The Cross and the Dragon (50 page)

“Five — save one at the gate, along with your five.”

“They would be evenly matched with Ganelon’s guards.”

“And they would prevent Ganelon’s men from answering their master’s summons.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked at Ganelon’s body. “I knew he wouldn’t fight fairly.”

One of Alda’s guards called to her from the foot of the stairs, where the bleeding woman still lay in the shadows and a maid sat listlessly beside her.

“I am well,” Alda replied. “Hruodland is…” She looked at her husband.

“I am well and am coming down with my lady,” Hruodland called. “How many of Ganelon’s men are left?”

“None, save the one at the entrance.”

Hruodland sheathed his sword. They descended the steps to the hall.

“She’s lost!” the maid moaned.

Hruodland shook his head at the body at the foot of the stairs. “If I had but arrived earlier I might have been able to save her life as well as avenge your honor.”

“Who is she?” Alda asked.

Hruodland’s jaw dropped. Then he realized he might not have recognized her either in the candlelight.

“Gundrada.”

“We must pray for her,” Alda murmured, making the sign of the cross.

“And her baby,” Hruodland said sadly.

“Her baby? What kind of a man would kill his own baby?”

“What kind of a man would kill any baby? What kind of man would try to rape a widow? What kind of man would stab and then poison someone lying helpless?”

“A monster.” Alda trembled. “A wicked, twisted monster.”

“The monster is dead, dearling.”

* * * * *

The servants stared at Hruodland and Alda. Most of Ganelon’s guards lay near the foot of the stairs. The men from the March of Brittany and Drachenhaus were binding their wounds. The wolfhound, unhurt, stood and wagged his tail.

One of the servants, an old woman, stepped forward and asked: “Is our master dead?”

“Yes,” Hruodland said grimly as he put his arm protectively around Alda’s shoulders.

“Praise God!”

“Who is his heir?” Alda asked.

“His sister’s son, completely unlike him,” the old woman answered. “You have given us a kinder master.”

“And what will you tell your new master?” Alda asked.

“As far as we know, the spirit of the prefect of the March of Brittany was restless, and he slew our master because of his cruelty to his servants.”

“A wise decision,” Hruodland said. “I would not like to hear that you’ve changed it.”

Alda hesitated as Hruodland led her to the door.

“What is it?” he asked.

“We cannot leave all these people here unattended. They need a Christian burial, especially Gundrada. You,” she said to the maid whom she now recognized as Gundrada’s servant, “will you fetch a priest to see to the burial?”

“I will do it for my lady,” the maid said, wiping her tears with her hand. “But if it were my will, I would have Count Ganelon and his men thrown to the rats.”

* * * * *

The guard at the castle gate fled through the postern when he saw Hruodland in the moonlight.

Once the group returned to their horses, Fidelis climbed into the cart and curled up for a nap. As the heat of battle wore off, Hruodland felt weary, and his sword arm and shoulder ached. His men looked tired as well, but they could not rest yet.

“I would rather risk the night terrors than stay another minute in this horrid place,” he said as he helped Alda mount her horse.

As they rode, Hruodland finally asked her what had been on his mind since he first saw her in Ganelon’s solar. “Is your soul in danger for leaving Nonnenwerth?”

“No.” Smiling, she explained what Plectrude had told her. “It’s God’s will I be with you, wherever you go. Our Savior says that no man should break what God has joined together. I need your permission to join any cloister.”

“The only permission I give you is to stay by my side.” He reached for Alda’s hand.

* * * * *

They continued their journey until what seemed to be matins and camped for the rest of the night. After the guards prepared a site, Hruodland and Alda slipped into a tent and quenched their long-denied desires. Alda had never been so hungry, nor so satisfied.

“Whither do we go now, Husband?” Alda asked, leaning against his bare chest.

“When I went to Dormagen, the thought of vengeance consumed me. I did not look beyond it. I thought all I had left of you was the dragon amulet.”

“When I followed you, I had no thought but to prevent your death. The thought of losing you again…” Her voice trailed off as she held him more closely, inhaling his scent.

They were silent for a few moments.

“First, we must go to Bonn,” Hruodland finally said. “I have a matter to settle with the bishop.”

“You are to do no harm to my uncle.” Alda rose slightly and leaned on her elbow.

“Are you not angry with him?” Hruodland asked, putting his hand on her bare shoulder.

“Very. But he is still my mother’s brother.”

“I have no intention of harming him,” Hruodland said, drawing her close. “But I want him to know what he did.
 
I want your uncle to know I am still alive, but I don’t know if we should tell the world.”

“Why not?”

“If the world thinks I am dead, Ganelon’s kin will think a ghost slew him, and they cannot exact vengeance from Gerard and his children for the acts of a restless spirit.”

Alda shuddered. She and Hruodland both knew of feuds that had ended in the slaughter of entire families.

“Gerard has children?” Alda asked.

“His wife and his concubine are expecting. The March of Brittany needs heirs. Maybe Ganelon’s heir will be a kinder master, but I wish to end this blood feud. If the world thinks a ghost is protecting the March of Brittany, so much the better.”

“Little Werinbert needs an uncle who will teach him the art of hunting game in the forest and holding a sword in battle,” Alda mused, “and Drachenhaus needs a count, in deed if not in name.”

“The child needs a mother as well, in deed if not in name,” Hruodland said, his hand on Alda’s hip. “I see much of myself in the boy. I felt lost when I was growing up. My mother had died, and my father had little to do with me. Perhaps, God means for us to care for Werinbert.”

“I would like that,” Alda said softly.

* * * * *

On the three-day journey to Bonn, Hruodland and Alda talked about all that had happened in the past year. At the gates to Bonn, Hruodland drew his hood low over his face. The guards admitted the travelers when Alda told them who she was.

Alda and Hruodland met Leonhard in the hall of his residence, and Hruodland drew back his hood. Bishop Leonhard quavered when he saw the anger on Hruodland’s face and dropped the piece of parchment that he had been holding.

“You owe me a debt,” Hruodland said, sitting on a bench near the hearth, in which a small fire burned.

“You owe us both a debt,” Alda added, taking a seat near her husband. “You lied to me.”

Leonhard looked at Alda with wide eyes as he picked up the parchment and stared at it. “Your mother’s letter says that Hruodland is alive, you’ve left the cloister at Nonnenwerth, and a messenger told her that Abbess Radegunde is dead.”

Alda bowed her head and made the sign of the cross. Leonhard staggered forward a step and sat down heavily on the bench across from Hruodland and Alda. He steadied himself as he stared into the flames.

“When I said Hruodland was dead, I thought I was merely altering the manner and place where he died.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “What have I done?”

“Uncle,” Alda said gently, “you can repay the debt.”

“How?”

“Write to my brother,” Hruodland said. “Tell him our blood enemy is dead.”

“Ganelon,” Leonhard said, his voice barely audible. “You slew Ganelon.”

“It was in a duel.”

“So, Hruodland, I am to write to your brother that your blood enemy is slain and what else?”

“That he can govern in the March of Brittany as long as he is a good count,” Hruodland said. “And that the world must think I am dead for the sake of his children. If Ganelon’s family thinks it was a ghost who slew him, it will cool any thoughts of vengeance.”

“I hear his heir had little affection for him,” Leonhard said, “but honor is honor. No one would hold Gerard responsible for the acts of his brother’s shade.”

“Exactly.”

“What of your uncle the king?” Leonhard asked, his voice tense.

A weight sank in Hruodland’s heart. He missed Charles and Bertrada and had no doubt they had mourned him. “I would like nothing better than for my uncle and my grandmother to know I am alive,” he said finally. “But if Uncle Charles knew the truth, I fear Gerard would be punished for lying to him.”

“You owe a debt to both of us, Uncle,” Alda interjected, gazing at the fire, “and it will take me some time to forgive you. But I do not want the king’s retribution to fall upon you.”

Leonhard relaxed a little.

“Write to him that Alda has married again,” Hruodland said, squeezing Alda’s hand.

“Hruodland…” Alda started to say.

“Hush, dearling.” He put his finger to her lips. Turning to Leonhard, he continued, “Say that she has married Sebastian, a natural son of Milo, and he has an uncanny semblance to his brother Hruodland. Tell him you blessed this marriage and granted us a dispensation to the law of consanguinity because…”

“He was the only one I would consent to marry,” Alda finished for him.

“And he offered her his protection and a generous dower and agreed to stay with her at Drachenhaus so that the young count will have an uncle to teach him the ways of men.”

“You will need to stay away from the king for a couple of years,” Leonhard said, “but in time, he will accept Sebastian. How else shall I pay the debt I owe you?”

Alda sat up straight. “You will write to the king extolling the virtues of Plectrude, the prioress who lives on Nonnenwerth and whose words reunited me with my husband. Both our houses will send gifts on her behalf. And…” Alda continued before Hruodland could speak. “…your finest pair of breeding horses, a Psalter, a clerk who will teach Werinbert to read when he has seen seven winters, and enough iron for a sword for Werinbert, when he is old enough to wield one.”

“You ask for much,” Leonhard said, studying his hands, “but if it will earn your forgiveness, all of it is yours.”

* * * * *

After five days at Bonn, the party left for Drachenhaus. They approached the village two days later as the sun sank below the mountains. Alda smiled when she heard two blasts from the horn. Leonhard had sent a message of their homecoming ahead.

“I have something to give you,” Hruodland said, gazing at the silhouette of Drachenfels across the river. He took the dragon amulet from his own neck and placed it on Alda’s. “Now that I have you, I have no need for a reminder. It belongs to the House of the Dragon.”

“Why?” she asked. “Why did you give up your land for my sake?”

“God gave me back my life. He gave you back to me, and He has given us a child. The land is a small price.”

Historical Note

Any portrayal of Hruodland of the March of Brittany, the inspiration for
The
Song of Roland
and other legends, is going to be fictitious. The only historical mention of him is part of a sentence. In Einhard’s biography of King Charles (better known to us as Charlemagne), Hruodland (or Roland) is listed among the dead in the ambush at Roncevaux. I borrowed names from
The Song of Roland
, but the anonymous eleventh-century Old French epic should be interpreted for its artistic rather than historic value.