by Cathie Dunn
Hilda took a deep breath. She was aware of the effect she had on the courtiers here in Carisiacum. Not that she knew why – she did not find herself beautiful – but she guessed her age and Father’s status and wealth added to the lure. “So…”
“So, in order to see you looked after by a husband I can trust, the man in question and I have come to an agreement.” He paused, his eyes lit up, full of hope. “By the autumn, you will become the wife of young Bellon, who will be Count of Carcassonne. He is a fine man, a brave warrior, and you shall never want for anything.”
A throaty laugh escaped her. “Shall I not? How about a husband I would know? A man who loves me – and whom I love in return?” Tears pricked at the back of her eyes, and she glared at her father. “How about a new home near…our home, not a fortnight’s journey away!”
Milo shook his head. “You are blind sometimes, Sweeting. The lad is besotted with you. I thought it was evident at the meal last night. He could not take his eyes off you.”
“Then he is very fortunate in that he gets what he wants!” Hilda quipped. “But what about me? What am I to be in all this?”
“Don’t you find him attractive, Nanthild? I thought at one point you were quite taken, too.”
She blushed. ’Twas true. Bellon was a handsome man: fairly tall, broad in shoulder and back, his flirty smile, and the sparkle in his green eyes. And he was only a few years older than her, not like other lords at court, with wives who could have been their granddaughters. “He has a moustache.”
Milo burst out laughing. “Well, I have one. In fact, most men wear moustaches. You would not find a suitable husband without one.” He chuckled.
“Thank you for taking my concerns so seriously, Father.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest.
Milo sobered. “I am taking you seriously, Hilda. That is why I agreed to this match. It is not only strategic – and no,” he pre-empted her response, “there is no point discussing that reason as it is what marriage is about – but he is also a man I can trust. He is young enough to make a good husband; he adores you; and he is warrior enough to protect you in the volatile area of Septimania.”
“It is more peaceful at Vaulun,” she pleaded, her hand seeking his. He took it in a firm grasp.
“I cannot keep you at home forever, daughter. I’m afeared for your safety, even there. Hordes of lawless men roam the country, trying to undermine Charles’ attempts at bringing peace. Alas, nowhere is safe at all for an unwed lady.”
“I am sorry, Father.” She swallowed hard. “I will… I’ll miss you.”
“I will miss you too, Sweeting. With your mother gone, and you married, our home will be but an empty shell. Thus is the life of a father.” He wiped away a stray tear with the back of his hand. “In the coming months and years, I will be with Charles, forging new alliances and protecting our borders. Aquitania is as always a hotbed of trouble, and the Basques to the south-west are a major threat to our peace, as are the Lombards. In the meantime, Charles has appointed Bellon as his missus dominicus, his main representative in Septimania. He will act on the king’s behalf and be given full control of Carcassonne, the Razès, and the whole surrounding area. It shall restore calm after the upheaval of recent decades.”
“Charles is a conqueror. So, with Bellon’s help, he will subdue Septimania.”
Milo jumped up and paced the room. “Child, do not say such things. Not to me, nor to anyone else. ’Tis but dangerous chatter. Charles is a good king; a man of peace – you said so yourself the other night, or have you forgotten? Ruthless, yes, that he is. You have to be as king to keep your head. But he is also fair.”
“He subdues tribes—”
“Because, at times, it’s necessary,” Milo interjected. “To bring about a truce. Tribes are always fighting each other. But in Septimania, there are no rivalling tribes. The inhabitants yearn for peace. And that’s what Bellon will bring.”
“But at what price?” Hilda stood too, hands on her hips. “My life?” The fury inside her was raging.
“Daughter, watch your tongue!” Milo chided her.
She blinked at him, too upset to speak.
“There are reasons why women should keep their noses out of warfare. Your way of thinking makes little sense. You must stop this nonsense before your wedding.” He sighed, his shoulders dropping. “I have let you have your own way for too long. ’Tis time another man takes up the task. Bellon is the man I chose, and he has accepted. I’m sorry that you appear to despise him, despite him defending you last night against that brute, Clovis, whose attitude shows nothing of the noble blood he carries. And I don’t know what Bellon has done to deserve your disregard. I trust him, and with that, the matter is closed. You shall be wed in the autumn.”
Tears ran down Hilda’s cheek and she let them fall unchecked. Hanging her head, she turned away from her father. Leaning against the sill of the narrow window looking out over the roofs of Carisiacum, she sobbed.
“Nanthild, don’t be afeared. You will be safe. And loved.” Milo stood behind her, enveloping her in his arms, a sigh escaping into her neck. She leaned back against his warm chest and closed her eyes. ’Twas like in the old days. Oh, how she yearned to be a little girl again, carefree, roaming the fields and forests of her homeland. Instead, she was a bargaining tool. Charles and Father had secured Bellon’s support with her womb. She realised then that her life as she knew it would end.
Her childhood was over.
***
The great hall of the king’s palatium was welcoming, Bellon thought as he entered, glad to escape the cool breeze of the northern winds. Easter was a time of blossoms, of new flowers, of vines beginning to grow. But also of heavy rain – as it was tonight. He shook out his cloak and patted the moisture from his tunic. Pushing his wet hair behind his ears, he wiped away the small rivulets of water trickling down his neck. He had taken great care to wipe his leather boots on a narrow if drenched mat inside the door, but at least he was not the only one caught out in the downpour. Muddy footprints from dozens of other guests caked the tiled floor.
He waved at three lords huddled by the large fire pit in the centre of the room. They looked as bedraggled as he was. It made him feel better. He was about to step forward to join them when Milo called his name. The older man was already sitting at a trestle table laid out for the evening’s meal, nursing a clay cup.
Bellon cast a final, longing glance at the fire, to raucous laughter from the men, and lowered himself on a stool beside Milo, pulling at his damp leggings to stretch them over his thighs. Reaching out, he checked the contents of a pitcher on the table. Dark ale.
“Please,” the older man said, gesturing to it, “help yourself.”
“Thank you.” Bellon picked up an unused cup and filled it. He took a deep draught of warm ale. “Ah, these northern lands do nothing for my mood. The weather is awful.” He grinned.
Milo chuckled. “Aye, I was caught in a rain shower earlier when I visited the camp. I take it that’s where you’ve just come from?”
Bellon nodded. “It is. I spoke to the king and his advisers about the geographical advantages of Carcassonne as a strategic point against the Saracens and the Basques. Our combined presence should ensure no further attacks.”
“Unless they came from south of the mountains?”
“We’ll be preparing for all eventualities.”
“I wish you much success. There are still dangers, but with the new agreements in place, we should make easy progress westward.”
“I have no doubt.” Bellon’s face fell. “’Tis a shame I won’t be taking part until later. I’ll be heading to Béziers first.”
Milo smiled and placed a hand on Bellon’s shoulder. “You may still have many chances to prove your worth when you join the campaign in the summer. As it is, you already have. You are guarding a vital outpost of the Frankish kingdom against the Basques and the Goths.” He winced, then withdrew his arm as Bellon’s back straightened.
&
nbsp; “I’m not defending Carcassonne against the Visigoths. I am one of them. ’Tis our home. That is why the leaders from south of the Pyrenaei will not attack me. Their blood runs through my veins. We won’t stand in Charles’ way. We have been fighting for too long.”
Milo took a sip and leaned against the back of his chair. “I hope what you say is true. With Charles taking control over the region, there may be trouble brewing amongst some people.” He looked Bellon in the eye. “But I have faith that you will handle them the way you have to, young man. ’Tis God’s will.”
“And the king’s.” Bellon winked, letting the argument pass. They were after the same goal. He raised his cup. “To peace.”
“To peace,” Milo repeated. “And to a successful marriage.”
Bellon choked on his ale and started to cough. Milo laughed and patted his back until he calmed down. Once his breath had returned, he dared look at his future father-in-law. His cheeks were burning, and he was certain Milo knew it was not down to the liquid.
“So be it,” he finally whispered. Then he took another draught, soothing his throat.
“I meant to tell you…I have spoken with Nanthild.”
Bellon raised his eyebrows. His stomach was in knots. He had considered himself fortunate when Charles and Milo approached him about becoming wedded to the girl. It was a tactical match. But once he had cast eyes on the lady, he knew she had captured his heart. Still, her reaction to him had not been as expected.
“Bellon?” Milo was watching him through narrowed eyes. “Is all well?”
Bellon nodded, embarrassed with himself for feeling like a boy in his first rush of passion. “Yes, lord, I’m fine. But tell me – how did the lady Nanthild take to the…umm…tidings?”
Milo glanced at his empty cup. “It would seem you have some work to do. But whilst she isn’t happy with the plan, she has a fondness of you. I have seen it in her eyes. ’Tis only that she knows how to hide it well.”
Bellon let out a sigh of relief. Not all was lost. “You won’t need to fret. I shall always treat her well. She’ll want for nothing.”
“I know, Bellon. I know. But like her dear mother – God rest her soul – she is of strong mind and opinion. Unbecoming at times, but,” Milo chuckled, more to himself, Bellon thought, “I have always found that trait endearing.”
“So do I, lord, so do I.” Bellon picked up the pitcher. “Would you care for another?”
The soft sound of a lute drifted to his ears as Bellon watched the gathering of warriors, lords and ladies. Franks and Visigoths sharing a table, sharing food and wine. It was a good sign; it brought hope.
Beside him, the lady Nanthild pushed a small roast piece of rabbit across her trencher with a finely carved knife, her face too pale for his liking. Truth was, he worried about her. The news had been a shock to her, so it was clear she needed time. He was content to grant it.
A scraping sound pulled him from his thoughts. Nanthild had dug her knife deep into the dry bread that held the meat, and it had sliced into the table.
“I apologise, lord.” Her eyes were wide as she kept staring past him. She shuddered.
Concerned, he followed her gaze and frowned. Clovis glared at them from across the hearth. The soldier’s eyes were dark with anger in the flickering light of the central hearth. The clod still bore a grudge.
Bellon shook his head and touched the girl’s wrist. “Don’t fear him, lady. I will not let him come near you.”
She blinked, then smiled at him. “Thank you,” she whispered. “His words from last night shook me.”
His heart melted under her concern. “I know. Please put no importance to them. Clovis is a great warrior – but not a man to deal with ladies gently, as would be their right. Despite his noble birth, his tastes lie in other, less savoury, directions…”
“As do many men’s tastes,” she said drily, withdrawing her hand from under his.
The table felt cold to his touch, and he quickly picked up his cup. “Not all of us, Nanthild.” His sideways gaze held hers. “Not all of us.” He sipped his wine.
“No, you are correct. I was always hoping my future husband would not…” She fiddled with the tassels on her belt, avoiding his gaze.
Of course, she knew. How could he forget? The reason she was subdued tonight was because of Milo having told her of their betrothal. Trying to soothe her fears, he smiled. “You have no reason to worry.”
Her body shook for a moment before it relaxed. She raised her cup and held it to him, her eyes glinting in the light of the central hearth. “I take vows seriously, lord.”
He nodded. “As do I.”
A strong hand gripped his shoulder. Reluctantly, he broke the eye contact, prepared to glare at the intruder. Then he quickly put down his cup and kneeled to the king. “Sire.”
The lady Nanthild curtseyed beside him.
“’Tis wonderful to watch young love.” Charles acknowledged them with a nod, a smile on his lips.
“Sire,” she whispered, keeping her gaze lowered.
Charles smiled and signalled to them to stand. “I shall announce the fortunate event in a moment.”
Beside Bellon, Nanthild’s body shuddered. Uncertain of how to react, he took her hand in his, surprised at her skin so cold to his touch. He entwined his fingers with hers.
“You have nothing to fear, my child,” Charles said, his voice low, his gaze flicking from her to Bellon. “This young man is a fine warrior, of sound and brave heart, and he knows how to treat a lady. You shall be safe with him.”
Bellon caught her eye, and he nodded. “All will be well, lady.”
She swallowed hard and tried to extricate her hand from his. He let her go. “If you say so, sire,” she said to Charles as she folded her hands.
The king took a step back, and Bellon quickly lowered his head in reverence.
“I do. Well, if all goes as planned during this summer’s campaign, we shall celebrate your wedding in the late autumn. Bellon. Lady Nanthild.” Charles turned and strode to his seat on the dais where Queen Hildegarde greeted him with a wide smile. Even now, her belly well-rounded, the young queen shared the king’s high table. After having given birth to a girl the year before, rumours said she was carrying a boy. Witnessing the strong bond between the king and his wife, Bellon wondered whether he and the lady Nanthild would ever be as happy together.
Turning his gaze to his betrothed, he caught her staring at him. Had she read his thoughts?
He waited until she sat down again, then lowered himself onto the bench they shared. “Tonight will be over soon. Then we can look forward to our own feast.”
He took a tentative sip of wine. The girl’s subdued manner worried him. Her smile was brittle, and she seemed scared. Did his mere presence do that to her? When all he wanted was to protect her! He was pulled out of his reverie when Charles pushed his large, ornately-carved chair covered with comfortable cushions, back and stood.
“My lords and ladies here gathered.” Charles’ voice boomed across the room. Standing tall in the centre of the dais, he held his gemstone-encrusted goblet aloft. “Today, we are delighted to announce a happy event, one that shall be upon us in the autumn. Bellon of Carcassonne, Lady Nanthild, please.” He gestured to them to stand before his table.
Bellon took her hand in his and led her towards the dais, supporting her shakiness with his warmth. She showed a shy smile, yet her eyes were wide, and she glanced across the room. She felt uncomfortable being the centre of everyone’s attention. The queen was watching them with a curious expression on her face. Did the noble lady perhaps recognise herself in the girl?
Charles coughed. “Between all this talk of strategy, of expansion and co-operation, we are delighted to share the good tidings that Bellon, who will soon be installed as count of Carcassonne,” Charles pointed at him, and Bellon lowered his head in acknowledgment of the royal favour, “will wed the lovely lady Nanthild, only daughter of my dear friend and adviser, Milo, count of Aulu
n, before the feast of Christ’s birth. Furthermore,” the king pre-empted shouts of surprise, “Bellon will act from today as Commander of Carcassonne, the Razès, and all the surrounding area which will form part of the county which his father had already administered in all but title. I am particularly satisfied with this result, as it proves that Franks and Visigoths can work together in making our southern border a safer place, bringing peace and stability. Let us drink to the young couple – and a safe Septimania!”
The king took a long draught, to much acclaim by all, then held out his goblet to Bellon who took it with his free hand and sipped the rich wine.
Shouts of felicitations echoed around the decorated stone walls of the hall, and Bellon acknowledged them. “Thank you. To a safer Septimania, where people can live and work the land in peace,” he added. Beside him, Nanthild smiled at people too. Good. Despite her fears, she knew her duty, and her role as future countess. He passed the goblet to her, and she took a small sip. Bellon then passed it back to the king who nodded approvingly.
When they returned to their table, his eyes met Clovis’ on the far side. The warrior’s face was contorted in anger. Ahh, now Bellon knew. The man’s obnoxiousness was not down to his betrothed, but because of his enhanced position. Had Clovis held hopes for the role of commander in the south? He was not of the region of Septimania, so had very little to offer other than what he was good at – the brutal suppression of unwilling tribes. Bellon broke the contact and watched Nanthild instead. They sat as the shouts abated and folk returned to their wine and food, without doubt discussing the unusual union of north and south, of Frank and Visigoth.
Milo pressed his daughter’s free hand, then raised his cup to them. Bellon returned the gesture. Then Milo’s neighbour pulled at his sleeve, demanding his attention with words of congratulations, and he turned away.
