by Cathie Dunn
“They were pagans,” Guillaume spat. “We have to teach them the way of Christ. And now, finally, Christianity can spread across Saxony.” A look of contentment on his face, he took a sip.
“Amen,” Hilda whispered, her voice hoarse.
Guillaume nodded approvingly, clearly unaware of her underlying cynicism which Bellon recognised only too well.
He watched his wife closely. Hilda had gone pale at Guillaume’s clear hatred of pagans. For a long time, Bellon had suspected her of using ancient practices, her demeanour often aligned with that of other pagan Visigoths he knew. If so, it was imperative that they kept the situation secret. It was too dangerous to reveal even the slightest bit of sympathy.
“But what a price to pay,” she said. “How many were…executed?”
Bellon groaned inwardly. He wanted to change the subject, but his mind had gone empty. Regretting bringing this visitor to his home hearth, he shrugged his shoulders.
Guillaume straightened his back, his eyes full of religious fervour. “We beheaded everyone who rebelled against Charles at the battle of Süntel – over four thousand men!”
Late that night, Bellon and Hilda sat in silence. Lot had just refilled their cups for a last time and left them alone in the hall. The fire had burned down, and only a warm orange glow illuminated the room. Holding her hand, he was bereft of words. But if he had ever needed proof of his wife’s real leanings, it had been delivered to him in the bluntest way possible. It was only fortunate that Guillaume had not recognised it, or she would face serious questioning.
Her attendance at Church was like anyone else’s. She prayed and seemed a devoted follower. Lot had told him about her forays into the hamlets, tending to the injured and sick with the help of her herbs. It was something he was proud of – his wife, the healer. Another sign of where her calling lay. But although he had kept his knowledge to himself, he would not push her to reveal her true faith, but wanted her to tell him of her own will. If not tonight, then he hoped one day she would trust him enough to reveal her secret.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Surprised, he looked at her. “Why? What did I do?”
She squeezed his hand and smiled. “You shielded me. It…was a shock. I always knew warfare involved deaths, but apart from Father’s, it never touched me. Of course, I worry and pray for your safety whenever you’re away, but… but…” Her words trailed off, and she shuddered.
He waited quietly, stroking her palm, until she had recovered her composure.
“How can someone be so kind, yet so cruel at the same time?”
“You mean Charles?”
Hilda nodded. “Yes. I always admired him, even though I heard tales of retribution and punishment. I guess Father kept the worst tidings from me.”
“And rightly so.” Bellon agreed with Milo’s assessment.
Her eyes blazing, she stared at him. “But I would have wanted to know. How can I cling on to my respect for Charles if he kills thousands of men at one strike? And all because of religion!”
“Don’t forget that many of us now follow Christianity.”
Her gaze moved to the fire, and he quickly added, “But I agree with you. I was shocked, too, when Guillaume first told me.”
“It makes you wonder…”
He signed. “It does. And whilst I won’t rescind my allegiance to Charles,” he whispered, “which would have disastrous consequences for Septimania, I’m making sure we don’t persecute Visigoths of different beliefs, at least not under my rule.”
She let out a long breath, then kissed his hand, sending him a long look. “Thank you.”
This was as close to an admission as he would get. It was enough.
Chapter Twenty-One
Early May, 2018
After over a week of Léon staying every night, the house seemed empty after he left. Too quiet.
Maddie wondered if she’d gone in too fast, but the tingling sensations she felt every time she saw him made her banish her doubts. As her colleagues in York would have said – he was a keeper.
Hell, she couldn’t even remember how long it had been since she last spoke to Brian. That in itself was revealing. Oh well…
Sitting on the edge of the sofa, she stared into the open case at her feet. Piles of notebooks waiting to be explored. But was she not prying into Elizabeth’s deepest secrets?
“Nonsense,” she said out loud. “She’s dead.”
Maddie waited for the echo, for the scent of lavender, but all stayed as normal. Had the…ghost…moved on with her bones after all?
Shrugging off her suspicions, she took out some journals and checked the dates in the front of each. Often, they contained gaps of several months, but her mother had always continued, eventually. Then, she found the relevant years. She put them on the sofa beside her. Delving deeper into the pile, she pulled out a book from the bottom and flicked through the pages.
July 1992… September 1992… December 1992…
These where from when they lived in Normandy. Maddie smiled as her memories returned. Monsieur, the big grey semi-feral cat they had taken in. Bruno, the starving, neglected Fauve de Bretagne hunting dog Elizabeth had saved – or rather, abducted – from a local chasseur who had sent the gendarmes after her. Only her mother’s charms and her threat of contacting the Brigitte Bardot Foundation about the injuries poor Bruno had received at the hands of his owner had convinced them that the dog was better off with her. Yes, Maddie remembered that year well. She had been so proud of her.
There would be plenty of time to catch up on her childhood memories. For now, she wanted to focus on the years from 1982 to 1984 when she was born. She put the journal from 1992 back into the case.
After she’d closed all the shutters and locked the front door, she filled a large glass of red wine from a box, grabbed a packet of waffles and picked up the books she’d left on the sofa.
Upstairs, she plumped up the spare pillow and changed into a t-shirt and leggings. Though the nights were getting warmer, she dove under the duvet. Temperatures could still plummet.
Finally, she was ready. Or was she?
Her hand shook when she took the first notebook. 1982. She remembered her mother telling her about the time she back-packed through France. That must have been it.
Swallowing hard, Maddie opened the journal and began to read…
Two hours later, and she had a better idea of Elizabeth’s adventures during her early years in France. Her mother had helped on farms in the Ardennes, then headed west towards Nantes and south to La Rochelle from where she had joined a sailing crew going to Bordeaux.
Elizabeth had gone sailing? “Why, I never…”
Maddie took a large sip of the wine and pulled a waffle from the pack. Her youthful mother’s feisty nature and courage intrigued her.
Mother sailed down the coast of France on a boat. Not free, mind you, but working on it.
Tears welled up as she thought of her mother later in life, just content to be at home. What a free spirit Elizabeth had been before she was born!
She skipped several references to men ’courting her’, as her mother had put it in her flowery handwriting, but none of the relationships seemed serious. 1982 had been a year full of journeys, of meeting people and enjoying life. But not one reference to a special man.
With shaking hands, Maddie opened the notebook entitled 1983. It had to contain some details about her father. Fortifying herself with yet another long draught of wine, she began to read…
2nd February, 1983
Still in Cauterets, helping Micheline with the chambre d’hôte. In the end, things worked out OK, despite Gaston’s absence, so I was happy to stay on. Nevertheless, I feel sad about causing their split, but I just couldn’t keep knowledge of his disgusting behaviour to myself. The man’s a cheat!
Micheline has become such a good friend, so when I walked in on the bastard in bed with that American woman, Grace, I had to tell her. At first, it was a little awkward, but now she puts o
n a brave face. We’re running a busy B&B!
24th February, 1983
This season is mad! Skiers, hikers, spa visitors, they all descended on our little place. It has been non-stop, and Micheline and I have had barely time to breathe. But that’s great news as it means more income for her. Gaston has come over to convince her to give him another chance, but she sent him away. Brave girl, that!
12th March, 1983
We’ve been working our little socks off, but boy, is the place heaving. Being a small B&B, we were lucky that not every type of guest wants to stay in the big hotels. Some prefer the more cosy comforts we are providing. Neat, clean and warm.
Oh, I almost forgot. A lovely group from Burgundy stayed for nearly a week. There was one guy who kept watching me. Not in a creepy way, but friendly. We started chatting in the evenings, after I’d finished my work. In the daytime, they went skiing, but after two nights he left his mates to themselves and invited me out for a drink, and that’s what we did every night until they left.
His name was Jérôme de…something. I can’t remember his surname. Very French, though. I enjoyed his attention, but I was too tired to agree to anything more than a few drinks and long conversations well into the night. I got far less sleep than usual. But then, today, they had to leave unexpectedly, and in the hurry we forgot to exchange details. Stupid, I know. They drove off before I could give him a note.
Though perhaps Jérôme was just happy to chat to a chambre d’hôte cleaner on his holidays, but didn’t really want more…
Maddie gulped. Was this Jérôme possibly her dad? But the dates didn’t match, and he couldn’t have been. Besides, nothing happened, according to her mother. But it sounded like Elizabeth had truly fallen for him.
Her throat parched, she picked up her wine glass and read on.
13th March, 1983
What a bloody mess! This afternoon, Gaston came back with Micheline’s father. Why on earth did the old man stick to the liar’s side and not stand up for his daughter? She was the wronged party here.
So Micheline told me I had to pack my bags and leave. Her eyes were puffy and red. When I asked her if she’d taken him back, she nodded.
‘It’s for the best,’ she said. I wonder for whose best!
So I packed my belongings, collected my pay and said my farewells to Micheline and a smirking Gaston. Oh, I wanted to punch him, and the Goddess was egging me on, but I behaved like an adult. I was lucky to find a bed in the youth hostel dormitory for the night. But where to go next? The season isn’t over yet, but nobody will employ anyone at the end of the season. They’ll be winding down instead. Oh, decisions…
28th March, 1983
Lourdes
Oh God! Yes, you! Did you ever expect this selling-out of your teachings? I’m so glad to be out of here after just two days. There’s no way I can stand this any longer. Goddess, please help me calm down!
3rd April, 1983
Toulouse
What a difference a week makes! I just LOVE Toulouse. A little like Bordeaux, but also very different. As Micheline had given me a written reference, I found a job in a small hotel near the Garonne river. I’m dealing with enquiries over the phone and take bookings. Quite a change, but as I did all that at Micheline’s as well as cleaning, Cheryl gave me a chance. It helps that I’m fluent in French, and she can talk to me in English. Her French isn’t that great, so I might end up teaching her a little.
Onwards to new adventures.
Maddie smiled. Elizabeth sounded excited after her shock dismissal, rather than down. Her mother always believed in opportunities arising when you needed them, and it would appear that that was exactly what happened.
But still no mention of her father. She skim-read the next few pages, all about Elizabeth’s new life in Toulouse. Springtime there sounded lovely.
She was just about to give up and go to sleep when her eyes spotted a name: Jérôme!
Could this be…?
29th July, 1983
You wouldn’t believe it! Today, a visitor arrived looking for a room without a reservation. When he walked through the door, my heart nearly stopped. Luckily, the small reception area was otherwise empty, or other guests may have just witnessed two people staring at each other for yonks before bursting into mad laughter. Then, he reserved a room for the night.
Yes, Jérôme is in Toulouse! My hands are shaking, and I have little time to write. My shift over for today, and I’ll need to get ready to meet him. He’s taking me out for dinner. Oh, the Goddess must be smiling on me.
Chapter Twenty-Two
September, AD 793
Carcassonne
“Open the gate!” Bellon waved wildly at the sentries above the entrance to the fortress from half a mile away, but he need not have worried. Already, the guards he had left behind opened the heavy gates.
Beside him, Guillaume of Autun, who had replaced the duplicitous Torson as duke of Tolosa under the king’s order, urged his stallion forward. “I hope your defences are solid, Bellon,” he cried, his voice hoarse, “in case the infidels launch an assault.”
“Carcassonne will hold out against any attack.”
Guillaume’s doubtful expression irked him. After all, it was under the new duke’s command that had seen them lose this battle against the Saracens in the hills just to the north of Carcassonne, too close to home for his liking.
His mind was whirling. What had gone wrong? Their small army knew the area well. At least, his own men did. But Guillaume had ignored some of his suggestions about the lay of the land and an advantage they would have held had they crossed to the north of the stream and awaited the enemy there.
The high opinion Guillaume has of himself doesn’t help.
Approaching his home, he gritted his teeth. Today, he had lost several men – good warriors he could scarcely spare, especially now that the Saracens had returned with frequent attacks. So far, they had steered clear of Carcassonne, likely due to her ancient defensive walls. But after defeating the Frankish army, would they dare an attempt?
Time would tell.
He rode through the narrow gate into the yard. Already, a couple of stable lads awaited their arrival, and he dismounted and threw the reins of his stallion to one, nodding his thanks. Around him, his own warriors and Guillaume and his men from Tolosa came through in small groups. Leaving the duke, Bellon took the wooden steps to the allure, the upper stone walkway inside the solid walls, and joined Dagobert who had stayed above the gate. He looked through the merlins and saw the last of their party ride through, then his captain gave the signal to drop the grate and close the heavy doors.
Dagobert raised his eyebrow. “What happened?”
Bellon leaned against the wall, slowly regaining his breath. “There was a battle. The Saracens caught up with us.”
“The Saracens? This far inland?” Dagobert glanced across the deserted plain. “I heard they stayed near the coast and in the mountains?”
“Yes, they ventured farther than we’d thought. We fought a battle up there,” he pointed towards the northern hills, “where the Orbiel river flows.”
Dagobert shook his head. “That makes little sense. It’s far from the route to Tolosa, and there is no major settlement in that area.”
“You’re right. That’s what I’ve been wondering ever since we left. We lost fourteen men today.” He clenched his fists and closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath.
“Christ’s blood!” The captain crossed himself, a shadow forming on his brow.
“I know. Keep a good watch! The curs might feel brave enough to attack us here.”
“I shall. I’ll call up any men fit to join us on the wall, so we appear well-defended,” Dagobert said, his voice heavy but full of purpose. “We could still fend off an army, even with a small amount of men.”
Bellon nodded. “I know. And get Duke Guillaume’s men, too. He owes me that much!” He clenched and released his fists.
“Duke? Count Guillaume of A
utun? I thought I recognised him. He’s rising fast in the king’s favour.”
Bellon gave a harsh laugh. “He is. Though his stubborn ignorance of our region cost us dearly today. Not that he’ll lose his new title for that…”
Together, they turned to watch the mayhem in the yard. Guillaume, clearly in a foul mood, was barking orders, then marched in the direction of the hall.
Bellon straightened. “And now we must host him, too. Pah! Never mind, I have to fetch Hilda to care for the injured, and then give the families of our lost brothers the sad tidings.” It was not a prospect he cherished, but he was honour-bound to take care of them.
“If there is anything I can do…”
He slapped the captain’s shoulder. “Thank you, Dagobert, there is. Send out a sentry to discover where those curs are heading to. Then we’ll know more about their plans.”
“I shall.”
Bellon descended the stairs and walked across to the hall into which Guillaume had just disappeared. He did not want the man to talk to Hilda before he did. But to his relief, his wife emerged from their chamber above, alone. Weaving through the throng of horses and men, he waved.
When he reached the bottom of the steps, she spotted him, her expression one of surprise and concern. They met outside the door to the hall, and she took him in a firm embrace.
“Bellon, what is going on?”
For an instant, he forgot the loss, the chaos, and relished the scent and calm of his wife. Then he took a step back.
“Are you hurt?” Hilda looked him up and down, but found nothing worse than a few scrapes on his arms and rips in his tunic and hose.
He smiled. “I’m fine. Only some minor scratches.” Turning towards the yard, he added, “But some men have more severe injuries.”
Her critical eye assessed the situation swiftly, and within moments, she had recognised those in need of help. “I’ll see to them. But what happened?”
