Love Lost in Time

by Cathie Dunn

  “And that’s where you searched, northwards along the river?”

  Dagobert and Guisclafred nodded in unison.

  “Then we’ll leave again at first light. If she’s out there, we will find her.” He glanced at his oldest. “Is Alda asleep?”

  “Yes, finally. It took all Rotlinde’s soothing skills to get her to bed and rest.”

  “Good. Sleep will help her. Now,” he turned to Dagobert, pushing away his tiredness, “tell me where you searched, and then we can plan for the morrow.”

  After reaching the base of the northern hillsides, their group had split into two. Dagobert, Guisclafred and a few men would follow the route close to the banks of the Orbiel river, whilst he, Oliba and the remaining men-at-arms would scour the surrounding forests. They had agreed a meeting place where their paths crossed, deep in the hills.

  But as he rode along the narrow, winding route, his hopes faded. They had passed through two hamlets close to the main route, but neither had seen Hilda or her companions. Scouts searched abandoned huts to see if she had sought shelter from the storm the previous night, but they had found no trace.

  “There’s another hamlet ahead, Father.” Oliba, riding in front, pointed at a clearing not far ahead.

  Bellon looked up, but his brief sense of hope was fading fast. Only half a dozen hovels stood in a small circle. What were the chances?

  Nudging his horse to level up with his son, he approached the settlement with trepidation.

  As they neared it, a young lad of Guisclafred’s age bearing an axe emerged from the largest hut, stopping at a safe distance from them. “What do you want?” He eyed them suspiciously.

  Bellon raised a hand. “Greetings. I’m Count Bellon of Carcassonne. We have no intention to harm you or your family. Instead, we wish to ask you whether you have seen a lady travelling past here, with her two companions.”

  The man lowered his axe, though did not let him out of his sight. “A lady, you say? When was that supposed to have happened?”

  “Yesterday.” Did this stranger know something? He seemed to mull over something. “My wife travelled with a guard and her companion.”

  Bellon’s hope soared when the man turned his head and called, “Mother, come out! These people might be looking for the woman.”

  The woman? His heart was pounding loudly. “Have you seen them?”

  “Yes, we saw them, first in the morn, then later again. The sun was setting already when they passed us – your lady, an armed man and an older maid.”

  A woman of around Bellon’s own age emerged from the hut.

  “Mother, this is Bellon, the count of Carcassonne. He’s looking for his wife.”

  “And her companions,” Oliba added.

  Her eyes grew large. “The… Show your respect, boy,” she slapped her son softly on the head before kneeling on the bare ground. “I’m Svinthila and this is Ardo. Welcome, lord.”

  Her son was swiftly following her example, sending him an apologetic grin.

  Bellon dismounted and handed his reins to Oliba. Then he approached the two. “Thank you. Please rise. It is important that we find them.”

  The woman’s eyes filled with tears. She stood, nodding. “Yes, lord. As Ardo said, they passed us. But later, when my son went out,” she looked away furtively and Bellon guessed he had been hunting.

  “Your son went out…and what?” He prompted her, unconcerned about the reasons. Like these folk, he followed some of the stricter Frankish rules only loosely, so he did not pursue poor people for wanting to feed their families. People needed to eat and keep warm, and there was plenty of game in the forests.

  She took a deep breath. “Tell him, Ardo.” She nudged the young man who swallowed hard.

  “I…I came across the guard, lord. He was dead,” he said. “It looked as if he’d been killed by a spear, then had his throat cut. There was blood everywhere.” His voice shook.

  “Our men went out and buried the wretched soul beside our own departed,” Svinthila added solemnly.

  Bellon took a shaky breath and crossed himself, as did Oliba beside him. Ever since he had rescued Lot, he had felt responsible for his welfare. Lot had been like a son to him, and now some cur had cut his life short.

  “Thank you and your men for your kindness, Svinthila. I shall not forget it.”

  “Poor Lot. He didn’t deserve this,” Oliba whispered.

  “No, he did not. We’ll avenge his cowardly murder, do not doubt it!” He looked back at Ardo. “Did you see the women?”

  “The older one, yes.”

  His heart sank. “Was she dead, too?”

  “No,” Svinthila said. “She’s within, but gravely injured, and I don’t know how long she’ll remain with us.”

  “Amalberga is alive?” A small glimmer of hope. She may know what had befallen Hilda. “May I see her? Did she wake?”

  Hilda shook her head. “No, she hasn’t come to since we brought her here. Her attackers had thrown her into a ditch near the man you called Lot, but Ardo heard her whimper.” She waved him over. “Please enter, lord.”

  He bent low through the entrance and entered the hut which was separated into three sections by curtains. A lit fire in the centre spread warmth across the room, and the beaten earth was covered in dried lavender branches, which let off a fine scent with each step. A few clean pots hung on hooks in a corner.

  “This way, lord.” She pushed aside a curtain, and he entered what must be her sleeping area.

  Bellon blinked back tears when he saw Amalberga. Her face pale, she lay on the pallet, covered by a blanket and a warming fur – the origins of which he did not wish to know. Kneeling beside her, he took her hand. The coolness of her fingers, despite the heat, worried him.

  “You have done well in looking after Amalberga, Svinthila. I’m in your debt.”

  The woman shuffled her feet, a faint smile on her lips. “I wouldn’t leave an injured soul out there.” She sobered. “I’m only sad we didn’t find your wife. You know, after Ardo came across your man and then this woman – Amalberga – our men went to look for the lady, but all they found were tracks of horses’ hooves. The attackers must have taken her.”

  He nodded, his mind made up. “Yes, I believe that is what happened. We need to build a litter so we can carry Amalberga back to Carcassonne.”

  Voices rose outside, and he stood, listening.

  Svinthila tilted her head. “My husband and brother-in-law are returning. They will help.”

  It did not take long to find the right branches, and with Oliba and the men-at-arms helping, they put together a solid litter. Bellon also dispatched a man to meet Dagobert further up in the valley, to tell the captain that they were returning to Carcassonne forthwith.

  In the meantime, Ardo took him to where he had discovered Lot’s body.

  A sense of dread hit him when he inspected the scene. The perfect place for an ambush. Bellon stared up and down the narrow path, his skin prickling. Someone knew what they were doing.

  “This is where I found your man, lord.” Ardo pointed at a discoloured patch of leaves. Matted blood stuck to the earth.

  Bellon shuddered. He patted the youth on his back. “It was brave of you to approach a mutilated body.”

  “He could have been alive. As was the horse, a little further up where we just passed. The attackers left the poor mare to die, so—”

  “A mare?” Both Hilda and Amalberga rode mares. “Of what colour?”

  “Light brown, with a white spot on her chest. Both her front legs were broken.” He fidgeted, avoiding Bellon’s gaze “We had no choice but to…release her.”

  Roma. So Hilda was taken here. A planned ambush. “You did right, Ardo.”

  And you’ll have some food to tide you over the autumn.

  They took another close look around, but found no clues as to Hilda’s whereabouts. Eventually, his heart heavy, they returned to the hamlet.

  A short while later, they took their leave from a tea
ry Svinthila.

  “Thank you. I won’t forget what you’ve done for us. You are always welcome at the fortress should you need to go to a safe place. I will send someone to return the blankets to you and bring you more furs.”

  “Thank you, lord. That is kind of you. We were glad to be of help. I have given Amalberga a calming tisane so she won’t feel the bumpy journey. And our men will keep scouring the forest for your lady wife. I pray she is alive and well.”

  He nodded, and their little procession went on its way south again, though more slowly this time. Amalberga lay cocooned in blankets, tied to the litter which was carried securely between two horses.

  A little later, they spotted yet another long-abandoned hut several dozen yards from their path.

  “Let’s have a look at this one. How did we miss it on the way up?”

  “It’s hidden from sight by those shrubs, Father.” Oliba pointed at the thick undergrowth on the side of the path.

  Only a few crumbling walls remained from what appeared to have been a Roman home many years ago. A shudder ran down Bellon’s back as they searched the remnants. The ground was churned up, but there was no sign of any lit fires, likely meaning nobody had stayed there overnight in a long time.

  Still, he took steps into the dense undergrowth around the sad ruin, but apart from a few cracked branches, nothing stood out. Yet he could not shake off a growing sense of unease. He stared into the gloom of the trees when a deer broke out of the thicket and rushed past him.

  “Ah. The likely cause of the broken shrubs. Wild animals.” He swallowed hard. “Hilda wasn’t here.”

  “Then let us head home, shall we?” Oliba lay a heavy hand on his shoulder.

  Bellon nodded, then mounted his horse. “Agreed, son. Keep watch, though! I feel like we’ve missed something.”

  “Yes, Father.” Oliba followed him, his voice shaking.

  They returned to the path where their men-at-arms waited with Amalberga and turned southwards again.

  Hilda hovered above a mound of earth covered in branches and leaves only a few yards into the undergrowth. She reached out her hand but knew they could not see her. Oliba’s sadness tore at her heart. Oh, once more to touch her family, to hold them in her arms.

  Stretching as far as she could, she kept her gaze firmly on Bellon, savouring this final chance to look at him. Then he was gone. And she was alone…

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Mid-May, 2018

  A knock on the front door brought Maddie out from the kitchen where she had nursed her coffee whilst reading three notes from the dig in Yorkshire. All useful material for her book, so she had annotated several passages for reference.

  She opened the door to a man hidden behind a large parcel labelled ‘fragile’ in large print. “Madame Winters?”

  “Oui, c’est moi.”

  He was about to drop the box on her doorstep when she caught it and gently put it on the floor in the corridor.

  “C’est fragile, Monsieur!”

  She glared when he shrugged and held out an electronic pad for her to sign without another word. Then she shut the door in his face.

  “Delivery people aren’t what they used to be,” she mumbled as she carried the box into the kitchen where she carefully set it down on the table and fetched the scissors from a drawer. Gently slicing through the sticky tape that kept the lids in place, she prised it open. The laboratory had wrapped the bones individually, and she discovered to her relief that every item was almost as she found it – minus the small pieces they’d taken out for analysis, but the cuts were barely visible.

  She picked up the written report that accompanied the items. So the bones were definitely over 1,000 years old, belonging to a female, with the ribs and backbone broken in a way that implied an accident. Had someone left the poor woman to die? A horrific suggestion, but realistic enough as in times of warfare nobody was safe.

  Maddie laid out the pieces on the table, aware of a slight current between them and her hands. The bones were vibrating, clearly happy to be back home. She cradled the cranium and whispered soothing words. “Don’t worry. I’ll see you receive the respect you were denied in death.”

  A horse neighed, and she shook her head. Was it her imagination again? She gently placed the cranium beside the bones and looked out of the window, but no horses passed by. Yes, she was being silly.

  What am I going to do with you? Maddie sat down and looked over her small hoard. Bertrand would take some pieces to keep them in the small museum beside the mairie. But now she had to decide which pieces would go and which she would keep. She felt bad having to split up the bones, like tearing apart a real person.

  ‘Rest.’

  Maddie’s head shot up. So she was still here, the woman whose bones now lay on her kitchen table.

  “You wish to rest? I can lay you to rest here, in Minervens. We’ll find a beautiful spot for you. But I promised Bertrand a few bones for his collection. I’m so sorry.”

  ‘Home.’

  Not for the first time did she wonder what had happened to this woman who had lived over a millennium ago.

  “I have to do the right thing.”

  Her mobile phone vibrated on the kitchen cupboard where she had left it to charge. She grabbed it and smiled at the message.

  Fancy dinner by the canal? My treat x

  Why not? She’d not seen Léon for two days as his winery held a special promotional weekend, but it would be lovely to catch up with him.

  She had told him about her father, and he recognised the name de Montceau. Apparently, it was a highly respected wine-growing family business.

  Only Maddie couldn’t see anything worthy of respect in a family that rejected one of their own – her!

  Still, dinner sounded good, so she agreed for him to pick her up at 7 pm.

  “I’d like you to meet my parents, Maddie.”

  She choked on her Aperol Spritz and pinched her nose where the fizzy liquid had tickled her. “What?” Was their relationship gone that far already? “Umm…”

  Léon back-pedalled quickly. “There’s no rush. They’re just curious about you. My father spoke to Bertrand, so they know about the bones and the renovations. And, I guess, they’re wondering why I’m hiding you.” He smirked behind a large glass of blueberry gin and tonic.

  Maddie laughed out loud. “Well, that’s fair enough, I suppose. It’s just…after what I’ve read in Mum’s journal, I wonder if I need to be on my guard.”

  He took her hand and stroked it. “My folks don’t bite. They’re intrigued by your work – my mother is a member of a regional history society – and she is curious about the bones. And your plans.”

  “My plans? What about them? After the renovations, I want to…”

  What did she want? She stared at him, fully aware of his thumb stroking the inside of her hand, a sensation that addled her brain.

  Her original aim had been to sell Elizabeth’s house as soon as the year was up. But she hadn’t counted on meeting Léon or finding the bones. In recent weeks, the house, this village had started to feel like her home. People welcomed her. Would she still want to swap this warmth for the coldness of a small, empty flat in York?

  “Maddie?”

  She met his querying glance straight on. “Yes. Umm…”

  He nodded. “I understand. If you’d rather—”

  “No, I’d love to meet your folks. And to tell them about my plans.” She grabbed his hand. “Things have changed. Unexpectedly.”

  Léon smiled. “Then you’re cordially invited round for dinner on Friday. Oh, and I have other news, too.”

  She swallowed. “Oh, do you?”

  “Yes.” He pulled a sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to her. “I wanted to wait until after we’ve eaten, but I’m too curious know what you think.”

  “What’s this?” She unfolded the A4-sized sheet. “An email from…what?”

  Had she read correctly? She checked t
he name at the bottom of the message again.

  Marie-Pierre de Montceau.

  “What is this?” Tears shot into her eyes, stopping her from reading it. She blinked.

  Léon took the sheet from her and tucked it away. “It’s an invitation to the Château de Montceau. My mother reminded me that I’d met the owner at a wine show in Paris two or three years ago, so I got in touch with him. I hope you don’t mind. I haven’t told him about you, but he’s welcoming me and my girlfriend to stay at their domaine.”

  “Wow!” Maddie took a large gulp of her apéritif. “But we should tell him about me before we meet him, shouldn’t we?

  “Yes, it would only be fair. So, I guess you’re ready to see your family?”

  So much to take in, she simply nodded. “Unless he tells us to go to hell, like his mother did…”

  Léon laughed out loud. “He should try!” The glint in his eyes was unmistakable. He’d not accept a rejection lightly.

  She grabbed his hand and kissed it. “Thank you.”

  Stroking her cheek, he smiled. “You’re very welcome. Here, to us!” He raised his glass.

  “To us!”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Early October, AD 793

  Carcassonne

  It was late at night when Bellon and his retinue finally arrived at home. The litter had hampered their pace, and Amalberga’s occasional, incoherent whispers worried them. None of the words she mumbled made any coherent sense, though.

  Roderic emerged from the hall just as he dismounted. “Welcome back, lord. Any tidings?”

  “Yes, but not ones you’d wish for.” He pointed to Amalberga. “Can you ensure she’s gently taken upstairs and put into my bed? It’s the most comfortable. Ask Rotlinde to care for her.”

  “Of course.”

  “And there’s more,” he added, ruffling a hand through his hair. “Lot is dead.”

  Roderic crossed himself and bit his lip. “Lot dead? He was so young. I will see his family. What in God’s name has happened?”