Saint Fire (Secret Books of Venus Series) Page 10
At the proper juncture, they marked themselves with the cross.
The Grace was finished, and Beatifica took the stool left vacant for her.
It was Danielus who glanced about at them. Who said, “The Maiden Beatifica has learned her orisons, as you see. And here, she learns other accomplishments.” Aretzo said, “To sew, Magister? To make broth?”
Danielus said, lightly, “As you learned to plough, Aretzo, and to break hods.”
Aretzo flushed. “I was called to serve God.”
“And thus,” said Danielus.
The women were placing the central dishes and a rich savory aroma went up. The kitchen had labored to present its best, a pottage of chicken in a great pan, flavored with pears and onions, ginger and pepper; slabs of the boar, roasted, stuck with cloves and powdered by cinnamon and grain-of-paradise. The Soldiers of God, today allowed their fill, reached out hungrily, angrily. Only Cristiano was abstemious, selecting solely from the chicken. The Magister, as usual, touched neither meat, contenting himself with pancakes made with eggs and white wine.
The girl—the Maiden Beatifica—was served a separate bowl, some vegetable thing, while from a little wooden dish she took a sliver of boiled white meat.
Cristiano’s belly had turned in any case.
The family ate heartily. They seemed to have no troubles. The sons were even becoming sometimes rather loud over their ale, despite the Magister.
The woman though, the Housewife, stood with her servants, her lips drawn in tight. Only when Danielus complimented and thanked her did she wrench them in a smile.
The slave—the girl—the Maiden—she ate nicely, like a princeling. But very little. By her trencher the wine cup filled just once, waited mostly unused. She was frugal even with the cup of water.
Danielus spoke to the farmer about the land, crops, weather, the horses.
Later some cheese was brought and winter fruits, and a frumenty with rose-sugar.
They rinsed their hands and wiped them on napkins.
“The Maiden shall say the prayer to close our meal.” Danielus looked at Aretzo, at Jian. Not at Cristiano. “The Warriors of God shall make choice of which.”
Aretzo spoke at once. “Let her say one of the King’s Psalms.”
And Jian said, “The forty-second Psalm.”
“That has a few verses,” said Danielus. He turned to the girl. “Speak this, then, Beatifica—” and he said the first words of the Psalm in Latin.
Immediately she took it up from him, and spoke it all, in the beautiful argent voice.
“Deep thunders to deep, the waves go over me and I drown. Yet the Lord will send to me His kindness by day, and by night His love shall be my song …”
There was no noise at the table now, as that silvery instrument played.
Cristiano recalled the silence in the street when Berbo accused her. He thought of her in the convent, speaking alone in the sunlight.
A pressure had risen in him. A child might have identified it as the upsurge of tears. But the man sat transfixed, locked in steel, at war with himself.
The Psalm ended.
Jian sighed. Aretzo, always the redder, was pale.
And the woman among her servants held her hand to her lips as if to hide their relaxation.
Danielus rose to his feet.
The roomful of people gazed up at him, the faces lit from low candlelight.
He called the farmer by name. “Marco, you have been a faithful servant to me. And your wife, a paragon. Now you shall see something to wonder at. Jian, I ask that you will get up and shut the door. And you, Marco, put out all these lights except for that one there, on the chest.”
Oddly, from beyond, in the kitchen, at that moment came a noise of the Primo guard, and their servants, some joke told, and laughter.
It was unseemly, and the two old widows clucked their teeth. Marco half turned, scowling.
“No matter,” said Danielus. “Always remember, my friends, God gave us the earth also to be happy in. Doesn’t the Psalm say this, benevolentia et carmena.”
As Marco and his eldest son dowsed the candles on the table, a luminous shadow gathered them all in.
There in the heart of it, only the white clothes and the hair of the girl went blazing on—and Cristiano’s blondness, too, had he known it.
He spoke quickly, quietly, to Danielus.
“Magister—if you want her to make her conjuring here—”
“It isn’t conjuring, Knight. But I value your caution. And—your agitation.”
Cristiano’s guts churned. There was a swirling in his head like drunkenness, but he had drunk only water. The pressure was rising through the core of him, pushing, scorching, agonized as an arrow working in a wound—insistent and dreadful as nausea.
But he was accustomed to conceal and to restrain his flesh. He had ridden partly unconscious through battles and cut men down like a machine. He had kept the Vigil, eight hours on his knees, even when God avoided him.
Yes, the sea had drowned him. Yes, he cried for the kindness and the song by night—
It was very dark.
Miles off through the stillness now, not the laughter of men, but a wolf’s howling arced over the plain. Danielus nodded to his made creature, the Maiden.
“Look, Beatifica.”
Cristiano in his locked—fast turmoil, sensed more than saw the crystals of her eyes. Chrysoprase from the breastplate of a High Priest—
It was as if she found him in the dark as he had found her in the obscure alley, alerted by some sound. Did she hear then, in stillness, the wolf howl of his emotion?
Away and away, the other wolf cried slenderly again over the snow. And then no more.
She saw his heart. She, this absurdity, this abomination—this joke cruder than any told in Marco’s kitchen. He felt her eyes upon his heart, cool, like pearls, sliding through his flesh.
And then—Oh God who is in Heaven—then—the light of the fire—
Aretzo cried out. Marco too and one of the sons. The woman by the door, the paragon, let go a wild scream.
(Did the wolf, searching the plain, in turn hear these animal noises?)
One saw the Christ shown in this way, the halo, the sun, behind his head. And she too, Virgin Maria. Beatifica—
Her hair had become a score of torches, and behind them shone the summer sun.
And with her thin white hands, she reached upward, and clasped this sun, and it came away in her hands, a nest of flame, sparkling and crackling, alive.
She held the fire high up in the dark, and gave them light to see. Then softly let it down, and all the candles caught at once, gushed up with a hiss, and spume of smoke. And on the table cloth, some little rivulets of fire ran off—and faded, harming nothing.
Marco’s wife sank to her knees. Men and women knelt.
But Cristiano came to his feet, and as he did so the pressure reached and burst in his brain and all the whiteness of eternity, which for six bitter times he had not been able to attain, entered in. For one second such joy, such ecstasy was there, it shattered him. He died. But only in a second. Only for a second. And then he simply stood in the earthly room, and there was low candlelight and the smell of food. And a brown-haired girl in the clothing of a man, her eyes downcast.
4
His two fellow knights had gone out to the chapel. Even though it was a sanctified stable.
The rest of them—God knew. The girl to her chamber, certainly. Slight and dowdy. Her damnable eyes cast down.
Danielus was in his room.
Regardless of the chaos, someone had come in and seen to the fire.
Cristiano looked at the fire, and then at the Magister, sitting in a chair, turning an apple in his hand. At each turn, the emerald in the ring flashed green. But the face of the Magister gave nothing at all.
“You’re still angry, Cristiano.”
“Yes, Magister.”
“Anger is—shall I say a fault, rather than a sin?”
“Oh. Sophistry. That’s not you, surely, Cristiano?”
Cristiano stood, white with rage.
“Tell me, Magister. Was it a trick?”
“I see now, despite your words, you never believed me when I told you what she did.”
“What did she do?”
“You saw quite well.”
“I saw—something. Am I to trust my eyes?”
“Have your eyes lied to you before?”
“No.”
“Then, perhaps, trust them.”
“How can she—for the love of God—”
Danielus got up. He walked across the room and back, and in passing put the apple into Cristiano’s unwary hand.
“Look. Here is a wholesome fruit we eat. Meat may be forbidden at certain times, and wine. But apples—never, And yet, Cristiano, on the Tree in the Garden of Genesis, the apples were forbidden. And eaten but once, brought about the fall of Man, as later only the rebellion of Lucefero felled the angels of Hell. By God’s will, things may change.”
Cristiano gripped the apple. His eyes flamed cold.
So he looks in a battle, Danielus thought, having never seen it. He pitied those adversaries who had.
“The Bible itself informs us of miracles,” continued the Magister Major. “Nowhere, I think, does the Bible say that miracles have ended. Rather that they may attend World’s End, or perhaps the dawn of another age.”
Cristiano stared at him.
But the eyes of Fra Danielus, as others had found, gave no purchase.
At last Cristiano turned away.
“Magister, does the Bible say a woman should be dressed as a man, and have a man’s freedom?”
“Some would tell you it does not,” said Danielus.
“Then she—”
“She dresses for her work.”
“She’s female.”
“Do you go into a skirmish, Knight, without your shield or sword?”
“Yes, Magister, you amaze me—you dressed her as a noble boy—where then is her sword?”
Danielus laughed. He tipped back his head and laughed—and this Cristiano had, before, never seen or heard.
Danielus said, “You ask why she wears no sword.”
“Yes, then. Yes.”
“She,” said Danielus, no longer laughing, “she is the sword.”
“What are you saying?”
Danielus now looked deep into the fire on his hearth.
He said, apparently at random, “Do you reckon they’ll keep silent about this? I mean Marco and his brood.”
“No. Whatever oath you made them swear. How can they?”
“How can they, indeed.” Danielus now smiled.
“They’ll blab. And then go to their priest in the village, to confess the sin of blabbing. And he will send a message to the Church. And soon, between the gossip in the markets of the City, and the questioning of the priests, everyone will have heard of her, a red-haired virgin who can call down fire.”
“It was deliberate then, to let them see.”
“Of course.”
“And I—and Jian, Aretzo—”
“She requires emotion, generally it seems that of others, since nothing stirs her very much. Oh, attempted rape did. That began it. But afterwards, the tears, fright, fury of those about her. Perhaps, their need. Her fire isn’t always awarded as a punishment. It may be a gift.”
“So you employed us, Magister. The Soldiers of God. Our doubt and—anger—”
“You alone were enough.”
Cristiano did not move. In his hand the apple, (crushed) began to bleed wine-scented juice that dropped on to the floor.
“Was I.”
“Your brother Soldiers gave themselves over quite soon. You resisted. Anger, or terror? Have you ever experienced fear, my Knight, to know it when it comes at you?”
Cristiano reacted suddenly. He flung the broken fruit into the fire. It hissed, as the candles had done, and a wonderful smell rose where the white flesh began to bake.
“How can I credit any of this?” he said.
“You saw it. How can you credit anything, otherwise.”
Cristiano’s face was bleak and the eyes wide.
“There you have it then. How can I?”
Danielus walked again across the room. Close to Cristiano, they were of a height. Nevertheless, as a father would, he took the younger man in his arms.
“You suffer, my son. Do you really believe God wants only penance and agony? He loves us, Cristiano. He wants us to be happy, too. Yield to Him, only that.”
“I always have yielded, to God,” Cristiano whispered.
“Do it only this once more.”
“But she—”
“What did you feel then?”
“What I’ve felt only alone—before the altar.”
Danielus held the young man; he stroked the blond hair of the bowed head pressed now to his shoulder. “God is your father. You must trust Him as the child must trust the parent. His purpose may seem unconscionable. But He will know more.”
“I’ve said I can’t debate with you.”
“Then God forbid you should try to debate with Heaven.”
After a moment more, Fra Danielus moved Cristiano from him. The Magister left him to stand there, by the fire, and crossed the room.
Danielus opened the shutter of the small window, and looked out at the snow and the night. Beasts might faintly be heard trampling in their byres. No other sounds now but the emptiness of winter.
“Beatifica recounted her dreams to the priests who first questioned her. Sarco obtained details of all her speech with them. But I found these dreams especially interesting. They’re beautiful, and innocent. And bright with power. But they might well have swayed those men further to the idea she was a witch. How lucky they were not beneath corruption.”
Cristiano glanced at him. “You bribed them?”
“How else do you think she came to me, after all the fuss that had been made?”
“The Council of the Lamb—”
“Oh, the business hadn’t reached high. They thought her nothing much.”
Danielus was silent a moment. Then he said, almost tenderly, “There are wolf tracks in the snow, down there. They’ve circled the farm, poor starving things, and gone away.”
“You pity wolves.”
“I pity all the world, Cristiano. Myself not exempted. If it weren’t blasphemy, I would pity God. So much pain and such a little spice and sweetness.”
“That’s how we learn. The harsher the school—”
“The greater the achievement? Later, in Heaven, we can be glad of it. Let me tell you what the girl said she dreamed. A country of sands and stones, with slim tall trees that had a foliage like fringes of gold. And a scarlet mountain, which seemed to burn like a terracotta lamp, from within.”
“Where did she see such a thing to dream it?” Cristiano’s voice was almost idle. Exhausted, he leaned on the wall, watching the apple in the flames.
“Where indeed. She said she saw the people there, and they were black as if burnt. The animals were curious. She describes one like a hare, but taller than a man. And a bear that sat in a tree and ate the leaves. Except, the leaves weren’t consumed.”
“Her mind—”
“Curdled? Well. Let me tell you something else. Now while you lean there, dying for sleep.”
“Pardon me, Magister—”
“Rest yourself a while, Cristiano, from being always perfect. I’d rather have you tired, to hear this. Perhaps then your own dreams will make space for it.”
Danielus closed the shutter. The room drew close about them.
“I keep a library in the island house. While I was there, I searched for and found a certain book. The writings of Gaius Suetonius Tranquillus. You will know, he was a Roman much given to anecdote and to history. Suetonius reports the tale of a Roman sea captain who, while questing for a large and unknown island in the Mare A
rabicus, was overtaken by a mighty storm. The vessel outlasted the tempest, but lost her course. For some while she was blown southward. Then when the gale dropped, having not enough crew left alive to man the ship, they were driven east of south. The legendary island had failed them. Instead they reached several small islets, which sustained them with water and peculiar fruits. Months passed. Suetonius heartlessly describes their prayers to their pagan gods, begging salvation, and thinking they must die.”
Cristiano watched the Magister Major. Watched. On guard against weariness, and any miracle.
But up in the watchtower, O sentry, remember night must come.
“At last the ship reached landfall. No island. It was a country large as any they had come from. And in their talk of it, when years after some of them returned, they named it, this place, God’s Other World.”
Cristiano said, “Since it was so unlike anything they knew.”
“So unlike. A land of mountains and deserts and lush forests, filled by plants and creatures never seen, never imagined, not even in the remote East. They had fallen, they thought, from the edge of the earth. But being imperfect, this was not Heaven. Nor was it fearful enough for Hell. Another world then.”
“If they returned and said this, were they reckoned liars?”
“Of course. Simply because they had returned, as Suetonius points out. The captain and his men claimed to have brought proofs, nevertheless. Unluckily, if unsurprisingly, none of the animals or plants had endured the journey back, which had been quite as harsh as the setting out. Only the woman survived, and was taken with them to Rome, to be shown to the Emperor Vespasian.”
“A woman. Was she as different as the world they said they’d found?”
“She was black. But then, she might have been from Africanus. The Romans were acquainted with Nubians. However, her features weren’t of this type, and the language she spoke had never been heard.”
“What became of her?”
“I regret to say, she was a slave. The Roman men had made her that, treating her, the writer comments, quite well. They thought her an inferior, as they thought any foreigner, especially one whose skin was unmatched to their own. The white and freckled skins of Britains, for example, seem to have disgusted them. She was disputed over in Rome, whether she should be shown as an exhibit, or carried by the ship’s captain to his farm. In the end, bored no doubt, the emperor generously permitted the captain to keep his spoils.”