by Cathie Dunn
It was not quite the big army she had expected, but perhaps Charles had left them outside on the plain. With a sense of dread, she realised she could not see Bellon or Father. Why was Bellon not with his men? Goosebumps rose on her skin. Was that what Charles was here for? To bring her bad tidings?
She swallowed hard as the king walked towards her, his tunic dirty with dust from the road. Deep grooves lined his strong face, and his eyes held a hint of sadness.
Of loss.
He took the few stone steps up to meet her at the door to the hall.
“Good evening, Sire.” She curtseyed before he gently pulled her up and embraced her.
“Dear Countess,” he whispered coarsely and drew away, still holding on to her arms. “Thank you for your hospitality. I know we did not give you much time to prepare.”
Her mind was whirling, not expecting to talk of food and welcome. “’Tis not a problem, Sire.” She took a sideways step and glanced over his shoulder. “You and your men will be well cared for.”
He nodded. “Of that, I have no doubt. Thank you. Now—“
Straightening her back, she crossed her arms above her belly and looked at him, no longer caring about royal protocol. “Where are my husband and father, Sire?”
He sighed, then led her into the hall. Her heart beat a steady drum in her ears, and all of a sudden, she was grateful for his arm.
“That is the reason I’m here, Nanthild. You may wish to sit, especially given your…condition.”
She took a deep breath. Her worst fears had come to pass. “Are they dead?”
The pain in his eyes was too strong to miss, and she turned away.
“Let me take you to your chair,” he said, signalling for Roderic to come over, and together, they settled her in her seat.
Her mind numb, she let them fret over her. “I am well, thank you.” She waved off Roderic’s offer of a cup of wine, and he stood beside her, a welcome comfort.
Charles drew a stool close. He would not meet her gaze; instead, he stared at the wall behind her.
“What happened to them?” she whispered.
“I fear the worst, child. I am so sorry. Milo was a good ally and a friend of many—”
“What happened?” she repeated, blinking at him, all pretensions forgotten.
“As often in our campaigns, Milo was in charge of the rear guard—“
“And your spoils of war?” Hilda could not hide the bitter taste in her mouth.
“Yes,” he nodded, “that also. The rear guard was…”
“…attacked. Yes, I know this already. A group of Visigoth warriors from the mountains to the north has been staying with us for a few days.”
He looked down at their entwined hands. “So you know that we found no one alive when we returned to the site of the ambush?”
She drew in a sharp breath as tears trickled down her face. “No, I didn’t know that. Ervig and his men moved on before you went back. So…there were no survivors?” Her voice turned to a croak.
“No. I am sorry. We buried the dead and headed back.”
“You buried Father?”
He nodded. “Yes. It was one of the saddest moments in my life. Milo was a good man. Reliable. Loyal. I will miss him and his dry sense of humour.”
Hilda shuddered. “And now he lies in a hole in the mountains somewhere?”
“Y…yes. Like many of my noble men. We could not take their bodies with us in this heat. They would have begun to rot.”
Blinking hard, she did not dare imagine.
“And Bellon?” She held her breath.
“Bellon was, well, as you would expect… Well, on hearing of the attack, he went to search for Milo, disobeying my orders to follow us. We could not risk more men to die. Vascones were swarming all over the place. It was not safe.”
“He went back to help Father?” Staring at her hands in her lap, she ignored his reasoning.
The king nodded.
“So you have buried him as well?”
“No.”
Her head shot up. “You did not?” Her heart was pounding in her ribs, and dizziness overcame her. “Why ever not?”
“We could not find his body.”
She closed her eyes as the pain shot into her belly, and she pressed it with both hands. “Amalberga!”
Then her world went black.
Chapter Seventeen
Early April, 2018
Maddie was nervous as she stared with growing panic at the clothes she’d brought with her. What do you wear to a dinner out in this part of the world? Do you dress up – or down?
Léon had invited her to a top restaurant in a village on the shore of the Canal du Midi. Was it a date, or just a meal amongst ‘friends’?
Heat crept into her cheeks.
Agreed, they had become a little closer over the recent weeks. It wasn’t only to do with their discovery, although, to her surprise, he had shared her keen interest in the find. Excitement coursed through her veins every time she saw him. The warning signs were all there.
For now, she pushed away all thought of the bones and the woman’s voice they’d both heard. This was important. Scary. French ladies dressed up when on a nice night out, and she wanted to look good for him. Hell, was the dating game back on?
She threw aside her jeans, and another two pairs, as she combed through her meagre belongings. With the works in her kitchen, she hadn’t had a chance to return to York again to collect more items, and all she had with her were practical tops and jeans!
Maddie eyed her mother’s solid oak wardrobe. I have no choice. She hadn’t got around to removing any of Elizabeth’s clothes yet. Their styles were very different; her mother’s very much the hippie that she’d always been. Opening the doors, she peeked inside. Patchwork skirts nestled against flowing tops. Her mother had kept her figure, so anything she had should fit Maddie, but still, she hesitated. It seemed wrong.
“To hell! If someone picks these up in a charity shop and wears them, so can I.”
There it was, what looked like a long, black skirt. Maddie pulled it out and held it against her waist. It was the right length, A-line, ending above her ankles. Perfect. She threw it on the bed and wove her hands through the tops. The purple colour of one caught her eye. Very brash. Was this her? Maddie wasn’t sure, but still took the top off the hanger. It lay nicely around the hips, and a V-neckline would expose just enough flesh but not too much!
She changed into her mother’s garments and looked at her reflection in the mirror. It was like Elizabeth stood there, and it catapulted Maddie back to her childhood. She blinked. No, this was distinctly her, just wearing different clothes than what she was used to.
Quickly, she gathered her hair in a loose bun, and chose a pair of large hoop earrings. This would do. Picking up a black silk scarf from a shelf in the wardrobe, she glanced at her image again. It wasn’t her own usual self that looked back at her, but a new, more feminine Maddie.
“Hmm.” She didn’t feel entirely uncomfortable, but it would have to do.
Happy with her choice, she put on her black, heeled boots and went downstairs, giggling. She was turning into a girlie yet…
A knock alerted her to Léon’s arrival. She glanced at her watch. 8.32 pm. A polite two minutes late. Grinning, she opened the door.
“Bonsoir,” he said, holding out a bunch of flowers.
She’d seen the brand on the plastic wrapper in the local supermarket and smiled, taking them off him. “Hello and thank you. That’s very kind. Come in whilst I put them in water.” Typical man. But it was the thought that counted…
“Merci.”
He closed the door behind him as she stepped carefully over the uneven kitchen ground. Busying herself with finding a vase and unwrapping the flowers, she felt his gaze and turned to catch him out.
Instead of looking embarrassed, he grinned. “You look good.”
Heat rose into her cheeks and she quickly added water and put the vase in the sink. Instead
of responding to his comment, she merely said, “These can wait here until I get back.”
Then Maddie ushered him towards the door, grabbing her clutch bag from the dresser still blocking half the corridor. Being in this narrow space, winding their way between kitchen cupboard and sideboard, made her feel…what?
Her breath hitched as he turned before the closed door. “Ready?”
She nodded and stepped forward, fully expecting him to open it for them, but he simply stood, then took her free hand and pulled her towards him. Her heart beat faster by the second, but after a brief sense of apprehension – she’d been single for too long – something clicked inside her head.
“Oui?” she whispered.
When his mouth met hers for a tentative kiss, it suddenly felt right. The house…their discovery…his presence…France. She responded with the same gentleness. Too late did she realise that the scent of lavender hung in the air again. Goosebumps rose on her skin and she slowly extracted herself from his embrace.
“Shall we?”
He smiled, then opened the door for her. “Certainement. After you.”
Two hours later, Maddie was sure she couldn’t eat another morsel. She leaned back in her chair and glanced out of the large French doors that led to the empty terrace. Darkness had settled, but she still made out the water of the Canal du Midi glistening in the light of the street lamp. Soon, boats would head up and down the waterway again, something she was looking forward to seeing.
After a shared starter of charcuterie from a local butcher with crunchy fresh bread, she had enjoyed her perfectly steamed lemon sole with its accompaniment of crushed potatoes and green beans.
“I could get used to this.” She smiled at Léon over the rim of her glass of rosé – Château de Minervens, of course.
He cocked his head and turned serious. “That’s what I’m hoping for…”
So far tonight, they had avoided to talk about their growing attraction, focusing instead on the discovery and their work. But with her innocuous comment, she seemed to have triggered something she wasn’t sure she was ready for.
Her smile wavered, and he quickly held up a hand. “Hear me out, Maddie.”
Desperate to wet her suddenly dry throat, she took a sip and merely nodded.
Léon put his glass down and, folding his hands, leaned forward. “I think – and please correct me if I’m wrong – that we have something special here. From the first moment I saw you, I felt drawn to you. You’re a fascinating woman, Maddie, with your intriguing working life, your research, and your interest in all things historic.”
Deflecting his comments with a wave of her hand, she said, “It’s just old stuff for some. Nowadays, my head’s more in books. I’d say it’s rather boring.”
“And I say it’s intriguing. So there!” He grinned, before turning serious again. “I’d love it if you stayed here.”
“I am already, as you know.”
“For longer than the year your mother demanded…”
Maddie swallowed hard. “It’s only been a couple of months, but…”
Her eyes locked with his and she held out her hand. He took it and covered it with a soft kiss.
“But?”
At last, realisation hit her. She had fallen for this quiet yet confident guy. A vineyard owner of all things! And a volunteer pompier – a firefighter. Léon was a man of many talents.
“No but.” She blinked back the tears and quickly sipped her wine. “Shall we see how this year goes before I decide fully?”
He nodded. “Fair’s fair. But let me tell you – I can be pretty persuasive when I have to.”
She laughed out loud. “I bet. You’re selling wine to restaurants and then drink it yourself!”
A cough from the waiter brought them back to the here and now. “Umm, êtes-vous prets pour un dessert?”
“I’m sure I am,” she said, allowing the giddiness in her head to show. “Are you, Léon?”
His mouth quivered as he held her gaze. “Bien sûr, Maddie.”
Chapter Eighteen
Mid-September, AD 778
Carcassonne
Hilda woke as if from deep yet disturbed sleep, confused. Bellon had haunted her, as had Milo. Even her mother had appeared. She had been a child when Alda died, but in her dreams, her mother’s warmth and gentleness had seemed real.
Now, her skin crawled at the memory. Or was it because she felt so cold? Shivering, she blinked. Beside her, Amalberga was breathing deeply, her eyes closed and mouth wide open.
She smiled and started to rise until she spotted him. Between her and her companion lay her son, wrapped in swaddling clothes, also asleep.
As calmly as she could, she reclined, her gaze not leaving the tiny face. It was a miracle.
Watching him, she tried to remember what happened since she collapsed on her chair in the hall, in front of the king!
Hilda closed her eyes. It was just as well she had lost consciousness, or her embarrassment would have been her undoing. How could she possibly meet him again?
Memories started to come back: of pain, of blood and screams. And of heat and cold. During more lucid moments, she thought she would die, but Amalberga would have none of it. Even the king had hovered over her bed. She remembered his deep voice penetrating the fog in her head, but could not recall his words. Or had he been in her dream as well? Reality and dreams had blurred.
Except for Bellon. More than anything, he had dominated her vivid dreams. His laughing face; his confidence; his hand stretched towards hers; his anger at his inability to reach her.
Could it be real? Was he reaching out to her from the dead?
Tears pricked her eyes. So much death. At the moment of her triumph, when she had given birth to a living boy, she had lost those dearest to her.
Father. Bellon.
She opened her damp eyes and stared at her baby’s calm face. “Why?” she whispered. Had the Goddess deserted her? Or was her husband’s God punishing her?
Through all her life, she had hidden her real beliefs from everyone. She had not dared set up an altar to honour the Goddess, but kept all items safely locked in a small casket. Only the knife she carried on her belt. But Hilda still prayed to her, and the healing she did with her herbs and hands was dedicated to her, proof she had never forgotten her.
But perhaps the Great One did not like secrecy. The stark reality was that, as a daughter of a Frankish count, with the Franks fervently serving the Church, she could not dare show her real leanings.
Amalberga shifted in her sleep, and the little boy grimaced. Hilda smiled. Her companion had looked after him well whilst she had been unwell.
A smacking of lips, then his mouth tightened. She watched in wonder as his cheeks turned puce, and he let out a howling scream.
Amalberga stirred and sat up, cooing over him, before she realised Hilda was awake.
“You keep resting, Sweeting. I’ll look after your boy.” She pushed herself from the bed and adjusted her shift. “With a voice like that you shall be commanding armies soon!”
“Is he hungry, do you think? I can…” Heat shot into Hilda’s cheeks.
“You are too tired. A kitchen girl gave birth a few weeks ago. She has helped us feed him after his birth. Although she is below your station, we had no choice if we wanted to keep him alive.”
“I know, and I’m grateful. But I’m awake now…and my chest hurts.” Until he screamed, she had not noticed the pressure on her breasts, but her son was hungry, so it made sense. She sat up, leaning into the soft cushions and pulled her shift up. “Give him to me.”
Amalberga tutted, then placed the infant on her front, skin on skin. Hilda wrapped the blanket over him, then winced in pain when the boy began to suckle. Soon, a feeling of contentment washed over her, despite the discomfort, and she gently stroked his head.
“He’s beautiful!” Tears shimmered in her eyes.
Amalberga nodded and sat by the bedside. “That he is. And strong.”
“Bellon would be proud.”
“Yes, he would be.” After watching her son drink greedily, she looked up. “Oh, what am I to do now?”
Her companion fidgeted with her girdle. “The king has left his instructions, and a trusted man to ensure they are being adhered to.” Amalberga’s voice had turned sharp, and she coughed. “For the moment, you are to remain here in Carcassonne with your son.”
“For the moment?” She knitted her brows. “What does he mean? This boy is Bellon’s heir to the county. Is he not?”
“Well, Sweeting.” Amalberga began to fold up a small pile of dried swaddling cloths.
Hilda straightened, adjusting the suckling baby so she could sit up straight. “Is he not?” she repeated.
“He is but a newborn, and King Charles knows very well how precarious children’s lives can be. He said…” Another sigh, and Amalberga put the folded items away.
“What?” Her mind whirled. “That I might lose my son? Like I lost his father and grandfather?” She bit back the tears as fury tore through her.
Just as her life had become settled, secure in this southern stronghold with a man who cared for her, the Gods had deprived her of him. But she would never give up her child!
“He said Carcassonne required a strong ruler, and you, in time,” she added in haste, “needed a step-father for your son.”
“He will be soon.” She took a sharp breath. “By the Goddess, we don’t even know for certain if Bellon is dead, and Charles is already busy planning his next alliance? No!” Her fist hit the bedcover. “I shall not agree to it.”
Having slaked his thirst, milk was dribbling from her son’s mouth, and Amalberga gently took him off her. She placed a smudged cloth over her shoulder and lifted him up, softly patting his back.
