Free Night Blooming by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

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