by Speer, Flora
They remained thus for a while, Michel seated on the bed, Danise crouched before him with her hand over his, each looking deep into the other’s eyes, Danise longing to unlock the secrets of his mysterious mind, aching to help him and knowing only time could cure his affliction. Then, at a sound by the tent entrance, they pulled apart, not with a guilty start but with a slow and reluctant motion.
“Danise,” said Sister Gertrude, “you should not be alone with a man.”
“My father knows I am here,” Danise said.
“Whether Savarec knows where you are or not, it is time for you to wait upon the queen.” Sister Gertrude cast a scornful glance at the man sitting on the cot, who now rose respectfully. “If he is well enough to be out of bed, then he is well enough to be left alone for a short time. Come along, Danise, you are already late.”
“So, he has a name now, has he?” Michel heard the nun say as Danise followed her out of the tent.
“Midday meal,” he muttered, reaching for his clothing. He would go to this midday meal himself and see what it was all about. But when he bent over Savarec’s clothes chest, he was assailed by a wave of dizziness and by a pain in his head so severe it drove him to his knees. Feeling weak and nauseated, he groped his way back to his bed and got into it. With his head on the pillow once more, the pain eased enough to allow him to think.
“Not today, then,” he told himself. “Perhaps tomorrow I’ll be steady enough on my feet to get dressed and then I can find out what is going on here.”
* * *
Danise was so delighted to know Michel’s name and to be able to talk with him that she almost floated across the crowded meadow to the royal tents. When she saw her father coming toward her with an elderly gentleman, she wanted to tell him her news at once. But the proprieties meant much to Savarec, so they must be observed. With Sister Gertrude beside her, Danise paused a short distance from the queen’s tent, unaware of the effect her glowing expression and bubbling good spirits were having on the men and women gathering for that day’s outdoor feast. More than one young noble looked at her with admiration, and the white-haired man with Savarec nodded enthusiastically.
“So, this is your Danise. I’d wed her this very day if she would have me.”
“Humph,” snorted Sister Gertrude, unimpressed by this declaration. “You said much the same thing to me more than thirty years ago.”
“Forgive me, sister, but I do not remember you,” said the elderly man. “There have been so very many women in my life.”
“So I’ve heard.” Sister Gertrude put all her disapproval into her voice.
“Danise,” Savarec told his daughter, “if you have not yet guessed, this is Count Clodion, one of the men who has asked for your hand.”
“Good day to you, sir.” Danise inclined her head and gave her hand into Count Clodion’s bony fingers.
“Delicious,” said the count, smacking his lips as though he would like to have Danise for his next meal. “A beauty, Savarec, a rare jewel, and one I would like to add to my possessions.”
“I have no desire to become a possession, Count Clodion.” Danise tried to withdraw her hand from his. He would not let her go.
“All wives are possessions, my dear.” The count bared discolored teeth in a mirthless grin. “Were you mine, I would be kind, and bind you with ropes of softest silk.”
“No innocent maiden ought to be forced to listen to such disgusting talk,” snapped Sister Gertrude. “Clodion, you have not changed one bit since I was a girl – save, perhaps, to grow even more lecherous.”
“And all the more appreciative of youthful beauty with the passing years.” Clodion was not the least abashed by Sister Gertrude’s scolding. He tucked the hand of the unwilling Danise into his elbow and held it there while he led her toward the tables set up before the royal tents. “Danise, you lovely girl, you must sit beside me this afternoon.”
“I believe my father wanted me to meet another suitor, Count Clodion.” Danise finally succeeded in getting her hand free of Clodion’s clutching fingers. “Also, I must pay my respects to the queen, whom I have neglected these past few days.”
“By all means, you must remember your duty to dear Hildegarde.” Clodion stayed by her side when Danise began to move toward the queen’s tent. “I shall accompany you.”
“It won’t be necessary,” Sister Gertrude told him. “Here comes the queen now. Charles is with her, and from the look of him, he wants to speak with you.”
“So he does. Danise, I will rejoin you later.” Count Clodion hurried off in the direction of the royal pair.
“Stay here a moment, Danise,” Sister Gertrude instructed. “You don’t want to appear before Charles and Hildegarde with that creature by your side. They might imagine you have decided to accept Clodion’s suit. Really, Savarec, how could you even think of handing Danise over to that dreadful man?”
“He was a great warrior in his youth,” said Savarec.
“Yes, forty years ago in Charles Martel’s time,” Sister Gertrude snapped. “With his teeth rotting and his muscles grown stringy with age, Clodion has nothing to recommend him now.”
“For his courage in battle Clodion was awarded an important title,” Savarec responded with his usual patience. “He was also given large estates, which he has managed well. He is one of the richest men in all of Francia. If Danise were to marry him, Clodion has promised she would never want for anything.”
“What nonsense!” declared Sister Gertrude. “Clodion was known for a miser forty years ago; I doubt if he has changed in his old age. Furthermore, he has at least a dozen children by his previous wives and uncounted brats by his concubines. Several of those women are still living. Women and children alike, they will all expect Clodion’s lands to be divided among them when he dies. No, Danise would not be welcome in Clodion’s family, nor would any children she might bear to him. Tell me, Savarec, do you really want your daughter in that disgusting man’s bed?”
“Now, see here,” Savarec began, losing his patience at last.
“Please, please,” Danise begged. “Do not quarrel on my account. I have not yet decided to marry anyone. I haven’t even met Autichar of Bavaria.”
“Another prize specimen,” muttered Sister Gertrude, fortunately speaking too low for Savarec to hear her. “Are there no decent men in Francia who are looking for wives?”
“Count Redmond seemed very nice,” Danise remarked, hoping to calm the nun’s rising irritation.
“That young fool? He’ll wear you out in bed. If you were to marry him, you would have a child every year.” Laying a hand on her arm, Sister Gertrude stopped Danise in her forward progress toward Charles and Hildegarde. “My dear girl, I am only trying to protect you. A man can break a woman’s heart. A man can be the death of a woman, either because she loves him and he will not love her, or because he loves her too well and too often, and thus gives her too many babies.”
“Would you have me avoid all men?” cried Danise. “I am not sure I want to do that.”
“Oh, child, child, if only I could make you understand the heartaches and the loneliness that lie in wait for the woman who gives her life into the keeping of a mere mortal man. How much better to give yourself to God.”
“Yet I am but a mortal, too,” Danise said. Impulsively, she put an arm across the nun’s back, hugging her. Sister Gertrude was usually too rigid to accept such an affectionate, gesture, but this time she not only accepted it, she returned it, clinging to Danise as if she could by sheer physical strength save her young charge from all the dangers and pitfalls of a woman’s life.
“I do promise you,” Danise said, “that I will consider your warning carefully before I finally decide what to do. Whether I wed or become a nun, I will not do either without much thought and prayer. Now, dear Sister Gertrude, I must speak to Hildegarde. Come with me, for you know she is fond of you.”
Hildegarde was also fond of Danise. But, except for a brief greeting the day after Danise’s a
rrival at Duren, the two had not had a chance to talk together since the previous autumn, shortly after Hildegarde’s twin sons had been born at Agen. The smaller of those babies had since died, and now Hildegarde was large with the burden of another pregnancy. In the queen’s life Danise could see an example of the hazards that fueled Sister Gertrude’s concern for her own future.
Hildegarde took her seat in a large wooden chair padded with thick cushions. The queen’s sweet face was pale, her light brown hair hung in lusterless braids, while her swollen abdomen only accentuated her overall thinness. Her ladies and her children clustered about her. Baby Ludwig, just nine months old, and two-year-old Carloman were in the arms of their nurses, four-year-old Rotrud was playing at her mother’s feet, and seven-year-old Charlot was strutting about with his toy sword as if he were already a grown man and a warrior.
Off to one side Charles stood talking to several of his nobles, with his uncle, Duke Bernard, and Count Clodion among them. Looking at those men, Danise sighed. So many of Charles’s closest companions of the previous summer, men who should have been in the group about him now, instead lay dead in Spain, or in the treacherous pass at Roncevaux, or buried at Agen, like her dearest Hugo. In the sad aftermath of the Spanish campaign, Charles was much changed. He refused to speak about the tragedy at Roncevaux, he would not even mention Spain, and he seemed to Danise to be sadly aged and careworn.
Savarec had told Danise that Charles’s present most pressing woes concerned the Saxons, who repeatedly rose in revolt against their Frankish rulers, looting and burning and killing wherever they found the opportunity, for the Saxons were determined to remain independent and heathen. Since they had a habit of torturing and killing any Christian missionaries who ventured beyond Frankish territory, and since they often made unprovoked attacks on Frankish lands east of the Rhine, Charles had decided Saxony needed to be subdued and converted to the True Faith. Savarec believed the task would be a long and daunting one, in which he would be deeply involved, for the fortress he commanded was situated on the eastern bank of the Rhine.
I’ll speak to you again later, Danise.” When Savarec left his daughter to join Charles and his male friends, Hildegarde gestured to Danise to come closer.
“How does your injured guest?” asked the queen, who had been kept fully informed by both Charles and Sister Gertrude.
“He is much better today. We have discovered his name.” Danise went on to describe her most recent visit with her patient.
“Michel,” mused Hildegarde. “Named for the warrior archangel. Is this Michel also a warrior?”
“At the moment, he’s too weak to be anything,” Sister Gertrude answered for Danise. “Though he has a tough and wiry look to him, he is not at all well-muscled. Danise, here comes your father and it seems he has found the rest of your suitors.”
Hildegarde laughed at the nun’s disgruntled expression as Savarec and two men drew near. The golden-haired Count Redmond came forward at once to greet first the queen and then Danise. He also made a polite bow to Sister Gertrude, who favored him with a nod of her head before glaring at Savarec.
“I have found Autichar,” Savarec announced, and presented him to Danise.
Count Autichar of Bavaria was not much taller than Danise. He was thickly made, with massive shoulders and arms. By contrast his short legs appeared underdeveloped, as though he spent more time on horseback than walking or standing on his own feet. His hair was orange-red, his eyes gray, and his snub-nosed face was sunburned and peeling. His bright red tunic and cloak clashed with the color of his hair.
Danise would have dismissed his lack of physical attractiveness as unimportant if only Autichar had been a pleasant man, but she quickly learned that his personality matched his appearance. He scarcely looked at the queen, whom he ought to have acknowledged first, instead examining Danise as if she were a horse he was thinking of buying.
“She doesn’t look big enough to produce healthy sons,” Autichar said. “But then, Hild-egarde isn’t much larger and she has borne several male children, so perhaps this girl will, too. All right, Savarec, if you will promise to come to my aid with fighting men if I should need them, and swear never to fight in any battle against me, then I will take your girl and get my heir on her.”
“I have promised Danise the choice shall be hers,” Savarec said.
“A foolish thing to do,” Autichar told him. “Women don’t know what they want until a man shows them.”
“Nor can I make promises to you that might interfere with my first loyalty to Charles,” Savarec went on. “Any agreement of mutual aid between us must be subject to Charles’s approval first.”
“Well spoken, my friend.” Charles, his uncle and his companions now joined the group around his queen. He towered above them all, his pale gold hair glinting in the May sunshine, his blue wool cloak carelessly draped across his broad shoulders. Autichar had to look upward more than a foot to meet Charles’s eyes.
One of Charles’s feet, Danise told herself with some amusement, for the size of the royal extremities had been used to determine the new official measurement of a foot.
“Autichar,” Charles said in a deceptively quiet voice, “I do not think I can approve of your suit for Danise’s hand. You are too fond of my cousin, Duke Tassilo of Bavaria. Your insistence that Savarec ought never to fight against you makes me wonder what you and my cousin are planning.”
There was an uneasy silence when Charles stopped speaking. Years before, while Charles’s father, Pepin, was still alive and king of the Franks, there had been a war in Aquitaine. Duke Tassilo had taken his troops there to fight for Pepin, as he was obliged to do, having pledged his loyalty to Pepin. But before the battle was joined, Tassilo deliberately quarreled with Pepin and then took his men and departed the field. This herisliz, this act of treachery and desertion, was the most serious crime a Frankish noble could commit. It was punishable by death, though for family reasons neither Pepin nor, later, his son Charles, demanded that ultimate penalty of Tassilo. As a result of Tassilo’s actions in Aquitaine, relations between the Frankish kings and their cousin the Duke of Bavaria had been strained for years.
“Last summer Tassilo sent troops for your Spanish campaign,” Autichar reminded Charles.
“Only a small contingent,” Charles replied, smiling a little. “And Tassilo himself did not join me. Perhaps he feared I would have him arrested.”
“Are you accusing Tassilo and me of plotting against you?” demanded Autichar.
“Certainly not,” Charles said. “Not without clear evidence. However, you and Tassilo are not only related to each other by marriage, you are also close friends. And now I find you trying to subvert Savarec’s primary allegiance to me.”
“You heard him,” said Autichar. “Savarec wouldn’t agree to defend me should I become his son-in-law.” Turning to Savarec, Autichar added, “Savarec, I formally withdraw my request for your daughter’s hand in marriage. Nor will I remain where my loyalty and my honesty are in question. I will take my men and leave Duren for Bavaria this very day.”
“God speed you on your way,” Charles said, the smile still playing about his lips. He watched as Autichar stalked away. “You and that small army you brought to Duren,” Charles added thoughtfully.
“Do you think that was entirely wise?” asked Savarec. “He will go home to Bavaria and tell Duke Tassilo what you have said.”
“Which was my intent,” Charles informed him. “Let Autichar remind my cousin Tassilo that I have not forgotten what he once did to my father. There will be a reckoning between us. Perhaps not for years, but it will come. I foresee Tassilo ending his days in a secure, well-guarded monastery.”
“Meanwhile,” Sister Gertrude said, “Danise is rid of at least one unwelcome suitor.”
“Here is an added advantage to my decision to convince Autichar to go home.” Charles was grinning now. “Danise, you deserve a husband far better than Autichar.”
“So I had already dec
ided.” Danise met Charles’s sparkling eyes with laughter. “But I do thank you, sir, for sparing me the trouble of sending him away rejected.”
“And I,” said Savarec. “I admit, I was in awe of his lands and his titles, but he would have made a poor husband for my girl.”
“Now, if we could just rid ourselves of Danise’s other suitors,” Sister Gertrude said.
“Oh, no.” Hildegarde burst into laughter. “Sister Gertrude, do not deny Danise the joys of wedded life, for they are sweet indeed. Even the discomforts are but trivial when one has married the right husband.”
“Thank you for those words, dearest wife.” Charles beamed at his queen. Catching her hand, he raised it to his lips and kissed it.
To this testimony to marriage Sister Gertrude dared make no critical response. Not with Hildegarde smiling at her husband and Charles watching his wife with a tender gaze. But when Charles turned his attention elsewhere, the nun did have a few choice words for Savarec.
“You claim to love Danise, yet the quality I would expect to see in her possible husbands is sorely lacking, Savarec.”
“I am not so rich or so powerful that I can afford to ignore the proposals of such men,” Savarec responded. “In fact, Clodion earlier today all but accused me of outright trickery because he has discovered that Danise’s dowry is much smaller than he expected it to be.”
“In that case, let us hope Clodion will decide not to pursue her.”
“He made his suit contingent upon his meeting with Danise,” Savarec said, somewhat uneasily. “You heard him. He is enthusiastic about the prospect of marriage to her. I am not unwise enough to refuse him.”
“Unwise?” scoffed Sister Gertrude. “Say rather, you have no wits at all in such matters. If you had, you would not trust Clodion for a moment.”
