“I will tend to them as soon as I have closed the gate.” The guard did not look directly at Germanno as he spoke.
“You are most generous, but I think it would be best if I kept them with me for now,” Germanno told the guard in his most courteous manner; without waiting for the guard to speak, he led his horses and mules forward.
The door of the bailey stood open, and in its shadow, a woman in wine-red cote of Antioch velvet beneath a surcote of brocaded crimson samite stood, her luxurious hair bound up with bonds of gold and silver; her face was hardly changed from the last time Germanno had seen her, more than three centuries ago. She stepped gingerly into the light. “I told you never to come here again.”
Germanno offered Ximene a profound reverence. “I have not come to flout you, Csimenae,” he said, speaking the tongue she had spoken when they first met.
“Well, you must have some purpose, or you would not be here,” she said sharply, frowning at him. In the uncompromising glare of the sun, her clothing was shown to be threadbare and slightly old-fashioned, but she was still a splendid figure, and she dominated the courtyard and the occupants of the fortress as surely as if she held a sceptre. She surely deserved being called Viexa Armoza—the beautiful old woman.
“Sadly, yes, I do.” He pointed to his second horse with its silent, well-wrapped burden. “You may not have made peace between you, but I thought you would want him with you.”
“Him?” Ximene repeated, continuing at once, “You have brought me an offering?”
“This is no offering, I fear,” Germanno said as gently as he could.
“Then what is it?” Behind her defiance there was a trace of recognition, as if she understood what he had brought, but had not yet permitted herself to know it.
He could think of no way to soften the blow. “It is Aulutis,” he said, using the name the boy had been given at birth.
She stared at Germanno as if he had uttered an incomprehensible sound. She blinked as if against the sunlight, then bit her lower lip. “He defied me,” she said. “He should have been dragged to death by horses.”
“He was killed by villagers, many leagues from here,” Germanno said, his voice low. “They knew what to do: they used a lance to break—”
“Stop!” She raised her hand as she took a step toward the shrouded figure. “Goroloz! Herchambaut! To me!”
Two men—one in the garb of the Castilian court a century ago, and one in still older Frankish clothes—come out of the bailey, each with weapons drawn, and both ready to attack. They paused at a sign from Ximene, coming to her side and facing Germanno with determination.
“Stand away,” Ximene ordered Germanno, watching as he led his mount with him to the side of the courtyard, leaving the mules and the second blue roan where they stood.
“Take the . . . body down,” she said, pointing.
“Be careful with him,” Germanno added. “He is fragile.”
Goroloz and Harchambaut exchanged uneasy glances, but hastened to do as they were told. The roan side-stepped at the approach of these unfamiliar men, but at a word from Germanno, she stood while the body was taken down.
“He’s very light,” said Herchambaut, his Frankish accent strong.
“He has been dead a long time,” Germanno said, loneliness coming over him like a cloud over the setting sun.
“Put him down,” Ximene said, pointing to the step below the one on which she stood. “Gently.”
The two guards obeyed, then stepped back to retreat to the shadow of the bailey door.
Ximene stood over the body for a short while, unmoving and silent. Then, as if pulled by invisible strings, she knelt down and pulled back the heavy cloth that concealed his face: the desiccated features were still recognizable, though they began to crumble as the waning light struck them. Ximene crossed her arms on her breast and wrawled her torment; the sound echoed, ululating from the stones until all the mountain rang with her grief. Her keening went on as she strove for the anodyne of weeping, but could not achieve it. When one of her men approached her, she motioned him away abruptly.
“But Viexa Armosa—” Goroloz protested in dismay.
“Stay back from me,” she commanded him. “This is my son. I have done all for him, and now he is gone.” Her mourning resumed, the sound of her voice more eerie than before.
The guard at the gate had secured it again, and now he stood as if bound, appalled by what he saw. He glanced at Germanno, and cried out, “He deceives you, Ximene. He killed the boy. He is to blame!” Taking a step forward, he reached for the short-sword that hung from his belt.
“Stay where you are,” Ximene said, and the guard halted.
Herchambaut and Goroloz remained in the doorway, their weapons drawn once more; they hesitated as if trying to make up their minds. Finally Goroloz spoke. “Shall we kill him?”
At first Ximene did not respond—she continued to wail over the rapidly collapsing corpse of her son. Then she looked over at Germanno and said with tremendous fatigue, “No. No, he is not to blame. Leave him be.” She rose, and without looking around, said in a flat voice, “He must be buried quickly, or there will he nothing left of him.”
Goroloz moved first, coming out into the light, sheathing his sword. “Where shall we take him?”
Ximene shook her head slowly. “Wherever you can make a grave.” She stared up into the sky without squinting. “It was for him. Even when he betrayed me, it was all for him.”
Herchambaut came to help Goroloz, trying to contain as much of what remained of Olutiz in the cloth in which Germanno had wrapped him. “The stable, do you think?” Herchambaut suggested.
Ximene overheard and said, “Not the midden. Make him a proper grave.”
The two uttered sounds of assent as they carried the nearly empty cloth away, leaving Ximene standing alone on the steps to her bailey.
Text of a letter from Fre Carloz of the Monastery of Santoz Ennati the Martyr near Usxa, to Idelfonzuz, King of Aragon and Navarre, at Toledom.
In the Name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, and in honor of our Santoz Ennati: Amen.
To the most excellent and illustrious Christian King, Idelfonzuz of Aragon and Navarre, and ruler of Castile and León in the name of Urraca, daughter of Adelfonzuz of Castile and León, and champion of Christian knights everywhere, the thankful greetings of Fre Carloz of Santoz Ennati the Martyr, in whose name I address you and rejoice with you.
Most estimable King, delight with us in the victory God has given to His most humble of servants, His monks and the peasants who are in our care, for today we have done that which seemed impossible but four days since. We are filled with gratitude to God, Who is the source of all wisdom and strength, both of which He has bestowed upon us in our darkest hour.
Know that the war which continues to rage in this disputed region has lately added to its perils a plague of night-demons and vampires who have come to the battlefields to drink the life’s-blood of those who have fallen but not died. This horror has outraged all who have witnessed it, and caused many to lament for the lost souls of the prey of the vampires as well as to appeal to Heaven for succor, not only from the soldiers ravaging the land, but from the vampires that have followed in their steps, destroying all those they find. No peasant and no monk could be safe from such foes. In this predicament, when all hope seems lost, a misfortune pointed the way to our triumph: the Moors set fire to the woods where Christian forces were said to be lying in wait for them. This has happened before, but not in high summer; the Moors dread the fire as profoundly as Christians do. The fire sprang up quickly and raged through the forest for two days until a rainstorm ended it. Then it was revealed that most of the bodies were not those of Christian knights, but of night-demons and vampires. The bodies were little more than piles of ashes, like ancient husks with brittle sticks inside them.
We have now found a way to burn more of these baleful creatures and finally rid our region of them. We may burn them out as we would burn out all Godless things. We need not offer blood to them again, nor go abroad at night with fear in our souls. Had the Moors not done so shameful a thing to our good Christian soldiers, we would not have been given to see how this great enemy is to be destroyed. With renewed purpose, we have determined to lure as many of these vampires into the heart of the woods where they have been known to gather and that have not already been burned, and there we will surround them with flames, and let them perish as they have delighted in our deaths down the generations. Surely Santoz Ennati will aid us from his place among the blessed in Heaven.
Our one concern now is that this may destroy one of your forests, for Liege, the best stand of trees for our purpose is within the boundary region of Aragon. This is yours by right and lineage, and therefore we know you may well think such an act as this is treasonous, if you did not know the whole of the circumstances, of which this letter informs you. Your forests are protected by your right, and we may be held to account for any mishap that occurs there, not only as it pertains to the loss of the woods, but as an insult to your dignity. We intend no affront to you, Liege, in our efforts to rid the mountains of the vampires who have for so long preyed upon the peasants, clergy, merchants, and soldiers unlucky enough to cross their vicious paths. It is the one thing we can do that will spare us the depredations of these damned creatures, and if there must be a sacrifice to accomplish so worthy an end, then we are prepared to make it, and take the consequences of our act. But I beg you to forgive us for burning your forest. Do not condemn us for doing what must be done in order to save ourselves and your people from further decimations at the hands of these remorseless beings.
You have it within your power to demand our lives for what we are going to do, but I pray in the name of Santoz Ennati, who faced these same demons and earned himself a place at the Right Hand of God for his battle, that you will condone our righteous cause and the means we have employed to achieve them. I must tell you that other monasteries have agreed to stand with us in this, and find some way to end the long sovereignty the vampires have claimed in this region known for so long as Holy Blood. Your soldiers will soon fight in this very region; would you rather they fall to the Moors or to vampires? If they die from
Moorish blows, they will achieve Heaven; if they are set upon by vampires, they will be consigned to Hell if they are not shriven. Think on this before you objurgate us for what we are about to do.
In the certainty that justice will prevail in our cause and that you, Liege, mindful of the sacrifice of Santoz Ennati, will pardon us for emulating him in his fight, I bless you and your reign, and sign myself
Your most deeply devoted subject, save for God Himself,
Fre Carloz
Santoz Ennati
near Usxa, by my own hand on this the 17
th
day of July, in the 1117
th
year of man’s Salvation. Amen.
Although they were almost a league away from the monastery, Ximene and Germanno could hear the shrieks and other grisly sounds as the flames rose in the pyres on which more than twenty vampires were tied. The westering sun lit the clouds from beneath as if the horizon were burning, a grander version of the smoke rising above the monastery walls with the glare of red on its underside; fortunately the wind was blowing across them, to the east, and so they could not smell what the smoke carried.
“How did they do this?” Ximene whispered as she stared at the smoke from the shelter of the trees. “How did those stupid, cowish monks manage to trap so many of my clan?”
“It hardly matters how,” Germanno said, keeping in the shadow of the forest, reaching across his mount and hers to lay his hand on Ximene’s shoulder both as comfort and restraint. “They have done it.”
“But they are nothing—
nothing
.” She pushed his hand away. “And still, they have done what they could not do, what they have never done before. How is that possible?”
“Ximene,” Germanno said quietly, “I know you grieve for your—”
“Grieve?” she repeated, then laughed suddenly and harshly. “I cannot grieve for any who are so lax as to be caught by living fools, and monks at that, not soldiers. No, Sanct’ Germain. They do not deserve mourning: I
despise
them for such a death. Had I thought they would fall in so headless a fashion, I would have killed them myself, and spared the monks their trouble.” Her face was set in a kind of rigid fury, her hands knotted on the horse’s reins.
“You told them to come down from your fortress,” Germanno reminded her, troubled by her outburst. “When the others sent word of their fears, you dispatched . . . them”—he nodded to indicate the victims of the flames—“to aid the rest.”
“Yes, to aid them. I did not think they would fall into a trap, especially one so clumsy as the one the monks set. A goat would not be so easily duped as they were.” She shook her head. “No. They brought this on themselves. They have shown me that they are too reckless and gullible to live.”
He contemplated her face, noticing the shine of anger in her eyes; he realized she was sincere in her condemnation, that she had no comprehension of her loss. “You are too severe.”
“Why? They have been loathsome.” Her mouth twisted with the word.
“I do not mean severe for their sake, Ximene: I mean for yours.” He shook his head as the nightmarish screams suddenly stopped. “If you hold them in contempt, you will be haunted by their deaths; if you can accept their bond to you, and yours to them, you will release them and yourself.”
“Do you think so?” she asked, gesturing to the smoke as it drifted away to join with the gathering clouds.
“I do,” he told her.
She rounded on him. “What kind of idiot do you take me for? They are gone as if they were as mortal as the monks who have burned them. No affection, or any other feeling, remains.” Her eyes met his. “And you cannot understand why I want you to leave here.”