by Cathie Dunn
16th March, 1984
What have I done? Why are things that started off so beautifully now going wrong?
Jérôme’s family have claimed his body, and they have barred the mortuary staff from telling me anything else about him. All I want is to be able to say goodbye, so I’ll be calling them tomorrow to speak to his brother.
And I must tell them the news that Jérôme never knew about. A test at the doctor’s confirmed it. I’m pregnant.
“Oh Mum!” Maddie gasped. Why had Elizabeth never told her? Surely, when she’d grown up, there was no reason to keep all this a secret. Blinking hard, she read on.
18th March, 1984
What a rude bunch the de Montceau family are! All hoity-toity with their noses up in the air. When I called them to convey my condolences, it started off fairly civilised. Marie-Pierre, Jérôme’s older brother, was polite and sounded almost supportive, but then his mother took the phone off him. Seriously, why does a man of thirty years of age let his mother treat him like a child?
The countess left me in no doubt of her low opinion of me. I was not to come to Jérôme’s funeral, nor was I allowed to visit the family crypt in the old cemetery in Beaune. She reminded me of their noble lineage – a family of counts, no less, whose roots dated back to the days of Charlemagne – and that she never supported Jérôme’s ‘obsession’ with me.
But the worst thing was when I told her of the pregnancy, she offered me money – to get rid of the child! Dear Goddess, what a vile harpy the woman is. She insisted I have an abortion, and that no support for any child was forthcoming. Hell, she even hinted that it could’ve been anyone’s baby. 'There is no proof,' she said. How cold does your heart have to be?
So I’ll continue to work in this hotel over the summer. Jeanne has promised to help me until I know what I wanted to do when the time came.
But all this pales into insignificance now. I’ve lost my love. The one man I’d have followed around the world. Nothing will ever bring him back.
24th September, 1984
Beaune, Burgundy
I made it, regardless of what Old Harpy said. They can kick me out of the cemetery for all they like.
But I have to admit the de Montceau crypt is stark but beautiful, almost Romanesque in style. Minimalist. I had to give them that. I cried again when I read Jérôme’s name carved in stone. He has gone too soon. I miss him so much.
From here, I’ll be making my way north, to Normandy. A friend from England, Sylvia, lives there. She will help me look after my child when he or she arrives next month.
So this is farewell, Jérôme de Montceau, kind and caring man that you were. We’ll meet again in the next life. Blessed be.
Goosebumps rose on Maddie’s skin. Jérôme de Montceau. Beaune. Burgundy. She finally had the information she’d wanted to know all her adult life.
Her eyes flicked to the next entry, a date she knew well.
4th October, 1984
It’s a girl! Oh, she’s beautiful, but I’ll never have another, I swear. I had to have an emergency caesarian, and I’m glad I did after twenty-six hours of pain. The good doctors likely saved both our lives. I’ll name her Madeleine.
Oh, and a surprise parcel has arrived in the post. It contained the most delicate baptism gown I’ve ever seen. Too beautiful to keep unwrapped! I don’t think I’ve ever had such a precious gift, well, apart from my daughter.
Such a shame the gown will never be used, as I won’t take Madeleine to be dunked by a priest. I suspect it came from Jérôme’s brother, but there was no address or note attached.
But now I must sleep. I’m tired…
Chapter Twenty-Four
Early October, AD 793
The hills north of Carcassonne
“We should have left earlier,” Amalberga mumbled and wrapped herself closer into her cloak. The wind had increased during the afternoon, and thick grey clouds began to gather.
The air smelt of rain, and the trees around them shook off their leaves as the branches swayed in the strong breeze. The path they were following, parallel to the river, became less clear as darkness descended.
“We couldn’t. I had to make sure Gunda had delivered her child safely. And as you know, children can take their time.”
“Then we should have stayed.” Amalberga huffed, staring straight ahead.
Hilda looked to Lot for support, but he merely shook his head.
“Amalberga is right, lady. ’Tis not safe outside, and dusk is settling too fast. On this uneven ground, our horses can only trot, not run, or we’d risk them losing their footing.”
She gritted her teeth and urged Roma forward, ignoring the gusts tearing at her hood.
“Lady, don’t! We are far away from the villages, and a storm is coming in from the west. You have seen the dark clouds. It might catch us before we reach Carcassonne.”
“So we must hurry.” She sent him a challenging glance.
“’Tis unsafe to rush here in the forest.” Panic crossed his face, and he raised his voice in a plea. “Please slow down.”
“Once we are through this narrow valley, we’re out in the plain. Then we can go faster.”
“But we’ll be exposed to the elements.” Amalberga’s tone held a hint of fear, and Hilda slowed down.
“And potentially to enemies,” Lot added. “I didn’t like the look of the men who were hiding on that hill behind the village earlier.”
Puzzled, Hilda turned in the saddle to stare at him. “True. I have forgotten about them. I hope they won’t attack Gunda and her family.”
“There seemed to be only three of them, lady, but we don’t know. Come to think of it, ’tis curious that we saw no trace of them later.”
“Perhaps they moved on.”
“Or they are ahead of us…” Amalberga crossed herself. “We should have left earlier,” she repeated.
Hilda felt a sense of dread. She should have listened to her companions. After all, they were her responsibility, and it was her duty to get them back home safely. And whilst Lot was well-armed, and she also carried a sword on her hip and a dagger in her boot, they were no match for three grown men like those watchers.
Thinking back to when Lot pointed them out to her, she thought that the bearings of one seemed familiar, but they had been too far away, and she could not recognise them. Saracens they were not – they had dressed in the Frankish way. Soldiers.
Or mercenaries.
She shuddered. “We’ll be home soon, before the sun sets fully.”
A few yards ahead, the path narrowed, and she clicked her tongue at her mare.
“Lady, wait!” Lot called out. “Let me go first.”
“You watch our back, Lot,” she ordered and veered into the centre of the lane. Looking over her shoulder, she saw that Amalberga followed at a short distance, and Lot, sword in hand, behind her.
“I don’t like this one bit.” Amalberga’s voice reached her, and goosebumps rose on her arm. She should not have asked her companion to join her on such an arduous journey.
“Let’s get through this chasm quickly.” She set Roma off into a run. “Then, we’ll be—”
A scream escaped her as her mare stumbled over an obstacle, and she fell over the beast’s long neck.
When Hilda came to, she was lying on the ground. Beside her, Roma was whimpering.
Black spots danced before her eyes, and she blinked repeatedly to rid herself of them. Taking a deep breath, she propped herself up onto her elbows, but the fall had winded her and she breathed in deeply. A shard of pain shot into her shoulder blades. She tried to move her legs, but it was as if they no longer belonged to her.
What had happened? Had a snake slithered across the trail? Unlikely at this time of year.
She turned her head and saw Roma’s panicked eyes. The front legs lay sprawled at an ugly angle, both broken. Her beloved mare whinnied pitifully.
Tears welled up, and she wiped them away. “Lot? Amalberga?”
Roma blocked the vi
ew of the path behind her. She heard horses neigh, but from her companions came no answer. The silence unnerved her.
“Lot? Where are you?” Fear gripped her as a suspicion dawned on her.
Amalberga would be fretting over her, and Lot would be rushing to her side. But with neither responding, had something befallen them? Her breath caught in her throat.
Eventually, she heard voices. Male.
Had Lot found help?
Listening intently, she could not identify the young man’s accent. Instead, she recognised the language of her father, of the Franks.
The scrape of a sword drawn reached her, followed by a gurgling sound. What was that?
Her heart pounded loudly, and her hands began to shake. She balled them into fists; her nails digging into the flesh, to calm herself.
“He won’t pose a danger anymore.” A harsh laugh echoed through the forest.
Who was he? Lot? She shuddered, and tried to turn onto her side, but her lower body did not budge.
I must have broken my back.
Tears stung in her eyes. Knowing what fate awaited her as a cripple, she swallowed hard. If she survived the day, that was. Perhaps the men were robbers. She had nothing of worth on her other than a few small coins.
“Ah, there we are. The lady Nanthild has need of us, Pepin.”
Her skin crawled as she recognised the voice, and the man it belonged to.
“Clovis,” she whispered.
What was he doing in this remote part of Septimania, far away from Charles’ campaigns? Should he not be with the forces fighting the Saracens?
She glared at him, annoyed with herself for not being able to move. All was suddenly clear. He had waylaid her.
Eventually, he bent over her, his face a grimace of hate…and lust.
“I have waited a long time for this moment, Hilda. At least now you can’t escape me.” He sent her a pitiful glance.
“How…how did you know where I was?”
He trailed a hand down her legs. She felt nothing. “Oh, I was close to Carcassonne when I saw you leave this morn. So I thought…” Slowly, he pushed up her gown. “Well, why not follow the lady and surprise her? When the lord is far away…”
“Damned cur!” She could not even kick at him. Desperately, she tried to punch his face, but his superior strength made all her feeble attempts futile. Easily, he pinned her down by the wrists. She turned her head, only to look into Roma’s sad eyes.
“You…will pay for this,” she whispered, her voice hoarse with strain. “Bellon will—“
He smacked her across the face and pulled her up by the shoulders. As he lifted up her body, a fierce pain shot through her back, then stopped at her hips.
“My horse!” Clovis bellowed.
Within an instant, Hilda found herself thrown over the saddle, like a sack of wheat. She pushed her arms against the stallion’s frame, but a firm hand pinned her down as Clovis sat behind her.
“Get rid of the bodies, Pepin, and take the guy’s weapons,” he shouted. “Then shove them into the undergrowth. Bero should help you. You’ll find me where we stopped on the way up.”
A dead calm descended on her as she looked at nothing but the beaten earth of the path. He rode for a mile or two, then veered off the route along a narrow lane. When he finally paused, she raised her head and saw several derelict, roofless huts. A hamlet deserted decades earlier.
He picked her up roughly and walked her into the nearest hut. There, he lay her on the bare floor. Stones and branches cut into her back, but she kept her gaze firmly directed at his face.
How could she have known this man would stoop so low as to injure and abduct the daughter of a count, and wife of another!
Realisation of what he wanted with her had become clear.
“Don’t stare at me like that, witch! Oh yes, I heard of your healing skills. And look how much they help you now!” Then he fumbled with the belt that held his leggings in place. “And don’t fret! No-one will ever know of our little…tryst.” He laughed, the harsh sound grating in her ears.
“You call the abduction of a countess a tryst?”
“Oh, don’t be so high-and-mighty, Hilda. You women are all the same. Now, be a good girl and spread your legs for me.”
“I would rather die.”
“That can be arranged,” he said calmly. “Afterwards. Now, as you seem unable to move them, let me do it for you.”
Fear swept through her at the glimmer in his eyes as he pushed her thighs apart. He would never take her home. Her mind spat out the obvious: he would use her, then leave her for dead.
Never again would she hold her children, or Bellon. Tears began to flow, and she let them run.
Filled with desperation, she pummelled against him with her hands, but each movement sent waves of excruciating pain through her upper body.
“Damned witch! Lie still!”
Her nails drew blood from his cheek, and he smacked her again. This time, her temple hit a rock. Dizziness overcame her, and her arms went limp. She moaned.
“That is better,” he muttered as he pulled up her gown. In her pained haze, she felt anger stirring, but her body would no longer react to her will.
Suddenly, he halted. The sound of voices and horses’ hooves drifted their way. Someone was nearing.
A small glimmer of hope rose in her chest, and she opened her mouth to cry for help. But a grimy palm covered it immediately, and he pinned her down with his weight. She tried to breathe in, but found it impossible. His big hand covered her nose too. It smelled of dirt. She could not inhale. Feeling the blackness threatening, she wriggled beneath him, but to no avail. The voices receded, but still he held her down. Before the blackness won, she sensed his fear. He would be afraid of her husband’s revenge. So he should be. Bellon would kill him.
Finally, he lifted his hand. She took a deep, ragged breath and forced her eyelids open to stare into his. Then, with the last of her strength, she whispered, “Clovis, I curse you and your offspring in perpetuity, in the name of the God and the Goddess. Their wrath will be absolute.”
The alarm in his eyes told her that her words had an effect. Christians still feared the old religions, and this man was no exception. A sense of peace descended on her. She trusted the Goddess. And Bellon’s revenge.
Later, as Clovis covered her with layers of damp earth too heavy to shift, she let herself drift in and out of consciousness, repeating the curse in her mind. There was no air, no escape. She would become one with the earth…
***
His mood dark, Bellon had ridden late into the night, oblivious to the storm around him. As he finally approached the walls of Carcassonne, he tried to shake off a lingering sense of foreboding.
Dagobert had sent a man earlier this day to where the Franks had set up camp, to the east of Narbonne, which remained in the hands of the Saracens. The messenger told him that Hilda had gone missing, together with Lot and Amalberga.
Throughout his hurried journey home, Bellon prayed fervently that they had returned safely in the meantime. In his despair, he addressed not only his Christian god in prayers but also Hilda’s pagan gods, feeling no guilt at invoking ancient beliefs. One of them might listen. He hoped…
The heavy rain had drenched him, and his wet cloak was not enough to keep the chilly winds at bay. Yet, none of this mattered if he had lost Hilda.
Dagobert awaited him inside the gate, his mouth in a thin like.
“Have they come back?” Bellon dismounted and passed the reins to a stable boy.
The captain shook his head. “No, lord. We have searched the north for miles, as far as the hills, and found no trace. I am sorry,” he added.
“Let’s go within,” Bellon grabbed his arm. “I know my wife well. ’Tis not your fault she has ventured out.”
“Still…” Dagobert opened the door to the hall and followed Bellon.
The warmth inside engulfed him, but he could not shake off the chill in his heart.
“Lord.” Roderic came forward and took his sodden cloak off him. “There is mulled wine waiting for you. Rest yourself.”
“Father!” Guisclafred hovered by the hearth, rubbing his hands over the fire. His son’s tunic and hose were almost as soaked as his own. “We searched for hours, but found no trace of Mother.”
“Here, Father. Dagobert.” Oliba approached them from a trestle table with two full cups. His clothes were equally wet, and tears welled in his eyes. Swiftly, he blinked them back.
Bellon took the cups off Oliba’s trembling hands and passed one to Dagobert. Then they joined Guisclafred by the fire.
With a sigh, he dropped into his chair, aware that he would make the cushions damp. Hilda would tell him off…and he felt her absence strongly. Whenever he returned from a campaign, she had been there. Solid. Quietly supportive. A presence. Now, the hall was an empty shell.
Dagobert sat on a bench opposite and took a draught. “She insisted on leaving early this morn upon hearing of a woman’s plight. Apparently, there were difficulties with her labour.”
Bellon nodded. Leaning forward, he cradled his cup in his hands, breathing in the strong scent of berries and grapes. “And did she tell you where that woman lives?”
“No, lord. I should have asked…”
“Yes, you should. Only Lot always knew where she was going. For some reason, she seemed to find the secrecy necessary.”
“But telling us would have been for her protection,” Guisclafred pointed out. “So we would learn where she was.”
Bellon snorted. “You know your mother. No amount of pointing out to her that safety was important would ever move her to share her whereabouts. She’s over-protective of the people she treats, and perhaps rightly so.” He did not want to state the obvious – that her methods could get everyone into danger if the Church heard about them.
“I wish I’d asked her anyway,” Oliba whispered. He sat beside Dagobert and stared into the fire. “There aren’t that many villages up there.”
“The only thing I remember the man saying is that the village was on the shores of the Orbiel river,” Roderic said, then looked up. “Oh, and he gave the woman’s name as Gunda.”
