Time to Love Again

by Speer, Flora

  “Count Hrulund, the Warden of the Breton March, has commanded me to greet you in his name,” responded Autar, “and to invite you to join him at Tours. From there you will travel together to Agen.”

  “There are women in my party,” Theu said. “I am not certain if Hrulund will want to travel with us when he learns of their presence.”

  “There is a convent at Tours, where the women may stay while you are there,” Autar replied. “Count Hrulund expects you. Let him decide how you will travel from Tours to Agen.”

  “Will you ride with us?” Theu seemed not at all offended by Autar’s cold manner.

  “I will join you in the morning.” With another abrupt little dip of his head, which was his only gesture of politeness or of acknowledgment of Theu’s superior rank, Autar turned his back on them and marched away toward the dormitory.

  “I do not like that man,” India said in a voice just above a whisper.

  “He is a fine warrior, one of Hrulund’s best,” Theu informed her. As he spoke, he released her hand, and when he did she felt abandoned, as if he had already gone off to war with his men and Hrulund and the rest of the Frankish army.

  They left the abbey the next morning with India no longer riding beside Theuderic. Her former position was taken by Autar. She did not protest the change. By the look Theu sent her way, with his eyebrows raised and his face serious, she understood that, for whatever reasons of his own, he wanted her to keep away from Autar. From then on, she rode between Marcion and Hugo. From their talk, she learned that while Hugo called Hrulund the second greatest of all warriors next to Theuderic, Marcion had little admiration for him and less for Autar.

  “Hrulund’s men are all like that,” Marcion said in response to a question from India, “cold-hearted and brutal. They kill for the pleasure of shedding blood and inflicting pain.”

  “And don’t you?” she asked. “After all, you are a warrior, too.”

  “Most men fight out of loyalty to their king, or to protect their homes and families,” Marcion replied, “and some fight to win lands or a great title, but most respect a brave enemy and regret the need to kill him in order to remain alive themselves. But as for Hrulund, I think he does not care whether he lives or dies, nor does he care for anyone else’s pain. I believe Hrulund cares for only two things in this life—his own glory and Charles’s friendship.”

  “Is he jealous of Theu’s friendship with Charles?” asked India.

  “I think so,” Marcion said. “It’s my opinion that Hrulund hates Theu. We will have to be very careful in Tours.”

  Chapter 12

  The building into which they were ushered by Autar was made of stone, its low ceiling supported by wide pillars that ended in curved arches. There was no carving on the pillars, no decoration at all to lighten the weight of the pale, heavy stone. Nor was there any furniture, nor a fire in the cave-like hall where Autar led them. Here it was gloomy, cold, and damp, a place created for warriors who cared nothing for comfort or warmth. There was not the slightest hint of anything feminine in it.

  Walking between Marcion and Hugo, India shivered, oppressed by the atmosphere and almost wishing she had stayed at the convent with Danise and Sister Gertrude as they had wanted her to do. But she had insisted on going with Theu, and he had agreed. Just ahead of her, Theu walked with Autar by his side as he had been for days, the two of them approaching the golden glow of a single candle set upon a man-sized brass stand. Within the fragile circle of candlelight, at a spot where the stone floor was raised like a dais above a wide, shallow step, two men awaited them.

  The shorter, rather stout man was clothed in the glittering scarlet and gold vestments of a bishop just come from a religious service. As for the other man, India thought she would have recognized him even if she had come into the hall unaware that he would be present. Half a head taller than Theu, with close-cropped blond hair and blue eyes, he was the person who several centuries later would inspire one of the greatest romances of the Middle Ages, the hero in whose memory songs would be sung, about whose life and death legends would be woven. The man later ages would call Roland wore a simple, undyed woolen tunic. At his side hung an unusually long sword, the famous Durendal.

  “My lord Turpin,” said Theu, bowing to the man in red.

  “Welcome, my son.” Bishop Turpin extended his hand so Theu could kiss the episcopal ring he wore. “We have eagerly anticipated your coming.”

  “Count Hrulund.” Theu made a slight bow to the taller man.

  “Well met, Firebrand.” There was little warmth in Hrulund’s manner. “Since I see you alive and uninjured, it seems you were able to put down that very minor rebellion in Saxony, as Charles ordered you to do.”

  At this insult, which implied that Theu had been unwilling to do his duty voluntarily, India heard Marcion murmuring an impolite comment about the great warrior’s parentage.

  “I see you still have your Lombard puppy with you.” Hrulund looked at Marcion as if Marcion were beneath contempt. “And your landless companion, too,” Hrulund added, sparing a cold glance for Hugo.

  “They are my valued friends,” Theu began, but what he would have said next was interrupted by Bishop Turpin.

  “Of course they are, my dear Count Theuderic, and as your friends, they are every bit as welcome as you are yourself. As are all of your men,” said Turpin.

  From behind her, India heard Eudon grunt in discomfort and sensed him shifting position. She thought his injured right buttock was probably bothering him. It usually happened at the end of a long day’s ride. She wished there were a place where Eudon could sit or lie down to stretch out his leg. For that matter, she would like to see a bed and a decent meal herself.

  Hrulund had noticed Eudon’s movement. With a sharp, intense look that reminded India of some bird of prey discovering a convenient victim, Hrulund came down the steps toward Eudon.

  “Have you brought the halt and the lame to fight for you?” Hrulund asked Theu, speaking over his shoulder. “This man is wounded. Tell me, fellow, how did you come by your injury? Was it earned while fighting Saxons? If so, you are to be commended, though you should not be here in this condition.”

  “It is but a minor wound, and soon healed,” Eudon said. “I was gored by a boar.”

  “Were you, indeed? So you had time enough for hunting. Not a Saxon in the forest, eh?” sneered the famous hero. “And where is that boar now? Still roaming through Saxony?”

  “We ate him for dinner.” It was Hugo who responded, deliberately drawing Hrulund’s attention away from the unfortunate Eudon. Taking full advantage of his superior height, Hrulund stepped nearer, obviously bound on intimidating Hugo. But Hugo did not retreat by a single step.

  “I see,” said Hrulund, a faint glimmer of respect creeping into his voice and his eyes at Hugo’s display of quiet courage. “If you feasted on the carcass, then the day was not entirely wasted.”

  “Let us not stray from the matter at hand, Count Hrulund,” Turpin urged from his position on the dais. “We have much to discuss with Count Theuderic, and with our friend Autar.”

  Hrulund nodded at that, and took a step away from Hugo, heading back toward the bishop and the two men standing with him. His cold blue gaze passed casually across India’s face, moved on, paused, then returned to her. Before she could blink an eye or protest his action, Hrulund’s hand shot out to catch her chin and turn her face toward the light so he could see her better.

  “By all that’s holy!” Hrulund snatched his hand away as if India’s flesh had scorched him. “Theuderic, how dare you bring a woman into this place?”

  “A woman?” echoed Bishop Turpin, looking startled.

  “Indeed, my friends,” said Autar from his place beside Theu. “That was part of the information I have been waiting to report to you. This most unusual woman has been traveling with Count Theuderic since well before I joined his party.”

  “This is disgraceful.” It was Hrulund, not the bishop, who looked fro
m India to Theu with an expression of disgust on his face. “It is a sorry enough state of affairs if you cannot restrain your basest desires, but to dress your concubine in boy’s clothing is even more shameful.”

  “I am no man’s concubine.” India stepped forward, approaching Turpin, who looked her over with an eye clearly appreciative of feminine charms.

  “India,” said Theu in a tense voice, “be silent.”

  “Women only obey orders when it pleases them,” Hrulund remarked scornfully.

  India almost bit her tongue to keep herself from asking him how any man who apparently disliked and avoided women could possibly know that for sure.

  “Why do you call her unusual?” Turpin asked Autar.

  “You have heard her speak,” Autar answered, “so you know she cannot be a Frankish woman, yet no one knows the name of her country.”

  “You mean, none of Theu’s men would gossip about her,” Hugo put in. “If you wanted information, Autar, why didn’t you ask Theu – or India herself?”

  “That would be too easy,” murmured Marcion, but loud enough for Autar to hear him. “It is so much more entertaining to gather facts by stealth.”

  “India comes from a land far away.” Theu spoke just in time to avert some hostile action on the part of Autar, who had begun to unsheathe his sword while taking a menacing step in Marcion’s direction. Theu then added the half-truth he had once believed himself. “India carries a private message for Charles, and she wears the medallion of a royal messenger.”

  “Why would anyone use a woman to carry a message?” asked Hrulund. “Everyone knows women are deceitful and untrustworthy.”

  “Nevertheless, if she has the medallion, we must make her welcome,” Turpin said. “If there is falsity in her, Charles will see it and punish her as she deserves.”

  “Very well.” Hrulund gave in at the mention of his beloved king. “We will leave the woman to Charles, who is wiser than any of us. But I ask you, Turpin, to send her away now, so we men can discuss serious matters without female interruptions.”

  “I will have her conducted to a private chamber, where she can rest after her long ride,” Turpin said smoothly. “One of my own men will guard her safety. As for your people, Count Theuderic, allow me to house and feed them while you remain at Tours.” He raised one white hand, and out of the shadows at the side of the hall appeared several armed guards.

  “We stay right where we are,” Marcion declared, his hand straying toward his sword. “We won’t leave you, Theu.”

  “What admirable loyalty,” noted Bishop Turpin.

  “There’s no cause for concern, Marcion.” Theu’s tone was mild, and he smiled as he spoke, but India was aware of the tension in him. Like Marcion, she wanted to remain within sight of Theu, who now turned to Turpin and bowed. “I am certain that in my lord bishop’s care we are all completely safe until it is time for us to resume the journey to our king.”

  “You have my word on it,” responded Turpin.

  “This way,” said the burly armed man who during this exchange had moved to stand next to India. She glanced toward Theu. He nodded, indicating that she should go with the man. With a growing sense of fear that she tried her best to conceal, India let the guard escort her out of the hall into a smaller chamber. There he took a torch from a wall sconce and used it to light their way down a long flight of stone steps. At the bottom of the steps, they entered a shadowy corridor. India was sure they were by now well below ground level. They passed several stout wooden doors before the guard stopped at one. He pushed it open.

  “In here.” He was not rude or threatening, just completely uninterested in her as a person.

  “Do you call this a guest chamber?” While the guard lit an oil lamp, India looked around in disbelief at a thin pallet upon the stone floor and a three-legged stool. In one corner sat a covered pot, the smell coming from that area leaving no doubt as to its purpose. There was nothing else in the room, and the only light came through a narrow slit high in one wall. “I would like hot water and a towel so I can wash.” She had no real hope that her request would be granted, but she voiced it anyway, as the only protest she dared make against what was clearly imprisonment.

  “Food will be brought to you in the morning,” the guard said. He set the oil lamp on the stool, where it did little to relieve the general gloom.

  “Why are you treating me like a prisoner when I haven’t done anything wrong?” she demanded.

  “I’m only following the orders I’ve been given,” the guard said, not unkindly. “I will be outside your chamber door so you won’t be disturbed during the night, but I warn you, I am not permitted to enter this room once I have left it – at least not until the bishop sends for you – so spare your breath and your knuckles if you think to cry out or pound on the door until someone else comes to release you.”

  “Who gave you those orders? I never heard them,” India began, but the guard only shook his head and went out. A moment later, she heard a bar slide across the door on the outer side.

  Left alone in that cold and stony cell, she knew real terror. She had been afraid since her arrival in that unfamiliar time, and had experienced one or two flashes of near panic, but always Theu had been with her on those occasions, usually with Marcion and Hugo close by to offer additional aid if it were needed. Now, for the first time, she was completely alone, bewildered by what had happened and so frightened that her legs would not support her. She fell to her knees on the pallet, quickly discovering that it was padded with the thinnest possible layer of scratchy straw, inadequate to fend off the damp chill of the floor. Leaning back against the wall, she stretched out her legs, trying to overcome her fear, trying to think calmly and clearly, if only to stop the urge to weep or scream.

  Theu had said they were all safe under Turpin’s care, and the guard had shown no animosity toward her, which suggested that she was not in any immediate physical danger. But who had given the guard his orders?

  After considering the question for a while, she concluded that the arrangements must have been made in advance, before Autar had set out to intercept Theu and his party. If this was so, then it was possible that cells like hers had been prepared for each of Theu’s men. They wouldn’t even have to be disarmed, they could just be locked into their rooms, alone, with a dependable guard posted outside each one. Which meant that Theu, alone with Turpin, Hrulund, and their men, could be in danger. That was the most frightening thought of all, for there was nothing she could do to help Theu.

  Time crept slowly by. The light coming through the too-small window slit faded and disappeared. India was thirsty, hungry, dirty, cold, and tired – and most of all, frightened for herself and Theu and their friends. No sounds came from the other side of the door. If the guard really was still there, he was being remarkably quiet. She believed hours had passed. Her shoulders stiff and sore from leaning against the stone wall, she lay down at last on the pallet. After a while she fell into an uneasy doze.

  She wakened to total blackness and the sound of the bar being drawn back across the door. The sudden glare of a torch nearly blinded her.

  “Come along,” said the guard, motioning to her to pass through the door.

  “Where am I to go?” India sat up, rubbing her eyes, but she did not move off the pallet. “What time is it?”

  “Past midnight. Bishop Turpin wants to see you.” Again she noted the guard’s curious indifference to her, but at least he was not threatening. India got to her feet.

  “I hardly look presentable enough to see a bishop,” she said, wondering what the man’s reaction would be. “Could I have some hot water and soap?”

  “If Turpin wants you clean, he’ll provide the water,” the guard said. “Don’t keep him waiting.”

  Deciding that it was probably best not to annoy either the guard or Turpin by further delay, India went with the man. He took her to the far end of the corridor, to a narrow, winding stone staircase that led upward past the landings fo
r two other floors before he stopped her at the third level. They passed through a small anteroom, bare and cold as the rest of that forbidding building, to a door on the other side. The guard knocked, and India heard Turpin’s voice bidding him enter.

  The chamber into which she was now conducted was so different from anything she had so far seen in Francia that it made India catch her breath in surprise. There was a brazier burning charcoal to warm the room and enough tall, thick, beeswax candles to light and scent it. The Frankish bed pushed against the wall to India’s left was covered in glowing red silk and well padded with silk cushions in many colors. The floors were strewn with patterned Arabic rugs over a layer of dried herbs and rushes. A swath of more red silk had been draped across part of the wall opposite the bed, covering what India assumed was a window. At a table sat a scribe, using a quill pen to write upon a narrow parchment scroll.

  In the center of the room, facing the door, stood Bishop Turpin. He had discarded his scarlet vestments in favor of a bleached white linen cassock, cinched around his thick waist with a knotted cord.

  “Wait outside,” Turpin said to the guard. To the scribe he gestured with one smooth white hand. “You, too. Leave us.”

  When they were alone, Turpin motioned to India to come forward. He was a good two inches shorter than she, and there was about him a facile, almost oily manner that she found repulsive. His hands, now folded before him at waist height, were plump, with tapered fingers ending in clean, shining nails, as if they had recently been manicured and polished. The amethyst ring of his rank gleamed in the candlelight.

  “From what heathen country do you come, that you do not bow to a bishop?” Turpin demanded.

  “A country where all men and women stand upright and address each other with respect,” she answered. “A land where people are not thrown into cold prison cells without just cause or any explanation.”