“There, you see? That’s why I’m leaving him
here at Agen.” Charles appeared to be much amused by Alcuin’s
response. “I’ll wager your scholar husband was no different in his
complaints.”
“I know it is too late to stop you from going
to Spain,” she said, beginning to feel desperate. “I have been told
that half your army has left already. But I beg you, take the
greatest care, especially on your return journey, and please – oh,
please, beware of Hrulund’s mad desire for glory. If you do not
control him, he will cause much grief.”
“Did Hrulund not desire glory, he would not
be half so fine a warrior,” said Charles, adding in a stern voice,
“Have you warned me about him because of the way you were treated
at Tours?”
“Because of what I saw in him there,” she
answered.
“Or is it that you would rather I prefer Theu
over Hrulund?” Charles asked. “You must be aware of the feud
between them.”
“That’s not it at all,” she cried, frustrated
by her inability to make him understand.
“Women as well as scholars dislike war,”
Charles said. “Who can blame them? Their gentle hearts break at the
damage warfare inflicts. Let me warn
you
now, India. Do not
interfere in the work of warriors. Nothing you can say or do will
stop this campaign or make me conduct it differently than I would
have if you had not spoken.”
His tone and his commanding presence defeated
her. There was no way to convince him of what she knew, except to
tell him a truth he would never believe. He would think she was a
madwoman. She did not know what they did with insane people in
Francia. She might be locked away for the rest of her life. Away
from Theu. She bowed her head, accepting her failure.
“As you wish, my lord,” she said.
“Good.” His blue eyes looked kindly on her
again. He smiled, pleased by her apparent meekness, and put out one
giant hand. “Come, I’ll present you to Hildegarde myself.”
She placed her hand in his and let him escort
her into the reception room next door, where his queen sat among
her ladies upon a well-cushioned chair placed next to a much larger
chair that could only have been intended for this unusually tall
man.
Hildegarde was twenty-one years old and had
been married to Charles for seven years. A sweet-faced woman with
soft grey eyes and light brown hair, her body was swollen with her
fifth pregnancy. She rose a bit clumsily when Charles appeared,
leaning hard on the arms of her chair for leverage.
“No, my love, don’t disturb yourself,”
Charles said, leaving India to hurry across the room and place a
supporting arm around his wife. “Hildegarde, sit down, please. The
midwives have advised you to rest.”
“I would rather walk. It eases the pain in my
back,” she said.
With one arm still around Hildegarde, Charles
waved his free hand toward India. She came forward at once to
curtsy again, though not so deeply as she had for Charles.
“This is the lady India,” Charles told
Hildegarde, “come from a great distance to visit us for a
while.”
“You are welcome to join my ladies.”
Hildegarde smiled at India, then smiled more broadly when Theu and
Marcion greeted her, each man kissing her upon both cheeks. “Here
are my brave warriors, returned to me at last. But where is
Hugo?”
“He’s busy with preparations for our
leaving,” Marcion answered her. “He will join us tonight. Lady, may
I speak to my betrothed?”
“I knew that would be your first request of
me.” Laughing now, Hildegarde called out, “Come here, Bertille, and
greet Lord Marcion with a friendly kiss.”
Marcion’s love obeyed the queen, detaching
herself from the other women to walk quickly to where he was. She
placed her hands on Marcion’s shoulders, reaching upward to kiss
him lightly on one cheek. Marcion’s hands moved to encircle her
waist, his attitude giving India the distinct impression that he
would have liked nothing better than to pull her close and kiss her
full on the mouth.
“Welcome, my lord,” said Bertille, the sound
of her voice catching India’s complete attention.
At first she could see nothing of Bertille
but smooth dark hair worked into two long braids and her dainty
back encased in light blue silk. But when Marcion released her and
she turned to greet Theu, India gave a shocked, hastily smothered
gasp. She knew that short, well-rounded figure, recognized the
sparkling eyes and the impish face with its pert, upturned nose. It
was Willi – and yet it was not Willi. The features were not
identical and there was a further shade of difference, a
lightheartedness where sadness always lingered on Willi’s face even
when she laughed. Bertille had no sadness in her at all.
Bertille greeted Theu with great charm and a
bright smile, then looked toward India. And India, wanting no
second fuss like the one she had created earlier over Adelbert’s
resemblance to Hank, said nothing, waiting until Marcion had
formally presented the girl to her.
“I think my mother will agree,” said
Bertille, “that you as well as Danise may stay with us in our
chamber.”
“An excellent idea,” said the queen, now
reseating herself with some awkwardness. While Charles leaned over
her, murmuring softly, Theu stepped to India’s side.
“About Adelbert,” he began, glancing toward
where the cleric stood with Alcuin.
“It’s worse than you think,” she said. “It
isn’t just Adelbert. Bertille is enough like Willi to be her
sister.”
“I have known Bertille since she was a small
child,” he informed her. “She has not come here from another
time.”
“If you remember, Alcuin said something
similar about having known Adelbert for years.” She shook her head,
as confused and upset as she had been on her first day in Francia.
“I don’t understand this.”
“Children often resemble their parents,” Theu
said. “Is it possible that the people you know are descendants of
Bertille and of Adelbert?”
“Could they look so much alike with so many
generations separating them?” she asked. “I don’t know. All I
do
know is that I can’t say anything to them about the way
they look. Theu, I don’t want to stay in the women’s quarters. I’d
be uncomfortable there, seeing Bertille all the time, and I want to
be with you every minute. We have so little time before you must
leave.”
“I promise I will see you often,” he said,
shaking his head at her, “but for now, stay with the ladies, I beg
you, and set me free to make the necessary preparations for
Spain.”
“Very well, Charles.” Hildegarde’s patient
voice cut across India’s further protest. “Since you insist, I will
retire to my chamber and rest. But, please my dear, go somewhere
else and busy yourself with manly concerns. I cannot sleep if you
constantly ask me whether I feel well or not. I have done this
before, I know how to bear a child. Let me attend to the welfare of
this dear baby, and you take care of your army. Sister Gertrude, my
dear old friend, I would have you with me, and Lady Remilda also.
The rest of you, girls and women, need not attend me until this
evening.” Hildegarde left the reception room with Sister Gertrude
and a stately lady.
“Lady Remilda is Bertille’s mother,” Theu
said to India, “and here comes Bertille with Danise. Go with them.
I’ll see you this evening.”
He and Marcion joined Charles, who upon his
wife’s departure had gathered a group of men about himself. The
women began drifting out of the room in small groups. Bertille and
Danise stopped to speak with Alcuin and the cleric Adelbert. When
Charles called to the two men, Adelbert delayed, wistfully watching
Bertille cross the room toward India, until a word from Alcuin
recalled him to his duties.
India soon discovered that Bertille and
Danise had met the summer before, when the court was at Paderborn
and Danise’s father had taken her there. By the time they reached
the chamber allotted to Bertille and her mother, the two girls were
chattering to each other like old friends, discussing fashions in
gowns and hairstyles, the most recent marriages and betrothals
among the nobility and – their principal topic of interest – the
handsome warriors gathered at Agen, especially the manly attributes
of Marcion and Hugo. India felt a bit left out until she realized
that she had been expecting Bertille to treat her with the same
intimacy she had always enjoyed with Willi. She told herself again
that Bertille was
not
Willi, that she, India, was at least
ten years older and infinitely more experienced than these innocent
girls in their mid-teens. However, out of all the mysteries
bedeviling her, there was one question to which she could have an
answer.
“Bertille,” India asked when the girls had
fallen silent for a moment, “I saw you speaking to Adelbert. Is he
a special friend of yours?”
“Adelbert? No, he’s only a cleric,” Bertille
answered.
“From the way he looked at you, I thought he
might be fond of you.”
“It would not matter if he were,” Bertille
replied, openly shocked by this suggestion. “I have given him no
cause to think I find him interesting. Even if I were not already
betrothed, a cleric is an unsuitable object for a noblewoman’s
affections. Adelbert is soon to take his final holy orders. I will
be no priest’s wife, and certainly not a concubine to one. Do not
think I care for Adelbert, or that he would dare to love me. We
have talked occasionally, that is all. I
want
to marry Lord
Marcion. He is the right man for me. My parents think so, and so do
I.”
“I see,” India said weakly, more confused
than ever.
Despite the distraction provided by the
girls’ chatter and her own disturbing thoughts, India could not
forget Theu for a moment. Having grown used to his presence for the
greater part of every day, she sorely missed being with him
constantly. Nor could she let go of her fear for him, which grew
stronger with each hour that passed. She tried to think of
something, anything, she might do that would set a different course
for the events soon to begin unfolding. Having revealed to Charles
as much as she dared, and having been told in effect to be a good
girl, stop worrying, and let the men get on with their primary
business of warfare, she decided that the only thing left for her
to do was speak to an influential man who had no interest in war.
She would do what Theu had originally suggested to her at Aachen,
and had later urged her not to do. She would talk to Alcuin.
There was no large feast that first night of
India’s stay in Agen, just a light, informal meal of roasted game
birds, bread, and cheese. There was wine, but no one drank much
because Charles had such an aversion to drunkenness that he had
almost single-handedly transformed the drinking habits of the
previously bibulous Franks. Nor, so Bertille informed India, did
Charles like long, formal banquets unless there was a special
reason for them.
“He says we will feast and make merry once
the army is victoriously returned to Francia,” Bertille added. “For
these last few nights before his departure, he wants quiet
evenings.”
Charles and Hildegarde sat together at the
head table with their three surviving children. Six-year-old
Charles, called Charlot, was a sturdy, flaxen-haired boy who wore
his own miniature sword and freely climbed upon his father’s knees,
thus displacing his three-year-old sister Rotrud, who howled at
this treatment until Charles took one child in each arm and bade
them behave or go early to bed. Baby Carloman gurgled happily in
his nurse’s arms while Hildegarde cooed at him and offered a crust
of bread for him to chew in place of his thumb. It was a pleasant
domestic scene, with the lords and ladies of the court relaxed and
talking with familiar ease to both king and queen, but for India
the earlier half of the evening was spoiled by the absence of Theu
and his friends.
Still, Alcuin was present, sitting at a table
with Adelbert and another cleric. Leaving Bertille and Danise
talking together, India approached the scholar. He stood as soon as
he saw her.
“May I speak with you about something very
important?” she asked.
“Please join me here.” He indicated the bench
from which he had risen. As soon as India was seated, he took his
place again, glancing backward once to be certain his shoulders
would screen them from the notice of the other clerics. “You may
speak freely. I perceive that you are worried.”
“I know I cannot prevent the army from going
to Spain,” she said, “but can you tell me any way that I might
convince Charles to take extra precautions, especially on his
return?”
“Charles has taken all the advice he will
hear on the subject of Spain,” Alcuin replied, closely watching her
reaction to his words. “He will conduct the campaign in the way he
thinks is best. I can tell you that he never risks the lives of his
men unnecessarily, which is one reason why they follow him so
willingly. I see my answer does not comfort you.”
“I know that something terrible is going to
happen,” she said. “I have to try to prevent it.”
“Your concern is for Count Theuderic. It is
natural for a woman to fear for the man she loves. My advice will
be the same as Charles’s was. Women and clerics both must learn
this difficult lesson. Do not interfere in matters on which no man
will listen to you. You cannot change what will happen.”
“That’s just the trouble,” she cried. “I have
to change it. I have to!” Her voice rose on those last words, and a
nearby couple turned to stare at her. She knew she would have to
get herself under control before she attracted more attention. She
fought back her tears and the ever-present fear that gnawed at her.
While she struggled, Alcuin never took his steady gaze from her
face.
“Tell me,” he asked, once she had regained
her composure, “is your homeland truly so far away? Many long
years’ journey, you said.”