Come Twilight

Sunset lay behind them, reddened by the wind that chafed the plateau which rose from the eastern bank of the Iberus toward the mountains that were little more than a jagged line beneath the ominous clouds gathering ahead. A few stands of tattered oaks provided the only shelter from the wind, but the road ran straight between them, leading toward the old Roman town of Aeso and its grand estate, Aqua Alba in Iberus. Behind them on the western bank of the river sprawled Caesaraugusta, a Roman town around a ferry crossing that was the merchants' gateway to the central Iberian Peninsula: Sanct' Germain and his escort had passed three days there before the weather improved sufficiently to allow them to travel.

"How much longer?" Rogerian had to yell although he rode only an arm's-length from Sanct' Germain.

"I don't know. We will need shelter soon. The wind is getting worse; it is almost dark." He squinted at the five out-riders who led the train of mules and provided protection for them. "I think Wamba is ill. I have watched him and he is pale and sweating," he remarked as he gave his attention to Rogerian once again. "Either he is ill, or he is carrying a skin of wine instead of water."

"Wamba is given to drink, as we saw in Caesaraugusta," Rogerian agreed, struggling to hold his Mongolian mantel around him, the wool side turned in, to keep him warm. "I do not entirely trust him."

"I do not trust any of them, old friend." Sanct' Germain wore a hooded Roman paenula of black Persian lamb over a Byzantine paragaudion of heavy-strand embroidered black silk that had weathered far worse conditions than these; his leggings were knit lambswool and his Mongol boots came almost to his knees. "But they are eager for gold, so I am willing to believe they will do no ill while we are on the old roads. Once we go into the mountains, I am not certain we will continue to be safe in their company."

"The Exarch at Caesaraugusta said that there is a monastery on this road that will take in travelers for a donation," Rogerian reminded him, holding the lead of the mule behind him with force; the animal had been trying to lag behind for some time. "The escort resents having to travel at night." He had not intended this observation to be a warning, but as he spoke, he felt a niggle of apprehension come over him.

"I know," said Sanct' Germain. "They are afraid of demons."

"Demons," echoed Rogerian, and cracked a single laugh as he tugged on the lead once again. "Wolves, more likely. At this time of year, there could be packs about."

"These men are not shepherds, or goatherds, to be afraid of wolves," said Sanct' Germain, but wondered if Rogerian might be right.

"If there is a howling," Rogerian began, leaving Sanct' Germain to finish his thought.

"It is the wind," said Sanct' Germain. "Once we get into the mountains, then there may be wolves, but out here, on this plateau, the winter is not hard enough for wolves to come so far out into the open." It had been more than three centuries since he had seen wolves running loose in the open in winter; the memory was not a comfortable one.

They went on for another two or three thousand paces, and then Childric, who rode in the van of the party, held up his hand. Swinging around in his saddle, he shouted, "Building ahead! An old outpost by the look of it!"

"Any sign of occupants?" Sanct' Germain called back.

"Nothing!" Childric answered in his blunt way. "We're tired! The beasts are hungry!"

"Time to stop!" Wamba joined in.

"Is the outpost safe?" Egica asked, his voice rough from shouting. He swung around in the saddle, hanging on to keep his seat.

"Why should it not be safe? What is there to fear?" asked Recared, his voice pitched a bit too high.

"I need food and drink," shouted Egica, and ended his demand with a harsh cough. "If the place is safe, why not-"

"If the outpost is deserted, there is no point in stopping," said Sanct' Germain at his most reasonable. "Let us press on; the monastery is not more than two thousand paces ahead."

Childric glowered and put his hand on his sword. "I say we stop."

"And I say we go on." This came from Leovigild, the sartrium for the escorts. "The patron is right. The outpost will give shelter but very little else." He was older than the others-over thirty-grizzled, scarred and proven: he commanded them with the ease of long experience. "Two thousand paces, even in this wind, is not so far."

"We should see the monastery," Recared exclaimed. "Where is it, if it is only two thousand paces ahead?" He was one of three men other than Rogerian who held leads in their hands, and guided a short string of mules with them.

"Probably in that stand of oaks," said Sanct' Germain, taking care not to challenge the men by this observation; they were touchy of their reputations and could find any questioning of their competence an insufferable slight. He shifted in the saddle, renewing his grip with his calves, and pointed ahead. "It is about two thousand paces to that grove of trees."

The men grudgingly accepted this. "As far as the trees, then," said Childric. "If we find nothing there, we will come back here and make camp for the night. I don't want to have to fight any of the people hereabouts. They're not fond of us. They are treacherous fighters, given to ambushes and traps. And with all these laden mules, we'd be singled out for a fight."

"They weren't fond of the Romans, either," said Sanct' Germain, recalling the many accounts he had heard from Legion officers of battles with the various tribes of Hispania. "Nor of one another."

"Then we will find shelter for the night," Wamba said, glancing back at the fading light. "We haven't much longer until it is full dark."

"Shouldn't the monastery have a travelers' light?" asked Egica. He, too, held a lead. "I can't see one."

"Let us keep moving," Leovigild said, urging his horse to a jog-trot. "It won't take long to reach the trees if we don't dawdle. Wamba. Sit up, man. And keep a grip on the lead. The mules could get away."

Wamba righted himself, gathering up his mount's reins and doing his best to look prepared for a long ride. "I am not myself, sartrium."

"All the more reason to be alert," said Leovigild, and brought his horse alongside Wamba's. "This will be over soon."

Childric grumbled, but fell in just ahead of Sanct' Germain. "I can't see very much," he warned. "If there is no travelers' light..."

Sanct' Germain waited a moment, then said, "I see fairly well in the dark; those of my blood have such talent." In fact, he saw almost as well at night as he did in the day, but he knew such an admission would bring suspicion upon him. "I can make out the road, and if there is a travelers' light, I will not miss it."

"If you say so," said Leovigild, apparently reserving judgment. "Keep a keen watch, then. It is going to rain tonight, or snow."

"Yes, it is," said Sanct' Germain. "And the wind will get keener."

Leovigild pulled his mantel more tightly around him. "In the morning, we will need pluvials." This was a concession, for it was rare for any man-at-arms would admit that any man not a soldier could reckon such things; not even peasants were thought to know anything about weather.

Rogerian pulled on the lead again. "The mules are getting restive."

"They are taking it from our escort," said Sanct' Germain, and once more looked toward the trees. "There!" he said. "A travelers' light."

Leovigild checked his horse. "Where?"

"Just there," said Sanct' Germain. "It's deep in the trees and not easily seen, but-there it is again." He pointed, and hoped that Leovigild's eyes were able to make it out.

"A flash," Leovigild conceded. "Are you certain?"

"Yes," said Sanct' Germain. "No peasant puts a lamp on the roof."

"True enough." Leovigild hesitated. "Might it be a trap? Wouldn't robbers try such a ruse?"

"Perhaps, but I doubt it, not on a main road, and not at this time of year." He looked about at the others. "If there are robbers, we are armed, and they would be fools to attack us."

The men gave half-hearted agreement, and Rogerian made a warning signal to Sanct' Germain.

"There has been fighting in the mountains, they say," Wamba muttered.

Sanct' Germain shook his head. "If you have to fight anyone tonight, I will pay three Byzantine Emperors to each of you, beyond the fee we have agreed upon. My Word on it."

Childric grinned, the wind whipping his hair about his face as if he were one of the ancient storm gods; he drew his sword from its scabbard. "Well and good. Let us be about it, then." He tightened his seat on his horse and picked up the pace to a fast trot. This gained the attention of all the men-at-arms and they, too, readied themselves for a skirmish.

"No faster!" shouted Leovigild. "Think of your horses. No faster! If your horse goes down, you ride a mule!"

This disgraceful prospect curbed the men to a jog-trot once more, and the mules on leads did their best to slow the pace to a walk.

"We will be there soon enough," said Childric, still showing his enthusiasm for battle by waving his sword. "Any robbers would be wise to flee while they may."

"Do not distress the monks!" Sanct' Germain ordered. "They will refuse you shelter if you do." He had the satisfaction of seeing Leovigild nod in approval. "You want hot food and a bed tonight, do you not?" Without waiting for an answer, he went on. "If you ride in like the robbers you are ready to fight, will the monks not turn you away?"

Childric said nothing, but drew his horse down to a fast walk. "You may be right. Monks are as easily frightened as women."

Egica patted his sword. "If I need it, I can draw it," he said, paying little or no heed to the sharp look Childric shot him.

In the wake of sunset the sky was dulling in the west as night closed in; the travelers' light was now more readily seen against the darkness.

"Should someone ride ahead?" Leovigild asked after they had gone on a bit further. "The turn-off is not far, and it might be wise, there being so many of us, to alert the monks before we arrive."

"A prudent notion," said Sanct' Germain, and gave his attention to Rogerian. "Will you do that for me, old friend? Will you ride ahead? I'll take the lead you hold."

Rogerian nodded once. "Of course I will," he said, holding out the lead to Sanct' Germain. "I will not race, but I will go as quickly as this horse can trot as long as the road is smooth." He tightened his hold on the horse's body and wiggled his heels against the animal's sides; in response the gelding extended his trot, quickly pushing to the front of the group, then pulling ahead of the rest; Rogerian's garments flapped around him like winged shadows. The sound of the hoofbeats carried back to the others even as Rogerian and his bay horse became indistinct in the gathering night.

"Watch where he goes," Sanct' Germain said. "He is showing us the way."

"If the monks will admit us, then well and good," said Egica gloomily.

"They dare not refuse." said Childric. "We are their champions." He put his hand on his sword again, as if to assure himself he could pull it from the scabbard at the first whiff of trouble.

The men-at-arms were growing more restive; the mules, laden as they were with crates, chests, bags, and sacks, grew fretful at having to keep up this pace. One brayed in protest and was struck across the nose with a whip.

"Don't do that," said Sanct' Germain quietly, but with authority that stilled Recared's hand as he prepared to lash out again.

"The animal is impertinent," said Recared. "He must be submissive to-"

"If he is to be struck, I will do it," said Sanct' Germain levelly. "But I have heard far worse from you and your companions than I have from that mule, and no one has wanted to whip you."

"If you want disobedient animals, what is it to me?" Recared asked the air, lowering his whip. "He is your mule."

"That he is," said Sanct' Germain, thinking of how many mules he had left behind at his villa just outside Toletum. He had sustained many losses over his long, long life, but each loss had a poignance of its own, and the mules and horses he had been forced to leave were no exception.

"The turn's coming up," said Leovigild, this observation more convincing to the men-at-arms coming from him than from Sanct' Germain. "There look to be ruts on the side-road."

"Then we will have to walk the beasts," said Childric, sighing with disgust. "If it starts to rain, I will curse Heaven for it, and the monks will not stop me."

Sanct' Germain kept a steady hand on the lead as he pulled his handsome Lusitanian gray onto the road to the monastery; he listened to the wind in the trees and had a long moment of discomfiture as he imagined what he and these men would do if they had to fight on the churned-up road in the middle of the grove. He tried not to be uneasy, though the speculation was worrisome; he reminded himself that this was Hispania and not the Greek mountains, that no enemy forces waited ahead. Taking a firmer hold on the lead, he tugged the mules secured to it to keep them from balking altogether. "Keep moving," he called out, as much to the mules as to the men-at-arms as he pressed on.

As they reached the first of the trees, there was a sudden flare of light ahead of them as the monastery doors were flung open, and half a dozen monks surged toward them. Two of the horses whinnied in dismay, and one of the mules almost sat down like a dog in an attempt to halt.

"All is well," cried out Rogerian. "Hold your hands!"

"Weapons down!" Sanct' Germain ordered. "You are in no danger here." He urged his horse to the front of the group, the mules for once responding to the pull on the lead with alacrity, sensing the end of the day's journey; their jarring trot shook the burdens strapped to their saddles noisily adding to the milling confusion.

The monk in the lead stopped still. "When your weapons are sheathed, you may come in." His voice was that of a man used to command, and he stood as straight as any captain would. "These Fraters will see to your animals. You must dismount before you enter our monastery."

Childric glowered but slid out of his saddle. "I'll lead my own horse, thank you. Fraters," he muttered as he dragged his red-roan's reins over her head. "Tell me where your stable is."

"Frater Roderic will show you the way," said the senior monk, and motioned to one of the others to tend to this task. "Lead one of the strings of mules, Frater Roderic," he added before he came up to Sanct' Germain. "You were wise to send your manservant ahead to us. Now that night is fallen, we would not have opened our gates to you."

"A monk refusing to shelter the stranger or feed the hungry?" Sanct' Germain said with mild surprise. "What would your Episcus say?"

"He would commend us, since four monasteries on this side of the Iberus have been sacked since winter began." He stepped aside as one of his monks went past leading a string of three mules.

"Then why shine the travelers' light?" Sanct' Germain asked in a carefully respectful tone.

"It is part of our Rule." He ducked his head. "I am Primor Ioanus."

"I am Franciscus Sanct' Germain of Ragoczy," he said, using everything but the two titles he could claim in this part of the world. "My journey began at Toletum," he went on, thinking that this was hardly the truth, but it would do for now. Then he was dismounting and preparing to lead his horse and mules within the monastery's gates. "I thank you for admitting us."

"Your manservant is a most convincing fellow," said Primor Ioanus. He turned toward the open gates as his Fraters secured horses and mules. "If you will go along to the stables, I will send word to the kitchen to prepare meat and bread for you." He cocked his head. "You are fortunate: we slaughtered two goats yesterday."

"For which we give thanks," said Sanct' Germain. "I ask only that you feed my men-at-arms; I have provision for myself." This was also not the truth but he knew the Primor would accept it without reservation.

The monastery was built around an open court, with the monks' dormitories on the north, the hostel dormitories on the south, the chapel to the east, and the kitchen and stables on the west side. A small, low building adjacent to the kitchen Sanct' Germain took to be the refectory, for there was the unmistakable chimney of a bake-house at the far end of it.

"I will see it is done." He motioned to the monks to hurry. "There are only three other travelers within our walls tonight, and one of them is suffering from blackened feet." He crossed himself.

Sanct' Germain stopped still. "How severe is the blackening?"

"It is bad enough that the man has no feeling in them. He has put himself in God's hands." Primor Ioanus shrugged. "We are praying for him and keeping him abed, not that he can rise unaided."

"How long has he been here?" Sanct' Germain asked, aware that once feet blackened and lost feeling the whole body was at risk.

"Four days. When he came, he said robbers had taken his boots as well as his donkey and goods. He was cold to touch, but claimed to be warm except in his feet." He pointed to the stable at the far end of the long, rectangular court. "There are many empty stalls, and hay in the loft for the animals."

"Very good," said Sanct' Germain, and led his horse and mules in that direction. He had almost reached the stable when Rogerian caught up with him. "You have done well for us, old friend."

Rogerian waved his hand in dismissal. "It is going to be a hard night. The weather makes demands of all of us. None of us wanted to be in the open, not with rain and cold coming on the wind." He lowered his voice. "There are between forty and fifty monks here, and room for as many travelers."

"The Primor says that they have few guests tonight, and that one has blackened feet," Sanct' Germain remarked as he stepped inside the stable, and glanced at the long rows of stalls on either side of the central aisle; Childric had already claimed the stalls across the way and was busying himself with giving his horse a quick grooming.

"Yes, so I understand," said Rogerian.

Sanct' Germain halted. "But you doubt this," he said, having caught a note of disbelief in Rogerian's tone.

"Yes, I do," said Rogerian. "I know what the monks are saying, and they are frightened. Why should blackened feet frighten them?"

"Some say the Devil causes blackened feet," Sanct' Germain reminded Rogerian; he started moving again, pulling his horse and mules with him. "A few steps more and you will rest," he said as he coaxed the animals along.

"Primor Ioanus has made this his fiefdom, or I know nothing about it," Rogerian added quietly.

"So I think," Sanct' Germain agreed. "He may be a younger son, or a bastard." He considered the matter. "A younger son, I presume from his manner. Or a stepson. Yes," he went on, thinking aloud, "a stepson, raised with all the trappings of power but with no way to gain it for himself: except here."

Two monks had come into the stable, each with horses and mules in tow. Rogerian indicated a row of empty stalls. "These should do," he recommended. "We will look after them."

"As well we should," said Sanct' Germain, and gave the mules' lead to Rogerian, then pulled his gray into the nearest of the stalls. "I'll tend to the packs as soon as I am finished with my horse."

"I'll secure their halters," said Rogerian, and went about his self-appointed task with the ease of long experience.

By the time Sanct' Germain set about removing the pack-saddles and their loads from the mules, the monks had left the stable; Childric had gone before the monks, and now only Sanct' Germain and Rogerian remained to tend to the animals and what they carried. Two small oil lamps provided a faint, luminous glow to the center aisle but did little to mitigate the gloom beyond.

"Bring me that barrel," Sanct' Germain said as he struggled to unfasten the breastplate on the tallest mule. "I need somewhere to rest this that will not break the saddle-tree." He had removed his paenula, leaving it hung on the end of the gatepost that closed the stable in for the night; if the cold bothered him, he did not show it.

Rogerian hastened to obey, rolling the barrel close to the stall and securing it with an old paving stone so that it would not rotate once the packed saddle was set upon it. "It is ready," he said.

"Let us hope no one is watching," said Sanct' Germain as he lifted the laden saddle in his arms and carried it to the barrel. "I would be hard-pressed to explain why I am able to-"

"The Primor is coming," Rogerian interrupted him.

"Just in time," said Sanct' Germain; he settled the pack-saddle atop the barrel and went to gather an armload of hay for the mule. He lowered his head in a sign of respect as the Primor came down the central aisle toward him. "Thank you again, Primor, for letting us stay here for the night, for giving my escort a bed, and for providing for my animals."

"It is as God commands us," said the Primor, not quite able to conceal his satisfaction at this expression of gratitude.

"I will shortly finish with feeding the mules. The horses are already attended to-brushed, watered, and fed-and the mules will be shortly."

"Do you actually brush your mules?" Primor Ioanus exclaimed.

"Yes. I do not want them hindered by the saddles riding badly on their coats." He went to the mound of hay that had been forked down from the loft, gathered an armload of it, and went back to the mule in the stall. "Here you are," he said to the animal as he put the hay in the long trough that served as a manger.

Primor Ioanus watched with mild astonishment, shaking his head in disbelief. "You do this yourself when you have a servant to attend to it."

"My servant manages the tack, I care for the animals," said Sanct' Germain as if this were the most ordinary arrangement in the world. "This way if my horses or mules come to grief, I have only myself to blame."

"Ah," said Primor Ioanus in comprehension. "You do not trust anyone but yourself. In that case, I can understand why you might decide to do these things." He sighed. "Would that others were as vigilant."

Knowing it was expected of him, Sanct' Germain asked, "Why do you say that?"

"Oh," Primor Ioanus said in an off-handed way, "that there are unscrupulous men who prey on travelers, pretending to provide aid and actually preparing the unsuspecting man for disaster. They are active in many places in the mountains, where the steep valleys and deep forests give them protection. They are cruel to their victims. We see many such at this place, men who have been robbed, often beaten, and left to live or die as God pleases."

Curious to know where this was leading, Sanct' Germain responded, "My manservant and I are no strangers to the hazards of travel, but I am obliged for the timely warning."

"A man abroad with as many goods as you carry would be well-advised to exercise care in all you do: robbers long for the opportunity you provide. You have men-at-arms, but they are not always proof against the bandits. There may be other means to guard what you carry." He put his hands together in silent prayer. "If it is not overbold of me, may I recommend another precaution to you?"

"I would welcome it," said Sanct' Germain as he picked up the stiff brush and began to go over the mule's coat.

"I am half-brother to Gardingio Witteric, whose estates are east of here. If you would avoid the perils of the road, may I recommend you go to him and ask for hospitality until the thaw? You might find the road too hard if you try to get through the mountain passes." He indicated the mules. "These are fine animals, but even they would not be proof against the cold. My half-brother is a most worthy man; his donations have supported this monastery for many years."

Sanct' Germain studied the Primor for a long moment, then said, "I had thought to pass the winter with the Gardingio Theudis, although that may not be possible now. I have an introduction to him from Episcus Luitegild of Toletum." He watched to see what response this information would evoke.

"Aqua Alba in Iberus," said Primor Ioanus, nodding. "A most worthy man, but one much burdened by a visitation of the Great Pox. He is receiving no travelers until the miasma has lifted from Aqua Alba."

"The Great Pox," Sanct' Germain said studiously. "I had not heard that it was abroad."

"The Exarchs have decided not to bruit it about, for fear of making the Pox worse." He crossed himself, and waited until Sanct' Germain put down his brush long enough to do the same. "One who has traveled as much as you must have seen how speaking of Pox brings it upon the people. I should not have spoken of it had you not said you were bound for Gardingio Theudis' estates. I will pray tonight that God will forgive my lapse and spare my monks."

"I thank you for the warning," said Sanct' Germain, his expression grave, for he had seen what the Great Pox could do more times than he liked to remember; he had also seen the cruel scars it left behind on those fortunate enough to recover from it. "I will consider what you have told me," he assured Primor Ioanus, resuming his brushing of the mule. "Are my men-at-arms being fed?"

"Yes. We have bread and baked cheese and a bean-and-rabbit stew. It will warm them and give them strength against the cold." He coughed gently. "It will be a hard night."

"All the more reason for me to care of my animals," said Sanct' Germain, going into the next stall to start brushing another mule.

"You will be hungry," said Primor Ioanus.

"I will bear it as well as I am able," Sanct' Germain said philosophically. He was ironically amused at his predicament, for he would find nothing to sustain him in this community of monks. "Tell me more about your half-brother." He hoped his prompting was not too obvious.

"He is a man of substance, highly regarded by all who know him," said Primor Ioanus, his family pride tinged with envy. "He is a stalwart man, known for his strength. He maintains a suitable court; not so grand as some, but good enough to do him honor. He keeps a household of forty fighting men, and controls more than two hundred peasants. His estate is in the mountains, so he has not gained the fame that some have, but the holding is a Roman one, fortified, and it has served him well."

Sanct' Germain heard him out as he worked, thinking that this Gardingio was probably a bully given to exploiting his dependents and abusing his inferiors, as most of his kind were inclined to do; with a fortified villa, he could live in safety while he preyed on the countryside he controlled. But, he asked himself, were any of the others much better? and knew the answer better than he liked. He paused in his brushing as he reached the mule's flank. "If the other Gardingi are worried about travelers, why should I suppose your half-brother would receive me and my escort?"

"A discerning question," said the Primor, not quite smiling. "You would have to rely upon my powers of persuasion in the letter I am willing to write for you, and the honor of our family." He waited a short while, then said mildly. "You need not decide yet. You will be kept here for at least one full day. Tell me if you want my aid before sunset tomorrow, after you have had time to rest and pray." Without waiting for Sanct' Germain's reaction, he blessed the stable before he turned and left it.

The monastery was almost silent by the time Sanct' Germain left the stable; freezing rain was pelting down through the trees, driven by a demented wind. As he closed the stable door and put the bolt in place, Sanct' Germain had the uneasy sensation he was being watched. He had pulled his paenula around his shoulders and was puzzling out where he should go when Rogerian came out of the travelers' dormitory, an oil lamp shielded by his hand.

"My master?" he said quietly.

"Have they all gone to their beds?" Sanct' Germain inquired. He moved into the small overhang of the doorway. "Wretched weather."

"That it is," Rogerian agreed. "And likely to get worse."

Sanct' Germain nodded. "Did the monks say anything about the Great Pox? The Primor told me it has broken out in the mountains ahead of us."

"Nothing," said Rogerian, but there was a hesitation to his answer that kept Sanct' Germain silent while Rogerian considered the question. "One of the monks did say it was more dangerous to travel than we knew. The others hushed him at once."

"They're afraid to speak about disease." He sighed, thinking how far the western world had slid in the last three centuries; had there been a report of an outbreak of Great Pox in the ninth century of the City, the Romans would have instituted a quarantine, offered prayers to the gods, and sent physicians from the Legions to survey the problem. But that was four hundred years ago, and those times were gone.

"The Great Pox is terrifying; you cannot blame them for being afraid," Rogerian observed. "If it has broken out, that would explain why the hostel is nearly empty. The weather cannot be the entire cause, nor the bandits in the mountains." He looked toward the monks' dormitory across the courtyard, his faded-blue eyes narrowing. "I will try to learn more, come morning."

"Very good," said Sanct' Germain. "In the meantime, where shall I rest?"

"I have set up two chests of your native earth in the last cell on the second corridor. I doubt the men-at-arms will venture there." Rogerian muttered a curse as the wind blew the little flame of the oil lamp out. "We had best get within," he advised.

Sanct' Germain made a sign of agreement, but did not move. "Rogerian," he said in the tongue of his long-vanished people, "have you noticed anyone watching us?"

"Do you mean as the monks have done, or something more covert?" Rogerian had opened the door, but half-closed it in an effort to hold in what little heat the building contained.

"I have had the sensation of being monitored since I went into the stable." He did his best to shrug off this unwelcome intuition; he glanced over his shoulder as Rogerian swung the door for him, and then he was gone into the dark corridor and on his way to the earth-filled chests that served as his bed.

Text of a report from the monastery of Archangeli near Roncesvalles, entrusted to lay-brother Terio for delivery to Gardingio Theudis on the 28th day of January, 622; never delivered.

To the Gardingio Theudis, the greetings of the monks of Archangeli on this most dreadful day, with the prayers that you will be spared what God has seen fit to visit upon us for our impiety and failings.

As soon as the weather clears, this message will be carried to you with all dispatch. I have already chosen who is to carry it, and with God's Grace, he shall reach you before the end of February, for I have told him this work is urgent, and he must travel from sunrise to sunset on every day the sun can be seen in the sky, for this tomus is of importance not only to us, at this monastery, but to you and your family.

It is the sad duty of this monastery to inform you that your cousin, the Primor Gaericed, has been called to the Throne of God to answer for his life. He has the company of many of the Fraters of this monastery to comfort him, as the Great Pox has claimed many lives here, but none so much valued as that of your cousin, for whom those of us who remain alive pray night and day.

There is no way that we, as religious, may abandon our place here, and so we will remain, to honor our Primor and our vows. Should the Great Pox spare us, we must hope that God will not let us die of hunger, for there is so much death about that no one ventures to bring food to the monastery; it being the depths of winter, we have only our onions and turnips and cheese to feed us. God has laid His Hand upon us heavily, and it is for us to bear the burden rather than be cast down by it, for in such wise, we fail our God as much as if we had placed the Crown of Thorns upon His Head. We will submit to God's Will, and His Mercy, however it may be shown, and praise His Name.

Your cousin is ready for burial, and we have sung his funeral prayers, but he cannot yet be buried, nor can fourteen other monks, as the ground is yet too hard. We have disposed all the dead in their winding sheets and placed them in the smaller chapel, so that they may be in a holy place and safe from storms and thieves and wolves alike. As soon as the snow has gone, we will seek to lay all of those who perish, to good, Christian rest.

The Frater-tertiary who carries this to you will vouch for all I have said here. He is a simple man, and humble, but his devotion to truth is beyond question. On behalf of your cousin, who brought the Frater-tertiary Terio to Archangeli, I ask you to house and clothe and feed him in your cousin's memory. You will find him reliable and faithful; God has given him great strength of body, that he may make his way in the world. I should tell you that he is easily frightened and therefore unsuited to the battlefield; his strength is best employed in building and similar tasks.

I have charged him to make note of all he sees in his journey to you, and to make a full and faithful account to you, telling only what he himself has witnessed. There are rumors everywhere, and in each of them, the Great Pox is worse; what Frater-tertiary Terio sees he will tell you, no more and no less. You may rely on him to report aright, and without guile, for so he is charged to do, on pain of eternal damnation. You may find such information useful as the seasons warm and the sickness is absorbed into the air from the infected earth.

May God reward you for your charity to Frater-tertiary Terio. May He open the doors of Paradise to your cousin, our Primor, and show him God's Peace. May you not suffer the visitation of the Great Pox. May all your family remain untouched by it. May your lands be in good heart. May your fields and orchards be bountiful. May your herds and flocks thrive. May you live in favor with your peers. May your enemies be struck down. May your coffers fill with treasure. May your name be spoken with respect from now until God comes again to deliver His People from the pains of this world.

Frater Morduc, Scribe

Half-brother to Episcus Honorius of Caesaraugusta

at Archangeli monastery near Roncesvalles, written on the 21st day of January in the 622nd year of God's Incarnation, in the calendar of Sanct' Iago.