The Cross and the Dragon (32 page)

A nun rushed in with a chamber pot. “For the — I have lost count of how many times. You are at the Abbey of Saint Stephen.” He knew she was an Aquitanian named Illuna but did not know how he knew.

And then he remembered. They had told him his rear guard and baggage train had been attacked by the Gascons, and he was the sole survivor. He mourned for the loss of his friends all over again.

Illuna whipped back the sheet and blanket. Hruodland saw that he was naked and stared at his ribs.

“I need help to lift him,” Illuna called. “He has gained weight.”

Another Aquitanian nun old enough to be his mother — somehow, he knew her name was Elisabeth — helped Illuna lift him onto the chamber pot. He blushed. How did they know he needed to answer the call of nature?

“This is not necessary,” he slurred. “I do not need help.”

“He says this every time,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Patience, Illuna,” Elisabeth said gently. “It is better than having him lie in his own waste. Only two months ago, we thought he was dying.”

After Hruodland relieved himself, Illuna took the chamber pot to the privies. Elisabeth covered Hruodland again with the sheet.

Hruodland wanted to get out of bed and get dressed. He wanted to go home to Alda and the March of Brittany. He could not recall ever having an illness, except for a few childhood fevers. He tried to get out of bed and found himself exhausted with the effort of sitting up.

Elisabeth propped him up against pillows and told a young lay sister to fetch some bread and lentils.

“How did you know I was hungry?” Hruodland slurred.

“You are always hungry when you awaken,” Elisabeth said.

Hruodland tried to remember the attack. Where did the nuns say it was? Oh yes, Roncevaux. He closed his eyes hard, but he could not remember, no matter how hard he concentrated.

“Why am I speaking like a drunkard?” he asked.

“I do not know.”

The lay sister came with a steaming bowl of lentil soup and small loaf of barley bread and gave it to Elisabeth. Sister Illuna returned from the privies. Elisabeth broke the bread and gave it to Hruodland along with the bowl.

“Why are you giving me peasant food?” he asked.

“Because that is what the cooks make in the kitchen,” Elisabeth said curtly. “Try to feed yourself.”

Hruodland glared at the nuns. Of course, he could feed himself. Did they think he was a cretin? But his arms felt heavy as if someone had tied stones to his wrists. He concentrated on dipping the bread into the bowl and eating it.

“Very good,” Elisabeth said as if praising a dog.

“I have seen… twenty-seven winters? I can feed myself.”

“You could not do that a month ago,” Elisabeth said, her usual patience returning.

“Where is Durendal?”

“Durendal?” Elisabeth asked.

“His sword,” Illuna said, tossing her head. “He is always asking about his sword. Again, we have no idea what happened to your sword or your horse or your clothes or your armor or the dragon amulet you keep asking about. Your brother brought you here with nothing but the medal of Saint Peter. We gave you the cross.”

“It’s my brother’s medal,” he said, looking down at his bare chest.

“Your brother gave it to you to assure your passage to heaven.”

“And where did my brother go?”

“He and the others went to rejoin the king and his army.”

“And we have no news of your wife or your brother or the king,” Illuna interjected.

“How did you know I was going to ask?” Hruodland said.

“You always ask.”

* * * * *

That night, Hruodland woke up screaming. He raised himself on his elbows and looked around but could see nothing but the night candle, a low burning fire, and empty cots. He was sweating, and his pulse was pounding. He fell back on the cot, feeling foolish, and was relieved he was alone. Then, he heard familiar footsteps. Elisabeth drew back the curtain.

“My lord, are you well?” she asked.

“It’s nothing but a dream,” he slurred.

The candlelight flickered on a lock of her silvered hair and blue eyes. For the first time, he noticed that she looked exhausted. Although the night air was chilly, she was sweating and fanning herself.

“What are you doing here?” he said slowly, trying to control his speech. “It must be after compline.”

“It is after matins,” she said. “I cannot sleep — again.”

“Why do you not take a sleeping draught?”

“Sometimes I do, but it often leaves me with a pain in my head at prime Mass. What is this dream you speak of?”

“It is nothing. Strange, though. I was dreaming about an old adversary. I have never been afraid of him, and I do not understand why I would fear him now.”

“Perhaps the dream is a message,” she prompted. “Please tell me. Anything that troubles your soul concerns me.”

“You are like my wife,” he said.

“Is she old enough to be your mother as well?” Elisabeth raised her silvered eyebrows.

“No, she is young, almost twenty winters, I think. She is as insistent as you are. Why is she not here?” The thought had suddenly occurred to him. He had been here for several weeks, and there had been no word from her.

“I do not know. Perhaps she waits for you at home.”

“That is unlike her,” Hruodland said, propping himself up on his elbows. “She is the kind of woman who would come here and pray over my body, even during my long sleep.”

“Perhaps, she prays for you at church,” Elisabeth said, placing pillows behind him.

Remembering that she had prayed for his father, he could see Alda kneeling before a wooden statue of the Blessed Mother in Nantes or praying to Saint Melaine’s relics in Rennes. Then, his brow furrowed.

“She would send a message. I know she would.” He sank against the pillows. “What shall I tell her about the dragon?”

“Is that the amulet you keep asking about?” Elisabeth adjusted Hruodland’s blanket.

“Yes. She will be most vexed. She gave it to me for protection. It was her most precious possession, a gift from her father, and I lost it. I do not remember how. It was an iron amulet with a stone from Drachenfels Mountain.”

Elisabeth put her hand to her mouth.

“Do you know something?” Hruodland asked.

“I cannot believe I had forgotten. Your brother, he was holding the dragon amulet when he brought you here.”

“Why would he do that?” he slurred.

“I did not ask. I did not know whose amulet it was.”

“He would have given it to her.” He frowned. “Why no word from her?”

“I do not know. Now tell me about your dream.”

Hruodland sank against the pillows. Already, he was tired. Why did little tasks like sitting up and trying to speak clearly exhaust him? He knew Elisabeth would not be satisfied until he told her, even as his words became more slurred.

“I was lying in the dust,” he began, “unable to move, unable to raise my littlest finger, and my blood enemy was standing over me. He bent over. I saw a flash and then felt a sharp pain in my chest.”

Elisabeth flinched.

“That is not the worst of it,” Hruodland said.

“It isn’t?” Elisabeth’s eyes widened. She removed her cloak and fanned herself.

“The next thing I remember is lying in the dark, still unable to move. Ganelon — that is my blood enemy’s name — was again standing over me, and he forced wine so strong it burned down my throat. Then his face was close to mine.” Hruodland translated the Frankish to Roman. “He said, ‘I do not know why you keep living, but God has given me the opportunity to have my vengeance and smite you. There is enough hemlock in this wine to finish you off. The bishop gave you last rites, but I know where your soul is going. You are going to hell. You stole her from me and never did penance.’”

“Her?” Elisabeth asked.

“It’s a long tale. Suffice it to say he was suitor for my wife’s hand, but she never would have consented to marry him.”

“Is that why you are blood enemies?”

“No. My father is responsible for that. That, too, is a long tale.” His eyes fluttered shut.

“Is that all of your dream?” Elisabeth asked.

Hruodland opened his eyes, although his eyelids felt heavy. “The last thing he said in the dream was, ‘When you arrive in hell, tell the Devil that Ganelon of Dormagen sent you.’”

Elisabeth gasped. “What a twisted mind!”

“Yes,” he murmured, “twisted. That is why my wife refused him.”

Hruodland yawned and closed his eyes. Elisabeth moved the pillows so that he lay on the bed and pulled the sheets over Hruodland’s chest.

“It appears she made the right choice,” Elisabeth said. “As for your dream… Are you still awake?”

Hruodland nodded.

“As for your dream,” she continued, “perhaps it is a message that your blood enemy is not as harmless as you think.”

Hruodland nodded, too tired to talk or even open his eyes again. If he but had the strength, he would have said he never called Ganelon harmless, just too cowardly to fight anyone who could fight back.

* * * * *

Hruodland was awakened by the prime bells. As gray light seeped through the crack between the shutters, he realized he was in the hospital of the Abbey of Saint Stephen. He had to answer the call of nature and struggled to sit up. He managed to put his feet on the floor and sit on the edge of the cot.

But he could not stand. He was too weak. He collapsed on the cot, knowing the sisters would find him like this.
Why can’t I will my body to do what I want?
he wondered, unable to lift his feet and put them back on the cot.
Is this going to be my life?

Hruodland did not know how long he had lain on the bed when he saw Sister Illuna enter the room. He called out to her, expecting her to rebuke him the way she always did.

“Do you think you can make it to the privies?” she asked. Surprisingly, there was no irritation in her voice this time.

“No,” he mumbled.

She grabbed a chamber pot, ran to him, and held it as he relieved himself. She helped him lie down on the cot and took the chamber pot to the privies.

As Hruodland waited for Illuna, Sister Elisabeth entered through the curtained doorway. She blinked back her surprise.

“You are awake,” she said.

Hruodland nodded, too weary to speak. He looked at Sister Elisabeth. She had dark circles under her eyes. She should be lying in the cot, not him. All he ever did was sleep. So why was he so tired and weak all the time? He had to speak, even if it took all of his strength.

“Why… is… God doing this to me?” he asked, laboring over each word.

Elisabeth stared at him, mouth open. Did she not understand him? He thought his words were mostly clear.

Sister Illuna entered the ward through the door to the outside. “Sister Elisabeth,” she cried, putting the empty chamber pot back in its place. “Prince Hruodland, you should tell her.”

“Tell her what?” he struggled to say.

“Sister Elisabeth, his feet were on the floor when I came in!” Illuna said.

“How wonderful! Praise God!” Sister Elisabeth beamed, like a mother proud of her baby taking his first step.

They were happy because he could put his feet on the floor? “I wish I were dead,” he muttered.

Sister Elisabeth’s smile turned into a scowl. “You will say no such thing. God gave you your life back. Do not belittle His gift.”

“But,” he said, propping himself on his elbows, “I am so weak.”

“You are gaining strength. Two months ago, you could not sit up.” Elisabeth set pillows behind him.

“Is this going to be my life?” he slurred out. “I cannot walk. My speech is like a drunkard’s.”