by Speer, Flora
The court now consisted largely of women, the only men being those Charles had left behind to guard the safety of the queen and her ladies – and of course, the clerics who followed the court everywhere.
India saw Alcuin every day. Her original awe and respect of the great scholar remained, but were soon softened by a growing affection. The man had a gift for friendship. Even the queen, who had no intellectual interests and could neither read nor write, loved him, as did her children and everyone in Agen who was or ever had been his student. Each evening Alcuin sat in the reception room with the other clerics, his current students both male and female, and whichever ladies cared to join them, and there he raised subjects to be discussed or asked questions until a lively dispute arose. Then he would sit back, wine goblet in hand, a half smile on his face, and let others talk.
“That is your secret,” India said to him one night. “You listen well.”
“It’s the best way to learn,” he said. “I live in order to learn and to teach.”
He invited India to join his group, which she did, hoping thus to distract herself from her constant worry for Theu’s sake. She listened in fascination to the discussions, but she contributed little, partly because she feared she might reveal too much about her origins, and partly because she felt inferior to Alcuin’s friends. They were all remarkably learned, including the women, and they talked about astronomy, philosophy, logic, religion, and a myriad of other subjects.
Among the clerics, Adelbert was always present, usually with quill pen, parchment, and pottery ink jar set before him so he could write down anything interesting that was said. India caught him watching Bertille so often that at last she decided to speak to him about his badly concealed interest in the girl.
“She’s pretty, isn’t she?” India said to Adelbert one night when his look followed Bertille to the door leading to the women’s quarters and then lingered on the spot where she had disappeared. Adelbert jerked his head to one side in a clumsy attempt to hide what he had been doing.
“Any man would find her charming,” India persisted, sitting down on the bench across the table from him. She kept her gaze on him until he was forced to look directly at her. In his poorly disguised irritation with her, she saw a nearer resemblance to Hank and wondered again at the similarity between them.
“There is nothing I could give the lady Bertille that Lord Marcion could not double,” Adelbert said, not pretending to misunderstand her. “For all her sweet nature, she is as frivolous as most women are. She will want rank, jewels, a fine home with servants, a high title.”
“Then you do care for her.” India began to feel a bit sorry for him, until Adelbert quashed that sentiment.
No woman exists who has ever been able to keep me from this.” Using the feather end of his quill pen, he tapped the parchment spread before him. “Given a choice, I prefer my work to a woman’s fickle heart. I mean no disrespect to you, Lady India, but I would like to return to what I was doing.”
“Forgive me for interrupting you,” she said, rising from the bench. He did not appear to hear her, nor did he speak to her again. He bent his head, dipped his pen into the ink, and began to write. In so doing, he reminded her even more sharply of the work-obsessed Hank.
When she mentioned Adelbert to Bertille later, the girl at once became annoyed with her.
“I have told you, Adelbert is a nice enough man, but it is Marcion I want.” Bertille’s eyes filled with tears. “It’s Marcion I miss every day, Marcion I fear for constantly and long to see again.”
So there the matter of Adelbert’s interest in Bertille rested, though it tugged at India’s thoughts whenever she saw him. It was as if something needed to be set right, but she was not sure whether what was wrong was in the eighth century or in her own.
In early August, Hildegarde gave birth to twin sons.
“That explains why she was so large and so uncomfortable,” said Bertille, sounding like the most experienced of midwives.
“Both the babies are small and will have a struggle if they are to live,” Lady Remilda told India. “And the queen is very sick. She will be in bed for many days yet.”
After the excitement of the royal births had died down, summer heat and torpor once more descended upon Agen, relieved only by frequent heavy thunderstorms. Now India began to count the days. Exhausted riders sent by Charles brought occasional messages, along with their own accounts of what was happening on the other side of the Pyrenees. The tales were always what India, with her foreknowledge of the campaign, expected to hear. The Saracens were too busy fighting among themselves to provide the support they had promised to the Franks. The Christian Spaniards had joined forces with those Saracens who opposed the presence of the Franks in their land, and together they were resisting the invaders. The commander of Saragossa, who was to have opened its gates to Charles on his arrival there, instead bolted them against him, and the city had been under siege for months. There had been battles, but the Franks had gained little. They would return to Agen by the end of August. There were women who went about the court in mourning now, more of them each time a courier brought news of new deaths. There was no word of Theu and his men. India, Danise, and Bertille grew ever closer, the differences in their ages forgotten in mutual concern and constant worry.
Chapter 20
With evening falling on another day of warfare, Charles, king of the Franks, sat in a wooden chair in front of the entrance to his tent, listening to the reports of his war leaders. Around him stood his closest companions, every man battle-weary and sweaty, some bearing wounds, all tight-mouthed and unhappy at the disappointing end to what should have been a glorious and fruitful campaign. Only the man facing Charles looked fresh and untouched by the events of the past few months.
“We took no prisoners.” Hrulund finished his report with flashing eyes and the ring of pride in his loud voice. He swept one arm in the direction of the blazing ruins a mile or so south of the camp, inviting Charles to gaze once more on what the Franks had wrought there. “Pamplona is razed to the ground. Thus we need not concern ourselves about pursuit from either Saracens or those treacherous Spanish Christians during our return to Francia.” Hrulund smiled happily at Charles’s nod of approval.
“And you, Theu?” Charles asked the man standing next to Hrulund. “What have you to report?”
“We took fifty prisoners,” Theu responded. “Ten of them are officers, whom I turned over to Eggihard the seneschal to hold for ransom. We disarmed the ordinary soldiers and set them free. They are too disheartened by the destruction of their city to cause any trouble until we are long departed from the vicinity of Pamplona.”
“You set them free?” Hrulund’s long-standing anger against Theu rose anew. “You fool! You should have killed them all, even the officers. I never take prisoners!”
“I know,” Theu said, staying calm in the face of Hrulund’s ire. “But I see no reason for senseless killing.”
“There is nothing senseless about destroying Charles’s enemies!”
“The more you kill after a battle is over, the more enemies you make for Charles, from the families and friends of the dead men, whereas mercy often results in compliance among the defeated.”
“Why should we care about that? We are returning to Francia tomorrow, and won’t have to deal with the survivors. It’s your love of women that leads you to this foolish weakness. That’s what’s wrong with you. Women.” Hrulund spat out the word with deep contempt.
“Be still, both of you.” Charles spoke with unaccustomed sharpness. “I grow weary of the need to intervene in your constant quarrels. I have more important concerns on my mind.”
“My lord.” Hrulund was on his knees before Charles. “I ask a favor of you. On our journey through the mountains, allow me to lead the rear guard. Should the Saracens dare to follow us, no one will defend you more valiantly than I and my men.”
“I thought you just claimed that thanks to you, there would be no pursuit
,” Theu began, but stopped at a warning glance from Charles.
What Hrulund had just asked for was an important command. The man who led the rearguard would not only be responsible for protecting the vanguard of the army against attacks from the rear, but would also be in charge of protecting the baggage carts laden with the plunder accumulated in Spain. The value of this loot was less than the Franks had hoped it would be, but it was still enough to be tempting to marauders.
Then there were the people who would not be able to keep pace with the rest of the army. Those too badly wounded to ride horses or to walk would have to be carried in the baggage carts. These men, along with the camp followers, their children, and the few merchants who accompanied the army would all need protection, and many of them would in addition need compassionate help if they were to traverse the mountains and reach Francia alive. In battle, few could surpass Hrulund, but Theu did not think he was the man for a task requiring humane qualities of character.
While Hrulund talked on, trying to convince Charles, Theu thought about the repeated warnings India had given him. He thought about Hrulund’s arrogance, his lack of concern for human life, including his own life, and his mad desire for glory. It would be just like Hrulund to leave the last of the army to struggle through the pass at Roncevaux on its own so that he could ride back onto the plain to engage in battle any warband his scouts might notice. But if Theu and his best men were among the rearguard, their mere presence might make Hrulund adhere to a duty that would require more patience than he usually showed. Thus, Theu and his loyal men might avert the tragedy India had foreseen.
“Very well,” Charles said, raising a hand to stop the flow of Hrulund’s impassioned words. “I give you command of the rear guard. Take as many men as you think you will need.”
“My lord, I thank you with all my heart. I will not fail you,” Hrulund said, rising from his knees. “I will choose from among my own men.”
“My lord.” Theu stepped forward. “Allow me to go with Hrulund.”
“I don t need your levy, Fire brand,” Hrulund told him rudely.
“Not my levy,” Theu replied quietly. “There are too many of them for such a duty. I have my own personal warband of twelve men besides Marcion and myself. My lord, I volunteer to place myself under Hrulund’s orders, and I swear to obey him until we reach Francia again. Allow me to add my strength to his so that we may all pass safely through the mountains and return our wounded to their loved ones.”
“A noble gesture, to put yourself under the command of one who is not your friend,” said Charles. “Is it perhaps intended to end this long and unpleasant feud between you and Hrulund?”
“My lord, if it has that result in addition to seeing all of your army home again with no further losses, then I will be happy, for I know my disagreements with Hrulund trouble you,” Theu told him.
“Well said, my friend. You may go with Hrulund.”
There had been much murmuring among Charles’s companions during this exchange, and now several other nobles came forward, with Bishop Turpin leading them.
“Please,” said Anselm the Count of the Palace, who stood with his friend Eggihard the seneschal. “Let us join Hrulund, too.”
“I also would ride with my friend Hrulund,” declared Bishop Turpin.
“If you all go with him, who will accompany me?” asked Charles, hiding a smile. He knew well the respect his nobles had for Hrulund’s prowess in battle, knew, too, of the friendship among Theu and many of the men now standing before him. He pointed to a few of these men. “Turpin, I know you too well to think I can prevent you from doing what you will. Go, then. Anselm, Eggihard, you may go, but not you, Marcion.”
“I have ridden with Theu since I came to Francia,” Marcion protested, dropping to his knees in much the same way that Hrulund had done. “Do not shame me before the Franks, my lord. Let me go, too. Let me show what a good and loyal Lombard can do in service to his king.”
“I said, no.” Charles’s voice was kind, but firm in the way his friends knew meant he would not change his mind. Softening his refusal with a smile, he added, “No one doubts your loyalty, Marcion, but I would keep my favorite hostage safe rather than chance another war with Lombardy immediately after this hard campaign. You will stay in the vanguard next to me.”
“It doesn’t really matter,” Theu said, clapping Marcion on the shoulder. “This march across the mountains is no great thing, and it won’t be for long. We will meet again tomorrow evening, in Francia.” They clasped hands and parted, Theu going off to find Hugo and the rest of his men, leaving Marcion to look after him with a worried light in his eyes.
“Without me,” Marcion murmured, “there will be thirteen in your band.” He crossed himself several times to ward off the evil of that unlucky number.
At some distance from the royal tent, Theu fell into step beside Hrulund.
“Since we came into Spain by another route,” he said pleasantly, “I have sent out several men to reconnoiter the pass at Roncevaux. They returned yesterday with some reliable advice on where it would be best to post scouts along the way. We will need to guard our flanks.”
“Will you break your promise to Charles so soon?” Hrulund shouted at him. “I am in command. You are to obey me until the entire army has passed into Francia. Only Charles may countermand my orders. Remember that, Firebrand.”
“I only thought you might be glad of useful recent information,” Theu replied as mildly as he could manage in the face of Hrulund’s belligerence. “You are welcome to speak to my scouts without my presence, if that is what you wish.”
“What I wish is for you not to advise me,” Hrulund declared. “I and I alone, will decide what is useful information. You thought to ingratiate yourself with Charles by putting yourself under my command. Now obey me. Find your men and tell them to assemble before dawn. And do not question my decisions or presume to advise me again!”
Oh, India, Theu thought, watching Hrulund stride away toward his own campsite, you were right. Now God help us all and make our arms strong.
On the morning of the eighteenth of August, India remained in the chapel after the service was over and the other women had gone. There was nothing she could do for Theu on that fateful day except pray. She tried to clear her mind so that she could sense any thoughts he might be sending her way, but the oppressive weight of her fear overpowered her until it shut out all else. She thought her heart would break; she thought her life would end before that day was over, and there was no one in whom she could confide. She alone, out of all those in Agen, knew what was happening in the pass at Roncevaux. Barely able to breathe from terror for Theu’s sake, she prayed over and over that he would not be among those with Hrulund, or, if he were with Hrulund, that he would somehow survive to return to her unscathed.
“I told you she would be here.” Bertille’s voice came to India from a great distance. She felt two pairs of hands lifting her.
“Why are you lying on the stone floor? You will be sick.” Danise sounded worried. “India, speak to us.”
Between them, they set her on her feet. With both of them supporting her, they half carried her out of the chapel.
“Have you been there all day?” asked Bertille. “Look, the sun is setting.”
“Then it’s over,” India rasped, her voice hoarse. Her head ached, making her close her eyes against the reddish glare of the sun. She let her friends take her toward the women’s quarters. “Whatever has happened, is finished now.” She began to shiver.
“Where did you find her?” asked Sister Gertrude. “The foolish creature has obviously taken a chill. Danise, help me get her into bed. Bertille, find your mother and ask her to give you a cup of the same heated wine she keeps for the queen.”
Not caring what they did, India let them undress her and tuck her beneath the covers. When Bertille returned with the wine, she forced herself to drink it all, knowing they were trying to be kind to her, knowing, too, that they could not u
nderstand what was really wrong with her.
When they left her alone to sleep, and even later, after Danise had crawled into the bed they shared and had whispered good night and kissed her cold cheek, India lay dry-eyed and numb, staring into the darkness.
Chapter 21
In the high mountains, the clang of metal on metal was silenced at last. The cries of the dying had ceased. Even the reverberating echoes were stilled. Within the confines of the narrow, rocky pass, the boulders that the Basques had rolled down from the heights onto the rear guard were surrounded by the smaller rocks and stones that had been hurled at the Franks after the first attack. The hand-to-hand combat had come later, under the searing August sun, with the survivors of the initial ambush sweating in heavy chain mail and the horses rearing and screaming in fright, their hooves causing as much damage as any sword to friend or foe without discrimination. It was all finished now, and there was no more sound in that place except the whine of the wind. Far above the dreadful scene, the intensely blue sky arched, pure and cloudless, while the burning sun sank toward the simmering heat of the Spanish plain.
Theuderic of Metz lay on his back, staring up at the blueness while his life seeped slowly away into the earth beneath him. A piece of gold-threaded green silk blew across his line of vision, revealing a rusty-red stain on the brightness of the scarf. Theu was too weak to turn his head, but he knew from where the silk had come. Hugo lay beside him, already stiff and cold, like the rest of his men scattered nearby. Hrulund and Turpin and their men were dead, too, along with Eggihard the seneschal and Anselm the Count of the Palace, all of them slain by their fellow Christians, just as India had warned.
India…
The weight of the chain mail on his chest made it difficult to breathe. His armor had never felt so heavy before. But he had never been so weak before. Theu thought about his son, growing up safe in his grandmother’s care, and knew Charles and his mother together would see to it that the boy fared well. No cause for worry there, only sadness that he would not see his son again.