by Speer, Flora
When darkness fell, Theu sat at the table with the tray of sand and his brunia before him. India had lit a second oil lamp, and the fire in the firepit burned brightly, so there were few shadows in the little house. She poured a cup of wine and pushed it toward him, being careful not to spill any on the armor. He did not take his eyes off the brunia. Working on a sleeve, he pushed a handful of sand through the chain mail, rubbing, rubbing, then lifted more sand and began again.
“Is it ever finished?” India asked, taking up a portion of the other sleeve, which he had not cleaned yet.
“When I finish, I begin again,” he said. “Though sometimes when I am on campaign, I am unable to clean it for a week or more.”
“So many links.” She looked more closely at the mail. “Each forged separately, each fastened into a circle with a tiny rivet. Every ring linked to four others.”
“As a warrior is linked to God, to his king, to his friends. And to his love.” Theu’s eyes met hers. “If one ring is broken, the wearer becomes vulnerable to wounding and death. All the rings are necessary to the integrity of the whole armor. Men are the same. Each person is necessary to all the others in his world.”
“The fabric of life,” she said, scrunching up a portion of the sleeve she held, feeling the crisp, cool metal in her hands before she smoothed it out upon the table. “You would make a fine philosopher, Theu.”
“Not I.” He laughed, his eyes on his work again, his strong hands manipulating sand and metal. “If you want philosophy, or an explanation of man’s proper place in this world and the next, speak to Alcuin and his friends.”
“I will.”
He stopped working. He looked into her eyes and put his hand over hers where it rested on top of his chain mail. They sat that way for a long time.
Chapter 10
Because he was busy with the preparations for their departure from Aachen, Theu asked Marcion to ride with India on the following day.
“See that you obey his orders on the handling of your mount,” Theu told her sternly. “I want to hear of no incident like yesterday’s, when you spent your horse unnecessarily.”
It seemed to India that the look he gave her was cool. Recalling that he had once told her he would never love again, she wondered if he was concerned that they were growing too close. Perhaps he had decided to put some emotional distance between them. Or perhaps the revelations of the past two days had damaged the fragile connection that bound them together. Watching him go off with Hugo, she wanted to run after him, seeking reassurance that what he felt for her was more than just a particularly intense variety of sexual desire.
“Are you coming?” Marcion waited, observing her with laughing yet shrewd eyes. “Will you tell me what punishment Theu meted out to you for mistreating your horse? I tried his patience in the same way once, when I was new to Francia, before he knew me well. He sent me to muck out his stables for three days. After that, I had a new appreciation of his intent to be obeyed when he gives an order.”
“I wasn’t sent to the stables,” she said, thinking about the passionate night just passed, “but I know what you mean. I have seldom seen anyone so angry.”
Alone with her, Marcion proved to be the same as he had been in the midst of Theu’s warband – an amusing companion, a man with whom she could relax because the tension of physical attraction was absent between them. He was also knowledgeable about horses and patient with her ignorance of them. But, in her continuing insecurity about her place in Theu’s life and how long she would be able to remain with him, she would rather have been with Theu, and she was happy to return to his house in late afternoon.
He had a visitor. India and Marcion met the man about to leave Theu’s house just as they were entering it. India recognized him at once by his swarthy complexion and his thick black beard and mustache. He was Guntram, one of Savarec’s messengers.
“I hope nothing is amiss with Savarec,” she said, fearing the rebellious Saxons might have done some harm to Danise’s father.
“Not at all, Lord India,” Guntram replied. “Savarec is in excellent health and sends his greetings to you. Count Theuderic will tell you about the rest of my message.”
“You will be certain to take the groom back with you,” Theuderic said in a commanding voice, “and tell Savarec what I have reported about him. I will not have him in my party all the way to Agen.”
“I have no doubt that he will soon be sent to fight Saxons,” Guntram replied. “Fare you well, my friends. I return to Savarec at once.”
When he had gone, Marcion looked at Theu with raised eyebrows.
“What now?” he asked. “More trouble with the Saxons?”
“Not this time,” Theu replied. “Savarec has received an invitation from Charles, or to be more specific, from Hildegarde. The queen has invited Danise and a female companion to visit the court for the summer. Savarec has asked me to escort her there.”
“Hugo will be delighted,” said Marcion, adding in a joking voice and with a wink at India, “Do you think Savarec still hopes to wed his daughter to Lord India? Is that his reason for this request?”
“His message did not specifically mention India,” Theu said, casting an amused glance at her, “but he may intend that they grow fond of each other along the way. If that is his plan, he will be greatly disappointed.” He looked as if he might laugh, but sobered at Marcion’s next words.
“The additional women will slow us,” Marcion noted. “And we know who the female companion will be. Where Danise goes, Sister Gertrude goes, too.”
“I am not looking forward to her company,” Theu admitted. “But Savarec was my father’s friend and has always been mine. I could not in friendship say no to him.”
“Well, then, it’s settled,” said Marcion.
Apparently, Sister Gertrude did not think the matter was settled at all. With Danise in tow, she swept up to Theu and India just as the evening meal was ending. She spared a piercing glance for India, who was wearing her woolen gown and shawl.
“It is a great relief to me to discover that Count Theuderic is not consorting with boys,” the nun remarked in acid tones. Turning the full force of her tongue on Theu, she added, “However, I am most displeased with your actions. You have sent away the groom Savarec lent to us,” Sister Gertrude scolded Theu. “You had no right to interfere in our affairs in that way. How is our servant Clothilde to travel without a horse to ride? Who will care for our horses during the journey? Answer me, Count Theuderic!”
“I assume from your words that Savarec’s messenger found you.” Theu did not mention what the dismissed groom had tried to do to India, and he showed no sign of annoyance at being verbally attacked before his own men and the residents of Aachen.
“Found me and delivered his message,” the nun snapped. “I am not happy about these new arrangements. A royal court is no place for an innocent young girl.”
“Hildegarde is the most responsible of queens.” Marcion’s declaration drew Sister Gertrude’s attention from Theu to himself. “My own betrothed, the lady Bertille, resides at court. I do assure you, she has suffered no loss of innocence there. In fact, I am scarcely allowed to see her.”
“Which is very proper in the case of a young maiden,” said Sister Gertrude. “But what about the journey to Agen? The company of coarse men, the dangers upon the road – I cannot understand why Savarec would allow his daughter to make such a journey.”
“Because the queen invited her,” Theu said patiently. “No doubt Savarec was thinking of Danise’s future, of the ladies she will meet and make friends with at court.”
“But what are we to do for a groom?” cried Sister Gertrude, returning to her original complaint.
“I will care for your horses along with my own,” offered Hugo. “As for your servant, she can ride behind any of the men she chooses.”
“Lord Hugo, you are most kind to help us,” said Danise, who had remained silent through Sister Gertrude’s protests. She sent a charm
ing smile Hugo’s way, which Sister Gertrude did not notice because she was again scolding Theu over the loss of her groom and the change in plans and whatever other lament came to her tongue.
“What a delightful journey this will be,” said Marcion sarcastically to India while Theu listened to Sister Gertrude with remarkable politeness.
“But at journey’s end you will meet your Bertille once more,” India reminded him. She was not really thinking about Marcion and his betrothed. She was thinking about Theu. For a warrior noted for his ferocity, for a man with the kind of temper he had displayed on several occasions, he was peculiarly polite to women. She could not imagine any twentieth-century man she knew enduring Sister Gertrude’s attacks without making a rude response. Theu merely listened, agreed with the nun when possible, or made some statement aimed at calming her ire.
Nor had he been rude to India – occasionally rough, or frustrated, the day before furiously angry when she was plainly at fault in the way she had used her horse, but never deliberately rude. A firm respect for women showed in all his dealings with them. It was yet another aspect of the character that continued to intrigue and entice her – and to frighten her, too, for the better she knew him, the more terrible the thought of separation from him became.
During their final day and a half at Aachen, India scarcely saw Theu. He came to bed late, after she was asleep, and contented himself with a quick kiss and a hug before he closed his eyes in weariness. In the morning he left before she wakened. Knowing that he was busy and that his duty was vitally important to him, she did not complain when she did see him, and she tried to occupy herself with her own preparations for the coming trip.
Inspired by Theu’s sense of responsibility and not wanting to have to depend on Hugo or one of the other men to do her work for her as Sister Gertrude would do, she enlisted one of the stableboys to instruct her in the proper care of her horse while they were traveling. With Marcion’s help, she acquired from an itinerant peddler a long woolen cloak and a brooch to fasten it. She planned to wear the cloak with the tunic, trousers, and boots in which she had come to the eighth century. She was unable to use a sword to bolster her traveling disguise as a young man, finding the weight of the broad, two-edged Frankish weapon difficult to lift, and having no skill at all in its application, but Hugo gave her a long knife and a belt to hold it.
“If you stay with Theu or one of us at all times,” he advised, “you will be safe enough. There are men who take only a knife and a spear and axe when they go off to join the army, so the lack of a sword won’t make you especially noticeable, but it would look strange if you had no weapon at all.”
On Theu’s orders, Hugo also found saddlebags for her. She was fascinated to learn from Hugo that each man in the Frankish army was expected to carry his own food supplies, enough for three months. He told her that these were usually bread to eat at first, coarsely ground flour to make more when the bread was gone, a slab of bacon or some dried meat, and wine or ale to drink, this last item to be replenished along the way.
“Though Charles is so strongly opposed to drunkenness that any man found guilty of it is condemned to drink only water until the campaign is over. And we all know how unhealthy water is,” Hugo said with great seriousness. “It will kill a man as fast as any enemy, sometimes faster.”
Considering the probable sources of water available to a large army on the march, India could believe this was no joking matter. She fastened a filled wineskin to the saddlebags she had packed with food and rolled up her woman’s clothing to squeeze into the remaining space in the bags.
On the night before they were to leave, her personal preparations were complete. Knowing that it would be a long time before she could again enjoy the luxury of a hot bath or a shampoo, she took soap and towel to the spring next to Theu’s house. In the light of the rising full moon, she soaped hair and body, then rinsed and rinsed again. There was just enough moist chill in the air to make her look forward with eagerness to the moment when she would immerse herself in the hot water of the pool. With a pleasant expectant shiver, she moved toward the edge, watching the steam that drifted upward from the surface of the water. Balancing on one foot, she cautiously dipped in a toe.
“There’s no need to test it,” said Theu from behind her. “The heat is always the same.” He caught her hand, spinning her around like a dancer and wrapping their locked arms across her back to draw her against him. He had removed his clothing before coming to the pool, so her bare wet skin was pressed against his dry warmth. Desire for him, never far from her consciousness, blossomed at the contact, but she kept her voice under control.
“Have you also come to take your last bath before we leave?”
“I have neglected you these past two days,” he said, acknowledging her attempt at coolness. “I’ll remedy that tonight. Perhaps you’d be willing to help me clean away the day’s dirt and sweat.”
“I might be.” Leaving his arms, she moved toward the spot where she had left the bowl of soap and the bucket. He followed her.
“There will be a reward for your assistance,” he promised, drawing aside her wet hair to kiss the back of her neck.
“A good deed is its own reward, needing no other recompense,” she murmured, relishing his appreciative chuckle.
“In that case, dearest lady, I will not delay your act of charity. Begin whenever you wish.”
She answered him by pushing him down onto the low wooden stool that sat next to the spring and then pouring a bucket of hot water over his head. The soap in the bowl was not quite solid. She scooped a little of the gelatinous substance into one hand and began to wash his hair.
“Be careful,” he warned. “If it gets into my eyes and stings, I will be angry.”
“It seems to me,” she told him, “that you ought to be grateful for my help instead of sounding like Sister Gertrude.”
At that, he seized her right hand and began kissing her wrist and fingers in spite of the unpleasant taste of the soapsuds adorning her skin.
“Let me go,” she whispered, all her senses stirred by the touch of his mouth on the pulse point at her wrist, “or I won’t be able to wash your back.”
When he released her hand, she gathered up more soap and began to massage his back while he leaned forward on the stool.
“Now your chest,” she told him, moving around to kneel facing him.
“No.” He caught her hands. “I’ll do the rest myself. If you touch me once more, I won’t be able to wait. I want this night to be a feast of love for both of us, not just for me.”
He rose, pulling her up with him. They stood in hazy moonlight, wanting each other yet delaying what they knew would soon happen, drawing out the desire and the fulfillment they would find in each other.
“Our idyll here is coming to a close.” He was still holding her hands, lacing his fingers through hers. “Once we are traveling again, there will be few occasions to make love as freely as we do in this private place. But whether you sleep in my arms or not, never doubt my longing for you. Never imagine I have ceased to want you, though I may not show my desire as your woman’s heart might hope. And when at last our journey ends, then you and I—” He stopped, dropping her hands and moving toward the pool. When he spoke again, she had the impression that he was fighting against an almost unbearable grief.
“I sometimes forget,” he said in a choked whisper, “that you may not always be with me. I begin to plan a long and happy time together, and then I remember, and it is as though you are already gone from me.”
“The truth is,” she told him, “that we can’t be certain Hank will ever be able to remove me from this time. I have been here for eleven days now, and he has been able to make just one unsuccessful attempt. It is entirely possible that I will be stranded here for the rest of my life.”
“I wish it were so,” he said.
The thought of never going back to her own time ought to have made her unhappy, but Theu’s quietly spoken words filled
her with a joy that blotted out regret for whatever she might have lost in the twentieth century. Though he had not mentioned love, he had made clear how much he wanted her. Considering how uncertain the future was for both of them, perhaps it was better if they never spoke of love.
“I begin to think you are in more danger of leaving me than I am of leaving you,” she said. ‘Theu, I am afraid of what will happen in Spain.”
“Do you know something about the Spanish campaign?” he asked. “You have mentioned it before, and I have seen your face when Hugo or Marcion speak of it.”
“It will end in disaster,” she began, but he raised his hand in a gesture that stopped the words she dreaded to say but had to speak if he was to be warned.
“Not now,” he said. “Don’t spoil this beautiful evening with what you know of the future. For this one brief night, I want to think of nothing but you. Tell me later what you think I ought to hear. And if there is no later for us, if you are taken from me before you can speak what I believe will be sad words, then I will do what I would have done before ever you came to this time. I will obey my king and lead my men into battle, and try to bring as many of them home again as I can. The only difference will be that if you are not waiting for me, it won’t matter to me whether I live or die.
“And now, we have talked so long that the fever that was in my blood has cooled enough to let you finish washing me after all.”
She moved toward him, lifting soap-filled hands which she laid on his chest. But it was soon evident that the fever he had spoken of had not abated. He reached for the soap bowl himself, just as her hands slid downward along his flanks and around to his groin. He froze in mid-motion.
