Love Lost in Time

by Cathie Dunn

  “Phew! Let’s see what you’re hiding,” she whispered, clasping her hands firmly to stop them from shaking. Swallowing hard, she took a few steps to the Romanesque doorway and glanced into the tower. As she moved, her throat constricted, and she began to feel queasy.

  “Silly woman!” Maddie chided herself. This had never happened before, and she would not allow it to happen now, but where had the stale taste of whatever come from? It smelled like damp earth. She gagged and cast another furtive glance around. All was in order. No decomposing animals lying around.

  “Sod it!” Balling her hands into fists, she entered the tower. As she walked through, staring at the wooden beams above, dizziness overcame her, and she sat down, leaning against the cool wall.

  “Breathe…”

  It was easier said than done. “I’m not in a thriller.” Maddie tried to keep her voice steady, but failed. Instead, the words escaped like a hoarse whisper.

  “I must get out!” she croaked, and tried to get up, but her wobbly legs didn’t allow it. She slid down onto the cold stone floor and closed her tired eyes.

  Visions of sparse furniture, pre-medieval, filled her mind. A few straw beds set against the walls. Shapes of men asleep, snoring, the sound roaring in her ears. Swords, belts and knives lay in a heap by the far door. Then a shape sat up and turned her way. Across the small space, his dark brown eyes bored into her. The chill in them froze her blood. With a smirk on his face, he rose and—

  “Madame, Miss,” someone gently shook her shoulder, “do you need help?” An English accent. Female.

  Maddie drew in a sharp breath and blinked. “What? Where?” She stared at the woman kneeling beside her.

  “You’re English?” the woman asked.

  “Yup.” She nodded, trying to control her breathing.

  “I’m so sorry to disturb you, but you were whimpering, as if you were in pain. Are you OK now?”

  “Yes, thank you. I…I think so.”

  “Here, have some water.” The woman unscrewed a small thermos flask, wiped a cup with a paper tissue she pulled from her bag, and filled it with fresh water.

  Maddie raised her hand, but it was still shaking, so her helper held it to her mouth. Grateful for the cool liquid, she took a few sips. “Thank you so much. You’re very kind.” She spotted another woman and a man hovering behind the woman. “I’m so sorry to be an inconvenience. I’ve no idea what just happened.”

  Between them, they helped her up. Feeling a little steadier, she took the offered cup and emptied it.

  “Not at all,” her helper responded, as she shook out the last drops from the cup and bagged it with the thermos into her backpack. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. I just think I’ll need to grab some lunch.”

  The woman laughed and pressed her upper arm. “Then I’d suggest you take a break from your walk… Take care.”

  Maddie smiled. “Yes, I’ll do that. Thanks again. Bye.”

  But the walking direction meant she could only continue forward, to the next tower, and those beyond. Outside the Visigoth Tower, she leaned on the crenellations and looked out over the town below her, and the rolling hills of the Montagne Noire to the north. Somewhere up there, out of sight, was Minervens. Taking deep breaths, she slowly regained her composure.

  What had just happened in there? Who had the guy been? His memory of his glare still sent shivers down her spine. It seemed so real.

  “Léon won’t believe this…” She chuckled, before she realised that she’d thought of telling Léon first, rather than calling Brian. Something had changed in the last few weeks. Her ex was no longer the Number One to talk to. “Ooh…” she whispered, aware of a group of Spanish tourists passing her. Fortunately, they were talking too loudly to each other to hear her mumbling.

  Not sure whether this was good news or bad, she shrugged off those dangerous thoughts as she waited for the group to move on.

  When silence descended again around her, her gaze drifted into the distance. All this used to be part of the ancient county of Carcassonne. Perhaps tonight, she would first read up more about it before telling anyone. She needed proof of the historical era of the weapons and clothes in the…what? Vision?

  “The county of Carcassonne,” she murmured. Smiling, she appreciated the citadel’s strategic location and undisrupted views for miles and miles. As she stood, her eyes lost focus, and the scenery began to melt into a hazy glimmer.

  The unexpected scent of lavender filled her nostrils.

  ‘My home…’

  Chapter Ten

  The feast day of St Adela of Pfalzel, AD 777

  Carcassonne

  Hilda tried to keep her hands from shaking as she picked up her comb, but she could not hold it steady. Her wedding day had arrived too soon, and it filled her head with thoughts of excitement and concerns, both at the same time.

  Amalberga tutted and took it from her. “Sit still, or we will be late for the ceremony!”

  Hilda caught a glint of humour in her companion’s eye and shook her head in mock disobedience, before dutifully turning on her stool to allow Amalberga to brush her hair. She had washed it this morning, and the scent of lavender engulfed her as Amalberga ran the comb through her tresses. Today, she would wear her hair unbound, only covered by a thin veil. A delicate gold circlet, decorated with small precious stones, lay on its small cushion the table. It had been her mother’s.

  She smiled as she remembered her father giving it to her as a wedding gift before she retired to her chamber last night. He blinked back the tears, and his face had shone with pride. They had embraced firmly, before he abruptly left her. Only later had she realised the reason: he would be on his own now. No longer a woman awaiting his return at home – her old home. She briefly wondered if he considered to marry again. Strangely, the thought had never occurred to her before, and she was uncertain how she felt about it.

  “Tilt your head back just a little, Sweeting.”

  Hilda did as asked and felt Amalberga tie two narrow strands of hair at the top of her head into small braids, securing the ends with tiny threads and letting them loosely fall over her shoulder. She raised her hand.

  “Don’t touch!” Her companion’s stern voice warned her. “I do not wish for the braids to fall apart.”

  She burst into a fit of laughter. At times, Amalberga sounded like a strict abbess. “Yes, Mother Superior,” she teased.

  A sigh behind her made her turn around. Amalberga took her hands in a firm grip, tears welling up in her eyes. Immediately, Hilda’s humour turned to concern. “What troubles you?” She stood.

  “Ahh, Sweeting.” Another sigh. “Soon you will be wed, lead your life as Countess of Carcassonne, have children – and no need of old little me.”

  Hilda embraced her gently. “I will always have need of you, Amalberga. You are my rock.”

  Her companion laughed, the sound dry. Hilda moved back and held her at arm’s length. “You are the only person I trust completely. Besides, if there are to be children, they will need a sage woman to guide them.” The thought of what she had to do to have children briefly crossed her mind. Amalberga, as always, had prepared her for what to expect, and it had not sounded too pleasant.

  Amalberga’s face grew sombre. “I have thought about returning to Vaulun – if you preferred it. Your lord father would let me stay. He promised.”

  “In his household? Hundreds of miles away from me? No, no, no.” Hilda vehemently shook her head. “I forbid it. No, you must stay.” Tears were now threatening her too, and she quickly took a step back and wiped them with the back of her hand.

  “Oh Hilda, please do not cry. A bride must look happy, not sad.”

  Hilda nodded. “Even if she feels sad?”

  “Indeed, my child. If you wish for me to stay, I shall. Though your lord husband will have to agree, of course.”

  “Why should he not?” Hilda cast her companion a mystified look. “He has not indicated h
is displeasure at your presence, and if he wants me to remain in Carcassonne, he will have to allow you to stay.” She crossed her arms under her breasts and tapped her foot.

  Amalberga laughed and brushed away her tears. “Oh, Sweeting. You don’t know yet what men are like.”

  Hilda felt a helpless anger stir inside her. Never would she allow a man to tell her what to do – and what not! “I do, Amalberga. I do.” She glanced at her gown hanging over a rail on the far side of her room. She shrugged her shoulders and changed the subject before both dissolved in tears. “Will you help me dress?”

  “With pleasure.” Amalberga rushed to pick up the linen shift worn underneath, and Hilda slipped into it. Its tight fit and wide sleeves accentuated her curves. She grabbed the ends of the sleeves and held out her arms as Amalberga pulled a tunic of finest silk over her head. Careful not to dislodge the precious gemstones woven into the tunic whilst Amalberga adjusted it, she stood stock still. Then the maid placed a thin belt of carved leather inset with amber stones to lie loosely around her waist. Lastly, her companion placed the veil on her head, letting the fabric flow over her unbound hair.

  “Hold this here.” Amalberga guided her fingers to her crown to hold the veil. Taking the circlet from its cushion, she held it for a moment with a wistful glance. Then she looked up, blinking back the tears. “I have this now. Please let go.”

  As Hilda slowly removed her hand, Amalberga placed the circlet on her head. It fit tightly enough to keep the veil in place, yet not too much to cause her any discomfort.

  Content with the result, Amalberga stood back. Tears still glistened in her eyes, but this time a broad smile accompanied them. “I wish you could see yourself, Sweeting! You are so beautiful. Count Bellon is a fortunate man.” She clasped her own hands firmly. “Indeed.”

  Hilda blushed. She also wished she could see herself. “I feel…” she raised her hands then dropped them at her sides, “…strange. Not myself.”

  “’Tis no surprise you are anxious. But I truly believe you will be very content with your husband. He’s a good man.”

  Hilda cocked her head. Was Amalberga only saying this to soothe her fears, or was she convinced of the truth? “We shall see.”

  She went to the stool and sat down, carefully adjusting her clothes. She adored the beautiful gown, but on this momentous day that would change her life, she could not be overly happy over it. Although she had to admit to herself that the seamstresses had worked wonders. The gems shone with an intensity she found reassuring. She knew of their power. It was no coincidence that the stones used included amethyst, quartz, amber, blood stone – and the rare blue stone flecked with gold from the orient. Father had spared no expense. She had not dared ask how many deniers this wondrous dress had cost him, and he had hidden the account from her with intent.

  Alas, she was no longer in charge of her manor. A thought reoccurred to her, and she turned to her companion. “Do you think Father will marry again?”

  Amalberga stopped tidying up their utensils and stared at her. “I suppose it would be possible. He needs someone to look after the county when he’s going on campaign with the king. And he needs an heir for his title.”

  “I had not thought of that,” Hilda admitted. “It would feel strange to me to hear of another woman looking after the home of my childhood.”

  “’Tis understandable, Sweeting.” Amalberga put the brush on a small table near the window and glanced out. “They are gathering,” she said. “We must hurry.”

  Hilda’s stomach curled into knots, and she briefly closed her eyes.

  “You will not faint, Hilda, will you?” Amalberga touched her shoulder. “All will be well.”

  “Hmm…” Hilda whispered, opening her eyes. “I will be fine.” She swallowed hard, then dipped her feet into the fur-lined boots. Usually, a servant would tie the strings that bound them around her ankle, but before she could suggest such a course of action, Amalberga kneeled in front of her and took hold of them, winding them tightly around ankle and lower calf.

  Satisfied with the result, she stood. “Good.”

  Amalberga straightened her own tunic and briefly touched her own head to find her veil securely in place, then went to open the door to the corridor. “I’m so proud of you. Now it is time.”

  Hilda stood, carefully dropping the tunic to fall loosely into place. The stones glinted in the beam of the sunlight streaming through the window. She allowed Amalberga to wrap her fur-lined mantle over her shoulders and secured it at the front with a brooch.

  Taking a deep breath, Hilda tried to calm herself, and stepped into the outside world as Amalberga, now wrapped in her own woollen cloak, opened it, and an icy blast hit them. The chill made her skin tingle. Or was that the anticipation? She knew not the answer, but still she stepped forward, treading carefully on the hard ground. The morning’s frost had lifted, and in the strong sun, the ground had become dry.

  A gust of wind tagged at her veil, and she reached out to hold it in place. At the entrance to the chapel built of stones left by remnants of Roman villae her father looked resplendent in a tunic of dark silk she could glimpse through the gap at the front of his mantle. She found his smile encouraging. He would always want to see her content.

  Amalberga stepped aside. “I shall be inside.”

  Hilda nodded, then joined her father.

  His eyes shone with pride, and he grinned at her. “Dearest daughter, you are beautiful! The very image of your mother, God rest her soul.” He engulfed her in a warm embrace.

  His familiar scent soothed her raw nerves, and her breathing slowed. He held her at arm’s length and with a thumb gently wiped away a tear lurking in her eye.

  “You make me very proud today, Nanthild.” He stepped to her right and cradled her arm in the crook of his. “Bellon awaits you inside, together with most of Carcassonne’s residents. Are you prepared?” A shadow crossed his brow.

  Hilda nodded. She must be brave for him. “Yes, Father, I am.”

  ***

  Bellon’s heart beat a steady drum in his ears when Hilda entered the chapel. Her beauty took his breath away.

  Her half-open cloak revealed a beautiful tunic, which suited her well. Through the narrow windows the sunlight reflected off the precious gems woven around the collar of her gown of blue silk and the fine amber pieces on her belt. She resembled an angel floating over the floor of this little church built two or three generations before. Her hair, framed by the veil, fell softly over her back, and her pale face seemed almost ethereal to him. He could not believe his good fortune. Fact was, he would have taken her as his wife her even without the generous dowry that Milo had bestowed on her, and which he would use to make their home a welcoming and comfortable place for her and their children.

  He joined her on the threshold and took her hands in his. They felt cold to his touch, so he stroked the soft skin not only to warm her up but also to reassure her. Her gaze lowered, she smiled demurely, but with a soft squeeze of her thumb, she acknowledged his effort. They kept their heads bowed when the priest loosely bound their hands together as he followed the wedding litany. Barely listening to him, Bellon’s thoughts tumbled through the brief history he had shared with Hilda. From Charlemagne’s Easter court and the announcement of their engagement, her difficult journey south, their recent rides out which had finally seen her open up to him, and to their meal last night when they were exchanging childhood stories. She seemed at ease for the first time, much to Milo’s – and his own – contentment.

  Eventually, the priest pronounced them man and wife, before removing the physical ties. Following him into the chapel for mass, Bellon kept Hilda’s hand firmly in his, unless for prayer. Her voice had been frail when she spoke, but her gaze held a reassurance he had not noticed before. It would all turn out well, his patience worth it.

  The hall had been decorated beautifully for the occasion. He was glad that Amalberga had taken over the arrangements – a much-needed woman’s touch in
a fortress full of men-at-arms. Sunlight filtered through the plain windows, sending light dancing across the floor and torches had been lit, illuminating new ornate wall hangings Hilda had brought with her from her home in the north. Fresh rushes covered the floors, sending a heady scent of dried lavender and rosemary across the hall. A large fire burned in the central hearth, around which trestle tables and benches stood for the revellers. In a corner, the lutist played a cheerful melody the moment they entered.

  Bellon gazed around the hall, nodding slowly in approval. It conveyed the warm, inviting atmosphere he wanted to achieve. Beside him, her hand still firmly in his, Hilda smiled.

  “Amalberga knows how to make a hall comfortable,” he complimented.

  “I agree. I have always had a wonderful home thanks to her. Servants may think she’s overbearing, but she knows how to turn a simple room into the most welcoming.”

  Sensing her contentment, he felt positive that they could make their marriage work. He gently pulled her along to the high table, the closest one to the fire.

  “Please sit. We have a feast prepared for today. Lot?”

  The lad appeared by his side, a jug of wine in each hand. “Lord?”

  “Please make sure the lady Nanthild is comfortable. It is her day.”

  Beaming at his new mistress, he said, “With pleasure. May I pour you some wine?”

  Hilda lowered herself into a cushioned chair and laughed, nodding. It broke the spell.

  Sitting down beside her, Bellon held out his own cup for Lot to fill, then sent the lad on his way along the table. Servants placed jugs of wine and baskets of freshly-baked bread on the tables as his retainers filed into the hall.

  He took her hand and kissed it, ignoring the startled looks of some new arrivals. She cast him an unsure sideways glance, but quickly seemed to forget the world around them.