by Cathie Dunn
Bellon’s head shot up. “Your lady wife had issues with the clergy?” He sincerely hoped Hilda had not inherited all her mother’s traits. It could be dangerous if you disagreed with the followers of Christ.
Milo nodded. “Yes, she did. You see, Alda was a wise-woman. And in recent Church synods, it has been made clear that such women are apparently in league with the devil. It was troubling for me to defend her. Her faith was absolute. She just wished to help people who were sick or injured…” His voice trailed off.
“Ahh.” Bellon was at a loss. He did not believe wise-women – or any women involved in healing – were consorting with the devil, but it set a dangerous precedent. He would have to keep a close eye on Hilda, should she insist on following in her mother’s footsteps.
“Ahh indeed. Alda died giving birth to our son – who was born dead – when Nanthild was still young. I sometimes wonder if it was God’s punishment for her actions…but then, she had saved many people’s lives before she died. Surely, even He would not disapprove.” The last words were spoken in a hoarse whisper, and his brow furrowed with the pain of his memories.
Bellon patted Milo’s shoulder. ’Twas as if their roles had become reversed. “I do not believe her death was His response to her actions,” he said. “I believe that instead it was her time to join Him. She can help much more, in a different way, where she is now, in Heaven.”
Milo gave him a wry smile. “Yes, ’tis possible. Though some priests would argue that she would not ascend. I…I do still miss her after all those years. And now I’m going to lose my daughter.”
Bellon shook his head. “Nay, you will not lose her, Milo. She will always remain your daughter.” He grinned. “And…you are about to gain a grown-up son!”
Milo looked at him quizzically. “Yes, it must be so. I have thought that if I had been granted a son, he would be like you. No, don’t laugh, Bellon! In truth, I could not ask for a better man to wed my only child.”
Gratitude washed over him. He was proud of Milo’s association, of his approval. It meant so much to him. If only Hilda could see…
“My lords.” A soft voice spoke behind them, and both men, absorbed in their musings, jumped.
Bellon vacated his cushioned chair and moved to the next one to allow Hilda to sit between him and her father. Then he gestured for Lot to bring her a cup of wine and smiled at her. “Hilda. It is a pleasure to see you here tonight. Your beauty brightens the darkest day.”
On her other side, he could see Milo grinning into his cup, not saying a word. He was fortunate to have such a great man as his father-in-law.
Determined, Bellon sat down, finished his cup of water and pulled a face. He would win Hilda over. Tonight or never.
***
“Thank you.” Hilda shuffled to sit comfortably on the cushion. She watched as Amalberga headed to one of the lower tables. Her heart beat a steady drum in her ears when she saw her confidante welcomed to a table of members of Bellon’s household whom she seemed to know well already.
When Bellon handed her a cup of wine, their hands touched briefly. She was certain that it was intentional, but she had not expected her body to react in such a manner. Goosebumps rose on her skin, and she entwined her shaking hands on her lap. Casting a quick glance sideways at her betrothed, she found his gaze steady on her, a warm smile playing on his lips, and a glint in his deep green eyes. His scent of lavender and something else, more unusual – was it sandalwood perhaps? – hit her senses. She swallowed as she felt the heat rise in her cheeks.
It terrified her, and that terror had been her reason for hiding.
What was she expected to do? Was this how wives reacted to their husbands? She blinked and looked away, still aware of his scrutiny. What if he found her lacking?
Throughout her life, Hilda had been surrounded by women. Father was close to her, but often she wished he would spend more time with her. Since her mother died, Hilda had wondered if Father had had any regrets. Her little brother was dead, yet she had survived childhood with all its threats. But Father had never mentioned it. He had only forever been away from home since then, crossing borders and expanding the kingdom. Always with Charles. Always in danger.
She had dealt with warriors and hosted guests of honour alongside Father for several years and treated wounds that even many men would not dare touch. Yet none of them had such an impact on her mind – and her body – as Bellon did. This new heat in her blood betrayed her senses, and she did not know how to cope with it.
“I have a proposal to make, Hilda.” His voice was barely above a whisper, and she was not even sure Father on her other side heard it.
“Yes?”
He took her hand between his. Scared this would reveal her shaking, the warmth flowing through his skin into hers as he massaged her palm surprised her. As if he wanted to calm her.
Little does he know…
“We are to be wed in a few days’ time, and I would like you to get used to life here in the south.”
She nodded. “Yes, Bellon.” Encouraged by the kind glance he sent her, she could not help but smile. It lit up his eyes, sending shivers down her spine.
“I would like to show you my country, once tonight’s storm has passed. These never last long. I’m certain you are by now recovered from your journey. And ’tis perhaps cold, but with the coming sunshine, we can ride out into the plain, so I can show you our vines and the orchards we have recently planted, and also the ancient ruins of my forebears. It would be an honour if you were to join me.”
The ruins of his forebears? Of Visigoths like him? Ancient sites often held powerful energies. She shuddered with excitement. A shadow fell over his face, and she was quick to reassure him, a new hope rising in her heart. “Yes, I would like that very much.”
It was time she learnt about the land if she wanted to continue on her path. She would recognise plants and remember where she found them. And she would discover plants unknown to her. But the prospect of being alone with him, in the castle or outside, still worried her. “Will there be an escort?”
He sighed. Had he read her mind? “Yes, we can take Amalberga or Lot with us. That way, nobody can accuse us of improper behaviour prior to our wedding. Does that reassure you?”
Hilda nodded, sending him a shy glance. “Yes, that would be kind.”
“Then, provided the sun will appear, we shall head out in the morn after breaking our fast.” He lifted his cup with a proud glimmer in his eyes.
“So be it.”
They turned to see bowls of food arriving, and servants distributed trenchers. The scent of spiced stew filled the room. Hilda took a sip of her wine. Finally, she began to calm, and her wildly pounding heart slowed to a more steady beat.
The sunlight blinded her as they headed eastwards, in the direction of the sea, so Bellon had told her. She rode alongside her betrothed, with Lot following them at a discreet distance. Amalberga had declined to join them, citing the chilly wind and her advancing age. Hilda smiled. Amalberga was not as ancient as she at times pretended to be, although the long journey south had taken much of her strength. Still, with Lot as a companion, Bellon could not try anything improper.
As if he did, said a little voice inside her head. He was a warrior, but also a man of his word who appeared to respect women. She had noticed that he did not treat her, nor Amalberga, nor other women in the fortress, with the disdain some of his fellow knights did. The memory of Clovis insulting her at the Easter court sprang to her mind. No, Bellon was different. Or did she simply wish it to be so, as he was to be her husband? She had heard of many tales where men mistreated their wives after they had consummated the marriage. A shiver ran down her spine.
Looking at his profile, the head held high, proudly so, the broad shoulders and straight back as he rode next to her, his long hair not tied back but falling over his shoulders – he was a man to be reckoned with. A man women would die for to have as their husband. Handsome. Fierce. Proud.
And
he would be hers.
Hilda shuddered at the thought. Of course, he would insist on his rights as a husband. He would touch her, share her bed, give her children. Heat shot into her cheeks, and she blamed the sun, strong despite the winter’s cool breeze. Quickly, she averted her eyes towards the land laid out in front of her. In the clear air, she could see for many miles from her perch on a hill. Vines covered much of the landscape, replacing those burnt by marauders over the centuries, so Bellon told her. Between them lay orchards, waiting for spring to arrive. Yet in the distance, patches of charred black soil stood out, as raw as when the land was torched. ’Twas no wonder Bellon wished to rebuild the area from the ravages of skirmish upon skirmish. She admired his vision. He wanted the best for his people.
“Does this view please you, Hilda?” he asked, pointing towards rows upon rows of vines across the plain.
Her blush deepened. Had he read her thoughts? “I’m sorry?” She stared at him.
“This.” Grinning at her, he slowed his stallion to a gentle walk and made a sweeping gesture with his left arm, encompassing the wide landscape. “The countryside. The vines, which, as far as we know, were first planted by the Romans. The views over to the hills in the north, through which you travelled, and the high mountains behind us to the south.”
Hilda slowed alongside him, following his gaze across the plain. As she turned, she saw snow was crowning the tips of the high mountains. “And beyond those peaks, there is the Caliphate?”
“Yes, and along the coast. But we have our new treaties. To the west lies Vasconia, a small kingdom that has caused us much trouble. Most of it is now under our control.”
The satisfied tone in his voice gave her a chill. The warrior in him was speaking.
“Ah,” she said meekly. “And on the other side?”
Bellon turned away from her. “Beyond those hills lies the eastern part of the duchy of Aquitania. Also under Frankish rule,” he added, “though not without its problems.”
Hilda thought she was learning as much about his life as about the history of these southern, troubled lands. He was clearly proud of his heritage, as a Visigoth, now fighting for the Franks.
“What about your own folk?”
He stared at her. “My folk?”
She nodded.
He pulled the reins of his stallion to stop him, and she came to a halt beside him. “The Saracens, coming up from Iberia, clashed with my folk. Many people lost their lives during the frequent raids, and although we could maintain our faith, life was still harsh. That’s why you see so few populated villages. The Franks freed us from decades of fighting. Many of us have fled, dispersed into faraway parts of Septimania, Iberia, and beyond. Those in cities like Narbonne fared better. They could adjust more easily and found life bearable.”
“And now you’re joining the king in his fight against them.”
“Yes. Many of us Visigoths have lost our lands, and we are no longer strong enough to defend them against the Saracens. So, yes, it is safer to be on King Charles’ side – despite the sacrifices we had to make.” He cast her a glance that showed he respected her interest. Dared she hope that Bellon would be a husband who valued his wife’s counsel?
All around her, the influence of women had diminished. Where they were once consulted for their wisdom, the Church now told them to stay by the hearth and tend to the children. And although wives were still in charge of households, it had eroded their independence.
Hilda silently prayed to the Goddess for Bellon to be an understanding husband. Although it was likely she would never dare to reveal her true calling to him…
Chapter Nine
Late March, 2018
The early spring sun was beating down on Maddie’s car as she drove past rows of vines covering the landscape either side of the road. Vignerons were busy checking and pruning the thin branches to ready them for the summer months.
The drive from Minervens to Carcassonne was relaxing her, despite a boy racer overtaking her in a hairy manoeuvre near a sharp bend. Tutting, she kept her cool and paid attention to the oncoming traffic. Some things never changed, and racing along country roads was always a popular, if dangerous, pastime – not just in France.
After a couple of further visits from Monsieur Carnot to check on her kitchen floor and any potential paranormal activity, Maddie had decided to escape for a few hours. To her relief – and the maire’s clear disappointment – there had been no further earth-moving shenanigans in the house, allowing her to focus on painting the bedroom walls. Pleased with her progress, she deserved a treat.
A visit to the famous citadel in Carcassonne, followed by lunch, had been on her list ever since she arrived. But she’d declined Léon’s kind offer made the previous evening to accompany her, insisting he would find her spending much time looking at historical exhibits and exploring the site at her leisure too slow. Fortunately, he had simply shrugged it off with a smile and wished her a nice day.
The speed with which she grew familiar with his presence frightened her. Yes, he was handy for answering all those questions she had about renovations and gardening, but in recent days she’d had the impression that he was far more interested in her company than she was ready for. Their trip to Spain had been successful, and she’d returned with a batch of beautiful tiles for the kitchen. Time spent chatting had flown by.
Small steps, she told herself, and tried to ignore the twinge in her heart when she saw his expression turn sad after her knock-back.
Now, skirting the town on the bypass, she turned into a road that eventually led her to the nearest car park, close to Porte Narbonnaise – the main remodelled entrance to the former fortress. Looking at the cost of parking, she gulped. It wouldn’t be cheap, but today she didn’t care.
This time of year, the car park was half empty. The Easter holidays were a week away, and she was under no illusion that by then, this place would be packed. Never mind during the summer months! Carcassonne was the second most visited tourist site in France, and she’d heard of huge crowds pushing their way through the narrow lanes in the height of the hot season. Not something she would relish, and she was grateful for the cool breeze.
From the car park, she crossed the road at a pedestrian crossing that led to the large square in front of Porte Narbonnaise and stopped short.
“Wow!” The words escaped her, and she quickly glanced around her to see if anyone thought it odd that she stood there talking to herself. But the sight that greeted her was too distracting.
The rebuilt walls and towers looked impressive from any distance, but up close she was lost for words. Dating from a range of centuries, their stones could tell tales. Maddie took a few photos with her phone, aware of resembling any other awestruck tourist seeing La Cité up close, then slowly walked up to the gate. She wandered over the bridge, its large wooden blocks creaking after decades of use, and crossed the grass-covered moat. Once through, she looked at the wide paths on either side of her between the outer walls and the inner ones that encircled the walls of the old town. From books she found on her mother’s shelves, she had learnt that, merely over a century earlier, rows of shacks stood side by side, leaning against the inner walls. People had lived here. The poorest people of Carcassonne.
In her mind’s eye, Maddie imagined these ramshackle buildings, complete with front doors, sometimes small, square windows, and chimneys. She saw children play in the mud as horses, stray dogs, donkeys and other animals roamed the lane. The images in the books had haunted her. So much poverty. Then, with the renovation of the towers and walls, people had to move down to the bastide, the lower town. They didn’t fit in with the fairytale castle image of the 19th century. Poor people never fit into rich people’s ideas. Maddie hoped that conditions had improved in their new homes…
A Spanish couple chatting loudly shook her out of her imagination, so she set off up the path into the old town. Never one to go for the tourist trail, she intentionally got lost in the narrow winding lanes over
the next half an hour, savouring the atmosphere. Tacky stores selling cheap trinkets vied with craft shops, galleries and restaurants for the visitors’ attention. She spotted some lovely gemstone jewellery and nudged herself to return for a better browse.
The Romans had established the citadel – including its inner walls – with unearthed signs of life dating back even further. A defensive settlement at first, over the centuries a town had grown around the Château Comtal, outside which she had now come to a halt. She quickly checked her watch. 11.30 am. Great.
“Just enough time for a little wander,” she murmured before she headed through the barriers. After saying, “Au revoir” to the ticket seller, Maddie crossed another bridge and walked into the castle.
A tingling sensation ran down her spine, and she shrugged it off swiftly. “This is too exciting!”
She smiled at a tourist staring at her. Yes, she talked to herself. She always did when exploring ancient sites. And it usually attracted curious glances. Following the trail, she made her way through the inside of the château and along the wall walk of the original fortress and its towers. Their foundations ancient, a sense of homecoming flooded through her. She often felt like this during her work, so it did not bother her too much.
Taking the tour from tower to tower, even the refurbishments of the 19th century could not spoil the atmosphere. she found the fact that they dated from across the last two millennia fascinating. Climbing in through narrow doors, she stared around, imagining the place teaming with Roman or medieval life.
As she approached a smaller tower, her hands began to shake. She stared at the sign. La Tour Wisigothe. Checking the leaflet, she realised that this was one of the oldest towers still intact together with several Roman towers, now fully restored, along the wall to the east of the inner fortress. Looking behind her, she found herself surprisingly alone.
