He laughed and turned back to the rest of his group. “We continue south along the old military road. If the town is big enough for a bishop, we can see how effective the Latin Church really is on our behalf.”
Chapter Forty
The silk merchant fiddled with the electronic calculator hung round his neck. “I have heard stories of them,” he said in slow Greek. “One of my apprentices met someone in Basel who claimed to have seen one—a ship floating in the sky, able to carry armed men, who run continually up and down ladders to the ground.” He touched his calculator again. “I can have no reasonable doubt such things are sent out by the wonder-working race that has appeared in England. But have I seen one? No!”
He said something in German. A woman who was selling chickens laughed back at him. “If you’ve been speaking with old Heinrich,” he added in Greek, “do be aware that he’s a poet and an habitual drunk.” He laughed again. “Don’t ask which is worse.”
Jennifer stood aside for men with brooms to set about cleaning away some animal dung that had been left in the square. The main church in Ulm was a low building, built mostly from wood. The other buildings were generally thatched. The only tiled roofs she’d seen were on a large monastery beside the church, and on a building that served some mercantile function. The walled city was larger than Cologne had seemed, though had an appearance less quaintly mediaeval than of an extended settlement. Despite this, it was cleaner than she’d expected of a city without piped water, and no one had suggested that she and Michael should be burned as witches for having brought flying demons with them. In most respects, the Outsiders took a calmer view of The Break than those immediately affected by it.
Dinner was at 4pm in the silk merchant’s house, and was the first enjoyable food she’d had since leaving the Channel coast and striking out into the forest. Dressed in a robe that looked feminine, but allowed movement, Jennifer had been taken by the merchant’s wife on a tour of what amounted to an agglomeration of rooms on one floor about a central courtyard. She could see that the merchant and his wife had done well in Germany. But the furnishings were plain to the point of minimalism, and every room smelled with a pungent mix of lavender and beeswax. The woman knew only enough Latin to say her prayers, and communication was mostly by hugs and tones of voice.
The meal was in a long room close to the main entrance, and she and Michael were seated beside the merchant and his wife at the top table. As well as the first enjoyable food in weeks, this was also Jennifer’s first appearance in polite company since Alexius had taken her in hand. She could see how he watched from his own seat, half way down the secondary table, at the manner in which she broke her bread, and her patience in letting Michael drink first from the cup that was placed between them.
There was much singing, between the courses, by some apprentice boys, and a long series of jokes, throughout a beer course, from a man with a red face. Taking a rest from jokes that his hand gestures indicated were of a kind never allowed nowadays on television, the man belted out a couple of songs Jennifer couldn’t understand, but that were filled with complex rhymes.
“Do rich merchants eat like this every day?” Jennifer asked while all the cups were being refilled. In Normandy, hospitality had been a matter for the nobility, and had varied from place to place. Since she and her father had avoided the main commercial centres, her only experience of merchants was of very low hawkers.
“I don’t know about Germany,” Michael said. “But, except in times of siege or really bad harvest, this is part of daily life in Constantinople. You show your position by keeping reasonably open house.” He dropped his voice. “By the way, you shouldn’t be pinching little bits from your platter.” She looked down at the wide circle of bread on which every piece of meat he’d broken off for her had been placed. “It’s for the poor,” he reminded her. “If you’re still hungry, you should wait for the honey cake.” She’d known that, but had forgotten. She flushed red as she followed the slight turn of his head, and realised that the meal had been silently watched throughout. Perhaps everything she’d carried to her mouth had been watched closely by several dozen small people dressed in shabby grey. A couple of serving men were already collecting some of the juicier and more disintegrated platters, and were carrying them over to the hungry poor. Without standing, without seeming actually to notice, the merchant acknowledged the gestures of respect and blessing. “For ye have the poor always with you,” Michael recited again. “And there’s a lot of truth in Scripture. Whatever else, the poor must somehow be fed.” He reached over and took a couple of wedges of what looked and tasted like bread pudding.
“There will be a few dozen barges leaving on Thursday morning,” he continued in brisker tone. “They’ll be carrying cut timber for a dam that’s being built downstream. There will also be a group of pilgrims going east. If we mix ourselves in with those people, we ought to be safe. My impression is that your people’s floating machines can’t go far. The ones that fly very quickly, high in the sky, may not be any danger to us.”
There was a loud cheer from about the tables. The comedian was back on his feet, and began dancing about the room with a broom handle topped by a pumpkin and some sacking that did duty as a wig.
Jennifer dreamed that Michael was driving very fast with her on the wrong side of the M2. It must have been before The Break, as the headlamps of the oncoming traffic were dazzling. She could hear the frantic sounding of horns, and possibly the overhead clatter of a police helicopter. She tried in three languages to get Michael to stop. But he paid no attention. His eyes shining, his mouth slightly open, he drove straight on as if the road had been empty.
Still dazzled by the oncoming lights of something huge, she sat up in the darkness. She could hear only the soft snoring that indicated that Michael had rolled over on his back. She put a hand on his warm chest. He groaned and muttered something that may have been in Greek. She was in Ulm, she told herself. She was in bed with her husband about a hundred miles south of a Würzburg, where she and her parents had always stopped to sleep for a few hours on their annual drive to Slovakia. Michael had only the haziest understanding of refuelling needs, but may have been right about how far airships could go. They might need only another hundred miles before they were in the clear.
She lay back and wondered if it was a flea or a mosquito that had brought up a lump on her right forearm. She’d have that answer when it began to itch. They were lying together on a mattress that had been put directly on the floor. She reached left and patted the boards for her wristwatch. She pressed the display button—2:47am, it said. What the local time might really be she neither knew nor cared. It was enough that she’d been asleep for five hours. Back in Deal, she might only just have nodded off. Her parents might still be sitting together downstairs with a single candle to let them see each other speak. But the Outsiders mostly went to bed when it was dark, and were up with the dawn. She had another couple of hours to go before the old woman who’d put them to bed came in with washing water, and Michael could set properly about travel arrangements for the next day. Or was Thursday the day after next? The change in day between England and the Outside had always confused her in practice. Add to this now that she couldn’t tell any more how long they’d been travelling. It might be Wednesday. It might be Tuesday. The old woman spoke no language she’d ever heard. But the merchant would know.