The Cross and the Dragon (4 page)

Her mother’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “I am getting old,” Theodelinda said.

Alda gazed quizzically at her mother. Theodelinda had seen almost forty winters, and care had etched lines around her mouth and gray eyes. Yet her mother possessed a strength that belied her short stature, slenderness, and age.

Theodelinda rubbed the small of her back. “I no longer have the vigor to watch over both the house and the affairs of the count. I need you to watch over the house while I oversee the farms and settle quarrels among the peasants. You will have a household of your own soon.”

Alda exchanged a glance with Veronica sitting a few paces away. Veronica raised her eyebrows.

“Thank you, Mother,” Alda replied. “I promise to care for this house. I shall be worthy of holding the keys.”

“It heartens me to hear it,” her mother said.

Theodelinda loosened her girdle and slid off the ring with the keys. She gave them one last look before handing them to Alda. Alda cupped the keys in her hand. At this moment, they were more precious than the rings on her fingers.

Over the next few days, Alda found running a household more difficult than she had expected. The servants readily obeyed all her mother’s commands, but when Alda gave an order, they stopped working as soon as she left the room.

How does Mother rule them?
Alda wondered.

She had to prove that she was a grown woman and could run a household by herself. Alda refused to seek help from her mother, who would again tell her she was only a child, but she suspected the servants knew that as well.

“This is the third time I have told you to clean the hearth,” Alda scolded a maidservant in the hall.

The maid gave Alda a defiant look.

“Have her whipped,” Alda heard her mother say behind her. “Alda, if you do not discipline them, they will take advantage of you.”

Alda stood still.

“Alda!”

Alda marched toward the servant and delivered a slap that carried all of her frustration. The maid froze and stared at Alda. Alda raised her hand again. Flinching, the maid immediately grabbed the broom and swept in quick strokes. Alda turned to go to the kitchen and plan dinner.

“Alda, you need to watch over that servant,” her mother said. “She has already proven her laziness.”

Alda faced the servant. “I am going to the kitchen.” She pointed to the hearth. “That had better be spotless when I return, or you will receive more than a slap across the face. Understood?”

Her cheek still red, the servant nodded.

Alda turned to her mother. “If you want me to watch over this house, you must let me do so. You need not hover over me.”

“The servant refused to do her work,” Theodelinda replied. “She did it only when you disciplined her.”

“The lesson is learned.” Alda threw up her hands. “I must get to the kitchen or else you will ask why dinner has not been made.” She added only half to herself, “I shall be eager for my own house.”

“How can you be so ungrateful? When I came here, I was younger than you are now, and no one had taught me anything about caring for a house. I was completely lost. I am trying to teach you to be mistress of Ganelon’s house.”

“Mother,” Alda said in a tone that sounded like a rebuke. “Please.” Her tone then softened. “Please tell Alfihar to negotiate a betrothal with another man. Perhaps he will heed you.”

“Daughter,” Theodelinda said, exasperated, “Alfihar warned me of this in his letter. I had the clerk read it to me several times. Ganelon has much wealth. He has much to offer to the clan.”

“Listen to me,” Alda pleaded. “There must be another suitor who can make a good offer to our family. Like Hruodland of the March of Brittany.”

“Hruodland of the March of Brittany?” Theodelinda blinked back her surprise. “You truly expect a match with the king’s kinsman?”

“A generous dowry could lure him to us.”

“The river has brought us riches, but Hruodland’s family will want him to marry a princess or the daughter of a duke, not the sister of a count.”

Alda frowned. Her mother was right, but she was not about to admit it. “Alfihar should choose someone other than Ganelon.”

“I understand why you would be uneasy about marriage,” Theodelinda said gently. “I was anxious when I married your father. I had known him only a few days. But once we were better acquainted, we became quite fond of each other.”

“Ganelon bears no semblance to Father.” Alda clenched her fists.

“No man, not even Prince Hruodland, is ever going to spoil you as your father did.”

The room had become too quiet. Alda turned toward the servant, who had stopped sweeping and was eavesdropping on the conversation.

“What did I tell you?” Alda raised her hand. “What is said between me and my mother is not your concern. If I have to warn you one more time, you
will
be whipped.”

The servant hurriedly resumed her sweeping.

“You’re learning, Daughter. Now listen to me, you are fortunate to attract Ganelon. He is wealthy, and you yourself have said he is a fine looking man.”

“If I could judge him on his looks alone, yes, I would be happy,” Alda snapped. “Whole songs could be created about his fine, blond hair, his pale blue eyes, and his muscled legs, but I am not talking about his looks. I am talking about his heart. His heart is black, black and shriveled as…” She looked around and pointed to a burned, twisted piece of wood. “...this spent log in the hearth.”

“Daughter, you have known him but a few weeks. Perhaps you are mistaken.”

“Mother,” Alda said as if she were explaining something to a slow child, “he was about to beat me for giving bread to one of his servants. If I marry him, what is to stop him from killing me?”

“It’s your fancy,” Theodelinda muttered, shaking her head.

“Father would have believed me,” Alda cried, her face flushing. “Father would have never chosen him. Of that, I am certain.”

* * * * *

The autumn and winter passed with no word from Alfihar, not even a message on the occasional merchant boat that visited them. The empty chair at the head of the table seemed emptier during the Feasts of the Nativity and the Resurrection. When the time for spring planting approached, Alda and Theodelinda climbed to the top of the tower. Swollen with spring rains, the Rhine swirled through the mountains, blanketed in shades of green. Peasants were leading livestock to the pastures, where shoots emerged through last winter’s dead grass. Yet many fields were still brown, save for a few weeds.

Gazing upstream, Theodelinda sighed and wrung her hands as if she could see past the Rhineland mountains, past the Alps to the tents where her son and brothers had spent the winter, huddled around fires amid the snow.

“They had provisions for only a few months,” Theodelinda said.

“They are resourceful.” Alda laid her hand on her mother’s shoulder. “They can hunt.”

Neither spoke of her worry of the Saxons. The merchants had told them the devil-worshiping brutes were burning churches and advancing west, just as Alfihar had predicted. The Saxons had not crossed the Rhine, but Drachenhaus’s defenses were in place. A wall higher than two men ringed the castle. Only one guarded gate allowed visitors to enter.

Land beyond the castle was vulnerable: the thatched, wooden houses in the village, the guarded mill by the river, the fields where crops would be planted, the pasture with its livestock, and the vineyards. This piece of civilization had clawed out a space from the forest, which smothered both banks of the river and the mountains. Alda’s gaze wandered to Nonnenwerth, the Rhine island where the Sisters of the Sacred Blood lived. Their tenants were also taking animals out to graze.

If Leonhard failed to sway Alfihar to end negotiations with Ganelon, could the abbey on this island be her refuge? Alda sometimes envied the Sisters of the Sacred Blood — to have a life where all a woman had to do was pray when the bell rang.

“Damned Lombards,” Theodelinda spat. “When your father led freemen to war, they did not stay away this long. Why did our king need one man from each free house?”

“We need a large army to save Rome,” Alda said.

“God curse those Lombards for keeping our men away during spring planting!”

“What shall we do, Mother?”

“I am not going to let these people starve.” Theodelinda’s eyes darkened to the color of storm clouds. “We will use whatever means necessary.”

They descended from the tower, and Theodelinda sent for the village priest and what was left of Alfihar’s tribunal — old men whose sons had gone to Lombardy.

“Alda, you will join us,” Theodelinda said. “I hope this will never happen in Dormagen, but you should learn in case it does.”

Alda nodded. Feeding themselves was far more important right now than arguing yet again about Ganelon as they had all winter.

Chapter 4

After hours of discussion, Theodelinda, Alda, the priest, and the peasants on the tribunal came up with a plan. When the fields were dry enough for the hoe, Theodelinda suspended all judgments and taxation. Every peasant and every castle servant worked in the fields every day of the week, even the Sabbath.

“The Lord needs His fighting men in Lombardy,” the priest said in Frankish during his homily at each sunrise Mass, “but we still must do His work here, and His work for us is spring planting. Allowing our children to starve is a greater sin than working on the Sabbath, and the dowager countess is giving alms to the Church on behalf of all of us. God will show His mercy.”

Hearing their own words echoed, Theodelinda and Alda nodded from the front row. Alda glanced over her shoulder and saw relief on the peasants’ faces.

* * * * *

A month later, Alda was at the top of the tower admiring the fields, bright green with vegetables and shoots of spring wheat, rye, and oats.

“My lady,” asked the guard, a pockmarked young man, “is all well?”

“Oh, yes, two cooks were squabbling over…” She rolled her eyes. “Not important. I just need a moment of quiet.”

“I see something that will please you more.” Grinning, he pointed to the river.

A merchant barge, its square sail unfurled, was approaching them. Laden with barrels and chests, the wooden craft was large enough to take up two-thirds of the great hall. Alda gasped, then rushed down the stairs. The horn’s call drowned out her clattering footsteps.

Lifting her skirts, she raced to the great hall, where Theodelinda was barking orders to guards and servants to get packhorses and carts, invite the merchant to the castle, and carry his wares. As servants rushed about, Alda quickly inspected the room. A glance at the hearth assured her its glowing hot coals would suffice in the warmth of the day. The thyme and mint strewn on the floor would last a few more days.

Theodelinda sent the cupbearer for wine, while Alda ordered a maidservant to fetch rolls and cakes. The two ladies took their places in ornate chairs the servants had placed near the hearth.

“Remember,” Theodelinda warned in a low voice, “don’t be too eager.”

“I know,” Alda replied. “If the merchant has cloth, point out a loose thread. And argue if he says our potters’ bowls are flawed.”

“Be pleasant, though. We need to buy salt.”

“I hope he has cinnamon and nutmeg.”

Mother and daughter were still whispering about what to trade when the merchant, a short, well-dressed young man, entered the hall and bowed to them. Theodelinda invited him to sit on a stool and refresh himself.

“Do you have tidings of my son, Count Alfihar, or my brothers, Count Beringar and Bishop Leonhard of Bonn?” It was the same question Theodelinda asked every merchant who came to Drachenhaus.

“Any news of Hruodland of the March of Brittany?” Alda added.

“Daughter, you should be asking about Ganelon of Dormagen.”

Alda glared at her mother but held her tongue about Ganelon. She did not want to be sent upstairs to the solar, away from the bargaining and the gossip.