by Cathie Dunn
“Glad you like it.” She glanced around the room, thinking of how to approach him with her request. “I wonder…”
“Oui.”
“I’ve meant to ask Bernadette for recommendations for a builder, but perhaps you have a suggestion.”
“That’s the reason I stopped by, to see if you needed any help.”
“Thank you. I need a builder or a tiler…for the kitchen,” she added.
“Obviously.” He smiled.
“Obviously,” she repeated. “I can paint walls and ceilings, but I’d like a professional to re-tile the floor.”
He put his mug down and leant to the side, sliding a hand over uneven tiles. “Yes, I see what you mean. These old red tiles are lovely. How do you say…rustic?”
“Yes, you could say that.”
“But they’re not very practical for a modern resident.”
Relief flooded through her. Someone agreed with her vision! “I’m so glad you see it like I do. I was afraid of upsetting Bernadette. I know she has similar tiles in her house.”
“Bernadette is a lady of a certain age, as was Elisa. No disrespect to either, just stating the obvious. Younger people like ourselves look for a more…modern look in our home, don’t we?”
When she nodded, a strand of her tied-back hair came loose, falling into her face. She brushed it aside and blew into her mug. Léon swiftly averted his gaze and looked around the room.
“You could do something worthwhile with that rack over there.”
“The Welsh dresser?”
“Is that what it’s called? Yes, it’s beautiful. I love the carving. With a new coat of paint, it could look incredible.”
“So you like a bit of rustic after all?” She was teasing him now.
He laughed. “Yes, I appreciate beautiful furniture. I even love those old cherrywood cupboards. Just that I’m not keen on big pieces in my home. They suffocate a room.”
“True. The living room would also be much more spacious without the heavy cupboard and big sofas.”
“Yes, I see it in my parents’ part of our home: all solid mahogany or oak cupboards and wardrobes, and then they put dainty tables and Louis XV chairs around the rooms. It’s too much. I prefer things to be simple.”
“So do I,” she agreed. “I can see that I might call on you a few times for advice, like, where to get nice but bright furniture.”
“I take it you won’t want to go to Ikea?”
She giggled. “I like some of their stuff, but not everything. Their bedroom furniture would probably do, and their kitchens are OK. Is there a store nearby?”
“Not close by, but it’s not too far to either Toulouse or Montpellier. It’s handy for small items. Mother goes mad for candles, small side tables and kitchen utensils.” He grinned. “But I know an artisan in Carcassonne who could do a simple fitted kitchen if that’s what you like. He works with wood and has a small store. I’m sure he could sort it all at a good price.”
“Are you sure? You always need to pay extra for these guys to instal everything. I like the idea, though. More individual than a chain store.”
He nodded. “Then I’ll get in touch with him. And what do you have in mind for the floor?”
“Simple dark cream tiles. Large ones. They look rustic without being olde-worlde.”
“Without what?” He raised an eyebrow and grinned.
Maddie smiled. “Olde-worlde. Old world. Means like in the old days.”
“Ah.” He looked enlightened. “You have good ideas. I should take you to a warehouse just across the Spanish border. Tiles are cheaper there, and they have a fantastic choice.”
“Oh, you won’t need to…”
“But I insist. You’d hardly get a bunch of big tiles into your car. We can take the Rover.”
“Hmm, true. My old VW Golf isn’t solid enough for a large pile of tiles.”
“That’s agreed, then.” He grinned.
“One thing at a time. I guess all these lovely tiles will go?” A tinge of sadness touched her face.
“Yes, unfortunately. They are brittle, and the ground needs to be opened enough to ensure that you could put an even layer of concrete underneath your new tiles, to make the floor level. It will mean digging.”
The ground beneath their feet vibrated.
“What was that?” Léon stared at his half-drunk mug of tea on the table, the liquid moving from side to side.
Maddie jumped up. “See? It happened again.” A shiver ran down her spine. The ground had definitely shaken.
“How bizarre!”
“So, you believe me now?” She stood in front of him, her arms folded in front of her.
He nodded slowly. “Bah ouais.”
Twenty minutes later, Maddie stared at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes shone unusually bright.
Had she been flirting? It had been too long, but perhaps a little attention from a handsome Frenchman had done her good.
Then the earth had moved again. At least this time, there was a witness.
After his initial shock, Léon left to speak to the maire to find out if there had been any reports of earthquakes in the area today. Maddie was sure there hadn’t. Bernadette would have come over to see her, no doubt. But in expectation of the maire – the most influential man in the village – coming to her house to see for himself, she had quickly tried to scrub the paint from her exposed skin. To not much avail. It would take turpentine to get it off. Now, what was that in French?
She changed into clean jeans, a red camisole and a checked shirt. As her shoes were covered in paint too, she opted for her flip-flops. They had to do. She would not need to go outside in them.
Brushing her hair, Maddie heard a knock on the front door. She threw the brush into the basket on a shelf beside the sink and rushed downstairs, the sound of her flip-flops echoing around the corridor.
She threw the door open and beamed at Léon and the maire.
“Hello again, Maddie. Let me, um, presenter à vous Monsieur le Maire, Bertrand Carnot. Bertrand, this is Madeleine Winters, Elisa’s daughter.”
“Enchanté, Madame Winters!” The short, rotund mayor took her hand and kissed it, a big smile on his face. Ahh, another flirt!
Maddie smiled. “Lovely to meet you, Monsieur Carnot. Please come in.” She stood aside as Léon led the way to her kitchen.
He quickly explained the situation they’d found themselves in, whilst Maddie watched them from the kitchen door as both men studied the floor and then the wall.
Having assured himself that all was solid, the maire turned to her, a frown between his bushy brows. He must think her mad. “Madame, I am baffled. There was no seismic action here in the village, and the structure of your house is firm. It was built of solid stone.” He looked around. “Does this happen in other rooms as well or just in the kitchen?”
Maddie blinked. “Just in here.” Perhaps he’d sussed it. It was true – it hadn’t happened in any other rooms. “It’s usually when I touch the floor or talk about…my plans.”
He raised an eyebrow and, propping himself up with his hand on the dining table, slowly lowered himself to his knees. Then he brushed his hand across the floor tiles. Dust clung to his fingers.
Damn! She should have quickly brushed the floor.
“So, you’re planning to re-tile this floor?” he asked. “That means digging deep, to adjust the level of these unstable tiles.”
The ground vibrated, and Maddie grabbed the doorframe to steady herself. Bertrand Carnot lost his balance and toppled onto his side. Léon, who was leaning against the sink, jumped forward and took the poor man’s arm to help him up.
All was calm again.
“Merci, Léon,” the maire whispered, eyes wide. “This is very interesting.”
Maddie nodded and pointed to the chairs. “Please sit, monsieur. Would you like a drink of water?”
He lowered himself into a chair, and Léon sat next to him, keeping his thoughts to himself.
“Ah non, merci. I’m fine. It’s just…”
She sat opposite him and exchanged glances with Léon. Intrigued, she turned back to the maire.
“It’s what, monsieur?”
He cleared his throat. “Part of this village was built over an ancient cemetery dating back to Visigoth times. Err, do you know who the Visigoths were and when they lived?”
Maddie nodded. “Yes, I’m a historian.” The maire’s eyes lit up, and she smiled. “I know they lived in this area around the fourth to the seventh century. There are many remnants of their existence here, but I didn’t know about this village.”
“Yes,” he said enthusiastically, clearly delighted to have found a fellow connoisseur of dark age history. “But the point is – the ancient cemetery here in Minervens is on the other side of the village, behind the Cave Co-operative. We found no other traces so far, and certainly not near where we are now. I wonder…” He stared at the tiles, as if to lift them with his mere gaze to reveal their secret.
Léon raised an eyebrow. “You wonder what, Bertrand? That beneath this floor lies something yet to be uncovered? Like more graves?”
“Ouais.” Wild-eyed, the older man looked almost manic.
A shiver ran down Maddie’s spine, and goosebumps rose on her skin. This was surreal. “So…you think there’s something beneath my kitchen floor? Something…paranormal that shifts the ground?”
Monsieur Carnot nodded vigorously. “It is possible.”
Doubts clouded her mind. She didn’t believe in ghosts. “Well, we shall see, won’t we? When the works begins…”
Chapter Eight
Eight days before the feast of Christ’s birth, AD 777
Carcassonne
With a sennight to go to the wedding, Bellon was none the wiser as to how to woo his betrothed. Since her arrival, Hilda had remained in her chamber most of the time, except for a joint walk through the settlement where she greeted people as her station demanded, but showed no further interest in her new home.
It did not come as a surprise to him: she had crossed hundreds of miles in the coldest season, only to wed him, against her will. He would not begrudge her some comforts and much-needed time to recover. Often enough had he travelled with Charles’ armies, and he knew well just how treacherous conditions could be during wintertime. But it was no excuse for her not to attend meals most evenings or to ignore his pleas to sit by the fire and talk about their future. Even Milo had become disgruntled with his daughter and had repeatedly voiced his displeasure. That, Bellon did not wish for – that her father would put pressure on her. So he had asked him to leave her in peace, to give her more time. Milo had not happily accepted his request, but acknowledged that it made sense. To a certain point.
Now, having allowed Hilda her own will for so long, both men had grown weary of her obstinance. But Bellon was not angry. It simply disappointed him that Hilda did not even try to get to know him. She was polite, yet shy and reserved in his company, and he could not break through the invisible wall she had built around herself.
Deep in thought, Bellon winced as the chilly winds stung his face, reminding him where he was: deep in the rolling hills, exposed to the elements. Yet he relished it. He needed this feeling of being alive. Whether his horse enjoyed it, he was not so certain. Best to return to the keep to give the poor beast a rest.
He guided his stallion away from the hillside he had been climbing and, with the wind in his back, turned towards Carcassonne. His home. A sense of pride rushed through him as the high walls, which he had reinforced over the past year, grew nearer. He could barely make out the sentries on the watchtower above the gate, but he knew they would have spotted him long before he had seen them. To the opposite side, the land around Carcassonne was flat, and the location of his fortress at the top of the hill granted him the perfect defence.
He had worked hard to get to where he was: count of Carcassonne, lord of the small, ancient, but strategic settlement he had grown up in. He loved his home with a fierce pride, that despite losing its independence to Charles as part of the king’s seizure of Septimania, it gained protection and prestige. And the safety of Frankish swords. The alternative, to be at constant defence against the Saracens crawling across the Pyrenaei, and the uncertainties in Aquitania to the west, was not an option. Carcassonne had seen too much warfare over the decades. Together with the Franks, they had made treaties or beaten rogue parties back. Charles’ hold over Tolosa granted Bellon a certain sense of security. The settlement would thrive under him. With Hilda by his side, they would found a dynasty that could hold sway in Septimania for generations to come.
The heavy winter rains would soon return, flooding field and path indiscriminately. Only this morning, he had spoken to his majordomus to ensure that preparations were under way, barriers created in places of danger, so the water would not flood the dwellings at the foot of the keep or the grain stores. Bellon had seen starvation many times before, and he knew the floods following the rains posed a danger. The river that flowed below the fortress had often caused damage to homes and crops. Under his guidance, Carcassonne would not suffer that fate again. He would see to it.
Nearing the gates just as dusk was settling, he slowed to a walk and waved at the sentries, who ordered the gate to be opened. Bellon crossed into the courtyard and behind him, the heavy gate was closing again.
“Sire.” A lad appeared from the stables. He took hold of the reins and Bellon dismounted.
“Thank you. Brush him well.” He grinned at the boy, whom he had known since birth. He knew he could trust him with his beloved stallion.
Pushing the door open to the hall, he found a fire lit in the hearth, much to his relief. Little had he realised how the cold had seeped through his cloak. But the sight that greeted him, made his heart pound in his ears. Sitting beside the hearth were Milo in one chair and Hilda in another, her arms outstretched towards the flames. Bellon threw his cloak over a bench beside her and sat.
“Greetings, Hilda. I would hope you will honour us with your presence tonight.” He smiled at her as he rubbed his hands close to the fire. Turning to Milo, he added, “The wind is picking up. We are expecting a storm tonight.”
The older man nodded. “I have seen them here before, and I am glad to know we are warm and safe inside.” His gaze moved to his daughter, and Bellon’s followed.
Hilda blushed under the scrutiny, keeping her eyes firmly cast downwards. Or was it the heat from the fire? Bellon knew not the answer. But he did not want her to withdraw again. He wondered if Milo had spoken to her.
“What say you, Hilda?” He kept his voice low, barely above a whisper. Her fragile beauty, her blonde hair, tied into a pleat, glinting in the fire’s light. He was so fortunate.
She looked at him before her eyes darted towards Milo and nodded. “Yes, my lord. I shall join you and Father.”
Ah, Milo had ordered her to attend. Bellon’s heart sank. But at least he would be with her. Certainly, she must become used to him when they were sharing their trenchers.
“Then I am a happy man.” Despite his words, he had to keep himself from making his voice sound critical. ’Twas a first step.
The torches were lit in the sconces, casting an eery light across the stone walls and tapestries. Several candelabra placed on the high table helped illuminate the room as darkness had long fallen. In addition, lamps containing olive oil had been placed on the lower tables, casting them in an eerie light, and sending a scent of olives across the room. Bellon, seated at his usual place at the centre of the high table, let his gaze roam across the hall. He loved this room, bustling with people and noise, its warmth thwarting the winter’s chill outside. A lutist, sitting all by himself in a corner but supplied well with ale and bread, played a cheerful melody which added to the communal mood. His people were excited about the upcoming wedding. A feast like none other ever seen in this part of Septimania.
He wished he could be as joyful, but instead his mood was a
s foul as the weather outside.
He signalled to Lot to refill his cup again. “Thank you,” he grunted, and the lad withdrew back into the shadows, no doubt replenishing the now empty clay jug.
Bellon glared into the deep red liquid before he took a large gulp. He had finished off a jugful already, and the food had not even been served. His head felt lighter, and he was certain the wine had taken away his doubts a little. Instead, his mood had darkened.
He had tried to be supportive, but how in the name of the virgin was he meant to get to know Hilda – and she him – if she did not wish to spend time with him. Yes, perhaps she was scared. So was he, with the prospect of being tied to a wife who so obviously despised him. He glared into the fire. Christ, it was easier to face an enemy across a field than woo this damn woman!
A firm hand closed over his wrist as he tried to lift the cup to his lips again. He banged it back on the table, sending a hush over the room.
“’Tis enough, son,” Milo said in a calm voice barely above a whisper and sat down beside him. “Lot, bring his lordship a large cup of well water. As cold as it comes.” The lad nodded and rushed from the room.
“What do you know?” growled Bellon. He glared at the gathered faces watching him, but his words were intended for Milo’s ears only.
“More than you think, Bellon.” Milo sighed. “I must confess I do not understand Hilda’s erratic behaviour, but then I am not a good judge of women. Ah, thank you.” He took the cup of water from Lot who had appeared behind them and put it under Bellon’s nose. “Drink.”
Bellon mumbled under his breath but complied. The chill of the water hit his senses like an axe. He coughed and blinked. “God’s breath!”
Milo laughed. “You do not need to blaspheme. ’Tis your head that does it, not the Lord’s.”
“At least you did not throw it in my face.” Bellon smirked. His senses were slowly returning.
“Perhaps I should have done so, but not in front of your court.” Milo turned serious. “Nanthild’s mother acted just like her – if that is any consolation to you. Before our wedding, Alda took great pains to stay out of my way. She was fiercely independent, which is sadly something the Church now frowns upon. To be honest, though,” he added, “it was the trait I admired most in her after our wedding. Alda stood up for her beliefs. Even when it brought her into trouble with our priest, she stood proud.”
