Love Lost in Time

by Cathie Dunn

  Why did this leave her with a sense of dread? Usually, Bertrand was chatty, that much she’d gathered in the last few weeks. She kept her hands clasped firmly in her lap, and stared straight ahead, deep in thought.

  “You OK?” Léon asked again.

  She looked at him, then she nodded. “Yes, I think so. I…I just wonder why Bertrand hadn’t told you what they’d found. Why wouldn’t he?”

  “It’s very unlike him. I’ve not heard him this…serious since we had the big floods that submerged half the lower part of the village a few years back.”

  When he swerved wide around a bend in the road, she tensed and was relieved when he took his foot off the gas pedal just enough to slow to a reasonable speed. No need to kill themselves over something they’d find out eventually.

  “Sorry.”

  She gave him a wry smile. “It’s fine. I’m as curious as you are.” She released her grip from the handrail.

  “I’m thinking about the layout of the village, and I can’t imagine the Visigoth graveyard reaching that far, to be honest. So I don’t think it’ll be linked to that.”

  “A good point,” she agreed. “They usually place graveyards outside the living quarters, in a specific space, not spread out across a settlement. From what we saw on the map Bertrand showed us, it was roughly six hundred yards away from my house. So, it must be something else.”

  Léon nodded. “Indeed. But what? What could make him keep it secret?”

  “Well, we shall see, won’t we?” She grinned. “It might be a treasure!”

  He laughed out loud. “True. How do you say in English… Finders keepers?”

  “Yes, something like that. Though no doubt the authorities would take the lion’s share. If there’d be enough left for me to renovate the house, I’d be happy.”

  They fell into a companionable silence again. Smiling, she was thinking of a treasure. Part of her wished it was true.

  “It would be funny if they were cooking pots…” Léon quipped.

  Maddie snorted. “How very fitting! A modern kitchen built on an ancient one. Well, history is full of quirks like that.”

  “True. Nearly there,” he said as he swung the car around a bend. “We— “

  His phone buzzed inside his jacket. He fished it out with one hand, keeping the other on the steering wheel. Casting a swift glance on it, he turned serious. “Sorry, I need to take this. It’s work.”

  “No problem.” She sent him a quick smile, despite her reservations about talking on a mobile whilst driving, and looked out of the window.

  To her relief, he pulled into a drive off the main road and switched off the car. So he was a responsible driver, after all, which secretly pleased her.

  Having missed the call, he pressed redial. “Yes, Gina? Everything OK?”

  Gina’s voice sounded through the phone, asking where he was. It was loud enough for Maddie to hear her.

  “I’m just on my way back to Minervens. Why?”

  “…straight back…mix-up…bookings…key…cellar…” She heard.

  Sighing, he closed his eyes briefly. “Do we have a group today? I didn’t see anyone booked in. The key should be in the cabinet in my office.”

  This time, Maddie didn’t catch Gina’s reply, but Léon started to look annoyed.

  “It was there yesterday,” he reiterated. Gina’s response made him sigh again. “Yes, I have my spare key with me. You know I do.”

  Disappointment surged through Maddie, and she expected his next words.

  “Bon. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” He ended the call, pocketed his phone and, gritting his teeth, looked at her.

  “You need to go home?”

  Léon nodded, starting up the car. “Yes. Apparently Gina can’t find the key to the wine cellar, and a group has turned up that wasn’t in the calendar. She knows I always have a spare one here.” He pointed at his key ring.

  “Of course, you must go back.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said as he revved up the car and reversed into the main road.

  She smiled sadly. “Don’t worry, Léon. You can always join us later. I’m aware I’ve kept you from your work too much lately.”

  “Not at all,” he said quickly. “I tend to catch up with business at night unless I’m needed. It’s an interesting timing for a booking like that.”

  “Oh, why?”

  “Can’t say for sure until I know what happened here. I’m sorry.”

  “Me too. And you’ll miss Bertrand’s big revelation,” she half-joked. “Just come round when you can.”

  He stopped the car outside her house and laid a hand on hers. “You’ll be careful, yes?”

  “I will be.” She gave his hand a little squeeze, then slowly – reluctantly – extracted herself and got out. “I’ll see you soon,” she said through the open door.

  “You will. I’ll hurry. Text me if you need me.”

  Butterflies began to dance inside her, and she sent him a warm smile. “Of course. Thank you.”

  She pushed the door closed and went through the gate.

  After a little wave, he set off. Feeling somewhat bereft, she turned towards the house. Now, what was awaiting her here?

  Chapter Twelve

  The feast day of Christ’s Birth, AD 777

  Carcassonne

  Hilda woke to the rattling of the shutters outside the narrow window. She opened her eyes to almost darkness and propped herself onto her elbow. Only the glow of embers in the hearth to her left allowed her a glimpse at her surroundings. As her eyes adjusted to the dusky light, she scanned the strange room, bare except for the bed she lay in, a thick curtain – moving slightly in the breeze that filtered through – covering the window, several chests of different sizes lined up against two walls and clothes hooks near the door on which tunics and mantles hung like ghosts in the faint light.

  The bed…

  With a jolt, memories of the previous day returned. She glanced at the space to her right.

  Bellon lay with his back to her, his body moving softly with each breath he took. He was fast asleep.

  Her hand flew to cover her mouth. So it had happened. She was married. And not only that, she had…

  Sweet Goddess!

  As carefully as possible, she reclined, not wishing to disturb him. But now she was fully awake, and, with the sound of the high winds outside, her mind wandered to the night before.

  Feeling the heat rising into her cheeks, she held her cool hands against the hot skin. Hilda suspected that she was fortunate. Bellon had been considerate, patient, and gentle with her before he had carried her away with him. Sensations she had never known before had soared through her, and she had allowed him to show her how what Amalberga had called ‘the marriage thing’ really felt like. Absorbed in his touches and kisses, she had soon pushed aside the discomfort and unfamiliarity that arrived briefly. That they had continued after a pause, during which he had rekindled the fire and handed her some wine to refresh herself, showed how much her view of him had changed in such a short time span.

  Over the past week, he had taken her out-of-doors to discover this beautiful but rugged part of Septimania. She had acknowledged his pride in his heritage, and his plans for the future. His real interest in her opinion delighted her. Why, during the wedding feast he was talking about ‘their’ guidance, not ‘his’, and he had looked at her with contentment.

  Turning her head, she glanced at him. She fervently hoped he would not change now they were wed, as she was slowly falling in love with this Visigoth warrior.

  At that moment, Bellon shifted onto his back and let out a deep breath. Hilda held hers. In the gloom, she studied him: the deep-set eyes, the strong nose, his ubiquitous moustache… A giggle escaped her when she remembered how it had tickled her skin!

  It took her a moment to realise that he had opened his eyes, giving her a quizzical sideways glance, and a broad smile spread slowly across his face.

  “Were you laughing at me?” he as
ked in a serious, mocking tone.

  A shiver of anticipation ran down her spine. “Me? Would I dare laugh at my husband?” She tried to mimic the expression of an obedient wife and squealed when he rolled over to cover her in a swift movement.

  “You wouldn’t…” He challenged her as he trailed soft kisses down her throat. “Mmh.”

  She wriggled beneath him and drew her arms around his back, relishing the heat emanating from his body. “Perhaps I would, just to see what he would do…”

  “Ah, it’s like that!” He propped himself onto his elbows, taking his weight. His gaze, full of mirth, slid over her face. “Oh no! In that case, the lady will have to wait.” He edged off her and rose. Her disappointment must have shown, as he added, “First, the fire. Then…”

  Watching him, she snuggled deeper into the soft covers, drawing them over her chilled skin. “You’d better hurry. Your…reward…awaits!”

  His frame shook with laughter as he placed a handful of twigs to the embers before stoking them vigorously into a small fire. Placing several large logs on top, the fire soon began to spread.

  He stretched and turned back towards the bed. Her eyes feasted on his body, and she realised that any sense of shame or discomfort had gone. Instead, a fierce pride flowed through her. He was her man. Why had she had so many doubts? Had she known this would happen, she could have spared herself months of miserable thoughts and fears.

  Brushing her earlier concerns aside, she lifted the covers.

  Grinning, he slid into bed beside her. Propped up on his elbow, he cupped her face in the palm of his free hand, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “I’m very fortunate, Hilda.”

  She swallowed hard, then gently stroked his chest. “So am I.” Letting her fingers trail along his ribs, she giggled when he gave a growl.

  “Now, dearest wife, where is my reward?”

  They had wanted to stay in bed late, but on this feast day they had to rise early.

  Leaving the upper floor, she suddenly felt self-conscious. Outside, the yard was bustling with daily sounds – people and animals were mingling in the bright sunshine. A gust of wind almost lifted her skirts, something that was entirely inappropriate after a wedding night. Bellon took her hand and led her down the steps to greetings from guards and other retainers. He waved at them, returning the salutations, and she followed his example. Giving her hand a squeeze, he seemed to sense her apprehension, and she sent him a grateful smile.

  “Let’s see who awaits us in the hall.”

  “No doubt, Father will be waiting…anxiously.”

  Snorting, Bellon opened the door and ushered her out of the gales and into the warm room. All trestle tables but one had been moved to the side, and a small group of men, Milo amongst them, had gathered around the hearth, cup in hand.

  Amalberga sat nearby, and, on seeing them, lowered her embroidery. She beamed when she realised that they were holding hands and continued her work, content.

  “We may have to eat crumbs.” Bellon grinned as he gestured to Lot who was refilling a pitcher on a trestle table. “Do you have something edible for us?”

  But before the lad could respond, a loud cheer went up from the hearth.

  Had Father partaken in too much of the local wine this early? On a holy day?

  The group cleared a bench for them closest to the fire, and three men left after offering congratulations.

  While Bellon spoke to Lot, her father approached her, his gaze assessing. “Nanthild.” He took her hands. “I trust you are well?”

  Her cheeks were burning when she realised what her father was referring to. She did not mind sharing her thoughts with Bellon now, but with Milo? Although she accepted that he had his paternal concerns.

  She smiled at him. “Yes, Father. I’m well…and famished!”

  Milo laughed and drew her into an embrace. “I’m glad, and I hope your previous worries will have been for naught,” he whispered.

  She stepped back and nodded. “It appears they were.” A sense of awkwardness stayed with her. All these people would know what she had done last night, for the first time.

  And the second and third…

  Blushing, she pursed her lips, pushing aside such embarrassing thoughts.

  Taking a cup of wine from Lot, she settled on a bench beside Bellon, elbow to elbow. Her heart expanded when they exchanged a long glance.

  “So, the preparation for today’s feast are continuing?”

  Bellon nodded. “Yes, the feasting is not over yet. We’ll have deer and wild boar tonight, before late mass. And on the morrow, we’ll discuss our defensive strategies for Carcassonne and Razès. But most importantly, we’ll celebrate our new countess.” He raised his cup to her.

  Hilda smiled. He wanted his people to accept her. To distract herself from being the centre of attention – something she was not used to, and which she did not really enjoy – she took a few careful sips of the hot, spiced wine. Its warmth spread through her, and she began to relax.

  Lot returned with a tray of steaming oatcakes and a pot of honey. Bellon picked up a cake and broke it in half, handing her her share. Thanking him, she thought she could become used to the way he looked after her. She dipped a morsel into the honey. Feeling famished, she devoured the tasty treat quickly.

  Only half-listening to the men making preparations for an excursion to the southern boundaries the next day, she startled when Bellon addressed her.

  “Hilda, would you like to come with us?” His open gaze gave her a choice.

  She heard several indrawn breaths and saw him looking sharply into the round.

  “If you wish to know your home, and the dangers that lie lurking here, I thought it a good idea if you were to join us. But it won’t be a leisurely ride as we’ll be exploring a wide area.”

  “It might be better if Nanthild stayed here,” Milo raised his concerns. “For her safety.”

  “Yes. I’ll come along.” She straightened her back, looking at each man in turn. “Bellon is right. This is my home now. I’m keen to learn of any threats, and I want to be certain all is in place to repel those.”

  Bellon nodded, then addressed his father-in-law. “Nothing will befall her, Milo. There are enough of us to defend our group if needed, and of late, the Saracens have stayed south of our borders.” Turning to her, he added, “If you are sure?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  ***

  The feast day of St Stephen

  Bellon heaved himself off his horse and helped Hilda dismount her mare. He noticed tiredness in his new wife’s features and felt a pang of guilt. Mass commemorating Christ’s birth the evening before had lasted for hours, and, on return to their chamber, they both had been too awake to think of sleep. Lounging in bed under the covers, they had talked and drunk wine, and made love into the early hours, and now, he felt the lack of rest. As did she, without doubt. He was used to it, on his excursions across the country, but for a lady used to regular hours, getting used to a strange place whilst staying up late carried its mark.

  But the look she sent him was one of wonder at the sight that lay before them, and he could well believe it when her gaze turned southward again, drinking in the beauty of the land.

  They had left Carcassonne early after breaking their fast. The wind that had lasted throughout the previous days had lessened during the night, but a light cool breeze still hung in the air. Accompanied by an armed guard of eight men-at-arms and members of his own council, Bellon, Hilda and Milo had ridden hard across an old route leading south. They had only paused at intervals to scan the landscape for any dangers, but the weather kept many people indoors.

  Passing tiny hamlets of huts nestled almost out of sight into the rolling hills – families of Visigoths displaced by decades of warfare – he had spoken to many and invited them to join him at Carcassonne. Wariness had clouded their faces – they had become resigned to escape conflicts – but a palpable sense of relief spread across the small gatherings when he outlined his v
ision for the county. People should feel safe, able to pursue their work on fields and vines; the wars of recent decades were over.

  Watching his wife with pride as she spoke to women and children, Bellon realised how fortunate he was. Hilda was perfectly suited to life as a countess: polite, a good listener, and a woman of sound judgment. When she played with a small girl, his heart felt like bursting, and he hoped that soon they would be gifted with children of their own soon.

  Your own dynasty.

  He swallowed hard as he followed her gaze towards the south. Snow-capped peaks rose high in the distance, but in a trick of bright sunlight they seemed close, looming to dizzying heights. Almost near enough to touch the icy cover. Many times had he travelled to the mountains, and even crossed them a few times, but usually in summer. Now, the blanket of snow covered the mountain-sides down to the valleys.

  “It’s beautiful,” Hilda whispered in awe.

  “It is. As often as I have seen these mountains, which we call the Pyrenaei – the burning hills – I can never get enough.”

  “They are impressive. But why ‘burning’? What happened?”

  “The name comes from the Greek word for fire. Ancient tales tell us the mountains were called ‘the burning hills’ after herdsmen ended up setting the whole range on fire. But we often have such fires here during our long, dry summers, so to me, it sounds plausible that they were simply named after an observation of such a regular occurrence rather than after a group of herdsmen.”

  “I see. And these fires, how do you fight them?”

  He sent her a grim look. “You cannot fight them. If they are near rivers, we have vats and carts to quash them, but out here, in the wilderness, nature will take its course. A fire burns itself out, eventually.”

  “And the hamlets we have visited? People lose their homes!”

  “You will see that people build their houses near streams, so, whilst there is water, they can fight the flames, but when we have droughts – which we have often – people must be careful and look after their hearth fires. Everyone here knows of the dangers.”