The Cross and the Dragon (41 page)

“I hope she is displeased,” Elisabeth said. “She will not feel half the anger I felt when she refused to let Denis be buried in the orchard cemetery or when I learned she let the world think Prince Hruodland was dead.”

“Nor mine,” Hruodland said. “But if anyone asks, your protector is named Sebastian.”

Elisabeth and Illuna gave him quizzical looks.

“The world thinks Hruodland, prefect of the March of Brittany, died at Roncevaux,” he said, answering the question on their faces. “Now is not the time to undeceive them. Hruodland, nephew of the king, should not be traveling like this. Hruodland will make his return to the world like a noble, with a sword drawn and raised above his head. Until then, I am Sebastian, making a pilgrimage to Saint Melaine at Rennes. And I can induce more fear in brigands if they think they are facing a ghost, an enemy they cannot kill.”

After helping Elisabeth onto her mule, Hruodland mounted the horse that had been riderless. His steed was obviously a farm animal, not one trained for battle, but it was obedient to the rein.

“We should put as many leagues as possible between us and the abbey,” he said. “The abbess will send her guards after you as soon as she learns both her jewels and two of her sisters are missing.”

Elisabeth and Illuna giggled.

“What did you do?” Hruodland asked.

“Their morning beer will seem more intoxicating than normal,” Elisabeth said, “especially with the sleeping potion I slipped in.”

This time, Hruodland gave her a look of horror. How much had he corrupted the sisters, first stealing, now poisoning?

“It isn’t enough to cause harm,” Elisabeth said. “They simply will be too sleepy to follow us until about nones tomorrow. And then they will feel pain in their heads as if they had drunk too much wine. By the next morning, they will be as if nothing had happened.”

“That gives us an extra day,” Hruodland said, “but it will not take long for Judith’s guards to overtake us.”

“Not if they think we’re traveling to Toulouse,” Illuna replied.

“The opposite direction. Why would she think we’re going to Toulouse?” he asked.

“I asked lay brothers to help us prepare for our pilgrimage,” Illuna said, chuckling, “and I kept saying things like, ‘That should be enough beer for a journey to Toulouse’ and ‘It is warmer in Toulouse, but we might need those blankets at night.’”

“And you spoke the literal truth,” Elisabeth said. “You never actually said we were going to Toulouse.”

“So how will word that we are going to Toulouse reach Judith’s ears?” Hruodland asked.

“Those lay brothers are the worst gossips in the abbey,” Illuna said. “They could not hold their tongues about anything if their very lives depended on it.”

“By the time Judith realizes we have not gone to Toulouse,” Elisabeth added, “we will be in Bordeaux and under the protection of my brother, the archbishop, well beyond her reach. He is not at all fond of Judith or her father.”

* * * * *

After prime Mass, Alda lingered in the church and gazed at the mural of Christ and His Mother in majesty. She drew her damp, black cloak closer to her.

Yesterday, a sister had read the Rule of Saint Benedict to her in Latin. She understood a word here and there but found most of it beyond her comprehension. The language was close to Roman but not close enough.

The nun who read the Rule said something in Latin. Alda just stared.

Another sister nudged Alda and translated, “Here is the Rule under which you will fight. Do you accept it?”

“I do,” Alda said, having no idea what she was accepting, only that it was important. She wished someone had translated the Rule into Frankish. But even if she could understand it, she simply had no choice. If she did not stay here on Nonnenwerth, she would endanger herself and Werinbert.

“Your novitiate will continue,” Abbess Radegunde had said. “In two months’ time, the Rule will be read to you again, and two weeks later, you will take the vow.”

Alone in the church now, Alda knelt before the altar and pressed her amulet and Hruodland’s ring to her heart. Outside, nature itself seemed to anticipate the Feast of the Resurrection. Maples were setting flower buds, and flowers awoke under the trees in the orchard. The wheat grew again, the kale sent up yellow flowers, and the lettuce was young and tender. Birds were returning. Life was returning.

The night before, Alda had dreamt she and Hruodland were in a garden, talking as if he were still alive. When the prime bell had awakened her, it took all her effort not to weep during prayers, mourning that it had been only a dream. Alda was startled from her thoughts when she heard Plectrude open the church door.

“Alda, are you well?”

“I was thinking of my husband,” she said. “Just when I think my heart has healed, I dream of him again.”

“What did he say to you?”

“That he did not die. That he was testing my fidelity.”

“Perhaps he is telling you not to take the vow. Once you do, you will cut yourself off from the world forever and never be able to leave here.”

“Or he is telling me to take the vow. He would not be jealous if I became a bride of God.”

“But you have doubts?” Plectrude asked.

“Hruodland and I last saw each other about this time a year ago. After all this time, I still cannot believe he is dead. I cannot feel it in my heart. I keep thinking he is going to come back. But that’s nonsense, isn’t it?”

Chapter 27

Four days after they had set out from the Abbey of Saint Stephen, Hruodland and the sisters arrived at the gates of Bordeaux, a walled city surrounded by vineyards on marshy ground near the Garonne River. Inside the gates, they passed gigantic Roman pillars and made their way to the church. The beggars and pilgrims at the church doors ignored Hruodland. At Rennes, they had gathered around him, asking for alms.

Hruodland patted his sword hilt, just in case. Among the truly blind and lame were frauds and pickpockets. He and the sisters went to the archbishop’s residence near the church. The archbishop’s home was as magnificent as any of the king’s villas, with its turrets, murals, and hearths.

As he stood in the hall and gazed at a mural of Saint Michael the Archangel slaying the dragon, Hruodland wondered if the archbishop might recognize him. The army had stopped in Bordeaux on the way to Hispania over a year ago, and Hruodland had been one of his many guests.

When the archbishop greeted his sister and her companions, he stared at Hruodland, who had been introduced as Sebastian, an abbey tenant.

“Sebastian, you look familiar.” The archbishop shook his head. “Must be a fancy.”

After dinner, Hruodland sat by the fire with the sisters as the archbishop’s musician tuned his harp.

“What can you tell me about the family who rules the March of Brittany?” Elisabeth asked her brother. “I have heard little of important families during my stay at the abbey and would like to know something about my hosts in Rennes.”

Wishing he could thank Elisabeth outright, Hruodland smiled at her.

“The family has experienced a great loss,” the archbishop replied, bowing his head. “Count Hruodland fell at the Pass of Roncevaux. What a tragedy! He was the nephew of the king and a great warrior. His brother, Gerard, rules there now. He passed through here, an intelligent man, but not a warrior like his brother.”

“Was Hruodland married?”

“Yes, to a wealthy Rhinelander, a strong-willed woman, I hear. I don’t know what became of her. Your host might be married by now. The merchants tell me he was starting negotiations with… I forget the name.”

Hruodland wondered what Alda was doing right now. A chill went through him as he remembered the nightmare that followed him on the road. Had Ganelon tried to harm her? Had she married again, seeking the protection of another man? Hruodland was torn between jealousy over the new husband and anger at himself for failing to protect her.

Elisabeth’s next question drew his attention. “Have you heard news of the court?”

“The queen is with child again,” the archbishop replied.

Hruodland smiled. Charles was lucky to have such a fertile wife. Whenever Alda heard such news, he remembered, she would say it was wonderful, yet her hand would stray to her belly. How he wished God had let a child grow inside her!

“The children and the queen mother, are they well?” Hruodland asked instead. “And how does the king fare?”

“All are well,” the archbishop said, raising his brows. “The king is preparing for another war with the Saxons and is gathering his forces at Düren.”

“So the Saxons broke their promise of peace,” Hruodland said bitterly.

“You truly have been removed from the world,” the archbishop said to Hruodland. “While our men were fighting the infidels in Hispania, the heathens attacked our churches.”

Hruodland glowered. If it were not for the attack at Roncevaux, Charles might have summoned him to fight alongside Alfihar. He swallowed back his sadness as he remembered that Alfihar was dead.

A few notes on the harp stirred Hruodland from his thoughts.

“This song is about a hero in our time, a man you spoke of a little while ago,” the singer began. “I speak of Hruodland, prefect of the March of Brittany and nephew of the king. His story is the ultimate tale of loyalty, courage, and sacrifice.”

Hruodland stared into the flames. He was not sure if he wanted to hear this about himself. He took a gulp of wine from a cup and passed it to Illuna, who patted his hand.

The man sang about the Saracens massing on the field, breaking their promise of peace with the Franks. Hruodland and other nobles in the rear guard stayed behind. Then the singer described how Hruodland sliced ribs off his enemies’ bodies and burst their eyeballs. Although defeat was imminent, Hruodland was proud and refused to blow on his horn, until almost everyone around him was dead and needed a Christian burial.

Hruodland walked away from the fire for a moment. He still had no memory of Roncevaux, except that he and the other soldiers were marching through densely wooded, narrow mountain passes, but a gut feeling told him the battle did not happen like this. For one thing, if he were facing thousands of Saracens — or any other foe — on the battlefield as the song described, sounding the horn would be the first thing he would have done to summon help and perhaps scare the enemy.

From what the nuns told him about the ambush by the Gascons, there had been no glory, not the way the singer was portraying it. Hruodland mourned for Alfihar and the others all over again. Anger burned in his belly. His friends and kinsmen had been slaughtered, and here was this fool who had obviously never seen battle making it into a song.

When Hruodland turned toward the fire, Elisabeth was staring at him, and Illuna was wringing her hands.

“Were you there?” Hruodland asked the singer. He made no effort to disguise his ire.

“I would be dead if I was. I first heard about what happened at Roncevaux when the king was here, and the song just came to me.”

“I doubt the prefect of the March of Brittany would be that stupid,” Hruodland growled.

“He was a gifted warrior,” the singer said, “but he was proud.”

“Not to the point of idiocy!”

Elisabeth coughed to disguise a laugh, and he knew what she was thinking. He had left the safety of the abbey with only a knife, a dog, and the clothes on his back. He had taken neither horse nor food nor even a wineskin.

“Not to the point of needlessly endangering others,” Hruodland added, looking directly at Elisabeth.

“Did you know Hruodland?” the singer asked.

Elisabeth and Illuna nervously glanced at each other.

“My father is from the March of Brittany,” Hruodland answered. “Hruodland was a good warrior and proud of his scars, but he was not so proud that he would allow the slaughter of his fellows without calling for aid. And the people who attacked the rear guard were the Gascons, not the Saracens.”

“I don’t care who it was. The Saracens are infidels and followers of Muhammad, and our king was there because they threatened the Church.”