by Speer, Flora
“Are you challenging me?” Redmond’s tone of voice dared Clodion to say he was.
“Count Clodion,” Danise said, hoping to put an end to any chance of a contest of weapons between the two, “I am flattered by your great interest in me, but I must tell you again that I have not yet decided if I will marry at all.”
“I blame your father for setting up this ridiculous competition,” Clodion told her. “No woman should be allowed to make such an important decision. Savarec should have made the choice for you and then informed you of it.”
“It is because the choice is so important to my happiness that my father gave me a voice in it,” Danise declared. “I insist that you treat Count Redmond with the respect due to his title and his fine character.”
“You insist?” Clodion glared at her. “You, a foolish girl, would tell me how to behave? You have spent too much time in the company of Sister Gertrude.”
“Count Clodion, I must ask you to be silent. I will not allow you to insult my dear friend,” Danise told him. “Since you find me both foolish and rude, perhaps you would like to withdraw your suit, as Count Autichar has done.”
“Withdraw?” Clodion’s face went hard and white. “No, I will not. You will pay dearly for your insolence. I will have you yet, Danise, and when I have tamed you, I promise you will become completely biddable to my every wish.” With that, Clodion stalked off.
“Is he mad?” asked Redmond, looking after him. “How can he imagine you would ever agree to marry him when he speaks to you in that way?”
“I hope he is not angry enough to cause trouble for my father,” Danise murmured.
“It’s not likely. Your father has the respect of more men than Clodion will ever have, and Charles’s abiding friendship besides. Clodion cannot harm Savarec,” Redmond concluded.
“I hope you are right,” Danise said.
After his kind words about her father, Danise felt she ought to grant the request Redmond had made of her, and so she spent an hour with him after they finished eating. They walked to the riverbank, where Redmond spread out his cloak so they could sit upon it and talk. She found it easy to be with Redmond. There was in her relationship with him none of the tension she felt when she was with Michel. Redmond spoke of ordinary things, told her about the morning’s hunt, described his principal home near Tournai, asked her opinion on his new green tunic, informed her about his favorite foods. He was polite and agreeable and unquestionably a good man. Danise was bored to the brink of tears. When Redmond excused himself to go to the practice yard and work with his weapons, she was grateful to see him leave. She headed toward Hildegarde’s tent.
“Danise.” She spun around, her heart thumping, to meet the piercing blue eyes of the man she had longed to see all day. Weary of the polite conversation she had endured for the last hour, she did not give Michel a chance to tell her what he wanted to say, but went straight to the subject that interested her most.
“I do not understand why you were so quick to become my father’s man,” she blurted. “Michel, you may tell me I have no right to speak on this subject, but surely you have not given up all hope of recalling your identity?”
“In fact, I have given up hope,” he informed her. “It’s best to get on with the business of living.”
“But you don’t know if you have a family.” She could not say what she wanted, could not speak the word wife to him.
“What can I do about it?” he asked. “I cannot force my memory to return.”
“You have changed overnight,” she accused him. “You are so reserved, so closed upon yourself.”
“Apparently, this is the way I always am when I am in good health,” he replied.
“No.” She shook her head. “No. There is a deep difference in you.”
“Of course there is. You see before you a man who has accepted his lot and who has found a place for himself.”
“But just a few days ago you told me -” She broke off, recalling in vivid detail what he had said, and what he had done to her. “Michel, I do not understand.”
“There is no need for you to understand.”
“Do not speak to me in such a brutal way. I have during this afternoon endured Clodion’s threats and insults, and then Redmond’s endless politeness. I thought you and I were friends. No, more than friends, for I told you about Hugo and I allowed you to kiss me.” She clamped her lips shut, refusing to remind him that he had declared his wish to become one of her suitors. Obviously, he had changed his mind. But, why? Seeing a familiar figure in clerical garb approaching, Danise made another attempt to convince Michel to explain his actions. “Here is Alcuin. I believe he has come for that discussion you agreed to have. Perhaps Alcuin can help you.”
“I don’t need help.” Michel flung away from her, and then stopped short, staring not at Alcuin but at the slender young cleric with him. “Hank? Is that really you?”
“It is not,” said the young man. “I am Adelbert.”
“But I thought – I hoped – oh, hell and damnation, I imagined you might have a conscience after all.”
“I assure you, I have,” the young man said. “Though why the state of my conscience should interest you, I do not know.”
“There has been a mistake made here,” Alcuin said. “Adelbert, I have no further need of you just now. You may leave me and do whatever you wish for the remainder of the day.”
With a fearful backward glance toward Michel, Adelbert sped away.
“I am free for the next hour or two,” Alcuin said to Michel and looked at him expectantly, waiting for his response.
“I find I have no need to talk,” Michel said. “You may have heard of the decision I made this morning to join Savarec’s men-at-arms. I am content with my choice, and have no questions left.”
“I doubt if any thoughtful man has no questions at all about his life,” Alcuin said, “but I shall not press you to speak when you would prefer to be silent. However, where Charles is, there am I also. If you should change your mind while we are still at Duren, you have only to ask for me.”
“Excuse me,” Michel said. “I have an appointment to meet Redmond.”
“He has no appointment, or Redmond would have mentioned it to me,” Danise murmured, gazing after Michel’s departing figure. “Master Alcuin, what is wrong with him? Has some new ailment come upon him? He is so unlike himself.”
“I think it is rather the end of an ailment,” Alcuin replied. When Danise looked at him in surprise, he went on, “In Agen last year, when our friend India first met Adelbert, her reaction to him was the same as Michel’s just now. Astonishment, a hint of anger, then embarrassment and, in India’s case, an attempt to pretend she had made a foolish mistake.”
“What are you saying?”
“That India and Michel both know someone who closely resembles Adelbert, a fact which suggests to me that they both come from the same country.”
“We can’t know that. Michel doesn’t remember -” Danise stopped, one hand at her mouth. “He could only think he recognized Adelbert if he does remember. Master Alcuin, Michel’s memory has returned! But why did he not tell us?”
“For some deep reason of his own,” Alcuin said. “I sense no more evil in Michel than I ever did in India. Rather, Michel is confused and unhappy – and angry with this Ahnk person for whom he mistook Adelbert. Danise, I believe we ought to remain silent about Michel’s recovery of his memory. When he is ready to announce it, he will. Noblemen have their reasons for what they do, and women and clerics should not interfere.”
“Do you believe he is a noble?” Danise asked, hoping it was true, and that Michel was unmarried as well. It would make such a difference if he were not wed. She pushed away that thought because it made her feel guilty and uneasy. She had no right to feel about another woman’s husband the way she felt about Michel.
“I believe Michel has a noble heart,” Alcuin responded to her question, rather evasively. “Let us trust him until he can make a f
ull explanation.”
* * *
In the days that followed Danise began to fear that Michel would never provide her, or Alcuin, with an explanation for his sudden change in behavior toward both of them. He spent most of his time with the men, a fact that was not particularly notable. At gatherings such as Mayfield, Frankish men tended to congregate together, leaving the women to their own devices.
Thus it was that Danise stood a little apart with Hildegarde and the other women during the sporting contests, watching Michel reach the finish line first in a horse race against Redmond. Later, again from a distance, she saw him wrestling with various young men. Frequently he lost in that particular sport, but twice he did win. He laughed with carefree pleasure when Redmond clapped him on his bare shoulder. He accepted the congratulations of the other men and acknowledged the applause of the queen, but he did not once look toward Danise.
From comments made by her father and Guntram, and from Danise’s own observations, Michel seemed to her to be growing steadily tougher and more daring. The man who had once been her helpless patient, the would-be lover with whom she had shared an intimate and revealing afternoon, was now an intimidating person whom she seldom dared approach.
Sometimes she found Michel almost frightening, as on the day when, having wandered away from the royal tents to the far side of the encampment where the horses were penned and where the men gathered to practice with their weapons, she saw him riding out of the camp with Savarec and Redmond. All three of them wore chain-mail brunias and were armed with broadswords. The troop of twenty men who followed them were also armed and wore chain mail or heavily padded woolen tunics.
Danise did not know that Michel had acquired chain mail. No one had bothered to tell her and she had not thought to ask. She stared at him, marveling at the hard set of his face, noticing that he looked as ready for battle as any of the other men. She could see no softness or gentleness in him.
“Why are they all garbed for war?” she asked of no one in particular. She did not expect an answer from the men on foot who hurried by her on their own errands, but she quickly received a response from a surprising source.
“They are looking for Autichar.”
“Master Alcuin, what are you doing in this part of the camp?” cried Danise.
“I came bearing a final instruction from Charles to Savarec,” the scholar replied. “When Charles thought of it, there was no one else immediately available, so I offered to carry the message. It is a pleasant morning for a walk.” Alcuin paused beside Danise, both of them watching the men on horseback who were heading into the forest.
“I thought Autichar had gone home to Bavaria,” Danise murmured.
“So did we all, until Charles received word that your erstwhile suitor was seen not far from Duren. Charles thought it wise to investigate the rumor.”
“My father told me only that he would be gone for two or three days on a mission for Charles,” said Danise. “Now I think I should be worried about them.”
“They are warriors all. Even Michel sits his horse like a man well used to riding. They will know how to deal with Autichar if they find him. There may be nothing in the story of his presence in the vicinity.” Alcuin began to walk back toward the royal tents and Danise went with him. “Danise, I hope you will join in our discussion again this evening. The remarks you contributed last night were most intelligent.”
“Thank you, Master Alcuin. I plan to be there.” Danise was flattered to be included in the learned group of men and women who, each evening, gathered about Charles and Alcuin for lively talk on a variety of subjects. Sometimes Alcuin or one of the other clerics would read aloud from a book Charles had chosen. Most often it was Saint Augustine’s The City of God, but whenever Charles gave them the choice, the clerics voted for the lighter works of the Roman poet, Virgil. Some of them could recite verse upon Latin verse from memory, and they had a habit of choosing the most romantic poems. Danise especially liked the nights when they all watched the stars come out while Alcuin explained the circular motions of the heavenly bodies as set forth centuries earlier by the great Egyptian astronomer, Claudius Ptolemy. These informal meetings were pleasant endings to busy days, and ordinarily Danise could turn her full attention to what was being discussed. But in recent days there lurked in her bosom a growing discontent.
If Savarec imagined that exposing his daughter to the life of the Frankish court would turn her away from any inclination toward a religious vocation, then his plan was succeeding. With each day that passed since her coming to Duren, Danise was more certain that she could not return to Chelles to live. She thrived upon the new responsibilities that had fallen to her, first to the care of the injured Michel and now to the queen and the royal babies. She was deeply fond of Charles and Hildegarde and of their children. She yearned to enjoy the same kind of happy family life they did. Therein lay the source of her discontent, for every time she admitted her true wishes to herself, Danise suffered severe pangs of guilt for betraying Hugo and the dream they had once shared. This inner conflict cast its shadow over the sunny warmth of mid-May. Danise knew she could not long avoid making several important decisions, and it seemed to her that whatever choices she might make, she would be unhappy.
The continued importunities of Count Clodion only added to her concerns. With her father away on the mission for Charles, leaving Guntram in charge of Savarec’s men-at-arms who remained at camp, and with Sister Gertrude spending much of her time with the queen, Danise too often had to fend off Clodion’s romantic advances on her own. Clodion was annoyingly persistent.
“There you are,” he said one afternoon when Danise was returning to her tent after a morning spent with Hildegarde. “I have been waiting for you, my dear.”
“I cannot stop to talk with you now,” Danise responded. “I am tired and I have a headache.”
“Of course you have. A young woman is often bothered by such trifling infirmities. It is a sign that you ought to be married. A good husband would know how to cure your headache in a most agreeable way.”
“I do not think so.” Danise tried to continue along the path to her tent, but Clodion stepped in front of her. She moved to one side. He blocked her way again. Danise stepped to the other side. Clodion was there, too. “Kindly let me pass, Count Clodion!”
“If you want to reach your tent, I will require a toll from you,” Clodion told her. “A kiss, or perhaps several kisses, will do nicely.”
“I do not wish to kiss you.”
“You pretend to be shy now, but once you are in my arms you will soon begin to moan in ecstasy. Come, Danise.” Clodion stretched out his arms. “Come to my bosom and let me tutor you in the pleasures of the body.” He appeared to be blissfully unaware of the shudder this image evoked in Danise, and of the anger that quickly followed upon her revulsion.
“Count Clodion, if you do not stand aside and let me pass, I will scream. Guntram is nearby. He will hear me and come to my rescue.”
“That black-bearded barbarian?” Clodion sneered. “No doubt he lusts after you, too. How many other men trail in your sweet-scented wake, Danise? Do you take pleasure in discovering just how many of us you can torment?”
“If you suffer torment, Count Clodion, it is of your own making. I have never encouraged you to believe I care for you. Surely you can find some other woman who will happily receive your lustful attentions. I do not find your suggestions pleasing.”
“I know the kind of woman you are,” Clodion said with a self-assured smirk. “You delight in driving a man mad with cruel words and repeated refusals, while all the time your own lust is rising in response to your chosen victim’s discomfort. Women like you want to be conquered, not wooed. You need to be bound and gagged and beaten. Only then can you find the true ecstasy of roughly joined bodies and the gasping release of fearful, driving passion.” Clodion was breathing hard.
“You are disgusting.” Danise backed away from him. “I tell you now, Count Clodion, that I want n
othing more to do with you. I will not speak to you again, and when my father returns, I will tell him that I will never marry you. And, I will tell him why!”
“How cleverly you play your little game,” Clodion said. “How angry you look, how dark and dangerous are your eyes. You will say nothing to Savarec, my dear. Your father’s righteous anger would only spoil your passionate anticipation of the rapture you will find in my bed. One day soon, you will be mine.”
“Never! I will live the rest of my life at Chelles rather than marry you. Now, if you do not go away at once, I will tell Charles that you have been bothering me.”
“More threats. How delightful. How stimulating.” Clodion did not move. Danise seriously contemplated trying to run around him and back to the royal tents. Only her fear that he might capture her and actually embrace her kept her standing where she was. The thought of Clodion touching her made her feel ill.
At that instant of indecision she saw two groups of men approaching. A trio of nobles walked along the path, heading for the tents just beyond Savarec’s, while from behind her father’s tent came Guntram and one of the men-at-arms. Guntram saw her and hastened forward just as the nobles reached them.
“Clodion,” said one of the nobles, “join us. We plan an afternoon of gaming, not to mention drinking some fine wine and enjoying the company of a couple of willing camp followers. What say you to a wager or two?”
By this time Guntram and the man-at-arms had positioned themselves on either side of Danise. Guntram fixed a fierce glare upon Clodion.
“I would be delighted,” Clodion said to the noblemen. “Danise, my dear, I fear you must excuse me. Our conversation has been most pleasant. We will speak again soon. Good day to you.” And off he went with the nobles as though he and Danise had been discussing nothing more serious than the unusually hot weather.
“Beware of that man,” said Guntram. “His soul is sadly twisted toward forms of cruelty you are too innocent to understand, Danise.”
