Love Beyond Time

by Speer, Flora

  “Let her go,” said a second man when the first would have climbed out of the stream to follow Danise. “She can’t escape. There’s nowhere for her to hide, and I’m tired of guarding her while she pukes, or squats in the bushes and groans. After listening to her this morning, I’d rather kill her than guard her. I don’t know what Autichar is keeping her for.”

  “I know. And so does Clodion,” said his fellow with a loud, suggestive guffaw.

  Danise had by now reached the bushes near to the cave entrance. With a moan and a gasp as realistic as she could make them, she plunged behind the concealing leaves. Getting down on her knees she crawled toward the cave opening and tossed her hair ribbon inside. If Autichar’s men found it when they began to search for her, they might waste precious time looking through the cave, believing she had foolishly fled into it. Praying that the cave would prove to be long and deep, Danise moved back into the bushes, pausing to moan and gag again in case anyone was listening. Then, carefully, she worked her way around the side of the hill, trying to stay within the shelter of the bushes.

  That morning she had heard Autichar say he would head south and east toward the Rhine, which meant she would have to flee northwestward. The only way she could keep herself on course was to head into the path of the sun, which was beginning to move lower in the sky. It was not an easy thing to do there beneath the trees, with their leaves hiding most of the sky and with the need to stay hidden in the underbrush. After a while, hearing no sounds of pursuit behind her, Danise forsook caution. She stood up and began to run.

  Chapter 10

  It had been too easy. She should have known they were only playing with her, letting her believe she had escaped, letting her run herself into exhaustion before they began the chase.

  Perhaps, Danise thought as she dodged the scratching branches of yet another bush, perhaps Autichar never intended to take me to Bavaria at all, never meant for Clodion to have me. And when they catch me, after they finish what they – what they will do – they will kill me.

  Pain stabbed at her side, taking her breath away. She tripped over a tree root, but she caught herself before she hit the ground. Terrified of spraining an ankle and being forced to stop, she pressed onward. She could not afford to slow down or try to be more careful where she stepped. There was no time or energy left for thought now, nor for lofty notions about warning Charles of Autichar’s plan or Clodion’s treason. She was reduced to the mere desire for survival, to the necessity of taking one more step away from her pursuers, and then one more step … and just one more … over and over again. Behind her Autichar’s men called to her, laughing, mocking, making obscene promises. She scarcely heard them.

  Gradually, another noise came to her ears, and it came from the wrong direction. Danise did not pause in her flight, but she did change course, instinctively heading toward the new sound. Fear drove her onward, adding speed. She ran until she saw movement ahead.

  Someone was there, coming toward her through the trees. Fragments of sight and sound drifted across her consciousness. Horses. Men on foot. The blast of a hunting horn. Shouts. Loud voices, calling words she was too weary to comprehend.

  Still not knowing toward what she ran, only aware that it was something different from the impending horror that followed her, Danise moved forward on aching, heavy legs, gasping for every breath. During her desperate flight the hair had begun to pull out of the unbound braid from which she had taken the ribbon. Branches projecting from bushes or low trees had finished the job of undoing the neat braid until now long silver-gold locks blew across her face with every step she took, obscuring her vision.

  Danise could not stop to brush the hair out of her eyes, for the enemy was closer now. She could hear hoofbeats. They came not from directly in front of her, where the hunting horn still sounded, nor from behind, where Autichar and his men were, but from the side. A horse suddenly appeared off to her right. She saw it out of the corner of her eye. Before she could so much as turn her head to see what was happening, the horse’s rider bent out of his saddle to reach toward her. An arm came down and scooped Danise off her feet. She was thrown across the saddle, where she hung face downward, too weak and out of breath to protest this rough treatment.

  She did not know if it was Autichar or one of his men who had taken her up onto his horse, or if it was someone else entirely. The horn was still blaring. Men were shouting. She heard the unmistakable clash of steel upon steel.

  Strong hands lifted her, twisting her around until she could see the face of the man who had caught her. Blue eyes more intense than the deepest summer sky burned into hers. Still out of breath, Danise could not speak, she could only clutch at him before she fell against his chest and felt his arms enclose her.

  “It’s all right,” Michel told her. “You’re safe now, Danise. Well keep you safe.”

  Next Danise recognized Redmond’s voice, giving firm orders to the man who held her.

  “Get her out of here, Michel. We’ll stop Autichar. Take Danise and escape back to Duren.”

  The hunting horn sounded again. Lifting her head from Michel’s chest, Danise watched Guntram blow a mighty blast, summoning more men. One by one Frankish warriors rode out of the forest shadows to join the fray under Redmond’s command.

  “Go on,” Redmond urged Michel. “A battlefield is no place for Danise. Do you want a guard?”

  “You’ll need every man you have,” Michel replied, hesitating. “I ought to stay.”

  “If you do, who will keep Danise safe from Autichar?” Redmond demanded. “Get her away from here now! That’s an order, Michel. If you value our friendship, obey it.”

  “Redmond.” Danise had recovered enough to speak. “Take care. And thank you for coming after me.”

  “Keep Autichar alive if you can,” Michel said. “Charles will want to talk to him.”

  “I know. It won’t take long to disperse these few weak Bavarians, not when they’re fighting against Franks. We won’t be far behind you. Now, ride!”

  Michel pulled his horse around and headed away. Looking over his shoulder Danise could see more Franks arriving with swords and spears at the ready. She caught a glimpse of Autichar’s metal helmet and red cloak.

  “Don’t look,” Michel said, pulling her closer to him. “Just rest. It’s going to take us a while to get back to Duren. It’s a long way home.”

  “I tried to delay them, hoping someone would be tracking us.” Suddenly she began to shake. Afraid she would start to cry if she tried to say anything more, she turned her face into his shoulder.

  “You’ve done very well.” His arms tightened. “Well talk about it later. For now, don’t think about anything at all.”

  “I must, I have to tell someone. It’s a treason plot, Michel. Clodion – you must find Clodion and take him to Charles. I will accuse him.”

  “Hush, my sweet. It’s done. We’ve found Clodion. I think Charles suspects there is more behind your disappearance than Clodion’s lust.”

  “I must tell you.” Danise took a long, shuddering breath. “If I die, someone else should know what they plan.”

  “You aren’t going to die.” His arms held her securely against his solid strength. “I plan to keep you alive for a long, long time. For now, just relax. I’ll have to stop in a little while to rest the horse, and we can talk then.”

  Danise stifled a sob and tried to still the trembling of her limbs. Though the heat of the day was nearly unbearable, she was chilled at the memory of what she had so narrowly escaped. But she was safe at last and no longer alone. Michel would protect her. Slowly the tremors eased. The steady gait of Michel’s horse, the comfort of his arms, and the certainty that Autichar and his men could not harm her while they were busy fighting Redmond and the other Franks, all combined to lull her into a state between sleep and waking, in which she was completely at peace while at the same time intensely aware of her companion’s nearness. She did not know how long she traveled in that blissful condition befo
re Michel pulled on the reins.

  “We have to stop,” he said. “This seems to be as good a place as any.”

  Lifting her head from his shoulder, Danise looked around. Her senses were not at their sharpest, so it took her a few moments to identify where they were.

  “It’s a charcoal makers’ settlement,” she murmured.

  “There’s no one here now,” Michel replied, “and hasn’t been for years. Look at all this new growth. If people were working here, they’d keep this area clean.”

  It had once been a wide clearing in the forest, the older trees almost certainly cut down and used to build the rude huts in which the charcoal makers would have lived while they plied their craft. To one side of the clearing and apart from the huts stood three beehive-shaped brick kilns, located where they were for safety’s sake, so their heat would not burn the huts. Danise could see where the kilns had been patched with clay which was now cracked and showing holes in places. They were overgrown with weeds and vines. There was, as Michel had noted, a fair amount of new growth, bushes mostly, and the absence of any tall trees in the immediate vicinity of this tiny settlement gave them a clear view of the sky. Angry gray clouds blocked the sun, cutting off most of the late afternoon light. As Danise looked upward, a gust of wind caught the treetops, shaking them. In the distance thunder rumbled.

  “It will rain soon,” Danise said. “An early season thunderstorm to end this unnatural heat.”

  “All the more reason for us to stop here.” Michel dismounted, then lifted Danise off the horse and lowered her to stand beside him. “I don’t know much about charcoal making, but wherever people live and work there has to be a source of water. We won’t surfer from thirst.”

  “They would have cut down the hardwood trees in the nearby forest to turn the wood into charcoal in those kilns,” Danise said. “I wonder why they left? The kilns look to me as though they could be repaired and used again, and there is no shortage of wood.”

  “They could have been driven out by warfare or disease,” Michel noted. “Stay here with the horse, Danise. I’m going to look around.”

  She watched him move from hut to hut until a crash of thunder made him glance skyward. The treetops were tossing about and down at ground level a sudden wind lifted a strand of Danise’s hair, whipping it across her face. Michel’s horse shifted uneasily. Danise caught its reins, holding it steady.

  “It looks to me as if they packed up and left in an orderly fashion.” Michel returned to Danise’s side. “The largest of the huts is fairly clean. We can shelter there. The hut next to it will be fine for the horse. I found the water; there’s a stream off to the side of the clearing.”

  He led the horse to the water while Danise went to see the hut he had chosen. It was made of crudely dressed logs, with a firepit in the center of the tramped earth floor and openings at the gable ends of the roof to let out the smoke. The roof looked to be intact and would keep them dry until the coming storm had passed. A worn-down broom stood propped in one corner of the hut next to a wooden bucket, gifts left by the last housewife to live there. Danise took up the broom and began to sweep out the dusty floor.

  “If you can find some branches or small logs, we could start a fire,” she said to Michel when he appeared at the door with his saddlebag and a wineskin slung over one arm. “We don’t need the heat, but the light will be cheerful and it will help to rid the hut of dampness. Do you have a flint in your saddlebag?”

  “I do. There’s plenty of wood near the kilns. There is even a little charcoal.” While he brought the supplies for the fire, Danise took the bucket to the stream to wash it out and fill it. The leather handle broke as soon as she picked it up, so she carried the bucket in her arms.

  “How I would like a bath,” she said, looking down at her soiled dress. The brown wool was torn around the hem and at one arm, where a tree branch had snagged the cloth while she fled from Autichar.

  “So would I.” Michel held out grubby hands, his fingers blackened from charcoal. “We left Duren this morning prepared to sleep in the forest tonight. I have food for the horse, a blanket for him and one for us, my cloak, food and wine, even an extra linen shirt and wool tunic. But no soap, I’m afraid.”

  “There is sand in the stream bed. You could scrub your hands with that.”

  “It will be better than nothing,” he decided. “We ought to hurry, though. The thunderstorm is ready to break at any minute.”

  They washed as best they could with only the sand and the cool stream water. Danise dried her hands on her skirt and began to rebraid her tangled hair.

  “Leave that until later,” Michel advised, slanting a glance toward the sky as lightning flashed. He caught her hand. “Come on, let’s get inside.” His words were punctuated by an ominous rumble of thunder.

  They did not make it to the hut before the skies opened and rain poured down as though buckets of water had been thrown over them. They were immediately drenched. Michel pulled Danise into the hut and slammed the door on the pounding, wind-driven rain. Above, the thunder rolled, peal after peal of it, and flashes of lightning showed around the edges of the ill-fitting door. Michel went to the fìrepit and began to work with his flint and a bit of woolen lint.

  “We were fortunate to find this place,” Danise said. Picking up a few dried leaves from the pile of fire supplies, she held them out to the sparks Michel was striking into the wool. She tried to speak naturally, as though being alone like this were an ordinary occurrence, but she was painfully sensitive to Michel’s presence and to the fact that the raging storm enclosed them in a private haven of warmth and security. Michel blew on the fire, encouraging it to burn. Danise fed it a few small twigs. Together they nursed the flames until the logs he had brought in were crackling merrily. Danise held out her hands to the blaze.

  “You’re shaking again.” Michel ran his hands along her arms to her shoulders, apparently unaware of the effect his touch had upon her. “After what you’ve been through during the last couple of days, you have to be exhausted. If you get chilled now, you’ll probably develop pneumonia and you won’t have the strength to fight it. I don’t want to lose you, Danise.” His hands grew still on her upper arms. His eyes burned into hers.

  “Take off those wet clothes,” he ordered. “Ill give you the choice of my extra undershirt, or the tunic. They are dry.”

  Danise’s teeth were chattering and water was streaming off her wet hair. She knew Michel was right. This was not the time for excessive modesty.

  “Ill take your undershirt,” she said, “and if you will allow me, I will wrap up in your cloak until I am warmer.”

  “Sensible girl.” Kneeling, he began to unpack his saddlebag. “I’m glad I carried in extra firewood. That storm sounds as though it’s going to last all night. Here you are.”

  The linen shirt he handed to her was thick enough not to be transparent, made with short sleeves and a round neck. Turning her back to him, Danise pulled off her sodden dress and shift and quickly donned the shirt. She used her shift to towel her hair until it was no longer dripping water, and then hung shift and dress on a pair of pegs she found driven into the narrow spaces between the logs of the wall. Her shoes were so muddy that she took them off, too, and her stockings as well. Lastly, she braided her hair into a semblance of neatness. When she finally turned around again she almost bumped into Michel.

  “Whoever lived here must have been a decent housewife,” he remarked, brushing past her to hang his tunic and breeches from two more pegs. “I can imagine her telling her menfolk to hang up their clothes.”

  He now wore a light brown tunic, and like Danise, his legs and feet were bare.

  “Help me with the blanket, will you?”

  Danise thought he was trying as hard as she was to pretend that these were normal circumstances in which they found themselves. He did not look directly at her, which made her feel a little less exposed. She grasped one end of his brown blanket and together they unrolled it and spread
it out upon the dirt floor near the fire.

  “Here.” He pulled his cloak out of the saddle-bag and gave it to her. She recognized it as her father’s old one. It was blue, though not as blue as Michel’s eyes, and it was worn until it was smooth and soft to the touch. She wrapped it around her shoulders and sat on the blanket while he produced the food he had packed in the saddlebag.

  “Here’s bread, the ever-present cheese, my knife to cut it with. And here’s the skin of wine,” he said. “We won’t starve overnight.”

  “Must we stay until morning?” she asked. “I am certain my father will worry until he sees me again.”

  “Do you really want to go out in that?” He cocked his head, listening to the latest clap of thunder. “Would Savarec want you to travel in this kind of weather?”

  “No, I suppose not. Michel, do you think Redmond and the others will find us soon?”

  “I would expect them to look for shelter where they are,” he said. He cut a wedge of cheese and offered it to her. Danise stared at it. “Eat, Danise. I’d be willing to bet you haven’t got much in your stomach. Your blood sugar is probably way down.”

  “My what?” She looked at him in bewilderment at the unfamiliar term until he smiled.

  “It’s a current saying in my country,” he informed her. “It means you are close to fainting from lack of nourishment. Even if you don’t feel hungry, eat what I give you.”

  She nibbled at the cheese, discovered to her surprise that she was hungry after all, and reached for the bread. Michel handed the flat loaf to her, and when he did, their fingers touched. Danise looked at his hand, tanned, long-fingered, newly callused from days spent handling weapons in his attempt to reach the same proficiency as Frankish men. Shaken by the sudden realization that she wanted to feel those hands on her body, she let go of the bread. Michel took it and broke the loaf in half.