Love Lost in Time

by Cathie Dunn

  “It was an English guy,” Bernadette said. “I’ll find out his number for you. He must fix it, for free!”

  Maddie grew even more baffled. “English? That’s unlike my mother.”

  Her neighbour laughed. “Very true. The roofer in the next village had just retired, so she called Jake.”

  Maddie smiled at the soft pronunciation of ‘j’. The lady obviously had little to do with Brits.

  “But your mother made him work twice as hard for his money.” Bernadette winked. “Oh, bonjour, Léon!”

  Maddie turned around to find Léon Cabrol running up the hill towards them, dressed in a loose-fitting t-shirt and baggy jogging pants.

  “Bonjour, Bernadette. Hello again.” He stopped near them and, leaning forward, propped his hands on the fence, trying to catch his breath. Despite the chill hanging in the air, a thin layer of sweat covered his exposed skin.

  “Oh, hello,” Maddie returned his greeting. “You’re not running up that hill, are you?”

  He nodded. “Yes. Every morning, if I can.”

  “Impressive.” She grinned. She’d tried hill-walking now and then, but running was firmly outside her capability.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw her neighbour watching her carefully.

  “I see you’re making friends,” he said, straightening up, hands on hips. His lips were twitching.

  “Yes, I hope so.” Maddie exchanged smiles with Bernadette.

  “Someone has to show the young lady how things work here. She’ll be renovating the house, you know.”

  “Oh, really? As I said before, please let me know if you need any help.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Monsieur Cabrol, but I think I’ll be fine once I know where to get what.”

  His eyes lit up with humour. “Well, the offer stands, madame. And please call me Léon.”

  “Léon is your man if you need a hand in the house,” her neighbour said, a shrewd gleam in her eyes. “He renovated his parents’ rooms in the old manor, and they look beautiful now.”

  The woman was positively selling him to her. As expected, the man himself shrugged it off in typical Gallic fashion. “It took years, mind. And I didn’t do it all on my own…”

  “Oh, but it is lovely.” She grabbed Maddie’s wrist over the fence. “He knows everyone who can be of help.”

  “Says the woman who has been the heart of the village for longer than I’ve been alive.”

  Bernadette blushed, beaming with pride.

  There was a high level of affection and respect between them. Maddie felt a warm glow descending on her. She felt accepted, welcomed – something she hadn’t felt in many years.

  “Well, thank you very much, Monsieur Cab—”

  “Léon.”

  “Bien sûr. Léon. And I’m Maddie.” She held out her hand over the gate, before the awkwardness of her gesture hit her. Just as she was about to withdraw it, he took it in a warm grip and held her gaze, his grey eyes full of warmth.

  “Enchanté!”

  The man was a real charmer. She had to be careful.

  A Mini screeched to a halt beside them and they turned as a window was lowered.

  “Salut, Léon. Can I give you a lift up the hill?”

  Maddie withdrew her hand, breaking the contact.

  The woman spoke with a slight foreign accent. Spanish, perhaps? Or Italian? Her face covered in a layer of makeup, with strong black eye liner and ruby red lipstick, she exuded feminine city chic. Just what did such a dolled-up figure do in a sleepy village like Minervens? She woman ignored Maddie and Bernadette, but kept beaming at Léon.

  Was she his girlfriend?

  “Hello Gina.” Léon’s tone was neutral as his gaze went slowly from her to the glamour puss. It seemed almost like he regretted the disruption. He consulted his watch. “Actually, I’m running a little late, so, yes, that would be great.” Turning to Maddie and her neighbour, he added, “I’m sorry, mesdames. Duty calls. À bientôt.”

  “Au révoir,” Maddie said, smiling politely.

  Bernadette waved. “Too right. Time to earn your living,” she joked.

  Laughing, Léon opened the door on the passenger side, then paused. “Remember my offer, Maddie, will you?” Not waiting for her answer, he got in and shut the door.

  Gina revved up the engine and sent Maddie a dark look. Without a word, she put her foot on the gas and shot off up the hill.

  “She’s trouble, that girl.”

  Maddie turned to see her neighbour glare after the car.

  “Umm, is she? In what way?”

  “She’s the marketing assistant at the domaine, but would love to become Madame Cabrol.”

  “Oh, and what would be so bad about that?” Maddie shuffled her feet. Léon’s private life was none of her business.

  Bernadette’s eyes widened. “Everything! She never speaks to anyone here in the village, only to the Cabrols. She is bossing the other staff around, and whilst she is polite to his parents – to their face – she slags them off to other people. I’ve heard her, you know!” The old lady tutted. “They’re too working-class for her. You see – they don’t mind getting their hands dirty in the vines, nor does Léon, but mademoiselle wouldn’t lift a finger in the dirt.” She shook her head. “No, she’s not a good person, that one. Though, sadly, she excels at marketing…”

  “So he values her work?”

  “Yes, but she wants him to value her…as a wife. Never! Besides,” she added with a sly smile, “he seems to like you.”

  Maddie gave her a sweet smile, then turned to her house. “Now, back to those fallen roof tiles…”

  Chapter Six

  Late autumn, AD 777

  The mountains of southern Francia

  A thick flurry of snowflakes swirled around them as Hilda’s retinue trundled its way through the thick forest covering yet another hill. The pine trees barely kept the snow at bay, and the horses’ hooves were sliding on the slushy ground. They had been travelling for a fortnight, through rain, sleet and, most recently, snow, and within a few more days, they would cross into the usually dry plain that led to Carcassonne. On their way, they had found accommodation with noble families of her father’s acquaintance, where possible. At other times, they had stayed a night in a tent. The chill had crept through her bedding and furs, and she hated it.

  Though Father’s planning of the journey had been meticulous, Hilda was weary of the long days spent travelling, of the cold and the rain, and she had lost her appetite days earlier. With every step that took her farther south, she longed for the comfort of her home, with its inviting hearth, hot food, and warm bedcovers. She already missed the familiarity of her family manor. When would be the next time she saw it again? Would she ever return? Her thoughts grew more and more morose.

  Father had finally sent for her after she had waited for months, and the conditions for travelling could not have been any worse. Hilda huddled deeper into her mantle. ’Twas not Father’s fault her journey had begun so late in the season. He and Bellon had spent most of the year repelling the Saracens. And whilst some of their leaders kept to their concluding agreement with Charles, others were still leading raids across the high peaks of the southern mountains, and even into the plain. In the end, they had all been pushed back.

  In honour of Bellon’s hard work, Charles had at last installed her betrothed as Count of Carcassonne during a what Father had called ‘memorable if brief ceremony’ in his letter. Finally, they had established a tentative peace in Septimania, and confirmed the date for the wedding. She would marry Bellon of Carcassonne on the day of St Adela, on the eve of the feast of Christ’s birth. The celebration would be brief, lasting only one day, but Father had promised her an unforgettable event. Apparently, the town and castle were already busy preparing for the big day, with plans for a sumptuous meal, and Bellon had summoned storytellers from across Septimania and Aquitania for their entertainment.

  Unforgettable? Christ wept! Hilda rolled her eyes. She
’d had many months to think about that one day. In fact, she had thought of little else. And whilst Amalberga had not stopped singing praises of Bellon and his heroic pursuits on the king’s behalf, Hilda’s own thoughts had been less complementary. ’Twas true – he was a fine warrior, and a handsome one, too. She had to admit it. Heat seeped into her cheeks, a suddenly pleasant feeling against the suffusing cold. Instead, she gritted her teeth, banishing any positive thoughts of her husband-to-be. ’Twas the end of her life as she knew it. With Father away so often, the responsibility of running the manor household had fallen to her, and she had thrived in it, and the independence it had given her. She could come and go as she pleased, although an escort was always on call ensuring her safety. And therein lay her problem.

  She would lose her freedom, and likely someone would uncover her calling. Even though Bellon would without doubt be away often from her new home, she would not be alone. There would be servants watching her every move as countess of a bustling, strategic town. At her childhood manor, she was used to moving unhindered, unobserved. As she needed to be.

  Like her mother before her, she had a deep love for herbs and their effects. So, known only to Amalberga, she had learnt the ancient skills from a wise-woman living near her home, who was delighted to see her young charge succeed her. Once Hilda had gained sufficient knowledge, she had taken over the old woman’s work. People met her, arranged through Amalberga, in secret locations not too far from the manor, and Hilda would offer to help. They travelled far for her guidance and some called her a saint for her skills as a healer. Villeins and nobles alike swore by her potions. Even wounded warriors came to gain her advice and help.

  Yet, here she was now, moving to a place she did not know, far from her home and those she trusted. Hilda had never visited the south, so finding out where to collect herbs would be her first task. It was a different climate, hotter and drier, so it might be difficult to gather some. Amalberga would help her.

  But who else could she trust? Bellon, the Christian warrior affiliated to Charles, lord over all equally Christian Franks, would not permit her to follow her path. She was certain of it. The mood in the Church had changed in recent decades, and rumours had reached her of attacks on wise-women, and some were even banished or killed. Unlike the early saints, with their visions and skills, the role of ordinary women had become more defined in recent years. Defined – and restricted – by men!

  So Hilda had to keep her calling secret from her future husband.

  Her thoughts bleak, she pushed the worries from her mind and focused on the route ahead. The ground was treacherous, with leaves beneath a layer of wet snow a dangerous footfall for the horses. The group had slowed to a walk as they followed a narrow path through the thick forest. A hill beside them rose steeply, its forest covered in an even thicker layer of snow. Ahead of her, she saw men struggling to keep their horses from sliding. Oh, why could they not have waited till springtime? She gritted her teeth and kept her head low against the biting flurries of ice. Inside, her anger against Father, and against Bellon, rose unhindered.

  “Halt!”

  She raised her gaze, shielding her eyes against the falling snow. The men at the front had stopped. She exchanged a glance with Amalberga, riding in silence beside her, then nudged her mare forward. “What appears to be the problem, Dagobert?”

  The captain of her escort turned to face her. “There is a small clearing not far ahead, lady, sheltered to all sides by thick forest. With dusk settling, we will make camp here for the night. The remaining light will fade fast in these hills in autumn.”

  Yet another cold night in a tent. Hilda nodded, sighing. “Thank you. Please see it done.”

  She signalled to a lad younger than her to help her from her mare. Then he assisted Amalberga before leading the horses away.

  They stepped aside as mayhem ensued around them as the men set to putting up tents and building campfires, whilst two sturdy women who accompanied their group pulled several dead rabbits, caught and killed earlier in the day for the night’s meal, from their bags and set out to prepare them. With deft hands, they skinned and prepared the small animals for roasting, putting aside the pelts for later. They would likely be made into gloves or trims for a hood or cloak. Setting a large pot on stilts across a brightly-burning fire pit, one woman added cut-up carrots, parsnips, dried herbs and water to simmer over the spreading heat whilst the other pushed the skinned rabbits on a spike, to roast across another fire.

  Amalberga stood next to Hilda and wrapped her snow-covered arm around her shoulders. “Not long now, Sweeting. We shall soon arrive in our new home.”

  Hilda laughed, the sound too harsh in her ears. “You have already settled in, have you not?” She shook her head. “How can you be so calm?”

  Amalberga nodded, smiling. “Because I know it will be a good place for us.”

  At a gesture from Dagobert, they walked towards a lit fire outside their tent, where two benches awaited them. Hilda sat, wrapping her cloak tighter around her, and stared into the licking flames, a sense of foreboding gripping her innards. Amalberga pulled the other bench closer and held her hands out towards the heat.

  Hilda lost sight of the world around her as the front of her body veered from cold to heat. Visions appeared before her eyes. Darkness overcame her, menacing, clawing at her breath, choking her. She swallowed several times to rid herself of the taste of cold earth. Shaking violently, she blinked and gripped Amalberga’s arm, her fingers sinking deep into the fabrics of her trusted companion’s cloak. Still she did not take her eyes off the flames. It was all so clear in front of her. The sun. The forest. A faceless man. Earth. Darkness.

  She stood, toppling the bench over, and blinked again. Amalberga’s eyes were large with concern as she held on to Hilda. “What is it, Sweeting?” she whispered, not wishing to raise anyone else’s attention. “What have you seen?”

  Hilda swallowed hard, eyes staring ahead, unseeing. “Death. I have seen my death.”

  ***

  Late autumn, AD 777

  The fortress at Carcassonne

  “My lord, my lord.” Frantic knocks on Bellon’s chamber door accompanied the cry.

  Having just changed into clean leggings following a day spent in the practice yard, Bellon secured them swiftly. Then he took a linen tunic from the bed onto which he had thrown it earlier. “Enter!”

  The lad bolting through the door was out of breath. “Lord!”

  “What is it, Lot?” Bellon slipped his arms into the sleeves of his tunic and gestured to him to calm, uncertain if it was danger or excitement that had made the boy so out of breath. “Has aught happened?”

  “No. ’Tis just…they’ve arrived.” A broad grin spread over his face as he was holding his side. “I… I wanted to let you know as soon as I spotted them.”

  “They? Them? Ahh!” Bellon smiled, as recognition hit him, and he quickly pulled the tunic over his head. “You mean the lady Nanthild’s party has been sighted?”

  The lad nodded, still bent double but delighted that he was the first to tell him.

  “Thank you, Lot. That’s wonderful news. Ask the lord Milo to meet me in the hall and have the kitchen prepare a hearty broth and hot spiced wine for the travellers. Oh, and have stones heated and placed into the lady’s bed.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Lot turned, his breath still ragged. “I shall.” And he rushed off, leaving the door wide open in his haste.

  Bellon laughed. Lot – Lothaire by full name which nobody used – reminded him of a young dog, eager to please and keen to learn. In late summer, the boy had lost both parents in an attack by rogue Saracens on their remote village close to where Bellon and his men had stayed during a foray into the mountains. On finding him amongst the few survivors, he had taken him under his wing. The lad, barely over three-and-ten years old, took his duties seriously. Hopefully, with suitable training, Lot would grow into a man he could trust.

  Leaving his chamber, Bellon closed the door
and clicked the latch into place. The cold breeze hit him as he took the wooden steps down to the ground. How he missed the hot summer! He entered the hall through its heavy oak door. With men training outside all afternoon, it was deserted, so he refilled the hearth with wood and lit it. It spat and crackled, and soon the heat spread across the hall. Hilda and her retinue would be chilled from their weeks of travelling and needed the comforts of a warm keep.

  The door to the yard opened. “Greetings, Bellon.” Milo approached him and took his arm in a firm grip. “’Tis a welcoming fire. Together with the new tapestries, and fresh rushes on the floor, this hall is most inviting. Nanthild shall be pleased.”

  Despite his words of praise, a frown crossed his brow.

  “What troubles you, Milo?” Bellon filled two cups with red wine and gestured to a bench beside the hearth. Whilst he had servants he could call upon as lord of Carcassonne, he still preferred to undertake tasks himself, unless it was in an official role. He handed a cup to his future father-in-law. “Is it the wedding?”

  Milo shook his head. “Oh no. Naught to do with that.” He raised the cup to Bellon and took a draught. “To your health.”

  Bellon sat on the bench opposite and looked at Milo across the fire. “What is it, then?”

  “I wondered if it was the right thing to do to send for Nanthild in the middle of this wretched season. They crossed through snow and rain for weeks. The journey must have exhausted her. Yet we expect her to be cheerful on her wedding day which is but a fortnight away. Perhaps it was wrong not to wait till the spring.”

  “I agree in parts, but that she should have travelled months ago and waited for us here in Carcassonne, in safety and comfort, rather than crossing the hills this late in the year. But what’s done is done. They are due to arrive at any moment.”