Read Online Night Blooming by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro - Free Book Online Page A

and rising above it all, the Cathedral of Sant’ Martin itself, a strong, impressive structure with clerestory alabaster windows, a lantern that rose four stories, and chapels huddled around it like its nursing young.
    Otfrid led the way through the town toward the monastery, avoiding the two big markets where many peasants and merchants gathered with their animals and families to trade or, more rarely, sell their produce and goods. The excitement today was a bit feverish, as if the weather had infected everyone; it was a hot, overcast afternoon at the end of August, hazy and strength-sapping. The city and the road buzzed and stank, the shimmering air like water about to boil.
    “That is the swine-market,” Otfrid explained unnecessarily, pointing off to his right. “The cattle-market is just beyond.”
    “Away from the central wells, I see,” said Rakoczy, approving of that precaution.
    “The best wells are inside the monastery walls,” said Fratre Angelomus, a bit smugly. “They are pure and flow all year around. They are the blessing of Sant’ Martin himself.”
    “That’s why the monastery was built there,” said Rakoczy, recalling how the Church had come to control wells and streams as part of its vigorous expansion; this served a double purpose, for it made the monasteries relatively safe from siege, as well as taking over many sites of traditional pagan worship. “A wise choice.” His smile was not entirely pleasant, for his face was reddened by his prolonged exposure to the sun; he longed for a quiet, dark cell where he could recover from his reaction to sunlight that not even his native earth in the soles of his heeled Persian boots and padding his saddle could entirely counteract, particularly in these bright days of the waning summer.
    “It was the inspiration of the founder that put Sant’ Martin’s where it is,” said Fratre Angelomus, offended by Rakoczy’s too-worldly explanation.
    “That was my meaning. Do you think the wells weren’t inspiring?” Rakoczy said without a trace of umbrage. “Wouldn’t God rather have His monastery be as safe as possible? And wouldn’t those wells make the monastery the safe haven it was intended to be?”
    Fratre Angelomus scowled. “Don’t you accept the doctrine of divine inspiration?”
    “I would not presume to comprehend the purpose of God,” said Rakoczy.
    “At least you are willing to admit that,” said the monk.
    “There is no reason to wrangle,” said Otfrid. During their travels, he had grown weary of Fratre Angelomus’ constant challenging of Rakoczy; it was not for them to interrogate the foreigner, only to deliver him to Alcuin, no matter what the monk thought. At first their disputes had been mildly entertaining, but now, after two months of daily exchanges, Otfrid was heartily jaded. “Our journey is almost over.” They had gone out of the town and were now on the road to the abbey, a busy thoroughfare lined with stalls filled with livestock. Among these stalls were other, more permanent buildings: inns, taverns, and brothels.
    Fratre Angelomus managed to smile. “For which we must thank God and the Will of Great Karl.”
    “Amen,” said Rakoczy, aware that if he failed to endorse Fratre Angelomus’ faith, he would increase the suspicion the monk already harbored toward him.
    Rotgaud pointed toward the massive gates of Sant’ Martin’s, now standing open, guarded by monks holding thick wooden staves that could be used as weapons as well as walking sticks. “There is the place we must leave you, for armed men cannot enter the monastery precincts.” He motioned to the soldiers with them. “We turn back here.”
    The others drew rein, almost surprised that their wayfaring was over and that they had at last come to the end of their time together. Two of the men regarded Otfrid with the respect his position demanded, but the other two did not. “We are now without work,” Adalgis complained just loudly enough to be heard