“Godspeed,” Brother Ulrich replied as he walked away.
The streets were crowded since it was market day. The farmers’ stalls were filled with produce; breads and sweetmeats were sold in the bakery and kegs of ale had been opened. There was an air of merriment in the town as the coveted beverage flowed liberally. The Brother Abbot had paid for the barrels, wishing the villagers to partake in the celebrations. It had been a bountiful season with the harvest and the many visitors who had spent their coins generously during the year.
The small community paid no heed to Erik as he passed by. Why would they? He had lived amongst them for many months, and his offspring had been born in their town, and they belonged. Erik would have liked to have stayed longer, but he was more accepting than his wife. He loved his sons, but it was common practice for children to be reared elsewhere. He understood Gwyneth thought differently, and how things were not the same in her world. Erik did not know when his life would be taken, nor did he wish to know exactly when. He had refrained from pressing Gwyneth to tell him everything she knew because he did not believe it was wise to do so.
“Erik,” Gwyneth shouted, waving from the doorway.
Erik smiled, embracing his wife when he entered Eckhard and Constance’s private quarters. The food-laden table resembled a banquet fit for a king, and Erik was embarrassed.
“We do not deserve such reverence,” Erik told his hosts.
“We have been blessed these many months because of you,” Eckhard replied.
“We cannot hope to ever repay your kindness,” Constance interjected, “but I pray this meal is to your liking.”
Gwyneth was overly ecstatic as she feasted upon authentically prepared eleventh century food. She particularly enjoyed bread cooked beneath the embers, a rarity for her taste, and the warm griddle cakes topped with honey melted in her mouth. She had grown accustomed to the freshly prepared dishes and would not be pleased to eat foods doused with preservatives once she returned home. She had always been a good sport whenever something untoward was expected of her, which is why she had adapted so easily. Ripping pieces of meat off a roasted carcass and eating with her fingers kept her in character, as her Shakespearean acting coach would say. Her goblet was always full, no matter how many times she had emptied it, and she soon found herself feeling the effects of the strong beverage.
“I fear I have had too much to drink,” Gwyneth whispered to Erik. “We should leave while I can still walk. I do not wish to bring shame upon you, my love.”
“The hour grows late,” Erik told his hosts as he helped Gwyneth rise. “We are indebted to you and praise God for your kindness.”
Constance did not fault Gwyneth for indulging in the heady beverage. At least the poor child would sleep through the night, even though her head would ache in the morning. She wrapped a warm loaf in a cloth, placing it in a container, which she filled with cheese, nuts and berries. Gwyneth took the basket, embracing Constance, and then Eckhard, laughing when she almost lost her balance. Erik caught his wife before she fell, his face turning beet red.
“Do not scold your wife,” Eckhard said. “She has suffered much.”
“Erik, we are as kin,” Constance interjected. “We do not judge.”
“It has been a privilege knowing you both,” Erik whispered as he led Gwyneth out the door.
Fortunately, the streets were deserted as Erik guided his wife towards the abbey guest houses. He was surprised by Gwyneth’s lack of self-control, and he wondered if she had purposely gotten herself drunk. They were almost at their assigned quarters when Gwyneth fell to her knees, crying uncontrollably.
“I did not think it would be so hard,” Gwyneth sobbed. “Forgive me, please forgive me.”
Erik took his wife in his arms, carrying her into their quarters, laying her gently upon the bed. He wiped away her tears with his lips as her hand sought his.
“I cannot begin to think what you are feeling,” Erik whispered. “I had never given much thought to the life you led before. I could not because it would have driven me mad, but my faith and trust in the Lord prevailed. Your strength nourishes my resolve to do what is expected of me, especially when my courage fails me.”
“Do not say that! You are brave and noble, and the man I love.”
“I fear I have failed you, and I do not know how to set things right.”
“That is not true! The children must stay if they are to survive,” Gwyneth said. “It is I who seeks your pardon. I had not realized how you must really feel. Ask me what you will, and I shall answer truthfully. Nothing will be kept from you if that is your wish.”
“Sleep now, we have long days before us,” Erik replied.
Erik glanced at the star-studded sky. He would have trouble sleeping this night not knowing Gwyneth’s fate. His death was certain, but what of Gwyneth’s life? She was right, she did not belong here and must return home.
“But how?” Erik said beneath his breath.
“The Lord will provide,” Erik’s inner voice replied. “Trust in Him.”
Chapter Nineteen
First light and the sky was ablaze with colorful shades of blues and purples turning orange and yellow as the sun edged over the horizon. Novices had yet to become accustomed to the lack of sleep, yawning as they left their cells and hurried to the chapel for prayer services. Seasoned monks tended to the many tasks associated with the administration of such a large abbey. Livestock were fed, and the men who toiled the fields set out early, farming the earth before the heat became unbearable.
Two wagons had been provided for the journey to Rome, but only Gwyneth and Erik would be riding mounts. The holy brothers were accustomed to traveling on foot, identifying with the Lord who had walked the earth more than a thousand years before. It would take months to cross the mountainous terrain at such a slow pace, but once they reached King Philip’s domain, Erik and Gwyneth would leave the caravan, parting ways amicably. They would be in a position to push the horses if need be, but such recklessness was highly doubtful given Erik’s confidence in his proposed plan.
The stableboy held the reins, awaiting Erik and Gwyneth as the religious group left the abbey grounds, walking through the pilgrim’s gate behind the wagons as the tower bells chimed. The young lad was uneasy, standing alone in front of the stables, not sure what he should do. He would have sent for the nobleman had he not been alone, yet he would be accused of being dimwitted if he did nothing. He was about to tether the horses when he noticed Gwyneth and Erik running towards him.
“The fault is mine,” Gwyneth said out of breath as Erik helped her onto her horse.
Erik thanked the stableboy, placed a coin in his hand and jumped upon his stallion. They trotted along the road, and within minutes had reached the procession. Brother Anthony, who had been selected leader by the Brother Abbot, acknowledged their presence when he heard their approach. They would remain at the end of the column, following the pace rather than setting it.
“Why did you not wake me?” Gwyneth asked.
“Sleep is a good remedy when one is in one’s cups,” Erik grinned.
Gwyneth laughed upon hearing the archaic phrase, remembering the last time she had heard it while at the cinema. She thought of the handsome actor dressed in authentic Viking garb and blushed when glancing upon her husband, believing he had read her mind.
“My head does ache, but Eckhard’s mixture has eased my suffering.”
As the small group made their way over the mountainous trail, Gwyneth and Erik spoke softly, fearing the wind might carry their words. Their routine was predictable, riding for hours until Brother Anthony signaled to rest. Water and food were plentiful, being readily replenished at the abbeys and villages nestled in the valleys. Gwyneth was impressed by their stamina, and amazed by the number of miles walked each day. She tried to imagine her students in such a setting, but could not see any of them lasting more than one day. They had all grown soft, even though they exercised at the gym. Treadmills and stair climber
s were a poor substitute for dirt-trodden trails and rock-strewn paths. She would probably not do well either, if she had to join her companions. She patted the neck of her horse, vowing never to reprove her budding scholars for complaining as they trudged along archeological sites.
When the sun was in its midday position, Brother Anthony would break for a meal and much needed rest. The hour passed too fast, and while the holy brothers did not complain, Gwyneth was aware of their fatigue. If they became too comfortable, they ran the risk of not continuing, remaining where they were and sleeping beneath the stars, which was not a good idea, given the wild animals following at a distance. Gwyneth had noticed a pack of wolves about three days into their journey, and while she was on edge, she knew they would not attack as long as they kept moving.
The evenings were pleasant, and Gwyneth looked forward to the intimacy she and Erik shared once they were alone. During the day, no one would have suspected their pain, but at night, in the darkness, Gwyneth cried in Erik’s arms as she remembered their children. As the weeks passed, the pain lessened. Gwyneth laughed frequently, was appreciative of the beautiful country, and was vibrant whenever she came upon unexpected treasures, such as a manuscript detailing an attack by invading Norsemen that she had found in one of the abbey libraries. She had wanted to take the document with her, but she knew it was not possible. Even if the Brother Abbot had agreed, she would not be able to bring it home, and if she did, how could she explain finding it?
Home, a disquieting thought that Gwyneth tried to suppress. She knew her time with Erik was coming to an end, but she refused to dwell on the inevitable. While it was noble to die with the one you loved, it was not a realistic option, was it? She was a scientist, not an incurable romantic, or was she? Had she not been obsessed with Erik ever since she had found the painting? However, this unbelievable quest had not been about her, and it was not yet finished. The annals had not recorded the date of Erik’s death. Chronicling events associated with the citadel of Wareham became obscured some time before the Norman invasion. Recordkeeping was still in its infancy, and accounts mentioned people of importance only; all other lives were lost to time.
The small group of travelers were fortunate, traversing the mountain range without any catastrophes, praise God. On the last night, Erik and Gwyneth prayed with the holy brothers in the abbey chapel and shared the evening meal in the kitchens. Erik gave Brother Anthony five silver coins, to use as he saw fit, wishing to increase the Lord’s bounty at their table. Brother Anthony gave Gwyneth a silver cross, which brought tears to her eyes as she remembered Richard.
“I am truly grateful,” Gwyneth told Brother Anthony as she placed the holy trinket around her neck.
Brother Anthony smiled, blessing her and Erik before leaving. Gwyneth fingered the cross, believing the Lord had sent her a sign, but what did it mean? She would sleep well this night as would Erik. Tomorrow, they would follow the main roads, wishing to reach the Port of Brest before the storms set in.
“Do you know what awaits us?” Erik asked his wife as they returned to their assigned quarters.
“There are no records, my love, but do not fear our fate. God is our protector.”
***
Riding across King Philip’s kingdom was an adventure Gwyneth tackled with relish. While her sojourns through the modern day countries of Germany and France had consisted of visiting the major municipalities, tourist excursions for the most part, she had managed to break away from the guided tours, exploring the less populated areas. She was awed by the magnitude of the churches being erected, massive cathedrals, many of which had been destroyed in warfare. She had walked amongst the rubble of long-forgotten capitals that once held a place of prominence. She would see the structure as it would have stood and think of the lives of the populace before catastrophic events shattered their world.
The main roads led Erik and Gwyneth through towns and cities, circumventing smaller villages as they headed west. By this time, Gwyneth was fully recovered from the aftermath of childbirth, and could ride a horse for hours without needing to rest. Nevertheless, Erik was insistent that they stop for an hour at noon, just as they had done when crossing the mountains. When possible, they ate at alehouses or abbey kitchens, but for the most part, they feasted on bread and cheese, shaded by the massive trees lining the roadway. He also refused to sleep beneath the stars because they would be vulnerable to the beasts scavenging for food and to the men of questionable repute who roamed the forests searching for plunder.
The days passed swiftly as did the nights, and weeks became a month, and within a fortnight they would arrive at the Port of Brest. While Gwyneth was thankful that the tiring journey was coming to a close, she was anxious about Erik’s remaining days. How much time did they have? A week? A month? A year? The thought made her ill. She would lay awake at night, remembering recorded events that had survived. Nothing was known of the Port of Brest before the thirteenth century, which meant she could feasibly rewrite the history books, but only if her esteemed colleagues accepted the idea that time travel was not science fiction. She realized no one would believe her, yet Malcolm might.
Malcolm - what must he be thinking? And Mrs. Harris? “The poor woman,” Gwyneth thought. She would have been reported missing, probably abducted. It was over a year, closer to two, and the riddle behind her disappearance would never be solved. She would be a statistic, another cold case awaiting closure. Could she tell the truth when questioned? Possibly to Malcolm, but to the authorities? They would think her deranged and have her psychiatrically evaluated, keeping her in an asylum indefinitely. Amnesia would be the most plausible explanation, which would permit her to return to the life she once led.
“Stop it,” Gwyneth mumbled beneath her breath, ashamed of her thoughts.
“I did not hear you,” Erik said as he helped Gwyneth dismount.
“It is nothing. Do you see the bell tower?” Gwyneth pointed. “I would spend the night at the abbey if you are agreeable.”
Erik nodded as he handed Gwyneth a chunk of bread. She ate in silence, her conscience bothered her as she was still consumed by her thoughts, thoughts that she could never share.
“You said I might ask you anything,” Erik said, interrupting her contemplation.
“What do you wish to know?”
“Name the person who betrays me.”
“I cannot, because I do not know,” Gwyneth replied truthfully, “but if the treachery is discovered in time.”
“Then my life is spared, and we can live out our days at the citadel with our children. We are both young, there is time for more sons.”
Gwyneth rested her head on Erik’s chest as they listened to the birds chirping in the treetops. She did not know how to respond. How could she tell him that his name disappears from the chronicles after 1063? The only certainty was that Erik had not fought against Duke William, which meant that whatever fate befell him, happened before October 1066.
Erik thanked the Lord for his good fortune. He had always believed he would die in battle without issue and without anyone to mourn his passing. Gwyneth would be inconsolable, yet if she were carrying his child when he died, the pain would be bearable. She would have their son to nurture when she returned to her century, and return she would, of that he was certain. But how? He would seek Father Gerard’s counsel. Undoubtedly, a man of God would be knowledgeable of such things. Did they not interpret visions? Did they not witness miracles? Did he not have foreknowledge of Gwyneth’s arrival?
“Erik, I have given much thought to our circumstances. We have been so preoccupied with having our sons born at St. Gall that we failed to consider if loyalties are being tested at the citadel. What if the warriors training there do not serve King Edward as they claim? What if Seymour is recruiting men to support the Norwegian king as he rides throughout the realm?”
“Wynstan would have sent word,” Erik interrupted.
“Wynstan may not be aware. Remember, we had been followed, which means.
..”
“I do not like where this is leading...”
“I do not take pleasure in admitting that there is a traitor amongst us.”
“I trust Wynstan and Raulf with my life,” Erik reminded her.
“Do not forget the holy men.”
“Men of God care not for the ways of the world.”
Gwyneth did not answer, not wishing to upset her husband further. How could she tell him of the abuses within the holy church that would trigger the Protestant Reformation? How could she tell him that even the Papacy had not been immune to the greed of men? She could not share the horrors of what was to come.
Chapter Twenty
The Port of Brest was a busy seaport, its sheltered position safely harboring ships anchored in its bay. The waterfront was strategically situated along the coast and was of significant military importance since the days of Julius Caesar. While naval raids could be readily thwarted, clashes between the Dukes of Brittany and Normandy were common place.
Gwyneth was uneasy as she and Erik walked along the docks seeking Captain Jean Michel, a reputable seafarer whom the Brother Abbot had said could be trusted. There was too much strife for Gwyneth’s comfort, the growing tension palpable as the rightful ruler, Conan II, accused Duke William of inciting riots in his duchy. Gwyneth remembered two major events in 1064. One was the Breton-Norman War and the other was Harold Godwinson being shipwrecked near Ponthieu. While both situations would keep Duke William occupied, she could not discount being spied upon. They had been most fortunate not to have attracted attention since Hugh died in the fire, but their lives were still in peril. She did not share her concerns with Erik since she feared his questions, knowing she could never tell him the entire truth.
Ships were entering and leaving the bay on this beautiful sunny day. The sea breeze was delightful, the salty mist refreshing, and the sound of rippling waves splashing against the hulls of moored ships was relaxing. Gwyneth held onto Erik’s arm as they walked leisurely upon the wooden planks. Chests were being loaded or unloaded, and passengers waved to loved ones as they left the wharf, sailing to Calais, or Hispania or even Cornwall, which Gwyneth found highly unlikely.
The Briton and the Dane: Timeline Page 13
