Love Lost in Time

by Cathie Dunn

  Milo nodded. “True. And I am right glad I will see her soon. Yet the fact remains that I should have travelled with her.” He stared into his cup.

  Bellon sighed. “But the raids have kept you occupied since the spring. Hilda is in good hands – you said so yourself when you chose her retainers – travelling on roads secured by Franks. And…she will not want to see her father morose on her arrival after her arduous journey.” He raised an eyebrow, then took a sip, relishing the strong liquid tasting of berries and sun.

  Milo looked up sharply, tensing for an instant. Then his shoulders slumped, and he smiled. “You are right. And I should rejoice in her safe arrival.” He drained his cup.

  “Indeed. The kitchen is preparing a hot meaty broth, and I have instructed to have Hilda’s bed filled with hot stones. If she needs rest – and I do not doubt it – she will find it warm and, I pray, comfortable.”

  Bellon wanted to impress the young lady who was his bride, and who had not seemed as keen on the betrothal as he had been. He simply wanted her to feel at home, by his side, here in Carcassonne. Expecting her each day over the past sennight, he had ordered the maids to ensure her chamber was a lovely, cosy place, to make her feel welcome.

  To make her appreciate your efforts.

  Bellon took another draught of wine. He could not wait to see Hilda again. The memory of her face, with its strong cheekbones, blue eyes the hue of a winter’s frozen mountain lake, and a deliciously curved mouth – her fragile beauty had stayed in his mind throughout recent campaigns. It had nurtured him through grim days of pitched battles in relentless autumn rains and through endless, tiring negotiations. During their last encounter, he had fallen in love with the shy but self-assured girl, and he still could not believe his good fortune.

  He looked up to find Milo staring at him over the rim of his cup. A smile appeared on his lips.

  “I am glad,” Milo said.

  “Why? What for?” Had the count read his thoughts?

  Milo refilled their cups, then raised his. “My daughter will have a good life, of that I have no doubt. It seems she has found a husband who genuinely cares for her.”

  Heat rose into Bellon’s cheeks, and he stared into the flames to rid himself of the embarrassment. “Hmm. I would hope for her happiness here.”

  “It will come.” Milo nodded. “She doesn’t know it yet, but it will. Give her time.”

  Bellon swallowed. “I shall gladly do so.”

  A commotion by the door made them turn.

  “My lords, come quickly, if you will,” Lot called, holding the solid oak door open, a broad grin on his face. “They’re here.”

  Laughing, Bellon and Milo put their cups on a trestle table and followed Lot into the courtyard where a flurry of activity almost threw them backwards. Men were dismounting, and their horses were led away under the chief retainer’s command; others were unloading the carts under sharp, vocal instructions from Hilda’s maid who stood beside the first cart with her hands on her hips. “These chests bear the Lady Hilda’s garments.” Her voice carried loudly across the yard. “Make sure to take them to her chamber – intact!”

  “Lot, show them where the lady Nanthild’s room is.”

  “Yes, lord.” The boy scurried to Amalberga.

  Bellon glanced across the chaos and, eventually, he spotted Hilda near the end of the train, still on horseback, a look of wonder on her drawn, tired face.

  “There she is.” He gestured to Milo, and together they bypassed horses, men and carts to appear by her side.

  “Hilda!”

  Bellon took her mare’s reigns, his heart thumping at twice the speed. Though weary from her long journey, she looked as beautiful as he remembered. But there was a new sense around her, one of vulnerability, that he had not seen at Easter. It made him want to embrace her firmly, to protect her for the rest of her life, to chase away all the things she thought would harm her. He guessed that would include him, though.

  “Greetings, dear daughter,” Milo said, holding out his arms to help her from the saddle. She sank into his embrace, clinging on for a moment.

  “Father.” Her voice sounded hoarse, yet Bellon sensed relief in it.

  She stepped back and her eyes flicked from one man to another. Warmth showed in them when she looked at her father, but Bellon felt a chill when her gaze settled on him.

  “Lord Bellon.” She let go of Milo’s hands and curtseyed to him.

  “Welcome to Carcassonne, Hilda. We prepared for your arrival,” Bellon said, disappointed to see her frowning.

  Give her time. Milo’s words echoed in his head.

  “I am so relieved you made it safely, Nanthild,” Milo said. “The length of your journey has worried me.”

  Hilda smiled sweetly. “No, Father. You never worry about me, or you would not have insisted we travel in this atrocious weather.” Her sharp tone belied her smile.

  Bellon cocked his head, still regarding her. Yes, despite the breeze, the sun was shining over the towers of Carcassonne, as it did so often. But a chill crept into his heart. Hilda was unhappy.

  Months of waiting had not reassured her. She seemed more distanced than in the spring. And although he could not help how his body reacted to her mere glance, he was at a loss how to soothe her wounded pride. He was a warrior first, with a strong sword-hand and a bold mind, but his relations with women had so far not been worth remembering. Although sometimes, after the heady action of a skirmish, he had sought to release the pressure with one of the women who accompany those camps, he had been careful not to catch a disease or leave a trace where one could claim a child as his. It had always been a meeting of bodies, not of emotions.

  His future bride was different, and he struggled to gain control over the unknown feelings that assaulted him in her presence.

  Milo laughed and took his daughter’s hand into the crook of his arm, holding it firmly in place. “Ahh, the vagaries of the weather are nothing compared to the preparations for your big day. Always remember, Nanthild, I have your best intentions at heart.” He cast Bellon a knowing glance. “And I have no doubt that this fine young man will see you are safe and have all you need.” Then he began to pull her towards the hall – a proud father and a bemused daughter.

  Bellon’s heart sank at the sadness in Hilda’s stance, her shoulders slumped forward and her head bowed. He swore he would prove her fears unfounded.

  Give her time.

  He handed the reins of her mare to a stable lad and followed his soon-to-be wife and father-in-law inside.

  He was a warrior. ’Twas time for battle to begin.

  Chapter Seven

  Mid-March, 2018

  “Phew! Let’s see.” Maddie put the paint roller into the tray and stepped back, wiping her hands covered in drops of colour on an old cloth. Careful not to bump into any of the covered furniture huddled in the centre of her mother’s living room, she looked up and around.

  “Nice.” She grinned.

  The dark atmosphere of the living room had changed to a light, airy tone – a pale vanilla for the walls and a white ceiling – inviting in and reflecting the sunlight that filtered through the streaky windows. Those would be next on her list! The old cupboard would still loom dark against the wall, and she might have to consider selling it. It was a real pain to shift, scraping the floor. Surely, the antique piece and several other pieces of Elizabeth’s furnishings would interest a brocante dealer. But the change might help make the house more modern – and sellable.

  Maddie took a sip from the bottle of beer on the windowsill. Yes, she was pleased with the result. One room done, and the difference was already staggering. The place just needed a modern feel to find a happy buyer. It was all good news, wasn’t it?

  As she stood there, a tinge of sadness wove through her and tears welled up. Where had that come from? She shrugged it off and took another draught. Why would she feel sad?

  The smell of paint became overpowering, so she opened the window. Leaning aga
inst the ledge, she breathed in deeply, her lungs relishing the fresh air. It would take a few days for the two layers of pain to dry properly. The warming sun rays did not reach into the depth of this room.

  During her trip back to the UK, which involved a drive back with her own car loaded with two new cases full of clothes and five large boxes of books amongst other necessary things, Maddie had made preparations for her ‘year out’. She’d met with colleagues and visited the site one last time, and she found a research student to rent her flat. As she’d already taken two years out from her teaching at the university to focus on her writing project, she merely informed them of her temporary new address. She kept her British mobile number, so they could contact her if needed.

  When she arrived in Minervens late one afternoon, after a night-time ferry ride from Newhaven to Le Havre, and a twelve-hour drive south (after four hours of sleep on the ferry in blustery seas!), the house welcomed her like a long-lost relative. Various flowers had budded in the garden – it had sprung to life. But on closing the doors, the darkness inside became almost stifling, and it took a long time for her to get to sleep.

  The next morning, Maddie set a reasonable schedule for the works the house, the roof and the garden required, and she’d started right away, keen to banish the dark, brooding sense the place gave her.

  Jake had come to fix the roof, embarrassed. He couldn’t explain the loose tiles, but replaced them without charge and double-checked that the complete roof was safe.

  At a local Brico store, Maddie had bought several pots of light-coloured paint and various decorating utensil. Her mother had loved the dark corners, calling them cosy, but Maddie was keen to chase away her ghost from the house. Elizabeth had her say in her will, and now Maddie would do her part, as instructed, though not without giving the rooms a complete makeover.

  She turned around and inspected anew her work. She’d been careful not to drip any paint on the power sockets or light switches, though these definitely needed to be replaced. Cleaning wipes had not removed all the grime of the last twenty years.

  Maddie discovered that she didn’t know her mother at all. Yes, they’d been estranged, but Elizabeth had raised her to become an independent woman that she was today. Yet, she’d lived in a house full of dust and cobwebs, only with her books. More like a hermit. As if the real world hadn’t mattered.

  Maddie felt like a stranger catching a glimpse into the life of another person; not like a close family member. She swallowed hard. Perhaps, she should have made more of an effort.

  “At least your home will look proud and happy again,” she whispered into the empty, quiet room.

  It was useless pondering about the past. Taking a deep breath, she picked up the beer bottle and went into the kitchen, letting the fresh air seep into the living room to dispel the smell of paint. Stopping in the doorway to the kitchen, she looked around. The Welsh dresser was desperately in need of a new varnish, as was the sideboard, but the heavy cupboard would have to go. A fresh worktop was needed. The walls needed brightening, just like the living room, and the old, unevenly-tiled floor required a new base, with fresh, modern tiles.

  That meant either levelling and covering it or lifting the floor altogether. Yuck! She dreaded to think about the ensuing mess. She needed help with that.

  Maddie crouched down on her heels and ran her hands over the old, red square floor tiles that left every piece of furniture in the kitchen wonky. Bits of cardboard shoved under the feet of the cupboard, dresser and dining table kept them stable, but the chairs all wobbled. Nobody had bothered to straighten the floor in the last century. The tiles beneath her hand felt poorly fitted. Not one tile was level with another. It was a shame, but these tiles would have to go.

  A tremor ran across the floor, and it made her withdraw her hand quickly. She nearly lost her balance, catching herself on the doorframe.

  “What the—?”

  Curious, she put her hand down again, clutching the beer bottle with the other. The ground was solid. Had she imagined it?

  She sat, waiting for more. Nothing happened.

  Sighing, she rose and put the bottle on the table. Was the area prone to earthquakes? She’d never heard of any here. Tomorrow, she would ask Bernadette if she could recommend a builder. Dreading the cost of it, she walked the length of the room, then the width, measuring the room in her mind. “About twenty square metres. OK.”

  Not too big a job, but still messy. She expected dust would spread all over the house if she did not keep doors shut. In the meantime, she could paint upstairs before doing the corridor once the kitchen was finished. The wooden beams had to wait for their woodworm treatment until she could keep the windows open.

  Elizabeth’s savings would fade fast, but the sale would bring in enough to cover them.

  She sat and took another sip, as she imagined what the house would be like post-renovation. With new furnishings and a cream-coloured tiled floor, the kitchen would look nice and fresh. The old sideboard would get a new coat of varnish and the Welsh dresser could be the pièce de résistance in her new modern, yet charming country kitchen.

  Not that it would have to be to her taste! She shook her head in emphasis. Once the year was up, the house would go.

  Another light tremor beneath her feet made her jump. She darted to the radio and dialled through the channels to see if there were any reports of earthquakes. But they either broadcast music or discussions, with the latest rugby results announced on Sud Radio. Surely, programmes would be interrupted for news about any unexpected earthquakes in the area?

  “Bizarre,” she murmured. Then she remembered her neighbour. She should check if Bernadette was OK.

  Maddie emptied the bottle in a last big gulp, then rinsed her mouth with water from the tap. She didn’t want to smell like a drunk.

  Collecting the house key from the sideboard, she went to the door. As she threw it open, she stared at a man whose outstretched hand was inches from her face.

  “Oh, hello. I was just about to knock.” Léon Cabrol withdrew his hand and put it into his jeans pocket. “Salut.”

  Maddie blinked and stared at him. Besides tight jeans, he wore his black leather jacket. Why did such a man have to live in her village? She’d been single for too long!

  “Oh, umm, bonjour.” Maddie’s hand went to her hair. She’d tied it in a high bun before she started to paint, and it was all mussed up now. “Did you feel that?”

  He raised his eyebrow. “Quoi?”

  My god, what a question to ask! “Sorry, I meant whether you felt the earthquake.” His eyes told her he had no idea what she was talking about. “Just a minute ago, and couple of minutes before that. The ground was shaking.”

  “It certainly is now,” he said. Amusement sparkled in his eyes.

  Insolent sod! Maddie’s temper flared. “A real earthquake. I…I sat on the kitchen floor to inspect the tiles, and the ground was moving beneath my hands.”

  Léon shook his head. “No, can’t say I noticed anything. And I think I would have, given I was riding a bike. Why do you think it was an earthquake?” His tone had turned serious, and he looked past her into the gloom of the corridor, then studied her. “Are you alright?”

  No earthquake? What had it been, then? Maddie swayed to the side. Léon’s hand stretched out, and he gripped her arm to stabilise her.

  “Are you OK?”

  “I’m not sure.” Her mind whirled. The earth had moved. Twice.

  “The paint,” she blurted out. It must have been the paint! She laughed, the sound a few notes too shrill for her own liking. “Oh, I’m sorry. I think the smell of the paint got to my brain.”

  He cocked his head and grinned. “You’ve been painting?” His gaze went from her hair, and down her worn-out University of York t-shirt to her old, ripped jeans, then met hers. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

  Maddie looked down her front, laughter bubbling from inside her. Both her t-shirt and jeans were splattered with colour, as were t
he cheap trainers she wore.

  “Oh dear,” was all she could manage.

  Léon smiled. “You’re keeping busy, I give you that. Were you planning to go out like that?”

  “Umm, I didn’t think of it. I was going to see if Bernadette had noticed the earthquake.”

  Léon shook his head. “There really was no earthquake.” He shifted his weight to his other leg. “May I come in and have a look?”

  “Sure.” She took a step back, and he brushed past her, close, but not touching. “Head to the kitchen; first door on the left.”

  He waited inside until she passed him.

  “Grab a seat. Would you like a beer?”

  “No, thanks. Not when I’m out on the bike.” He pulled back a chair and sat. “But if you have any tea, I’d love a cup.”

  Maddie laughed and went to the kettle, filled it with water, and switched it on. “Very sensible.” Then she turned to face him, leaning against the worktop. “But tea? Should it not be coffee? You’re French.”

  Léon grinned. “I may be French, but when I lived in London, I developed a liking of a nice cup of English tea. Is that so unusual?”

  “To me, it is. You see, where I lived in Normandy, when I was young, the fathers of my friends didn’t drink tea at all. Everyone had coffee.”

  “So, you grew up in France? I thought I detected an accent, and it wasn’t an English one.”

  “Merci,” she said coquettish. At the click of the kettle, she poured two cups and swirled the Pyramid tea bags in each cup with a spoon before she removed them and dumped them in the sink. “Milk? Sugar?”

  “Just sugar, please. That’s the one thing I can’t get used to – milk in tea.”

  So much for a proper cup of English tea! “Ever tried it?” she challenged him.

  “Oui, and it was vile.” He smirked when she threw back her head in laughter.

  “Let’s say…it’s an acquired taste to those who haven’t experienced it before.”

  “Well, then I must admit it’s not a taste I’ve acquired yet…” He took a sip, looking at her over the rim of the large floral mug. “Though this is nice.”