The Last Wife of Attila the Hun

by Joan Schweighardt

  Praise for Gudrun’s Tapestry, Now Republished As The Last Wife of Attila the Hun

  “…engrossing, stirring and written with wonderfully expressive prose.”

  —Gayle Trent/Amanda Lee, author of In Her Blood and other novels

  “The emotions the characters depict are so charged with heat that they nearly leap from the page… This novel has everything: pathos, romance, intrigue, violence, and sex. The attention to historical detail is impressive.”

  —Curled Up With A Good Book

  “As it is set in a period so different from ours, the characters in [this story] believe in all kinds of magical happenings and we hear of dragon hoards and immortal dwarves, but wisely all the action is strictly of the sort that is both possible and plausible. This is a story therefore that fantasy fans may well enjoy, but it is emphatically not a fantasy. Instead there is the psychological tension between captor and captive and the doomed saga-style relationships, as well as historical details from an under-used and little-known period of history… Possibly the most praiseworthy thing of all are the characters themselves, who are totally unlike modern people and are thus at home in their distant time and both alien and fascinating for us to read about.”

  —MyShelf.com

  “ I loved this book, real guts and glory and realism too… This story has true grit. The pacing moves this tale along quickly while providing many interesting cultural and historical insights to the period.”

  —Bob Spear, formerly of Heartland Reviews

  “[Schweighardt] has created a protagonist who experiences it all—love and hatred, passion and despair, strength and weakness, courage and fear—and placed her against a backdrop of unfamiliar and often shocking historical events… This is a novel in which history (or more correctly, her-story) and myth collide. It is a tour de force for this very talented author… A definite must-read.”

  —Julie Mars, author of the novels Rust, Anybody Any Minute, The Secret Keepers, and the award-winning memoir A Month of Sundays: Searching for the Spirit and My Sister

  “[The story] flows gracefully from present to past instead of leaving glaring cliffhangers to mark each transition. Yet the reader is eager to see where each step in Gudrun’s journey will lead. Dealing with Nordic legend as part of life leads the author occasionally to use a mystical or mythical reality instead of rigidly scientific explanations for events—like Gudrun’s Sight. This gives [the tale] a poetic beauty.”

  —N.S. Gill, About.com, Ancient/Classical History Expert

  “Schweighardt plays the woof of Gudrun’s time spent in the City of Attila over, under, around, and through the warp of Gudrun’s personal history… I believe this book has the potential to be a surprise bestseller if only the word gets out.”

  —T. M. Bradshaw, freelance book reviewer; author of the memoir Here Are the Pictures You Wanted and the Stories that Illustrate Them

  “Powered by a plot riddled with intrigue and betrayal, peopled by characters of astonishing depth and color, and rendered in a melodic yet powerful voice, this is a work as literary as they come while still being a page turner capable of competing with the best of the pot boilers sitting in the racks of airport stores. If you like to read in the evening, then start this book on a Friday night, otherwise you’ll go to work bleary-eyed from lack of sleep. When you finish it, all too quickly, you’ll have that feeling of being deeply satisfied, yet still wishing there were more pages.”

  —Rocco LoBosco, author of the novels Ninety-Nine and Buddha Wept and the nonfiction Going Crooked: A Psychoanalytic Perspective On The Age Of Perversion (co-authored with Dr. Danielle Knafo)

  The Last Wife of Attila the Hun

  by Joan Schweighardt

  Booktrope Editions

  Seattle WA 2015

  Copyright 2003, 2015 Joan Schweighardt

  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

  Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

  Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

  No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.

  Inquiries about additional permissions should be directed to: info@booktrope.com

  Cover Design by Michelle Fairbanks/Fresh Design

  Edited by Cory Williams

  Previously published as Gudrun’s Tapestry, Beagle Bay Books, 2003

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

  Print ISBN 978-1-5137-0208-7

  EPUB ISBN 978-1-5137-0250-6

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015915598

  Table of Contents

  Praise for Gudrun’s Tapestry, Now Republished As The Last Wife of Attila the Hun

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Other Novels By Joan Schweighardt

  Map of the Empire of Attila

  Prologue

  The City of Attila

  1

  2

  3

  Sapaudia

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  The City of Attila

  9

  10

  11

  Sapaudia

  12

  13

  14

  The City of Attila

  15

  Sapaudia

  16

  The City of Attila

  17

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  More Great Reads from Booktrope

  For Adam and Alex

  Other Novels By Joan Schweighardt

  The Accidental Art Thief

  Virtual Silence

  Homebodies

  Island

  Prologue

  WHEN I WAS a young girl living at Worms, there was nothing I delighted in more than song. And of all those who lifted their voices in our great hall, there was none who did so as beautifully as my brother Gunner. Were he beside me now, he would rebuke me for the method that I have chosen to relate my story to you. He would insist, instead, on fashioning a melody for my words and singing them to you from beginning to end. He would begin modestly, singing, as he always did, that he had no talent for melodies, but entreating you, nevertheless, to remember his words. And, friend, as there is no bird, no summer breeze, no sweet stream lapping or soft rain falling that could compete with Gunner for one’s attention, have no doubt that you would have remembered them. He would have looked into your eyes while he sang and touched you in a deeper place than he ever touched a man or a woman when he went without his harp.

  Though I can never hope to emulate his elegance, let me begin likewise, telling you first that I have no talent either. This thing, this process of setting down one word after the next on parchment, is new to me, and, as a friend once stated, tedious. And in spite of all the pains that I have taken to learn it, I find that I am apprehensive now because I cannot look into your eyes as my brother would have, because I cannot hope to touch you in that holy place where the hearts of all folk are joined together. Still, I would h
ave you remember my words.

  The City of Attila

  1

  I FELL TO MY KNEES at the stream, so eager to drink that I did not think to offer a prayer until afterward, when I was satisfied and my flask was full. I was exhausted. My skin was parched and I was filthy; but according to the map my brothers had given me, I was very near my destination. I continued on foot, pulling my tired horse behind me.

  I had not had a full night’s rest since the terrain had changed. The land was flat here. There were no caves or rocky ledges where I could shelter myself. The forests, so sacred to my people, had long since been replaced by endless grasslands. As I trudged through them, I felt that I had left more than my loved ones behind.

  When the sky darkened, I used the single live coal I carried from the previous night’s fire to light my torch. I was sure that the light could be seen from some distance. I expected at every moment to hear the thunder of hooves beating on the arid earth. But on and on I walked, seeing no sight other than my own shadow in the gleam of the torch light and hearing no sound but that of my horse plodding along beside me.

  When the sun began to rise, I saw that there was a sandy hill ahead, and hoping to see the City of Attila from its summit, I dragged myself on. But the hill was much farther away than it had seemed, and it took most of the day to reach it. And then it was much higher too, the highest ground that I had seen in days. My horse, who was content to graze on grassy clumps and to watch the marmots who dared to peek out of their holes, made it clear that he had no desire to climb. I had to coax him along, and myself as well, for now I was afraid that I would reach the summit and see nothing but more grass stretching out to the far horizon. I imagined myself wandering endlessly, seeing no one, coughing and sneezing in response to the invisible blowing dust, until my food ran out and my horse gave way.

  I crawled to the top of the hill and looked down in amazement at the camp of make-shift tents below. In front of one of them a fire burned, and the carcass of an antelope was roasting over it. There were many men about, perhaps two hundred, all on horseback except for the few tending the fire.

  It was not until I heard the war cry that I knew for certain that the scene was real and not some trick of my mind. I had been sighted. The entire company was suddenly galloping in my direction, a cloud of dust rising up around them. I forced myself to my feet and spread my arms to show that I carried no weapon. When I saw that the men were making their bows ready, I dropped my head and lifted my arms higher yet, to the heavens, where, I hoped, the gods were watching carefully.

  Part of the company surrounded me. The others rode past, over the summit. When they were satisfied that no one was riding behind me, they joined the first group. Upon the command of one of them, they all lowered their bows. I began to breathe again. A murmur went up, and while I waited for it to subside, I studied their horses. Of the two that I could see without moving my head, one looked like the ones the Romans rode—a fine, tall, light-colored steed. The other looked like no animal I had ever seen before. Its legs were short and its head was large and somehow misshapen. Its matted mane hung down over its stout body. Its nose was snubbed and its eyes bulged like a fish’s. Its back was curved, as if by the weight of its rider. Yet its thick neck and large chest suggested great strength.

  The murmur abated, and the Hun on the horse I’d been scrutinizing cried out a command in his harsh, foreign tongue. I looked up and noted that he resembled his horse. He was short and stout, large-chested, his head overly large, his neck short and thick, his nose snubbed. The only difference was that while the horse had a long mane and a bushy tail, the Hun’s hair was thin, and his beard, if one could call it that, was thinner yet. He seemed to be waiting for me to speak. I stared at the identical scars that ran down the sides of his face, wide, deep mutations that began beneath his deeply set eyes and ended at his mouth. “I’ve come to seek Attila,” I said.

  The Hun, who appeared slightly amused, looked to his companions. A murmur went up again. While they debated, I took the opportunity to scan the other Hun faces, all hideous replicas of the one who had spoken to me. Of course, I had known the Huns were strange to look upon. Although I’d been hidden away during the siege, I’d had a description from those who had seen the Huns and survived to tell about them. In fact, there were some among my people who mutilated their own faces after the siege, believing this would make them as fierce as their attackers. Still, none of this had prepared me sufficiently to look upon them with my own eyes. Some wore tunics and breeches, not unlike the ones my own people wore. Others wore garments made entirely of marmot skins. With some on Roman horses and others on Hunnish ones, some dressed like Thuets and others in skins, they looked like no army I had ever seen before. Their confusion over how to respond to me only heightened the impression of disorder.

  “Attila!” I cried. My brothers were sure I was mad, and when I heard my shout I thought they must be right.

  The startled Huns stared for a moment, then they took up their debate again, their voices louder and more urgent than before. Finally the leader nodded, and the man whose argument he had come to agree with rode to my side and took my horse’s reins from my hand. While he started down the hill with the horse, another Hun poked me from behind with his riding whip to indicate that I should follow. Half of the men began the descent with me. The other half stayed on the summit, looking off in the direction from which I had come.

  I was brought to the fire, where I reiterated my desire to see Attila. One of the Huns pointed beyond the tents. I followed his finger. There were a few dark clouds converging on the eastern horizon. “Can we ride?” I asked, pointing to my horse. The Hun gestured for me to sit. The meat had been removed from the fire and torn into pieces. The horseless Huns were distributing it among the riders. One of them brought a piece to me, and another brought me a flask of what smelled like Roman wine. I ate the meat—which was tough and bland—and kept my eyes fastened on my horse and the sack that hung from his side. I tasted the wine and, to the amusement of the Huns who were watching, quickly spat it out—for this is what I imagined a woman who had grown up alone in the forest would do.

  After the meal, I stood and pointed east. “Take me to the City of Attila,” I demanded. Again, my words caused a stir.

  Then one of the Huns said something which quieted the others. He gave a series of commands, and one of the listeners slid off his horse and reluctantly offered me the reins.

  I hesitated, unsure what to do about the sack. Gathering courage, I led the Hunnish horse past my guards and over to my own horse. I reached for the sack, but a stout Hunnish arm cut me off. “For Attila,” I said. The man who had stopped me looked to his fellows. Again there was discussion, and after a moment, a decision. The arm withdrew. I swallowed and removed the sack from one beast and secured it onto the other. Then I mounted the Hunnish horse and settled myself as best I could on its hard wooden saddle. The Hun who was to be my escort came forward. Someone furnished him with a torch, and, also, what sounded like a lecture.

  Riding at his side, I considered how easily it had gone. The Huns might have insisted that I stay the night in their camp. Or, they might have made me leave the sack behind. And there was much worse that I could think of, too. If I had felt bold before, I felt even bolder now, and, indeed, quite mad. I was already imagining the expressions that would appear on my brothers’ faces when I was home again relating the story.

  The comical-looking beast beneath me was as fast as he was strong. He galloped along as if riderless, keeping pace with the Hun’s horse and seemingly oblivious to my touch on his reins. I lowered my head onto his thick dirty mane, and keeping my arms tight around his neck, closed my burning eyes. After a while, the horse’s steps became shorter, choppier, so that I knew the terrain had changed. The grasses were higher now, like the ones I had ridden through some days earlier when the trees had first begun to thin. I relaxed and gave way to the muffled sound of the
horses’ hooves. When I opened my eyes again, I thought to find myself riding beneath the stars with the moon on the rise to the south. To my astonishment, the sky was pink, and it was the sun that was rising. My arms, which were stiff and badly cramped, had kept their vigil all through the night.

  My companion laughed heartily when I lifted my head. And thinking that my riding and sleeping on horseback would make a fine story for Attila’s ears, I laughed as well. I imagined myself explaining that valkyrias did this all the time. I had trained my mind on the powers I would feign to have for so long that my uncanny slumber made me feel I had actually come to possess them.

  Soon enough, the City of Attila appeared on the horizon—a vast tract surrounded by a high wooden palisade. My escort stopped to point it out, and I checked myself for panic. When I was satisfied that I felt none, I nodded, and we began to ride again. Before long we reached the city gates and the men who guarded them. My escort stayed at my side only long enough to deliver his message to the guard who rode to meet us. Then he turned and rode off, taking with him the story which I had hoped to hear repeated to Attila. The gates were pulled open. My new escort led me in.

  Activity was everywhere. Clusters of men on horseback were engaged in conversations. Women walked among them carrying baskets or vessels on their heads. They were trailed by small children while older children sat in circles on the ground laughing and teasing one another. Most were Huns, but there were others who were clearly Thuets. And there were some, especially among the children, who appeared to be half and half. The Hun women, like their men, were short and stout. Many were quite fat. Only their lack of facial scars distinguished them from their male counterparts.

  Mud and straw huts dotted the landscape. Beyond them, in the distance, was a second wooden palisade, its circumference so great that it appeared to take up half the city. As we approached it, the gates opened. We entered a long tunnel from which I could hear the pounding of feet overhead. There were other smaller tunnels leading off to the left and right, but their doors concealed the chambers they led to.