Love Lost in Time Read online

  Love Lost in Time

  A Tale of Love, Loss and Redemption

  Cathie Dunn

  

  Copyright © 2019 by Cathie Dunn

  First Edition, 2019.

  Cover Art: The Cover Collection

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except for quotations in promotion or reviews.

  Shadow Kitten

  (16th July, 2017 – 12th February, 2019)

  You brightened up our lives but left us too soon.

  About the Author:

  Cathie Dunn writes historical mystery and romance.

  She loves historical research, often getting lost in the depths of the many history books on her shelves. She also enjoys exploring historic sites and beautiful countryside. Over the last three decades, she has travelled widely across Scotland, England, Wales, France and Germany.

  After having spent many years in Scotland, Cathie now lives in the south-west of France with her husband, a rescue dog and two cats. She is a member of the Alliance of Independent Authors, the Romantic Novelists’ Association, and the Historical Novel Society.

  Find her at www.cathiedunn.com, and on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.

  Books by Cathie Dunn:

  The Highland Chronicles series:

  Highland Arms

  A Highland Captive

  The Anarchy Trilogy:

  Dark Deceit

  (A sequel is in progress)

  Standalone:

  Love Lost in Time

  Silent Deception (a novella)

  Coming soon:

  The Loup de Foix Medieval Mystery series

  Love Lost in Time

  Prologue

  AD 793

  The hills near Carcassonne, Septimania

  She woke to complete darkness.

  As she tried to blink, earth covered her eyes. The dull thud of pain pounded in her head. She lifted it, only to find that she could not move. Her hands were tied behind her back, and her full weight bore onto her wrists and fingers. She could not feel her legs, as if they had dislodged.

  Breathing was impossible. She opened her mouth to cry out, but all that emerged was a bare whimper, a sound suppressed by earth and stones. She spat but there was nowhere for it to go. The earth turned to sticky mud as it mingled with her saliva.

  In desperation, she swallowed, gagging. But with every short breath she took, more earth blocked her nose.

  Then her memory returned. And with it the terror.

  He had buried her alive.

  ‘I curse you and your offspring in perpetuity…’

  Chapter One

  Late February, 2018

  Languedoc, south-west France

  Madeleine Winters blinked back the tears as long-hidden emotions shook her. Anger. Envy. Yes, even love. A love that she’d considered lost a long time ago.

  Elizabeth Beauchamp was dead. After nine years of no contact, Maddie had missed her last chance to make her peace with her mother – and to discover once and for all who her father was.

  She stared at the heavy yet simple oak coffin, willing it to release its inhabitant for a final talk, an acknowledgment, the revelation of a secret which Elizabeth had now taken to her grave. Nothing moved, except some stray brown leaves swirling around Maddie’s feet. Apart from her mother’s elderly French neighbour, Bernadette Albert, a handful of villagers had attended the funeral, and after the ceremony, they all had left Maddie to her own memories.

  Ever the pragmatic realist, Maddie knew that nothing would ever bring her mother back, but she mourned her unexpected death.

  The breeze whipped at her coat, and she wrapped her scarf closer around her neck.

  Madame Albert had called her ten days earlier, to let her know that Elizabeth was in hospital with a lung infection. Maddie had booked herself on a flight to Toulouse. Expecting her mother to be alive and improving thanks to the excellent health service, it distressed her to discover her close to death on her arrival at the hospital in Carcassonne in the south of France, though through no fault of the medical team. It had been too late.

  Maddie swallowed hard, fighting back the tears, as she remembered the doctor’s words.

  “Madame Beauchamp has bowel cancer. She has refused chemotherapy or any other treatment.” He paused, giving her time to let the bad news sink in. “We have this in writing whilst she was still fully cognitive, should you wish to see it.”

  Stunned, Maddie shook her head, unable to utter a word. Why had her stubborn mother not called her before it got too serious?

  “Her condition is serious. The lung infection she caught recently has weakened her beyond recovery.”

  The words echoed in Maddie’s ears. “Cancer?” she whispered. “Since when?”

  The doctor cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow. “Did your mother not tell you?”

  The surprise in his voice made her shake her head in place of a response. Although he acted professionally, careful not to give any indication of his opinion of patients’ personal relationships, a sense of guilt washed over her. People would judge her. How could she not have known her mother was dying?

  A nurse had taken Maddie to her mother’s room where she could stay with her undisturbed. She stared at Elizabeth’s beautiful face, criss-crossed with fine lines. Leaning forward, she held a frail hand between hers, her mind in turmoil. Why had her mother not told her she was ill? She knew Elizabeth was stubborn, obstinate, but to refuse to contact your only living relative, your daughter, during a time of need shook Maddie. Their estrangement had gone beyond reason. Her eyes dry, Maddie could only watch her mother’s breathing grow more ragged. In the end, Elizabeth died calmly in her sleep just over six hours after Maddie’s arrival.

  And now Maddie was here, by her mother’s grave, saying her final goodbye.

  The biting tramontagne wind chilled Maddie’s bones, and she huddled deeper into her coat. Elizabeth had loved the winds that sweep the plain between the Montagne Noire and the Pyrenees during all seasons. They brought winter and rain to a land parched by the sun, and cooled you down during the long, hot summer days.

  “Au revoir, Maman.” Maddie dropped the bundle of red roses she’d been clutching onto the coffin, then turned away.

  One thing was certain. She would never know her full parentage now, but she had no time to ponder about the past. Her mother’s house in the Cabardès village of Minervens twenty minutes’ drive north of Carcassonne was her priority. She wouldn’t want to keep it. What would she do with it other than pay bills that would add up? No, the old pile of stones had to go.

  Maddie knew that any potential British buyers would snap up a property like…well, hers, now, she supposed. People seemed to love rustic French renovation projects. She would speak to her mother’s notaire the next day when she had an appointment for the reading of the will. Being an only child should make it straight-forward, and Maddie did not expect any nasty surprises – under French law, children could not be disinherited.

  On leaving, Maddie stopped to close the wrought-iron gate behind her, casting a final glance over the small graveyard with its beautiful gravestones and old mausoleums. Framed images of loved ones, often accompanied by poems of love and loss, adorned almost all the graves, except for those where no relatives or friends were left. It was a lovely touch, and she admired the French for their way of caring for their relatives after death.

  Her mother’s grave was now out of sight, tucked into the south-western corner, and it would yet be weeks before a simple stone slate bearing Elizabeth Beauchamp’s name and her f
avourite poem, as already organised between the funeral company and the notaire, could be put in place. Her mother had arranged everything. Maddie wasn’t sure whether to be relieved, or saddened.

  Pulling a key from her coat pocket, Maddie turned towards her small hire car, a bright red Fiat 500, parked a few yards away from the entrance. The central-locking clicked open – too loudly in her ears after the tranquility of the graveyard.

  She was about to get into the car when a dull thud reached her ears. Then another. She halted. It came from the graveyard. A slow rumble of earth followed. Of course. They were filling the grave. Maddie shuddered. Her mother was lost to her forever. She snuggled into the seat and firmly shut the door to the chilling sound.

  Deep breath! The past is gone.

  Her resolution firm, she started the motor and took the village road up to the windy slope towards the Cabardès hills, passing by a row of old houses. Some of them looked like they had sat vacant for decades, their shutters closed, front doors dusty. A sense of abandonment hung over them. But she knew this was normal in rural France. To her right, the small office of La Poste had closed for the afternoon, and even the local épicerie looked deserted.

  Eventually, she came to a halt in front of a stone house near the northern exit of the village. An overgrown front garden greeted her. Dating back to the early 1900s, like many houses along this long village road it was two storeys high, with sweeping views over the village and the hills all around. To the north, the slope rose steeply into the forests of the Cabardès in a blend of evergreen and brown.

  Sighing, she peeled herself out of the Fiat and locked it. Then she stopped to look more closely at the house. It would sell quickly, no doubt, even though it needed complete renovation inside.

  Maddie turned and let her gaze scan the majestic view. The low sun to the west cast a lingering auburn light over the landscape, as if the trees were burning. She knew that from the top of the hill, where the winery was, you could see across to the Pyrenees in the south.

  ‘Suffocating.’

  What? She shuddered and shook herself out of her reverie. Her fantasy was running away with her. It was a beautiful winter sunset; nothing more.

  “Suffocating, ha!” With a nervous laugh, she unlocked the front door and switched on the dim corridor light. A musty smell lingered, even though she had aired it earlier in the day. How could her mother have lived like this?

  Maddie locked the door behind her with a large, slightly bent key – the lock being likely as ancient as the house itself! She let out a deep breath as she slowly wandered past the staircase and looked around.

  The old, peeling floral wallpaper that had never bothered her mother; the dark corners on the ceiling where God knows what had settled; the basic kitchen with its heavy, ornate sideboard and 1990s gas cooker; and the bathroom upstairs with its ancient bathtub.

  Maddie laughed. In England, people paid premium prices for such antique baths, with their curved sides and ornate feet. Impractical for a modern family, but likely beloved by expats. With a little updating, the house would do well on the market.

  She went into the kitchen and dropped her bag on a chair. Lighting a gas ring on the hob, she waited for the flames to settle. Then she filled a heavy copper kettle with water and set it to boil. Elizabeth had always favoured the simple things in life. No new-fangled electric kettle for her! Maddie decided to buy one the next day, however brief her stay would be.

  Opening the creaky door of the sideboard, its glass front clouded with age, she was met with shelves full of China. Delicate cups, saucers and plates vied for space with large mugs and pots. She ignored the delicate 1950s teapot with the chipped spout, and instead grabbed a mug and rinsed it thoroughly in the chilly water from the tap. Princess Leia, pouting angrily at her from the front of the mug, would not appreciate the cold shower, Maddie was sure. She remembered the day she had given it to Elizabeth for her birthday. She’d been ten and very proud of having spent her pocket money on something so special. Quickly, Maddie wiped away the stray tear that dared threaten her composure.

  Outside, dusk was settling, so while the kettle took to boiling, she closed the shutters. “Don’t want any creeps sneaking around the house!” she half-joked to the Star Wars heroine patiently awaiting her tea on the sideboard.

  Maddie went into the adjoining living room and firmly secured the shutters there too. The idea of someone skulking in the shadows of the overgrown garden made her shudder.

  This house was so different from her own small one-bedroom flat in the centre of York, in the north-east of England. Overlooking the river Ouse from the comfortable and flood-safe height of her new-build, she considered herself fortunate. The short two-minute walk to shops and bars suited her well when she felt too cocooned into her world and needed to mingle with people. Writing history books about Vikings had its advantages – never-ending tales of courageous men (and women) conquering the world – but the isolation needed to meet tight deadlines and conduct in-depth research regularly reminded her that she was indeed a woman, living alone in her early thirties.

  The kettle whistled shrilly. Startled, she rushed back into the kitchen, turned off the gas, grabbed a dishcloth to wrap around the hot handle, and poured water into the mug. The space princess seemed content now.

  She let the green tea bag steam a few minutes before ditching it on the side of the sink and, balancing the mug with one hand, she flicked off the kitchen light and went back into the living room. Her laptop lay unopened on the table. She’d not dared plug it in yet, not trusting the old electricity, but she may not have much choice were she to stay longer. And there was no internet. Her mother had a simple old phone line. More for those future buyers to invest in.

  Maddie settled on the mauve velvet sofa and leaned back, letting out a deep breath. Her hand holding the mug shook, and she quickly steadied it with the other. Staring at the painting on the wall opposite – an oil canvas of a young lady, dressed in an intricate gown in late Regency style, surrounded by an elaborate gilt frame – she unwittingly mimicked the unknown beauty’s sad expression.

  “I know how you feel,” she said. “I’m alone, too, now.”

  No longer able to control her shaking hands, Maddie apologised to the fictional princess on her mug and set it down, tea untouched, onto the worn wooden floor. Then she collapsed on the sofa. Although she hadn’t spoken to Elizabeth in over nine years, she’d always known her mother to be there. Now, she was gone, and with her the last of her own family. Maddie had no siblings, and neither had her mother, and as for her father…well, that would now remain a mystery.

  She sighed. Even her own marriage hadn’t lasted beyond five years. Brian and she separated when he was offered a lucrative post at the University of Valencia in Spain, and she didn’t want to leave York. It wasn’t the only reason, but the final straw, as they’d been drifting apart for almost a year before his move. Fact was, she was as focused on Viking research as Brian was on his. Unfortunately for her and their marriage, his specialty subject was Mediterranean archaeology.

  ‘Alone…’

  The word echoed around the room. Or was it in her head? Maddie let the tears run, uncaring if they sank into the musty velvet.

  She would be fine. Eventually.

  Chapter Two

  The feast of Easter, AD 777

  Carisiacum, Neustria, Kingdom of the Franks

  “I beg your pardon, lady.”

  Hilda took a step to the side, hitting her shoulder against the wall as the maid rushed past her through the narrow corridor, carrying a large plate full of steaming lamb cuts. She watched as the girl, barely older than her own six-and-ten years, almost dropped the heavy load onto the table in front of King Charles. With the king’s sharp eyes berating her silently, the poor maid curtseyed and rushed past Hilda, and out the open door behind her, towards the kitchen annex.

  Transfixed, but too self-conscious to venture into the noisy room, Hilda stared in awe at the court gathered before h
er. Never in her life had she seen such magnificence.

  The great hall of the royal stronghold was decorated beautifully for the celebration of the Easter feast, marking the end of weeks of fasting. The most intricate tapestries covered the bare stone walls, keeping out the still frosty evening air. Rushes held in sconces on the walls cast the large room into a myriad of shadow and light.

  The only child of a Frankish count, Hilda was used to some comforts, but nothing compared to the splendour of this palace. The king had invited important lords from Septimania, a region adjoining the western Mediterranean Sea, in which he wanted to reinforce his control. As some men gathered were already his vassals and others yet to become such over the course of the holy days, he displayed his power and influence in full measure.

  The mood in the hall was convivial. The wine, freely on offer and regularly replenished, helped mellow minor disagreements. From where she hid, she had spotted her father, Milo, the count of Vaulun, in deep discussions with a group of men.

  Earlier in the day, at a solemn ceremony, King Charles had received homage from his new vassals. In honour of the event, he wore a silk tunic interwoven with gold thread, a wide leather belt decorated with large jewels sparkling in an array of colour in the light of the fires, and his gold crown, adding to his already grand persona an air of high status. His back straight, he sat on an intricately crafted throne in the centre of this great hall, where men of all ages kneeled in front of him, took an oath and swore their allegiance. Men of Visigoth, Merovingian and even ancient Roman heritage who had travelled north on his invitation. They sought the power and the safety that the Franks brought with them as part of their expansion. And she had heard those southerners were desperate for peace.