“You must not be distracted,” she thought as the sound of Erik’s voice interrupted her contemplation.
“There is a village ahead,” Erik said. “I would have you rest for an hour.”
“Do you think that is wise?” Gwyneth replied. “I am not tired, just hungry.”
“It seems you are always hungry,” Bryson interjected, winking at Erik.
“Sir, surely, you know I am not to blame!” Gwyneth said, laughing. “It is the child.”
“If there is no church, we will find the alehouse,” Erik told them. “There should be accommodations for travelers.”
As the three riders approached the village, Hugh left the safety of the forest and galloped along the open road, hoping to reach the monastery before Prime. While he would appreciate sleeping in a bed with a fire warming the room, comfort was not his primary concern. He needed to send a message to his master, to keep him apprised of Erik’s movements, even though he had yet to ascertain his reasons for leaving Britannia. He did admit he was perplexed. It was as if they were on a pilgrimage, spending nights in religious houses, not stopping in any of the famed cities, and avoiding well traveled roads.
Hugh heard the pealing of the bells long before the sun had yet to set. He was pleased it was still light as he rode through the pilgrim’s gate and found the stables with minimal effort. He noticed a young boy cleaning out the stalls and gave him a coin to rub down his horse. Hugh passed the kitchens, suppressing the urge to fill his belly while heading towards the abbot’s administrative offices. He was humble when speaking to an elderly monk who led him to an empty room where he could compose his letter in private. He sat beneath the open window as the fading sunlight filled the room. Hugh wrote his message expeditiously, his sentences short and to the point. He folded the letter, dripped wax on the parchment, and pressed his ring into the hardening liquid.
“Brother,” Hugh said to the Benedictine monk waiting outside the door. “Would you take me to the abbot?”
The holy man led Hugh to the guest waiting room where he awaited the Brother Abbot. There was the customary likeness of the Virgin Mary holding the child, Jesus, hanging above the fireplace that was found in most religious houses. A cushioned kneeler had been placed before a Crucifix affixed to the opposite wall, near a bookshelf lined with manuscripts. He walked towards the desk, sitting on a chair and tapping his fingers on the writing table to pass the time.
“My son,” the Brother Abbot said upon entering the room. “How may I be of service?”
“It is important this letter reaches Calais,” Hugh said, handing him the parchment. “But it must be someone trustworthy.”
“The holy brothers deliver the dispatches so your fear is unwarranted,” the Brother Abbot replied, “and I do have a messenger leaving once the sun rises, and I shall include your communiqué.”
Hugh insisted that the Brother Abbot keep the coins he had offered in recompense, reminding the holy man of the beggars seeking refuge in the Lord’s house. The Brother Abbot thanked him for his generosity, walking him out of the building where he took his leave. Hugh made his way towards the kitchens where he ate his fill before returning to his assigned quarters in the guest houses. This night he would sleep well since the room was warm and the bed softer than the cold ground. He would have preferred passing the night in the arms of a caring woman, but there would be time for passion once this undertaking came to an end. Until then, he would do what he must in the service of his master, lest his head rested upon a pike in an unforgiving kingdom.
***
The village was of considerable size for this time in history, which Gwyneth found remarkable. As they rode along the main street, she noticed the closeness of the buildings that housed the farmers working the nearby fields. Children tended the vegetable gardens while the women looked after the animals, feeding the livestock and milking the cows. The tradesmen’s dwellings were further down the road, past the stables and alehouse, and a small church had been erected near the forest, which obscured the cemetery.
They dismounted at the stables, handing the reins to the stableboy before heading towards the alehouse. They entered the cool darkened building, enjoying a break from the midday heat. Even though the few patrons were inquisitive, they only looked at the strangers briefly, speaking between themselves as Erik led them into the back room.
“If you are hungry, there is bread and mutton,” the serving maid said. “If you are thirsty, there is mead and ale. There is no wine.”
“Bread, mutton and ale,” Erik replied, “for each of us.”
The serving maid nodded, not wishing to pry. She smiled as she left, ignoring the men’s stares.
“She will ask questions,” Gwyneth reminded both Erik and Bryson as she noticed the other patrons glancing occasionally in their direction.
Gwyneth kept her cloak draped loosely around her, hiding her growing belly. She was impatient to reach St. Gall because she feared the child would be born en route, which was why she refused to rest for any length of time. Physically, the occasional breaks were most welcome, but mentally, they were not. She could not relax until the child was safely born and hidden in the house of the Lord. Even though Rheda had betrayed Erik, she did not know that Gwyneth carried his child, his son, his heir. It was the child that had to be protected at all costs. Her life and Erik’s were expendable, and Gwyneth had already accepted this truth, yet she did not know exactly what would happen once the child was born. She had not really thought much about it, until now. She knew that she and Erik had to return to the citadel without their son, but what of their son? St. Gall was chosen because of its location, which was not problematic. However, it was what happened next that unnerved her because she did not know. Somehow, this knowledge would be a test of faith, her faith, and since there were no answers, she had to trust the Lord.
“The bread is warm,” the serving maid said as she set a platter in the middle of the table.
Gwyneth smiled at the young woman as she pushed her thoughts aside, preferring the company of her husband and Bryson than dwelling on her misgivings.
“Do you plan on settling here?” the lass questioned as she gave them each a bowl of mutton stew.
“We are from the Rhine Valley,” Bryson offered. “We have been visiting the abbeys these weeks in thanksgiving for being cured of an illness.”
The serving maid crossed herself as she glanced at the three faces, wondering which person had been sick and if the disease had been contagious. The fear of catching a fatal sickness outweighed her curiosity as she left the room, closing the door behind her.
Gwyneth stifled a laugh, her eyes sparkling as she looked at Bryson.
“I think you startled the creature,” Gwyneth said.
“That was not my intent,” Bryson replied, duly chastised.
“It is best we leave once we finish our meal. We dare not tarry ... they are an inquisitive lot.”
***
Erik and Bryson were following Gwyneth on the grass- lined path when they heard a woman screaming. The men ran towards the noise with Gwyneth close behind. They stopped once they came upon a crowd that was gathering in front of a building.
“It is her time,” the old woman told the people. “Nothing to fear. Return to your tasks.”
“I should help,” Gwyneth whispered to Erik and Bryson.
“She is a healer,” Erik reminded her. “We are not needed.”
“Do not forget birthing is natural,” Bryson interrupted.
“There is something wrong; that scream was unnatural!” Gwyneth replied as she heard another bloodcurdling shriek. “Wait here!”
Gwyneth rushed into the healer’s dwelling and was horrified at what she saw. The pregnant woman was lying in her own filth as the healer was putting her hand inside the birthing cavity, apparently trying to discern the position of the baby.
“What are you doing?” Gwyneth cried, pulling the woman away. “Wash your hands. And bring me water, plenty of water. And cloth,
lots of cloth.”
Gwyneth tried to reassure the frightened woman while removing her soiled clothing. She wiped away the excrement and blood while the healer washed the birthing table. She placed the naked woman upon the clean linen, speaking soothing words as she examined her, her misgivings proven with each horrific cry.
“The child cannot be born naturally,” Gwyneth whispered to the healer. “But surely, you knew this.”
“The husband has been sent for,” the healer said softly. “He must choose, the mother or the child.”
“Stay with her,” Gwyneth told the flustered healer as she ran outside seeking Erik.
“What is wrong?” Erik asked.
“It is as I feared, the baby must be cut from her,” Gwyneth said.
Erik pulled her close, speaking directly into her ear.
“If she and the child are meant to die, so be it. You must not change her fate.”
“What if I were sent here to save her?” Gwyneth whispered.
“You must not interfere ... I forbid it.”
“You forbid it!” Gwyneth exclaimed.
“Forgive me, I meant no offense. I cannot lose you.”
“I understand your concern, I truly do,” Gwyneth said as she held her husband’s hand and glanced into his eyes. “But I must do what I believe to be right. I will listen to my heart, and the Lord will guide me. Trust me, please.”
Erik embraced his wife, kissing her forehead before she raced back inside. The old woman held a cup to the woman’s lips, begging her to drink the soothing potion, a remedy to numb the senses until she succumbed to the Lord’s will.
For the first time in her life, Gwyneth regretted her chosen career. Yes, she was Dr. Franger, a Doctor of Philosophy, but not a Doctor of Medicine. She did not have any medical training, not even the simplest first aid. She was lucky she could apply a band-aid, so how could she help deliver a child? Nevertheless, surgical deliveries had vastly improved with every generation. She remembered watching a new procedure on Medical TV. The obstetrician had made a transverse cut just above the edge of the bladder, which was big enough to pull the head through. The lengthy midline incision was antiquated, and there had been complications after the procedure, complications Gwyneth knew would occur with inept medical care, but the healer was not to blame. She wondered if she could explain the procedure accurately enough for the old woman to perform the operation. From where she stood, both mother and child were already dead unless drastic measures were taken.
Before Gwyneth could voice her concerns, the woman’s terrifying screams intensified as she withered in excruciating pain, clutching her chest while blood gushed from the birthing canal. The woman was going into shock as her life, and the life of her unborn child, ebbed away.
“Something ruptured,” Gwyneth thought, watching in horror as the healer attempted to stop the bleeding, but her efforts were too late.
“Send for the priest,” the healer told Gwyneth who nodded while leaving the room in tears.
The priest and the woman’s husband came upon Gwyneth just as she stepped into the fading sunshine, and they feared the worst. Gwyneth ran into Erik’s arms, crying hysterically, her body trembling.
“You were right,” Gwyneth sobbed. “I should never have come. But your fears were unwarranted, my love. I was never given the chance.”
“The sun is setting,” Bryson said. “We must spend the night. I will find us a place to stay.”
Chapter Twelve
It was almost midday before Gwyneth awoke. She had not slept well, waking often because of the dreams. She dreamt she died in childbirth and that her son was malformed and did not survive. She also dreamt her son had not reached manhood, and her attempt to preserve the bloodline had proved fruitless, ending with her losing her life in a century other than her own. But the worst dream, the one she remembered upon awakening, was running through the fire and carnage as Erik fell dead before her, an arrow piercing his heart.
Sunbeams filtered through the window as Gwyneth opened her eyes, stretching her arms above her head while glancing about the small room. She sat up, sweating profusely when she noticed she was alone. For a split second, she had forgotten where she was, and she was afraid. She took a few deep breaths, exasperated because she was succumbing to her fears, fears based upon superstition and not fact. She was a scientist, after all. Her relief was evident when Erik walked into the room, carrying food and drink to break her fast.
“Why did you let me sleep?” Gwyneth asked as she joined him by the table and helped herself to a slice of bread.
“You, we, needed the rest, and we have traveled too many miles.”
“We must ride while there is light,” Gwyneth interrupted.
“One day makes little difference, which is why we will stay at the abbey as planned. Just think of the hours you will have in the library, or the sickrooms, or the brewery, or...”
Gwyneth laughed as she kissed Erik on his cheek. She ate quickly, not wishing to spend more time in the village that held such painful memories. As she followed Erik to the stables, she expected to see the villagers running about, but for some reason, the street was deserted. She tugged at Erik’s sleeve, her eyes asking the question she dared not verbalize, but it was Bryson who answered her query as he helped her mount.
“Everyone is in church attending the funeral Mass. I think it best if we do not go; questions might be asked.”
“I agree,” Gwyneth replied as she led her horse towards the open road.
The day was unusually warm as they continued their journey. Gwyneth was amazed that they had not come upon anyone walking or riding along the dirt road, which led to the abbey. She realized the route Erik and Bryson had chosen was less traveled, but she had thought there would be other people about, even if they were just the local villagers attending market day. She was reminded of the old country roads that had become obsolete as the motorways connected the island nation. As she gazed about the lush landscape, she was saddened by the loss of such beauty. Even though she welcomed the chance to see for herself how life was lived in the eleventh century, she knew she did not belong in this time. Yet she could not bear the thought of leaving Erik. She would have to suppress the urge to take control of events, like she had tried to do at the healer’s dwelling. She was not overseeing an excavation or teaching a class, and she must refrain from interfering.
“See the bell tower upon the horizon?” Erik asked Gwyneth.
“I would spend time in the library,” Gwyneth replied, “where I will not be tempted to speak my mind.”
Gwyneth was embarrassed by Erik’s and Bryson’s loud laughter, turning very red when she glanced in their direction, but she did notice something brown in the middle of the nearby trees. She held her hand over her eyes, blocking out the sun as she tried to identify the object.
“What is it?” Erik asked while Bryson dismounted and hurried towards the lifeless body of a Benedictine monk.
“He is dead,” Bryson said as he knelt beside the holy man.
“Wait here,” Erik told Gwyneth, handing her the reins.
Gwyneth would have protested had she not been with child. They had yet to determine why the man died, whether from disease or mischief. And if his death had been the result of a contagion, they could certainly suffer the same fate. She sat on her mount, appreciating the intermittent wind gusts, which made the oppressive heat bearable. As Gwyneth brushed aside unruly strands of hair, she saw wind-blown papers scattering amid the fallen leaves. She shouted to Erik, telling him to give chase before the evidence was lost, but her husband and Bryson were too involved with determining why the man had died to pay any heed to Gwyneth’s request.
Frustrated and impatient, Gwyneth dismounted and walked purposely along the forest floor, hoping to find at least one of the dispatches that the Brother had carried. She skirted past the unfortunate soul, believing his death had been caused by robbers, but that was highly unlikely. Members of religious orders had taken vows of poverty, so w
hy would he be attacked? Unless, he was a spy?
“You are being paranoid, Gwyneth,” she thought. “He probably died from something preventable, like heat stroke. Or a heart attack. Long life was a rarity in the eleventh century!”
As Gwyneth chased the blowing papers, Erik and Bryson were placing the body in a shallow grave, protected with rocks. The men made the Sign of the Cross, praying for the soul of the Lord’s servant before returning to the horses.
“Where did she go?” Erik asked Bryson, exasperated. “Why can she not listen?”
“Why, indeed?” Bryson laughed as he pointed to Gwyneth who was running towards them.
“I found this!” Gwyneth said, waving the sealed communiqué before both men.
“Did I not ask you to stay with the horses? What if they had run off, then what?”
“Oh, Erik, do not be so dramatic!” Gwyneth blurted, forgetting to choose her words with care.
“I do not understand,” Erik replied.
“Forgive me. I did not mean to make light of your concern. But I had good reason to disobey my husband.”
Bryson guffawed, and the sudden noise caused the birds in the treetops to take flight. He could not stop laughing while Erik shook his head.
“This was the only letter I managed to find,” Gwyneth said, her tone ominous as she pointed to the imprint.
“Do you recognize the mark?”
“Yes, but only because I have seen it before, in a building that houses important objects.”
“You do not need to explain, just tell us what it means,” Erik interrupted.
“The person wearing this ring serves the King of Norway.
“Break the seal,” Bryson said.
“It is not possible,” Erik whispered as he read the brief note.
“This must be the man you saw on the ship,” Bryson interjected.
“His skills are impressive since we were not aware of his presence,” Gwyneth said, “but is his name familiar to you?”
The Briton and the Dane: Timeline Page 8
