“I have promised Danise the choice shall be
hers,” Savarec said.
“A foolish thing to do,” Autichar told him.
“Women don’t know what they want until a man shows them.”
“Nor can I make promises to you that might
interfere with my first loyalty to Charles,” Savarec went on. “Any
agreement of mutual aid between us must be subject to Charles’s
approval first.”
“Well spoken, my friend.” Charles, his uncle
and his companions now joined the group around his queen. He
towered above them all, his pale gold hair glinting in the May
sunshine, his blue wool cloak carelessly draped across his broad
shoulders. Autichar had to look upward more than a foot to meet
Charles’s eyes.
One of Charles’s feet
, Danise told
herself with some amusement, for the size of the royal extremities
had been used to determine the new official measurement of a
foot
.
“Autichar,” Charles said in a deceptively
quiet voice, “I do not think I can approve of your suit for
Danise’s hand. You are too fond of my cousin, Duke Tassilo of
Bavaria. Your insistence that Savarec ought never to fight against
you makes me wonder what you and my cousin are planning.”
There was an uneasy silence when Charles
stopped speaking. Years before, while Charles’s father, Pepin, was
still alive and king of the Franks, there had been a war in
Aquitaine. Duke Tassilo had taken his troops there to fight for
Pepin, as he was obliged to do, having pledged his loyalty to
Pepin. But before the battle was joined, Tassilo deliberately
quarreled with Pepin and then took his men and departed the field.
This
herisliz
, this act of treachery and desertion, was the
most serious crime a Frankish noble could commit. It was punishable
by death, though for family reasons neither Pepin nor, later, his
son Charles, demanded that ultimate penalty of Tassilo. As a result
of Tassilo’s actions in Aquitaine, relations between the Frankish
kings and their cousin the Duke of Bavaria had been strained for
years.
“Last summer Tassilo sent troops for your
Spanish campaign,” Autichar reminded Charles.
“Only a small contingent,” Charles replied,
smiling a little. “And Tassilo himself did not join me. Perhaps he
feared I would have him arrested.”
“Are you accusing Tassilo and me of plotting
against you?” demanded Autichar.
“Certainly not,” Charles said. “Not without
clear evidence. However, you and Tassilo are not only related to
each other by marriage, you are also close friends. And now I find
you trying to subvert Savarec’s primary allegiance to me.”
“You heard him,” said Autichar. “Savarec
wouldn’t agree to defend me should I become his son-in-law.”
Turning to Savarec, Autichar added, “Savarec, I formally withdraw
my request for your daughter’s hand in marriage. Nor will I remain
where my loyalty and my honesty are in question. I will take my men
and leave Duren for Bavaria this very day.”
“God speed you on your way,” Charles said,
the smile still playing about his lips. He watched as Autichar
stalked away. “You and that small army you brought to Duren,”
Charles added thoughtfully.
“Do you think that was entirely wise?” asked
Savarec. “He will go home to Bavaria and tell Duke Tassilo what you
have said.”
“Which was my intent,” Charles informed him.
“Let Autichar remind my cousin Tassilo that I have not forgotten
what he once did to my father. There will be a reckoning between
us. Perhaps not for years, but it will come. I foresee Tassilo
ending his days in a secure, well-guarded monastery.”
“Meanwhile,” Sister Gertrude said, “Danise is
rid of at least one unwelcome suitor.”
“Here is an added advantage to my decision to
convince Autichar to go home.” Charles was grinning now. “Danise,
you deserve a husband far better than Autichar.”
“So I had already decided.” Danise met
Charles’s sparkling eyes with laughter. “But I do thank you, sir,
for sparing me the trouble of sending him away rejected.”
“And I,” said Savarec. “I admit, I was in awe
of his lands and his titles, but he would have made a poor husband
for my girl.”
“Now, if we could just rid ourselves of
Danise’s other suitors,” Sister Gertrude said.
“Oh, no.” Hildegarde burst into laughter.
“Sister Gertrude, do not deny Danise the joys of wedded life, for
they are sweet indeed. Even the discomforts are but trivial when
one has married the right husband.”
“Thank you for those words, dearest wife.”
Charles beamed at his queen. Catching her hand, he raised it to his
lips and kissed it.
To this testimony to marriage Sister Gertrude
dared make no critical response. Not with Hildegarde smiling at her
husband and Charles watching his wife with a tender gaze. But when
Charles turned his attention elsewhere, the nun did have a few
choice words for Savarec.
“You claim to love Danise, yet the quality I
would expect to see in her possible husbands is sorely lacking,
Savarec.”
“I am not so rich or so powerful that I can
afford to ignore the proposals of such men,” Savarec responded. “In
fact, Clodion earlier today all but accused me of outright trickery
because he has discovered that Danise’s dowry is much smaller than
he expected it to be.”
“In that case, let us hope Clodion will
decide not to pursue her.”
“He made his suit contingent upon his meeting
with Danise,” Savarec said, somewhat uneasily. “You heard him. He
is enthusiastic about the prospect of marriage to her. I am not
unwise enough to refuse him.”
“Unwise?” scoffed Sister Gertrude. “Say
rather, you have no wits at all in such matters. If you had, you
would not trust Clodion for a moment.”
Savarec’s face turned red, and it seemed to
Danise that he was preparing a sharp retort to Sister Gertrude’s
scathing comments on his intelligence. Tired of their bickering,
she moved away from them. When she did so, Count Redmond fell into
step beside her.
“I hope you do not find me as unacceptable as
Count Autichar,’’ he said.
“Compared to Autichar, you are the most
charming of men,” she teased.
“I do hope so. May I tell you about my home,
and why I believe you would be an excellent wife for me?”
To this suggestion Danise assented, so while
they walked along the ríverbank in the golden midday sunshine,
Redmond set forth all the sensible reasons why they should marry.
She thought he was an honest man, and his person was clean and
comely. He provided a humorous description of life on his estates,
making her laugh several times. Danise felt completely at ease with
him.
“I have spoken enough about myself,” Redmond
said at last. “Tell me how the stranger fares.”
When Danise revealed the man’s name and
described his improved condition, Redmond had another question for
her.
“May I visit him? He might like to talk with
a man close to his own age, which I think I am. Michel may be
lonely, or feeling apprehensive among people he does not know. By
providing instruction in the ways of our menfolk, I might be able
to ease his anxiety until his memory returns.”
“How good of you,” Danise cried, liking
Redmond even more for his generous concern over a man who was never
completely out of her own thoughts. Neither Clodion nor Autichar
could begin to capture her interest the way Michel had done. But
Redmond? She regarded her third suitor with true warmth and a
bright smile.
“I believe we will become good friends,” she
told him.
“I would wish for more than friendship from
you,” Redmond replied, “but it is a fair beginning. Now, when may I
see Michel?”
“I will take you to him immediately after the
midday meal,” Danise promised.
“We are agreed, then.” Redmond rose from his
seat beside Michel’s bed. “As soon as you are well enough, I will
introduce you to the other young men and teach you how to use
Frankish weapons.”
“The
fransisca
,” Michel replied, the
image of the deadly short-handled throwing ax clear in his
mind.
“The
fransisca
is an older weapon,
used in the time of the Merovingian kings and seldom seen in these
days,” said Redmond, looking surprised. “Under King Pepin, and now
under Charles, we have new and better arms.
“But, I thought -” Michel stopped, shaking
his head. “Obviously, I am mistaken. What weapons will I learn to
use?”
“The
scramasax
, our dagger, though
sometimes it is as long as a sword,” Redmond replied. “Also the
spear and, most important, the sword. We Franks are famous for our
fine sword blades. They are so envied that Charles has made a law
forbidding them to be taken out of Francia, so our enemies cannot
buy them and thus use Frankish-made weapons against us in
battle.”
“I look forward to the lessons,” Michel told
him. “It is boring to be so confined, to be dizzy each time I try
to stand and move. I long for activity.”
“There speaks the true warrior.” Redmond
nodded his understanding. “From whatever country you come, we are
brothers in heart, I think. Nor, after talking with you, have I any
doubt that you are noble.”
But I have doubts
, Michel thought when
he was alone again. Impatient as he was to be out of bed and moving
about without feeling weak or light-headed, he was even more
impatient to have his memory return. Too often Danise or Savarec,
or now Redmond, used words that brought distinct images into his
mind, but when he described those images he was told they were long
out of date.
“Mystery upon mystery,” he said to himself,
swinging his feet to the ground. He sat on the edge of his bed,
waiting for the dizziness to subside. When he felt steady enough to
stand he went to Savarec’s wooden chest and lifted the lid. He knew
by now that Danise was right when she said his own clothing would
make him conspicuous in the Frankish camp and thus raise questions
he was unable to answer.
When he finally was well enough to don
clothing and leave Savarecs tent it would be in the wooden tunic
and breeches Guntram had given him. But the clues to his identity
lay in the belongings with which he had come to this place. He
picked up the pouch of coins that Clothilde had saved for him and
took it back to the bed. There he opened it, letting the coins
spill out across the quilt. They were in various sizes, most
silver, a few of copper.
“How finely they are made,” Danise said from
just inside the tent entrance.
“I didn’t hear you come in.” As always when
she was with him, she captured his full attention. She sat at the
foot of his bed, the folds of her green wool gown graceful about
her. When she leaned forward to pick up a coin one of her thick
braids fell over her shoulder, swinging between them, a rope of
pale gold bound at its end with green ribbon.
“Well?” she asked, and he realized that while
he was absorbed in contemplating her hair and the delicate peach
glow in her cheeks, she had been examining the coins and asking
questions he had not heard. “Michel, have you discovered anything
in these coins to tell you who you are?”
“Not yet.” He was not looking at the coins.
He was still looking at her. Nature had given her light brown brows
and lashes several shades darker than her silvery hair, and her
eyes were gray-green. Soft, trusting eyes, meeting his with perfect
honesty, yet with a peculiar haunted quality. Michel put out a hand
to stroke her smooth cheek and run his finger across the curve of
her jaw to the tip of her chin. She sat still, not pulling away,
allowing his caress while not encouraging it. He longed to touch
her lips with his finger. He did not do what he wanted. The shadow
in her eyes stopped him. He let his hand stray to her braid
instead. He felt its silken smoothness sliding through his fingers
and heard her catch her breath, a quiet sound, quickly smothered.
Her glance did not forsake his, but the haunted expression
deepened.
“Why are you so sad?” At once he wished he
had not asked. By the immediate withdrawal in her lovely face he
knew he had trespassed into a personal domain where he had no right
to go.
“You are too perceptive.” With an irritated
gesture she tossed the coin she was holding onto the little
collection of silver and copper spread upon the quilt. “I cannot
answer you. It is not your affair.”
“I am not deaf, Danise, and I have begun to
understand your language rather well. I hear what the people around
me are saying. Are you unhappy because your father hopes you will
soon agree to marry?” He stopped there, not telling her what it was
on the tip of his tongue to say, that the thought of her marriage
to anyone, even to a man as good-hearted and decent as Redmond, was
as unpleasant to him as it apparently was to her.
“You do not understand.” Danise rose, turning
her back on him. She did not look at him when she spoke again.
“Since you feel well enough to leave your
bed,” she told him in tones reminiscent of Sister Gertrude, “you
plainly do not need my nursing care any longer. I leave you to the
men, Michel. I wish you the best of luck at weapons practice.” With
that, she was out of the tent, the entrance flap swinging shut
behind her.
Michel shook his head in wonder at his own
ineptness. No need to ask what had annoyed her. He had blundered
into her private life and she did not want him there. He thought
about the way her expression closed so quickly against him,
recalled the rigidly straight line of her back as she left the
tent. He groaned in frustration.
From the first moment when he had glimpsed
Danise’s face through pain-blurred, unfocused eyes, he had been
aware of a peculiar connection to her. For days after that initial
sight of her, Danise had been a near-angelic presence, drawing him
back to consciousness when it would have been easier to slip away
into painless darkness. Now that he was almost well again common
sense told him this mysterious bond was an illusion created by his
helplessness and nurtured by his continuing lack of memory. Common
sense told him so but his heart, or some other buried part of
himself that believed in miracles, insisted that there was more to
his presence at Duren than mere chance. And though he thought she
would have denied it if he asked her, he believed Danise also felt
the connection between them.