Love Lost in Time

by Cathie Dunn

  “Looks like your mother was a writer too.” Léon picked up a couple of journals and handed them to her. “You have a look. It’s probably personal.”

  “Oh, how intriguing. I never saw your mother write, dear.” Bernadette smiled. “But I could well imagine her doing it.”

  “Keep a diary, you mean?” Maddie leafed through the first pad. “You’re right. This is from 1971.” She flicked through the pages. “February… April… August… Well, I never…”

  Tears welled in her eyes as she scanned a few paragraphs. “I wonder if Mother wrote something at the time she met my father.” A faint flicker of hope formed inside her. Would she finally find out where she belonged?” Léon looked at the first page of a small bundle. “It could be. These range from the 1960s to the late 1970s, from what I can see, and there are more underneath.” He gently put them back. “Looks like you have quite a bit of family history to catch up on.” He smiled encouragingly. “Now, let’s see what’s in this baby.” He turned to the big brown case with the imprinted pattern.

  “Now, that’s a posh suitcase,” Bernadette remarked.

  “Yes, and Maddie doesn’t know whose it is.”

  “Oh la la! I love a good intrigue.”

  Maddie was still staring at the journals. “I’ll have a look through these later to see if I can find the ones for the time I’m looking for.”

  “That’s a great idea. I hope you’ll get some answers. Now…” Léon wriggled the hair pins inside the lock until it, too, sprung open. “Voilà!” He opened the heavy lid.

  Maddie put the journals she’d been browsing back into the black case and came over. “What’s that?”

  He dug a little in the fabrics inside, then held up a jumper. “It’s full of men’s clothes. As in ‘old’… No offence, Bernadette!” He winked.

  The neighbour laughed. “None taken. But I’ve never seen a man friend visiting Elisa here.”

  “Nor do I know of any she was seriously interested in.” Maddie searched through the items. Several shirts in 1970s/1980s style lay neatly folded on top of two pairs of jeans and three pairs of trousers. Below those, she found three thick woollen jumpers and, at the bottom, wrapped in plastic, lay two full formal suits with wide shoulder pads.

  “God, the plaits on those!” Léon grinned as he half-pulled out a pair of chinos. “I’m so glad fashions have changed. Could these be your father’s?”

  A dizziness overcame her, and she sat down on the tiles. “Perhaps. The age of the clothes matches. But I don’t understand…”

  She could not stop her voice from shaking, and Léon crouched beside her, wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. He softly kissed her temple and wiped away a stray tear. From the corner of her eye, Maddie saw Bernadette disappear to somewhere in her garden, giving them privacy.

  “It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?” he asked.

  Maddie nodded, letting the tears of decades of frustration fall. “Why could she never talk to me about this…stuff?” She sniffed. “Mum always deflected my questions, yet she kept all this in the attic for years. Why?”

  He pushed back a strand of hair that had fallen over her face and tucked it behind her ear.

  “Perhaps she wanted to, but was too stubborn to take the first step. Or too embarrassed…”

  “But I’m her daughter, her only relative.”

  “I know.” He sighed. “Look, do you want to dig out some of these books tonight to see if you can find any hints? If so, I can leave you to it.”

  Maddie swallowed hard, then smiled. “Yes…if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all, chérie. And I’m always at the end of the phone if you need me.”

  “Thank you.” She kissed him, grateful for having found someone so understanding.

  Tonight, Maddie would browse the journals. With a little luck, she’d finally find out where her father had come from – and who he was.

  Chapter Twenty

  November, AD 782

  Carcassonne

  The sun stood low over the plain as Hilda, accompanied by Amalberga and a well-armed Lot, returned from a hamlet two hours’ ride west of Carcassonne where she had assisted in a complicated birth. Her tincture had brought calm and assurance to a scared girl, a few years younger than she had been at her own wedding. Together, they had helped the girl’s mother in delivering a healthy, if quiet, baby. Much to their relief, the little boy had soon voiced his unhappiness at being thrown into a cold, dark world. She smiled at the memory.

  The autumn wind, coming in from the sea, whipped at her cloak, and she tucked it back in place. It had been unusually warm, despite the beginning of Advent being only five days away, and she had sweated in her thick woollen kirtle. Sweat covered her shift. But now, the welcome breeze made her take deep breaths.

  With Bellon in Iberia, seeking new treaties with the Saracens, she had had more time to spend helping her people. But each day, she was glad to return home, to be with her boys before they had to go to bed. At just four years old, Guisclafred was discovering the world of knights – and wrestling. She indulged him in it, as she knew he needed playtime to rid himself of his excessive energy. The sons of her retainers let him join them, and, despite some setbacks and major tantrums, Guisclafred had already learnt the important lesson of being part of a team to be successful.

  But her second pregnancy, too soon after his birth, had left her exhausted, and she had taken certain herbs to pause her from conceiving – without Bellon’s knowledge. She swallowed back the guilt that overcame her every so often, and she swore again that she would stop after the holy days had passed.

  “Ooh, this is getting silly,” Amalberga complained, as the wind lifted her cloak and kirtle high around her.

  Lot snorted and averted his gaze towards the nearest tower. Hilda laughed.

  “We’ll soon be home, where you don’t have to concern yourself over showing off your legs to anyone.”

  “Humph! The youth of today – no respect for your elders.”

  “Umm, I’ll ride ahead and alert them to our arrival.” Lot briefly scanned the route for an ambush, but around them, the land lay deserted. They would be safe. Unable to stifle a grin, he waited for her to nod, then kicked his horse into a gallop.

  “He doesn’t want to be caught up in our banter, Amalberga.” Hilda smirked and helped pull her companion’s garments back into place.

  “Humph!” came the response from the older lady.

  She was still sulking. Hilda looked ahead, seeing the gate opening on Lot’s shouted demand.

  Soon, she would hold her sons again.

  Despite Guisclafred’s insistence that he was grown-up enough to eat in the hall, Hilda requested him to take his meals in their bedchamber. He had not given up trying, and only Bellon’s stern orders kept the boy quiet for several days. But her oldest son had clearly inherited his father’s stubbornness.

  Remembering fondly the first year of her marriage, where she and Bellon had the room to themselves, she watched as Rotlinde spoon-fed little Oliba whilst his brother pushed the small cuts of meat around his bowl. A partition divided their cots, and the little table and chairs at which they took their meals, from Hilda’s own large bed. Bellon had insisted the boys sleep separately straight away, and Hilda had given in, albeit reluctantly. But whenever Bellon was away, which was often, she allowed them to join her in bed in the mornings.

  A squeal distracted her from her thoughts, and Oliba burst into tears. She raised her eyebrows at her oldest who had picked up his brother’s bowl still half full with warm mashed carrot and parsnip and began to scrape the food out with his fingers. “Guisclafred! Eat your own meal, not your brother’s!”

  “But I don’t like rabbit! Or parsnips.”

  Rotlinde smiled, then gently but firmly extracted the bowl from his grip. “But there are parsnips in here.” She pointed at the orange mash whilst shifting Oliba from her right leg to her left. Immediately, his hand went out towards Guisclafred’s food. “That
is not for you, Sweeting. You can’t have it yet.” And she picked up a filled spoon, and Oliba gulped down his mash eagerly.

  “Blurgh, parsnips!” Guisclafred exclaimed noisily, wiping his fingers on his hose.

  “Stop this right now, my little lord!” Hilda took his hand and cleaned it with a cloth. “You don’t steal from your brother. Is that clear?” She put his bowl back in front of him. “Eat!”

  “But Mother, I—“

  Hilda tilted her head. “You do want to play wrestling with Liuva in the morn, don’t you?”

  He nodded.

  “So you better make sure you’re strong enough to beat him. Therefore…” She pointed at the stew.

  With a heavy sigh, Guisclafred stabbed a small cut of rabbit and, smacking his lips, he began to chew.

  “Quietly.”

  Eventually, he obliged, and she exchanged a nod with Rotlinde.

  “Thank you,” the young woman whispered, then focused her attention back to feeding Oliba.

  “I’ll be in the hall if there are any more such antics.”

  Wrapped in her cloak, she descended the steps to the hall. Darkness had settled for the night, and the winds had gained in force. She stayed close to the wall and took each step carefully.

  A sudden commotion caught her eye. In the noise of the storm, she had not heard the horses’ hooves on the ground. Now, a group of riders, some carrying torches, approached the stables. Voices reached her, and laughter.

  Just as she arrived at the door to the hall, it opened, and Roderic emerged.

  “It’s Bellon. He has returned.” Hilda recognised her husband’s familiar shape, and his stallion. “And he brought a visitor.”

  “I shall inform the kitchen, lady. My lord will want feeding.” His moustache quivered over a hidden smirk, and Hilda grinned.

  “Yes, without doubt. Who knows what diet he had to endure in Iberia this time.”

  “Lady.” The majordomus descended the stair to the yard, then turned towards the kitchen built at the side of the keep.

  “Hilda!” Striding across the yard, Bellon waved at her, then he spoke quietly to a tall, broad man beside him. A Frankish lord, it seemed. He looked familiar, though she could not remember where from.

  Bellon took the steps two at a time and embraced her in a fierce hug. She savoured the scent of him, dust and grime. Then he held her at arms’ length.

  “I have missed you, my love. Has everything been well?” His eyes searched her for any signs of distress.

  She smiled and stroked his cheek covered in stubble. “Yes, Bellon. All is in order here. Dagobert and his men have kept us safe, as always.”

  “And the boys?” A shadow crossed his brow.

  “They are fine, although…” A smirk played on her lips.

  “Although?” He held his breath.

  “Guisclafred has decided he doesn’t like rabbit.”

  Bellon laughed. “Ah, all normal, then.” He wrapped an arm around her, then turned towards their visitor who had slowly climbed the steps. “Hilda, do you remember Count Guillaume of Autun?”

  Recognition dawned and Hilda took the knight’s hands in hers. “Of course. Welcome to Carcassonne, my lord. If we had known of your arrival, we may have been better prepared.”

  “I thank you, lady. I’m certain that whatever your hearth has to offer, it will be sufficient for me.”

  Retracting her hands, she gestured to the door to the hall. “Then please come within.”

  ***

  Bellon lifted his cup and raised it to his visitor. “Carcassonne welcomes you, Guillaume. It was fortunate that our paths crossed outside Narbonne.” Turning to Hilda sitting between them, he explained, “The king wants him to join us in our forays into Iberia, to gain a better picture of the situation there.”

  “Which is, as always, delicate…” Guillaume added.

  Bellon grinned, then took a draught. “It is indeed.”

  Hilda nodded, but the look in her eyes told him she could not go against her nature. “There are too many ladles stirring the pot for it to be calm.”

  Their guest raised an eyebrow.

  Bellon’s grin widened. Her forthright manners – manners that had developed deeper since the birth of their sons – often took Frankish visitors by surprise.

  “My wife is an astute judge of politics, Guillaume. She follows all reports of events in the kingdom of the Franks, and in Aquitania and Iberia.”

  Guillaume’s face turned puce, and he nearly choked on his wine. Hilda gently patted his back until he wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

  “Does this help, lord?” Her voice sweet, she looked at him with concern. “Our wine may be too strong to those unused to it. It’s unlike like that watered-down Rhenish fare we always had in the north.”

  Bellon laughed, proud of his wife’s knowledge, then sobered. “I do apologise. As you can see, we’re far away from the Frankish court.”

  Guillaume nodded and took a deep breath. Then he smiled. “Yes, so we are. And thank you, Lady Nanthild. I’m much better thanks to your…um…intervention.” He sent her an admiring glance. “Your lord father would be proud of you.”

  A shadow fell on Hilda’s face, and Bellon grew serious. It had been over four years since the battle at Roncevaux, and he knew she still missed her father very much. It also tore his heart that Milo had never met his grandsons. He would have been so proud. But thus was life in times of war, and Milo had seen – and survived – many of Charles’ campaigns.

  After the meal, with the tables moved away from the hearth, they settled into more comfortable chairs by the side of the fire. Whilst the days were still warm, the nights had grown cold, with a threat of frost hanging in the air. On his return journey, he had seen the first snow cover the highest peaks of the Pyrenaei.

  Stretching his legs towards the warmth, Bellon, content at last, cradled a cup of wine in his hands. Guillaume was leaning back into the cushions, his gaze on the flames. Rotlinde and Amalberga had briefly brought the children to the hall, to bid them goodnight. Both boys had run towards him, Guisclafred faster than his small brother who was still uncertain on his feet but firmly supported by their nurse. Much to their joy, he had raised each squealing boy in the air and hugged them close before sending them to their mother. Hilda had gently kissed them, then Rotlinde picked up Oliba and Amalberga took Guisclafred by the hand, returning them to the bedchamber. Oliba let out a loud wail when a retainer opened the door to the yard.

  Bellon smiled. Both boys had grown so much since he had left for Iberia, and they were quickly developing into intriguing little characters. His eyes met Hilda’s, and he knew she thought the same.

  At his signal, Lot, who was hovering by a trestle table in a corner, came forward and refilled their cups, before he withdrew again.

  “You can be proud of your sons,” Guillaume said. “They are well-cared for.”

  Hilda nodded. “Yes, but like all children, they keep pushing their boundaries…”

  “That’s lads for you.”

  “You know much about raising children. Do you have any?”

  “Yes, I have two sons; possibly three by the time I return.”

  Guillaume winked, and Bellon burst out laughing.

  “Then we have to make sure that our forays won’t take too long.”

  “I drink to that!” Guillaume took a deep draught.

  “I assume your lady wife has help with the children?” Hilda asked, her head cocked to the side. She was clearly appraising their visitor, and Bellon could not read her mind.

  “Oh yes. We have a large household compared to some, perhaps a few more people than you have here. Cunégonda has several women helping her, so she has plenty of time to worry about my well-being.” He laughed out loud, the warmth in his eyes revealing his respect and admiration for his wife. “Some would argue, too much!”

  Bellon smiled. “Your home is in safe hands with her.”

  “Oh yes, it is. But when she hears tidings like the rece
nt news from Saxony, she becomes overly concerned.”

  “Not without cause,” Bellon said grimly.

  Guillaume had told him about the king’s actions against the Saxon rebels, but on seeing Hilda curious glance, Bellon wished his visitor had not mentioned it.

  “What happened in Saxony?” she asked promptly.

  At certain times, he preferred it if his wife was not interested in what went on outside their county. He sighed, then exchanged a glance with Guillaume.

  “King Charles has finally quashed the resistance of those blasted Saxons,” Guillaume said.

  Hilda nodded. “I remember Father joined several expeditions into Saxony. It wasn’t too far a journey to make from our home. The king wanted them to convert to Christianity.”

  “That’s correct,” Guillaume confirmed. “And now, many have done so. But not without the rebels making sacrifices.”

  Bellon drew in a sharp breath. “They made the ultimate sacrifice.”

  “And they will burn in hell for all eternity.” Guillaume’s mouth contorted into a tight line, and he crossed himself. “They could have simply—”

  “The king could have shown mercy.”

  “Not to those treacherous heathens,” Guillaume snapped. “You don’t know what those Saxons are like: wild, unchristian, uncontrollable. They killed many of our nobles during their pointless rebellions.”

  “Father agreed that they were wild, yes, but also loyal to their leaders. Isn’t loyalty a trait that is usually rewarded?”

  “That particular loyalty cost them their lives, whilst their coward of a leader, Widukind, fled to Nordmannia.”

  “Then he wasn’t worthy of their allegiance. But what happened to them?” Hilda looked from Bellon to Guillaume and back to him.

  “They were all executed,” Bellon said quietly, maintaining their eye contact.

  Hilda flinched, then she regained control quickly, sending their guest an inquisitive glance. “That does not surprise me, although the king could have found other means of punishment.”