Timestruck

by Speer, Flora

  “The killers were guards attached to Fastrada’s service. I assume the men who attacked you were also Fastrada’s.”

  Gina’s jaw dropped in amazement that Charles would admit it. She stared at the man, at one of the greatest kings in history, who couldn’t control his own wife.

  “That’s lovely,” she said when she could speak again. “Just lovely. Dominick told me he thought you were setting a trap for Fastrada and using us as bait.”

  Charles did not respond. He looked at her with a sad expression on his face but not one bit of guilt or regret that she could see.

  “Your clever little scheme almost killed the finest man I have ever known. How could you do such a thing?” Gina’s anger and her fear for Dominick rose beyond her power to control them. She didn’t care who Charles was, how great or how famous in history. “Dominick is completely loyal to you, and you knew that when you set him up. You ought to be ashamed of yourself! Instead of endangering the lives of people who love and respect you, why don’t you stop that conniving, vicious wife of yours?”

  “I have done so,” Charles said. “I understand your outrage, Gina, for I, too, love Dominick. He has been like a son to me.”

  It was on the tip of Gina’s tongue to tell him that he hadn’t treated Dominick much like a son, when she thought of Pepin. Charles wasn’t always kind to his sons.

  “An hour ago,” Charles said, “I dismissed all Fastrada’s servants and guards, all her ladies-in-waiting. Every person who is loyal to her has left the palace. I have sent every man and woman of them home, except for a few who are on their way to convents or monasteries. They will be replaced by people who are responsible directly to me.”

  “It’s a bit late for housecleaning,” Gina said, unwilling to relent an inch, not when Dominick lay near death because of Fastrada’s hatred. “While you’re mentioning people loyal to Fastrada, where is Father Guntram? I haven’t seen him since before the trial. I hope you haven’t sent him back to Prum, to rant and rave at poor Pepin for the rest of his life.”

  “No,” Charles responded with a bitter twist to his mouth. “I deeply regret giving Pepin into the care of that cold-hearted priest. Father Guntram is on his way to Rome, carrying a message from me to the pope. One of the men-at-arms charged with seeing to his safety also bears a message, in which I ask the Holy Father to assign Father Guntram to a post beyond the borders of Francia.

  “Soon I will begin to travel around Francia again,” Charles told her. “In recent years I have neglected the first duty of a king, which is to listen to his people and make the best decisions for them.”

  “I am sure the common folk will be thrilled to see you and Fastrada,” Gina retorted with all the sarcasm she could muster.

  “Fastrada will remain in Regensburg when I leave,” Charles said. “Later, if she so wishes, I will grant her permission to move to Worms when the new palace there is finished, or to Mainz, if she prefers. But she will travel with me no more. I no longer reside with Fastrada.”

  “Are you planning to divorce her?” Gina found it difficult to believe.

  “I cannot. The Church has declared any marriage that has been blessed by a priest to be indissoluble,” Charles said. He took a breath before continuing, and Gina could only guess how difficult his marital situation was for him.

  “For the sake of the love I once bore Fastrada, and because I love the two daughters she has given me, I will not humiliate her in public,” Charles said. “From this hour onward, I will not speak of what she has done.”

  “You will need an explanation for why she isn’t with you any longer,” Gina reminded him. “People are bound to ask questions.”

  “I will simply claim that she is too ill to accompany me. Fastrada has always been in delicate health, and she is known to dislike travel, so no other excuse will be necessary.”

  “Why are you telling me all of this?”

  “I never intended for Dominick or you or Lady Adalhaid to be hurt,” Charles said. “You deserved to know why I put you in danger, and since Dominick is too sorely wounded to come to me, I have chosen to tell you the truth. I swear you to secrecy, Gina. Never reveal what I have said in this room.”

  “I refuse to keep something so important from Dominick,” she exclaimed.

  “I expected that response from you.” Charles smiled at her, his charming, bewitching smile that could almost always convince strong men and brave-hearted women to do whatever he asked of them. “When Dominick is well enough, you have my permission to tell him, in strictest privacy, what I have just told you. Is that acceptable to you?”

  “It is,” she said, relenting just a little. “If Dominick recovers, I will tell him, and only him.” She saw Charles wince at the emphasis she put on the word if and she understood that he did regret the harm done to all those who had been caught up in his plan to trap Fastrada in one last, vicious scheme that she would be unable to deny. Perhaps in the future Charles would think twice before allowing a wife or lover to run amok with too much unsupervised power.

  The wound in Dominick’s side began to heal with only a slight degree of infection. Brother Anselm adhered scrupulously to Gina’s directions about using only boiled water to wash the area, and he replaced the bandage with clean linen every day.

  A far more frightening problem than the wound was the fact that Dominick did not regain consciousness. He lay like a man already dead, his only sign of life the regular expansion of his chest as he drew breath.

  Gina began to appreciate the benefits of the medical advances of her own century as she seldom had before. Dominick was wasting away, and they were unable to get either food or fluids into him. Brother Anselm warned her that if they tried, Dominick could choke to death, for in his present condition he was incapable of swallowing. Gina would gladly have given her right arm for a nurse with intravenous equipment and the sterile fluids that would keep Dominick alive until he could eat and drink again.

  “If he revives,” said Brother Anselm, “it will be weeks before he is fully recovered. All too often patients who remain unconscious for so long never entirely regain their wits. I wish there were more that I could do for him. Beyond keeping him clean and comfortable, all I can suggest is prayer.”

  Gina wanted to scream out her fear and frustration. She restrained herself, because she knew Brother Anselm was treating Dominick as best he could. He was a kindly man, wise in the medicine of his own time and place, but his learning wasn’t adequate to Dominick’s injuries.

  During those days of constant fear, if the infirmary ceiling had opened up to show Gina a way to return to New York, she would have seized Dominick in her arms and tried to carry him into the twentieth century with her. Once there, she’d have taken him to the nearest hospital and demanded that he be treated, no matter what the expense. She’d sell her body or her soul, if necessary, to pay for Dominick’s recovery.

  But the ceiling never opened. Dominick remained in his stuporous condition, and Gina began to lose hope.

  She and Harulf and Lady Adalhaid took turns sitting with him. Both Harulf and Lady Adalhaid insisted that Gina must return to Dominick’s house each day for at least a few hours, to bathe and sleep and change her clothes, so she could return to her nursing duties refreshed.

  “When Dominick wakens,” Lady Adalhaid said one afternoon, “he won’t be cheered to see you looking haggard and starving. Attend to your clothes and your hair, Gina. Keep up your appearance for Dominick’s sake.”

  They were in the hall at Dominick’s house, and Gina had just shoved her plate of food aside. Lady Adalhaid pushed the full plate back to Gina, who regarded it with distaste and a growing sense of incipient nausea.

  “Keep up my sagging spirits, you mean,” Gina said, swallowing hard.

  “What’s wrong with that?” asked Lady Adalhaid. “It’s what I forced myself to do for all those sad years when Hiltrude was living at Chelles and dared not leave there. My faith and hope were rewarded. So will yours be.”

 
; “Dominick’s condition is different from Hiltrude’s.”

  “She was in danger for her life. So is Dominick. Eat, Gina.” It was said with the firm resolve of a determined mother.

  “I am so glad you postponed returning to Trier,” Gina said. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  Lady Adalhaid s hand closed over hers, and suddenly Gina couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. She began to sob uncontrollably. Lady Adalhaid put her arms around Gina, pulled the younger woman’s head onto her shoulder, and sat there holding her, letting Gina cry until she was too drained to continue.

  “I think you needed that,” Lady Adalhaid said, releasing her. “Now, eat a little, drink some wine, and then take a nap. I am going to the infirmary to relieve Harulf, but Ella and Imma will be here if you need anything. I am sure you will be more cheerful when you see Dominick later this evening.”

  “How can I ever thank you?”

  “It’s I who owe a debt to you.” Lady Adalhaid caught Gina s face between her hands and kissed her forehead. Then she stepped back and wagged a finger at Gina. “Now, go to sleep.”

  “Yes, Mama.” As soon as she realized what she’d said, Gina caught her breath, uncertain how Lady Adalhaid would react.

  Lady Adalhaid chuckled. “I always did want another daughter,” she said. “You’ll do nicely, provided you develop a habit of following my instructions.”

  The sun was setting when Gina reached the infirmary. She had slept well and had eaten again before leaving the house, and, to her surprise, she was feeling more hopeful.

  But the moment she walked into the infirmary, her heart sank. Lady Adalhaid was helping Brother Anselm wring out a wet sheet, which they then spread out over Dominick’s exposed body.

  “What’s wrong now?” Gina cried, hurrying to the bedside.

  “Count Dominick has developed a severe fever,” Brother Anselm explained. “We are attempting to lower it by cooling him. This is the accepted treatment, my lady. Please do not tell me a fever is treated differently in your country.”

  “I won’t,” Gina said. “Is there any ice available?”

  “Earlier in the season there would have been. We keep blocks of ice stacked in the buttery. Unfortunately, the weather has been so warm of late that all the ice has melted. There is none left at the palace, either. I have asked.”

  “Then I guess you’re doing the best you can for him.” Gina sat on the stool beside Dominick’s bed and took his hot, dry hand in hers. “His breathing is so noisy.”

  “An inflammation has settled in his chest.” Brother Anselm was so serious that Gina at once perceived what the real trouble was. Dominick had developed pneumonia. That was why he was struggling for breath, why he had such a high fever. In the eighth century, no medicine existed to cure it.

  “Perhaps if we prop him up on several pillows, he can breathe more easily,” she suggested in desperation.

  “It cannot hurt him.” Brother Anselm sounded as if he didn’t think Gina’s idea would be much help, either. Nevertheless, he went around the infirmary collecting spare pillows from the vacant beds. Most of the men brought in after the battle in the square had recovered enough to leave, whether to their barracks to finish their recuperations, or to cells to await sentencing for their attack on Dominick. Two of the wounded men had died. There were plenty of pillows available for Dominick.

  They lifted him until he was sitting almost upright, and Gina thought the change in position did ease his breathing a little.

  “I could fan him,” she said. “That will increase the effect of the wet sheets.”

  “A good thought,” said Brother Anselm. “I will send to the palace for some fans.”

  “That’s something useful I can do,” Lady Adalhaid said, ‘ì know most of the court ladies. I’ll have no trouble finding fans.”

  “The sheet will need to be dampened every hour,” Brother Anselm said to Gina. “Either I or one of my assistants will return to help you.”

  “You are very good to us,” Gina said, overcome by the man’s willingness to do whatever would help Dominick.

  “Caring for the sick and wounded is my life’s work,” Brother Anselm responded. “My skill is a gift I offer to God’s service. I only wish I were successful more often.”

  “No one could try harder than you do. I don’t mean to criticize your methods, Brother Anselm. It’s just that I’m so worried.”

  “I understand,” said the infirmarer, and he excused himself to join his brothers for prayers in the church.

  Left alone with Dominick, Gina dampened a small cloth with cool water and placed it on his forehead. Lady Adalhaid returned with several fans and an elderly woman.

  “Lady Madelgarde knows Dominick,” explained Lady Adalhaid. “She has volunteered to help us.”

  The three of them fanned Dominick’s body for several hours, pausing only long enough to sprinkle water on the sheet or to dip the whole thing into a tub of cool water and wring it out with Brother Anselm’s aid. Toward midnight Gina noticed how her companions were wilting with fatigue.

  “Lady Adalhaid,” Gina said, “I am going to give you the same advice you gave to me earlier today. Eat something, drink a little wine, and sleep. You cannot continue to nurse Dominick if you fall ill.”

  “I will see to it,” said Lady Madelgarde. “Come along, Adalhaid. I don’t want to hear a word of protest. You are spending the rest of the night with me, in my room at the palace. It will be quiet there, for a surprising number of the queen s ladies have left. I promise to tell you all the rumors about that interesting situation.” Lady Madelgarde put an arm around her friend and led her away.

  Chapter 22

  The infirmary was silent. A few lamps here and there threw flickering brightness onto the white walls and the ceiling. The remaining patients were all asleep. Only Dominick’s labored breathing and the distant voices of priests and lay brothers chanting the first holy office of the new day broke the stillness.

  Gina continued to fan Dominick while holding his hand. Slowly she lowered her head until her cheek rested on his hand. The fan ceased to move. The arm she had been using to wave it lay across Dominick’s abdomen. As her eyelids drifted shut, Gina’s last waking thought was that all the wet cloths and fanning were producing some effect, for the hand she was holding seemed a little cooler.

  Dominick drew a long, shuddering breath. Gina came bolt upright, wide awake in an instant, her heart pounding in fear.

  “Gi... na.” Dominick’s voice was so weak she almost didn’t hear it the first time he spoke. “Gina?”

  “I’m here.” She fought back tears. Her fingers on his forehead and his open eyes told her all she needed to know, what she had hoped for since seeing him lying in the square. “You’re awake. The fever has broken. You’re getting better.”

  “I’m cold.”

  “Of course you are. We’ve been trying to cool you off ever since sunset.”

  “Thirsty ...” His eyelids began to close.

  “Don’t you dare leave me again!” she cried. “Stay awake, Dominick. I’ll find some water and a cup.”

  After days of Gina’s repeated insistence on the medicinal boiling of water, Brother Anselm had taken to keeping a large, covered pitcher of it on a nearby table to use when washing Dominick’s wound. There was also a bottle of wine, recently opened and then re-corked to keep it clean and free of insects. Gina mixed water and wine in a cup and held it to Dominick’s lips.

  “Weak,” he murmured, sipping.

  “Do you mean yourself or the drink?” she asked, trying to tease him when what she really wanted to do was throw her arms around him and hold on tight while she bathed him in tears of relief.

  “Both,” he answered. “Cold, too. I dreamed I was floating in an icy lake. Bed’s wet. Unmanly.” He sounded thoroughly disgusted.

  “Oh, it’s not that,” she said, torn between laughter and weeping. “We’ve been keeping you wet to bring down the fever. It worked, too. Your matt
ress is soaked, but it’s thanks to us, not you, I promise. As soon as the singing stops, I’ll find Brother Anselm and ask him to help me move you to a dry bed. Then we’ll feed you.”

  “No need to wait for the priests,” said a familiar masculine voice. “I will move Dominick.”

  Startled, Gina looked up into the blue eyes of the king of the Franks.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Charles said. “It’s a recent affliction. I’m sure you understand the cause. I came to see how Dominick is faring.”

  “Well enough,” Dominick answered for himself before Gina could speak. “I can stand up to walk to another bed.” He made as if to rise, but then collapsed back against the pillows.

  “You look and sound as weak as a newborn kitten,” Charles said to him. “I forbid you to try to get out of bed on your own. Lady Gina, tell me exactly where the wound is, so I don’t tear it open again when I lift him.”

  “Let me dry him first,” Gina said, “and prepare the bed next to this one.” She wasn’t going to raise any protest about the king helping her to move Dominick. In her opinion, Charles owed a serious debt to both of them.

  Charles waited patiently while she uncovered Dominick and used a towel on him. He was so thin, his muscles wasted from dehydration and from days of lying in bed, and his cheeks were pale as ashes above the blond beard that had grown while he was too sick to shave. But he was awake, and, as far as she could tell, he was in his right mind, so she wasn’t going to worry about anything else for the moment.

  The bed next to Dominick’s was made up with clean sheets and a quilt, in case a patient arrived unexpectedly. All Gina had to do was turn back the covers and pile up a few dry pillows to keep Dominick’s head elevated. When she was ready Charles lifted Dominick into his brawny arms as if the indomitable warrior weighed no more than a baby and laid him down again with great tenderness.

  “What has happened to you is, in some measure, my doing,” Charles said, looking down at Dominick while Gina pulled up the quilt. “I give you my word, nothing like it will ever happen again.”