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
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
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