Love Lost in Time

by Cathie Dunn

  Bellon’s head shot up, and he stared at the deserted path behind them. “The rear guard!”

  “God save them. The heathens are regrouping.”

  “Milo!” He nodded grimly. King Charles had tasked Milo, together with several Frankish lords, to maintain the safety of the baggage train.

  The clashing of metal mingled with the increasingly urgent cries.

  “We must help them. The bastards will be after the spoils.” He took a step but a Visigoth warrior from his group stopped him.

  “Wait! We have to tell the vanguard. We are but a few and can’t face the Vascones alone.”

  Bellon hesitated, knowing the warrior was right. “Then send a man to let them know.”

  A messenger was dispatched to the vanguard whilst Bellon and the other survivors headed along the track, towards the growing noise. When they turned a corner, they halted.

  He had not expected the sight that greeted him.

  “Christ have mercy!” The Frankish soldier crossed himself.

  “They’re like ants,” the Visigoth whispered hoarsely. “All over them.”

  “We need more men.”

  Desperate to join the melée and find Hilda’s father, Bellon blinked back tears as he watched the carnage before him. Rarely was he stunned into silence, but even when the Franks had burned Pamplona before their return, the king had allowed a level of mercy.

  Those wild heathens showed none.

  “Retreat!” A voice called out behind them. “By the order of King Charles, retreat!”

  “No!” Bellon pushed away. “You should go back,” he told the soldiers around him. “I’m going down there.”

  “And be slaughtered like the rest of them?”

  “I…must!” He drew his sword and stalked down the path soon strewn with bodies, horses and donkeys. He could not make out Milo, or any other men he knew, as most of the men were already lying on the blood-soaked ground. The heathens hacked into anyone moving without flinching.

  “Bellon, you have a wife; you have duties…” He barely acknowledged the voice as one of his own entourage. “It is too late.”

  Tears brimmed in his eyes as he hesitated. Ahead of him lay the rearguard of Charles’ army, dying and massacred by a frenzied horde, and all the treasures they had collected in Iberia.

  A howl went up. The Vascones had spotted his little group. Some let go of their victims and began to rush up the hill. Instinct told Bellon to run, loyalty to Milo to fight.

  “Bellon!” He recognised the voice calling from behind him to belong to one of Charles’ closest advisers. “We must go. Retreat now or die!”

  Three Vascones, their cries piercing the air, were coming closer, brandishing swings and swords, and others followed, sensing fresh blood.

  “Milo…”

  “He’s likely dead, Bellon. We can return later, once the heathens have gone.”

  “I cannot—”

  A horse approached him from behind, and the adviser pulled at his shoulder. “Come! This is an order from the king!”

  He shrugged off the hand and turned to the lord. “Take my surviving men safely back to Carcassonne!”

  Then he held up his shield and strode towards the approaching Vascones.

  ***

  Early September, AD 778

  Carcassonne

  Hilda stood on the walkway and breathed in the warm air that came from the mountains to the south, barely visible in the darkening haze. For weeks, the undulating heat had been too much to go out during the day, and she had fretted over her herb garden. Keen to please, Lot had built a cover, which shaded the more sensitive plants from the glaring sunlight. Now, as dusk had fallen, she watched him water her small herb plot inside the recently reinforced walls of the settlement.

  “Do not fret. He won’t be drowning them!” Amalberga grinned at her critical observation, and Hilda knew she was right.

  “I know. I just wish I could tend to them myself.”

  Her companion gave her well-rounded middle a pointed glance. “Of course, and you would end up rolling all over them,” she quipped, with a smile. “But soon, so you will again continue the work that you started, caring for the infirm and sick. Mind you, this little one will probably keep you occupied for a while first…”

  Hilda laughed and entwined her arm with Amalberga’s, stroking her belly with the other hand. “I guess so. It’s all so…overwhelming.”

  What if the birth goes wrong?

  Truth was, doubts had plagued her these past few days as the time drew nearer. She was not afraid to face the pain herself – which Amalberga had told her could be something she had never experienced – but how could she ensure the child’s health? Afraid of failing Bellon, she had prayed to the Goddess, and even her husband’s God, for a living, breathing heir. For all the efforts Bellon made, and his long absence on warfare with Charles, he deserved a boy.

  Although the Goddess would likely be very pleased with a girl. But girls were worth less, only of importance to forge alliances, like her marriage.

  Hilda realised she was fortunate in that she and Bellon had truly come to love each other. Over recent months, she had met other ladies at Charles’ court, and not all shared her situation.

  She even wondered briefly if the Goddess was withdrawing from her, surrounded by so much male dominance…

  “Look, Hilda! What could be the meaning of this?”

  Amalberga’s question drew her from her dark thoughts and she followed her gaze. A commotion near the gate drew cries of pain, and panic ensued in the yard. Men were dropping carts and women came running from their huts towards the growing crowd.

  A sense of dread washed through her. “Something has happened, Amalberga. Quick, help me down the stairs.”

  They carefully descended the steep stone steps and hurried towards the crowd. The wailing of some women sent goosebumps down her back, but, as the countess of Carcassonne, she had to maintain calm.

  Amalberga nudged people to the side, so Hilda could get to the centre. She halted beside Dagobert, the captain of her guard, who stood facing the strangers.

  “They arrived from the west, lady, from Aquitania,” he explained.

  Her eyes widened. “What’s this?” She asked of a ragged-looking group of men huddled on the ground, exhaustion etched into their faces. Their clothes were torn, and she noticed some had injuries wrapped rudimentarily with torn strips of blood-stained cloth. Their appearance marked them as Visigoths, but they were not from around here. Women handed out cups of water, and the men drank greedily.

  “I am Nanthild, countess of Carcassonne. What has befallen you?”

  A man, not much younger than her father, approached and bowed his head. “Lady, we have been ambushed. These men and I are from a village a day’s ride to the north. We followed your lord husband.”

  “Ah. So, who ambushed you? How? And where?”

  The man did not meet her gaze, but kept staring at the ground at her feet. “By those scheming Vascones, near the pass of Roncevaux which we were crossing on our return from Iberia. They waylaid us, then split our line in two. King Charles ordered a retreat, and we fled, but our rear guard was…” His voice trailed off.

  “Your rear guard was what?” Her heart beat loudly in her ears.

  “They were cut off, and…and…there were no survivors. We were the last to escape alive.”

  Numbness spread through her limbs, and she clung to Amalberga’s hand. Around her, she saw the worried faces of women, old men and children. Bellon had taken all men of fighting age, who were not needed for the fields or vines, with him on campaign.

  “And,” she swallowed hard, “where is my husband?”

  The man’s lower lip trembled, and he sent her an apologetic glance. “Truth is, we do not know, Lady Nanthild. We waited several days at a marker stone fifteen miles from Tolosa, but he did not arrive. Count Bellon and our leader, Alric, who died by a spear during the attack, agreed the meeting place on our journey south. There ar
e but a few of us left.” His hand swept over the scruffy, deflated group behind him.

  Hilda blinked back the black spots that had danced before her eyes. She must keep control over her emotions. Bellon could have chosen a different route, or perhaps he was with Charles and safe. Before she dissolved into tears in front of her people and these poor strangers, she had to ensure they were looked after.

  “Lot, find Roderic and ask him to make sure that these men are fed, clothed and have a place where they can rest.”

  The lad sped off in search of the majordomus, and Hilda faced the arrivals again.

  “You are welcome to stay for as long as you need, although I must ask that you leave your weapons with my guards. How do I address you?”

  At her signal, two guards carrying a large empty vat stepped forward, and the warriors handed over their swords, axes and knives.

  “That is very kind of you, Lady Nanthild.” He nodded. “My name is Ervig. We are grateful for your accommodation. It has been a long, tiring walk, and some of my men are injured.”

  “We will keep your weapons secure in a tower, for you to take with you when you are ready to leave us. Please follow me to the hall where I will see to your injured men.”

  “Thank you.” They slowly followed in her wake.

  “Amalberga, can you fetch my basket of ointments, please, and a bowl of warm water and clean cloths? Lot shall help you carry it to the hall.”

  “Of course, my lady. Lot,” Amalberga called to the lad who had just appeared at the door to the hall. “Stay where you are; you can help me.” She took the steps up, slowly.

  Dusk settled around them, but the air was still balmy. Yet still a shiver ran down her spine. What had happened? And where was Bellon?

  “All is prepared, my lady.” Roderic met her at the door to the hall and held it open until she and the Visigoths had entered. Then he turned to the strangers. “Please make yourselves comfortable by the hearth. We have ale and watered-down wine for you to refresh yourselves, and later some pottage and meat cuts. Later, I will show you to your quarters.”

  Ervig and his men settled on the benches and stretched. As it had been so hot, the hearth was bare, but the hall was warm enough for the men to feel comfortable, and they soon helped themselves to the ale with Roderic’s help.

  “Now, who is injured?” Hilda asked. She looked at Ervig for guidance.

  “Are you a healer?” He raised an eyebrow.

  She nodded. “I am, and your men have nothing to fear from me.”

  “Thank you, lady. It is good to be in knowledgeable hands.” He nodded to a boy not much older than Lot. “Sisbert here took an axe blow to the thigh. He was in the cart for most of the way.”

  Sisbert’s face was pale, and he sat with his leg propped up.

  “Who else?”

  “Wamba over there had a blade slice through his arm. I fear we’re going to lose it.”

  The man in question, perhaps a score years older than her, was sitting in an awkward, bent-forward position, his injured arm in a sling tied close to his body.

  Hilda met his gaze and saw fear and shame. “I will see what I can do. Any others?”

  Ervig scanned the group. “We all have grazes and scratches, but nothing as serious as those two.”

  “Good. My maid can see to those.”

  At that moment, Amalberga and Lot arrived with her large basket and a bundle of cloths.

  “I’ll fetch the water now,” Lot said and left again.

  Spreading the contents of her basket on an empty trestle table, Hilda waved Amalberga to her side. “Most men appear to have only superficial scrapes, which you can tend for me, but two are more gravely wounded.” Facing the wall, she pulled an old, oversized kirtle over her gown and tied the belt loosely.

  “Yes, I will see to the cuts and bruises, but are you certain you are in the right state for the serious work? You should be resting.” Her tone had turned forceful, and Hilda knew only too well her companion’s mind.

  “I shall rest once I have cared for these brave men. I’m not ready to face my thoughts alone yet.” She grimaced and knew Amalberga understood. If these men had made it here on foot, Bellon would have made the journey easily on horseback. Had he been alive…

  Hilda swallowed her gloomy thoughts and opened jars and flacons just as Lot burst through the door carrying a large bowl of steaming water.

  “Thank you. Can you place it by the hearth, please?” She poured a few drops of lavender tincture into her hands and rubbed them firmly.

  Facing the two injured men, she said, “Please remove your bandages, so we can see who needs treatment first.”

  Roderic helped with Sisbert, who flinched as she unwound the fabric from his wound. His hose was torn, but someone had made sure the frayed ends did not enter the gash. And whilst the skin looked red and puckered, it relieved Hilda to see there was no pus. She gave the young man an encouraging nod.

  “You will be well again, Sisbert.”

  Meanwhile, Amalberga helped Ervig with untying Wamba’s arm. The man groaned and drifted to the side. “Quick, a chair,” Amalberga urged, and two warriors grabbed Hilda’s chaise, and together they eased Wamba, who was only partly aware of what was happening, into it. One man kept hold of his shoulders.

  Wamba’s left arm was almost severed above the elbow, and Ervig held it in place. It was one of the most serious injuries she had dealt with in her life.

  “He needs us first. Roderic? Please help Ervig hold Wamba whilst I check the arm. Amalberga, bring the aqua vitae and pour the man a generous cupful.”

  Then she faced the warrior, who blinked at her with unfocussed eyes, and held up a short stick covered in bite marks. “Wamba, drink the spirit. It will dull the pain.”

  She watched as Amalberga held the cup at his lips, and he took a few sips and coughed. Immediately, Wamba’s eyes were streaming from the strong liquid. Ervig gently patted his back, and they waited until his breathing had steadied.

  “Now, bite on this. It will hurt.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Early April, 2018

  A knock on the door made Maddie jump, and she sat back on her heels.

  Bertrand was already heading down the corridor. “Ah, Léon. Finally…”

  “Salut.” Léon followed him inside. “You’re still here?”

  The maire ushered him past Monsieur Marti into the kitchen. “Come, come. We’ve been waiting for you.”

  Léon raised an eyebrow in question, and Maddie waved at him, laughing. “Hello, stranger!” He looked from one to the other.

  “You see,” Bertrand said, wiggling his index finger at her, “this is all very exciting, if a little macabre…”

  “Yes, look at what we found!”

  Léon stopped just inside the doorframe, staring around the room.

  Maddie changed position before her legs gave way. Kneeling again on an old cushion, she brushed off another piece she’d uncovered. Flashing him a smile, she said, “We’ve been busy here.”

  His eyes widened. “Are these all bones?”

  “Yup.”

  “Human?”

  She nodded. “Yes, a woman most likely, given the frame. We have half a cranium, a thigh bone and a forearm, several ribs – some of them cracked – and part of her spine.” Picking up the largest piece of rib, she showed it to him, pointing at the serrated edge with her finger. “She had a broken back. Here, see?”

  “I hope Elizabeth didn’t murder anyone…”

  Maddie grinned. “No, I can safely exonerate my mother. This lady here is much older than any of us. We’re going to send the pieces for analysis to identify just how old she is.”

  “It’s sad, though, isn’t it?” He sobered. “Something that was once a flesh-and blood person. A person who had lived; perhaps had a family. Then she died of a broken back?”

  ‘I fought for my life…’

  “What? Did you hear that?” Maddie looked around. Had the men heard the voice, too?

>   Bertrand cocked his head. “Hear what?”

  She stared at the bone in her hand. “Like someone was saying she fought for her life.”

  Monsieur Marti glanced over his shoulder and stepped backwards into the corridor, joining Bertrand. “I didn’t hear anything.”

  “Nor did I,” said Léon, “but perhaps she only speaks to you. You mentioned before that a voice seemed to speak to you here in the house.”

  “Yes, but I thought we agreed that that was just my imagination. I was tired.”

  “And the moving ground?” His gaze roamed the bones.

  “What are you thinking?” She gently put the backbone on a towel, then stood to face him.

  “Well, perhaps the woman is trying to communicate with you.” He shuffled his feet.

  “You mean a ghost?” Bertrand’s eyes lit up.

  Maddie shook her head. “There are no ghosts.”

  “Are you sure?” Léon sent her a questioning glance.

  “I am, actually. Now,” she was keen to change the topic, “I’m going to dig a little more here until the experts from the museum arrive. If you want to make yourselves useful, please take these finds – carefully – into the corridor and lay them out on the dresser.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Léon approached the cloth bearing the cranium and several ribs and studied them. “Some of these snapped cleanly.”

  “They did. I’ve been wondering if she fell off a horse. But why leave her. It wouldn’t have killed her instantly, unless the neck was broken, too. Which we haven’t found.”

  “The poor woman.”

  “Indeed.” She knelt on the cushion again and continued to trowel through the mud.

  Twenty minutes later, she gave up. “Nothing in that corner. I’ll try on the other side.”

  “Is that strange?” Bertrand asked.

  “Yes, it is. If this was a grave, all her bones would be here. They were deep enough in the earth. That is…unless an animal got there first.” She shuddered. “But what we have here means something disturbed the body. Or the hole was too shallow…” Working on settlement and graveyards was one thing, but this was different. It wasn’t a burial site.

  “A shallow grave? So something happened to her unexpectedly.”