your needs.” He indicated a small group of housemen. “They, the mariscalcus and his grooms, will carry out your orders.”

  The leader of the armed men shook his head at this irregularity. “Very well. You!” He pointed to the housemen. “Unload these carpenta, and stow the items as you are ordered.”

  “I’ll direct the work,” Rorthger said before the men could move. “I am camerarius here.”

  “Thank you,” Rakoczy said softly, then raised his voice. “My cook stands ready to put geese on a spit for your meal.”

  It was better fare than the men had expected, and they quickly turned the labor over to the housemen, moving with the determination of hunger.

  As he reached Rakoczy, the leader of the armed men paused. “I am Heric, son of Heric. These soldiers and I are all Comes Giralt’s men.”

  “Welcome, Heric, and your company.” Rakoczy indicated the largely empty building around them. “As you see, the goods you bring are needed here.”

  The men nodded, two of them looking a bit apprehensive, for in so empty a house, where were they to eat?

  “My mansionarii have made a rough table and benches,” Rakoczy went on as if he knew the men’s concern. “You may use them if you don’t find it too much beneath you.”

  Heric laughed. “We are used to campaigning. A plank between two rocks is table enough for us.” As he entered the dining hall, he slapped his hands together. “Why, this is excellent,” he exclaimed, looking at the table and the huge maw of the fireplace beyond where four geese were just beginning to brown on a spit.

  “My cook has cheese and bread for you, and I purchased a tun of beer from the monks at Sant’ Cyricus, which is only two Roman leagues to the east of here,” said Rakoczy; then, turning to one of the two scullions tending to the spit, he said, “Go fetch bread and drink for these good men.”

  The older scullion pulled his forelock and hastened away.

  “Will the geese burn?” one of the two drivers of the carpenta asked.

  “Not so long as the scullion continues to apply olive oil from time to time,” said Rakoczy, his dark eyes fixed on the youngster manning the spit. “Do not fear that I will complain if you use all the oil. There is a cask of it in the kitchen.”

  The scullion ducked his head and continued to work the chain that rotated the spit.

  “Sant’ Cyricus,” said Heric. “A most illustrious monastery. And Santa Julitta is next to it, is it not?”

  “Yes. They remain together as they were in life—mother and son; the nuns were there first.” Rakoczy paused. “Santa Julitta’s nuns are renowned for their hives and honey-wine.”

  “So I have heard,” Heric said, trying to appear interested; he was clearly anxious to eat. “We broke our fast before Prime,” he explained.

  “No doubt you will be glad of a proper meal,” said Rakoczy. “Well, take your places at the table and rest assured you will not have long to wait. There is new bread in the bake-house.”

  The men did as they were bade, two of them almost coming to blows over the right to sit at the foot of the table, since Heric had clear claim to the head. While they were jostling, three mansionarii came in bearing trays piled with fresh-baked trenchers that they distributed to all the men at the table; a fourth mansionarius brought fine earthenware cups, setting them down for the diners. A long moment later, the scullion returned pushing a cauldron on wheels, the handle of a ladle rising up from the thick soup in the large vessel. He set about serving this, pouring the soup into the bread trenchers, giving generous portions to all the men. The aroma of cooked venison, cabbage, and onions was a palpable presence in the dining hall, and the men drummed their knife-handles on the table in approval. Another mansionarius brought a tray laden with cheese and a tub of new-churned butter; this he placed half-way along the table, then departed for the kitchen and his own meal. Then the buticularius came with a great pitcher of beer, pouring Heric’s cup full first, and then making his round of the table.

  “Karl-lo-Magne himself could not offer better,” Heric enthused as he saw the extra bread and quantity of butter, two luxuries he rarely encountered from Magnati. The food was of a quality usually reserved for men of higher rank than he; he decided Rakoczy’s foreignness was not entirely a bad thing.

  “There is more beer for those who want it,” said Amolon, the buticularius, as he put the pitcher on the table; it was still half-full.

  “You may begin, Heric. As soon as you are done with this, the geese will be ready, and you will be served them, with mustard-seed sauce and a cream of saffron.” Rakoczy inclined his head. “I haven’t engaged a senescalus yet, so you may give your requests to my buticularius.” He indicated Amolon. “Enjoy your food, and may you have good appetites.” Saying this, he turned away, leaving the men to eat and drink. As he went out of the dining hall, he signaled to Amolon. “See that they do not lack for anything we can provide, and do not grudge them a whim or two if we can supply their wants. Their report of their reception here will ring loud in Great Karl’s Court.”

  Amolon reverenced Rakoczy. “Truly, Magnatus.” He cocked his head toward the lively gathering, his lip curling slightly in disdain for them. “Such men may gorge themselves if given the chance.”

  “Then let this be one such,” said Rakoczy. “And let us be glad that they are satisfied.”

  The buticularius shrugged. “That’s as may be.” He had been born to house-service and had acquired all the prejudices of his position before he could count. Now, at twenty-nine, he had achieved the advancement he had long sought in life and was determined to make the most of it.

  “Think of how it will reflect on all of us, that these men are treated well.” Rakoczy left Amolon to supervise the meal, strolling out to the courtyard again to watch the progress being made. “My red lacquer chest,” he approved as Rorthger helped one of the mansionarii take it out of the carpentum. “See that is put in my upper room.”

  “Where we have put your books,” Rorthger confirmed, and kept on with his work.

  “That is the place,” Rakoczy agreed, and passed on toward the stables where Hradbert, the mariscalcus, was finishing up with bedding the stalls for the horses. “The horses will need time in the pasture before sunset,” he said to Hradbert.

  The mariscalcus nodded. “We have put the oxen in the pen behind the next barn,” he informed Rakoczy in a ton
e that implied working with such animals was beneath him.

  “Fine. See that they are fed this evening and tomorrow morning, with sweet hay,” said Rakoczy. “Are the horses well?”

  “The smith will have to replace the shoes on one—the hooves are grown out so far that the poor beast is walking badly.” Hradbert frowned. “You would think that the King’s mariscalci would take better care of his horses.”

  “His best have probably accompanied him to Paderborn,” Rakoczy suggested, recalling that the Court had withdrawn from Aachen a week ago, leaving workers and mansionarii to bring Aachen to rights in the King’s absence.

  Hradbert spat. “A poor excuse. The horse could go lame, or cast a splint with such hooves, and what would happen then?” He gave his own answer. “The mariscalcus would be blamed, and he would suffer the consequences.”

  “Well, see to it, if you would,” said Rakoczy.

  “There is no smith in the next village,” Hradbert told him, annoyance and dismay making him brusque.

  “Then fire the smithy and I will do the work,” said Rakoczy, so calmly that Hradbert stared in amazement.

  “You? A Magnatus?” Hradbert coughed out the words.

  “Certainly,” said Rakoczy with all the ease he could muster. “I have traveled, and I find no shame in being able to shoe my own horses, or mend my own spear, or sword.”

  This novel view still did not sit well with the mariscalcus. “You have a camerarius; if one must labor, let it be him.”

  “Rorthger has many skills and I prize all of them. It is fitting that I have some value beyond the heritage of my blood.” His wry smile was lost on Hradbert. “If you do not want to fire the smithy, I will tend to it myself.”

  This was too much for the mariscalcus, who held up his hands in appeal to Heaven. “No, no, Magnatus. If you insist on doing such lowly work, I will see that my grooms lay the fire, at least.” He looked around the stable. “When do you want to do this?”

  “Tonight, when the household is at comestus. No one need see me then,” said Rakoczy, and decided that the evening meal would be as generous as the prandium his mansionarii had just served in the dining hall.

  Hradbert sighed in relief. “That would be as well. But when will you eat?”

  “I will take sustenance in private, after the custom of my kith; it will not keep me from the smithy,” said Rakoczy, and made a gesture of encouragement. “Fear not, Hradbert: by summer you will be accustomed to my strange ways, and I will understand yours better. Neither of us will be puzzled by the other, and what you now find foreign will be only eccentricity.”

  “The King will return at the beginning of harvest, when Aachen is once again stocked and more building has been completed.” Hradbert sounded a bit wistful, for he had been an under-mariscalcus at Aachen, and although his present position was an advancement, it also took him away from the Court of Karl-lo-Magne, which irked him. “While he is at Paderborn, the Illustri will want to be near him; he keeps many of those he favors near at hand.”

  “Perhaps I will be summoned to Paderborn,” Rakoczy said. “Then you could accompany me to care for my horses in the King’s stable.” He saw the eagerness in Hradbert’s face, and added, “I have more horses coming; they should be here before the early harvest.”

  “So you said when you brought me here,” said Hradbert. “Not that I protest,” he added hastily.

  “I understand,” said Rakoczy. “You would rather have your advancement through Karl-lo-Magne, not a foreigner like me.”

  The mariscalcus shrugged, reluctant to admit something that would discredit him. “I know the way of the King’s stables.”

  It was a feeble recovery, but Rakoczy accepted it. “Well, for the time being, tend to these six horses for me, take care of my five horses, and supervise the building of more stalls; by the end of summer, you will need another two or three grooms to keep up with all that must be done; I rely on you to hire the best when the time comes.” He turned toward the door. “Remember, I want the smithy fired before comestus.”

  “It will be done, Magnatus,” said Hradbert, reverencing his employer.

  Rakoczy went out of the stable toward the bake-house, making a mental note to approach the local miller in the hope of finding one of his sons to operate the mill half-a-Roman-league distant from his villa. That would reassure the cook and lessen the worries of the mansionarii, most of whom feared being starved out of this foreigner’s service; it had happened in other places, and without plans to avoid such a fate, it could happen here. He went past the creamery, which still lacked a door—that would be a task for the next few days. He was about to enter the villa through the kitchen door when he heard a minor commotion beyond the herb-garden. He listened a moment, then started toward the voices.

  Just beyond the garden wall, one of Rakoczy’s mansionarii was in a heated argument with a local peasant. They were so intent on their dispute that neither of them heard Rakoczy approach, and when he spoke, they both jumped and immediately fell silent.

  “I haven’t a very good command of the regional dialect,” Rakoczy said politely, “but I gather one of you believes I have wronged you in some way.”

  This mannerly interjection did nothing to induce either man to talk; the peasant began to back away.

  “What is the trouble here?” Rakoczy said a bit more firmly. “If you will tell me, I will try to redress any wrong I may have done.”

  The peasant let forth a torrent of words, so rough and fast that Rakoczy had trouble following them. Finally the peasant made a sign to ward off the Evil Eye and began to move away from the garden wall. “Foreigner!” he accused; he pulled his cuculla of rough-woven wool close around him as if to block out the world, and his goat-skin hood hid his features in its shadow.

  “Wait!” Rakoczy ordered, and saw the peasant halt in his tracks. “What is the matter?”

  “My uncle says you have put a spell on this place,” the mansionarius admitted in an abashed voice. “I have tried to tell him you have not, but he—”

  “A spell?” Rakoczy watched the peasant, trying to understand his fear. “What kind of spell does he think I have cast?”

  “He thinks you have come to make all the peasants your slaves, the way Comes Udofrid did by force of arms,” the mansionarius explained nervously, afraid to look either at his master or his uncle. “He says all foreigners are bound to do us harm.”

  “I am not Comes Udofrid,” said Rakoczy, trying to recall what he had been told about the previous tenant of this villa and the fiscs it commanded; he had heard that the man was impetuous and irascible, but neither of those characteristics was unusual or frowned upon among the Frankish nobles. “If some wrong was done on his authority, I will do all that I can to put that to rights, though nothing of him or his attaches to my blood. I do this in the name of accord.”

  “Ha!” The peasant pointed to Rakoczy, and said in a reasonably clear accent, “You are as bad as any of them.”

  “Comes Udofrid was murdered by his wife’s brother, who was said also to be her lover, and the Church spoke against them for their crimes,” said the mansionarius. “Comes Udofrid demanded rents beyond what the peasants in the village could pay, and so they didn’t warn him about his wife’s brother, though they knew what was going to happen. Four leaders in the village had their eyes plucked out for not warning Comes Udofrid of the treachery of his wife.” The mansionarius stared down at his feet. “My father was one of them. Now my uncle is afraid that I will suffer the same fate.”

  “Not on my account,” said Rakoczy. “I am not married, so no wife can betray me—”

  “Worse, then,” the peasant exclaimed. “You will command our daughters for your pleasure. One of the women of our village has a daughter of the King’s get.” He was speaking slowly and with great care so Rakoczy would understand him.

  Karl-lo-Magne had bastards everywhere, and Rakoczy knew this as well as anyone in Franksland. “She is not alone,” he said, not wanting to be dr
awn into speaking against the King.

  “It is one thing to have a King’s bastard,” said the peasant. “It is another to have one by a foreigner who puts spells on things.”

  The mansionarius caught his lower lip in his teeth. “Forgive my uncle.”

  Rakoczy shook his head. “I have no reason to forgive him; he is seeking to protect his own, which any man must do.” He paused, then said, “If I give you my Word that I will not impose on your women, will that assure you?”

  The peasant rubbed the back of his neck. “An oath to a peasant has nothing to bind it. You may say anything that pleases you and no one will expect you to honor it.”

  “My Word to anyone is bond to me,” said Rakoczy in a quiet voice that stilled all protest.

  “Until it is inconvenient,” the peasant declared. “Foreigners cannot be held to account.”

  Rakoczy stiffened. “I am not used to being mistrusted. You have my Word, and that is sufficient.”

  The peasant held up his finger. “If any woman should come to me and say that you have got her with child—” It was daring of him to challenge Rakoczy so openly.

  “No woman has had child of me before,” Rakoczy said bluntly. “And I will not demand of a woman what she will not give willingly.”

  “Fine pledges! You wear silks and have jewels on your weapons, and you have the regard of the King—do you think any woman would be fool enough to deny you?” the peasant scoffed. “Swear as you will, I’ll not—”

  “Uncle!” The mansionarius had blanched in shock. “Foreigner or not, his tenancy is a grant from the King himself, and you risk all my father lost.”

  “So!” the peasant burst out. “It comes to that!”