by Speer, Flora
She could not breathe for the sudden pounding of her heart. At the long edge of the metal links, where the armor had been torn, the head had broken on a single rivet, and the rivet itself had been partially torn out of its link.
India could not stop herself. She placed one finger on the glass, covering the spot where the broken rivet was.
“Be careful, you’ll smear the glass.”
“Oh!” She spun around to face the man who had come into the office so quietly that she had not heard him.
“Theodore Brant.” He nodded briskly. “I presume you are the elusive department secretary? Mrs. Baldwin, isn’t it? I understand you’ve been sick. I hope you are feeling better, because we have a lot of work to do.”
“Yes,” she faltered, uncomfortable under his steady, deep blue gaze. She recalled Willi’s warning to be careful until she knew this man. “I’m sorry about the glass. I’ll clean it right away.”
Having prepared herself to encounter a remnant of the long-distant past, she was bitterly disappointed to discover that Theodore Brant did not look like Theuderic of Metz. The man before India was several inches taller than she, in his mid- to late thirties, and obviously in perfect physical condition. His hair was dark and curly, like his brother’s. He wore a nicely tailored grey suit, a white shirt, and an expensive-looking striped tie. Very conservative, very cool, more like a banker than a college professor – and there was not a trace of fire or warmth in him. He was not a bit like Theu.
India thought her heart would break. It was indeed like losing Theu all over again, but not in the way she had expected. She had been foolish to allow herself any hope at all. Theu was dead – long dead and buried – and it was time for her to accept that fact.
Theodore Brant walked across the room to stand beside her while he looked at the chain mail on the wall. Amazingly, his cold expression relaxed, as if he were seeing an old friend, and his blue eyes warmed. India’s heart skipped a beat when he glanced toward her.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said. “It’s just that I don’t want this to be damaged in any way. Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought it here to the office, but I like to look at it, and I’m not at home very much. Are you interested in antique armor?”
“Only in chain mail.” When he looked surprised, she sought for an acceptable reason for a statement she had made in haste and emotional pain. “My late husband was a medievalist.”
“Oh, yes, I did hear something about that.”
He touched the frame, straightening it. “This piece is from the eighth or ninth century.”
“Eighth,” India said.
“It’s a rare piece because iron that old has usually oxidized until it is a ruined mess of rust. For some reason, this has been well cared for over the centuries.”
“Where did you get it?” India asked.
“It has been in my family for generations. Tradition has it that it was once worn by an illustrious ancestor. Unfortunately, I have never seen any proof of that claim. Still, I have felt an attachment to those links ever since I was a boy. My grandfather had them mounted in that frame, and I used to sit in his library making up stories about the man for whom the armor was made and the battles he fought wearing it. I guess that’s why Grandfather willed it to me.” His voice trailed off, as if he was a little embarrassed at having spoken so openly and so emotionally to someone he did not know.
“Theuderic of Metz,” India said, feeling oddly compelled to speak and with her voice remarkably steady considering the way her heart had just gone on a wild roller coaster ride. “He died at Roncevaux.”
“Do you know something I don’t?” he asked.
“I believe I do,” she said, smiling for the first time in weeks. Her heart settled down and began to beat steadily once more. From somewhere deep inside her a reviving happiness began to grow, along with the certainty that Theu was not gone, not lost and dead in some far-distant past. He was with her and he always would be.
Theodore Brant watched her with a question in his eyes, and India found herself regretting the days when she had avoided meeting him. But that was all she regretted. Nothing else.
“It’s a long and complicated story about an incredible adventure,” she said to him. “When I know you better, I may tell you about it.”
“Why do I have the feeling that ours is going to be an interesting association?” His blue eyes were laughing now, all his initial coldness vanished. One corner of his mouth quirked upward in a half smile, and suddenly she recognized in him the humor and spirit of the man she would love until time ended.
“You have no idea,” she told him, “just how interesting you are going to find me.”
Epilogue
September, 1992.
It was a lovely wedding, albeit a quiet one. The bride had insisted on having it that way. The small, gothic-style church was decorated with white roses and many tall candles, and the bride wore an ankle-length cream lace dress. The fifty invited family members and guests noted that the usually self-possessed groom was extremely nervous.
The reception was held at a nearby restaurant that had been remodeled from an old mill, and all through the golden late September afternoon, the guests danced on a deck extending out over the rushing stream and the waterfall that had once powered the mill.
“Nice place,” said the best man to the maid-of-honor. “This is like dancing in a giant tree house. When it gets dark, we’ll have a great view of the stars.”
“It is beautiful,” Willi replied, smiling into his eyes.
Mark pulled her closer, resting his cheek against hers while they moved slowly to the music. Willi’s hair had grown out of its tough, spiky cut until it hung to her shoulders in soft curls. Her grey eye shadow made her eyes look large and dark. The pale green chiffon of her gown drifted about her ankles.
“You’re my girl,” Mark murmured into her ear. “Always have been, always will be. I knew it the first moment I saw you.”
“I knew it, too.” Willi snuggled a little closer to him. “Right away, I felt as if I had known you forever. Amazing, isn’t it?”
On the other side of the deck, India shook hands with a departing couple, then glanced toward Willi and Mark.
“They look so happy together,” she said.
“They can’t possibly be as happy as I am,” her new husband told her, slipping an arm about her waist. He spared one quick look for his brother. “I have a feeling there will be another wedding soon. I think Mark plans to make your best friend into your sister.”
“It’s about time,” India said, laughing at her own private joke.
“Speaking of time, shouldn’t we be making our getaway about now?” Theo’s tender expression as he regarded his new wife held the promise of all the wonders of love still unexplored and awaiting them.
“Yes, my dear love,” India said, taking his hand. “It is time. Our time. At long, long last.”
Author’s Notes
Late in the summer of 778, the Saxons did revolt against their Frankish overlords, taking advantage of Charles’s absence in Spain, as many of his nobles had feared they would. It required swift action and much hard fighting to subdue them that autumn. But the Saxons were a determined people. Eventually they rebelled yet again, and stubbornly continued to fight for their freedom for another quarter of a century before they were finally conquered.
The story Theuderic recounts to India, of men who come in flying machines from a land called Magonia, is a tale that was current in Europe during the late eighth and ninth centuries. It seems that even in those days, more than twelve hundred years ago, there were rumors of mysterious unidentified flying objects.
Of the twin sons born to Charles’s wife Hildegarde at Agen during the summer of 778, the smaller died in early autumn. The second boy, Ludwig, later re-baptized as Louis, was made King of Aquitaine by his father. Unlike his older brothers, he outlived his father, and on the death of Charles in 814, he became the second emperor of the Carolingian e
mpire. He is known to the French as Louis I, Louis the Pious.
