Love Lost in Time Read online

  One by one, the ancient cities of Septimania had accepted or fallen to the Franks: Béziers, Narbonne, and more recently, Tolosa. Now, the good people of the region could look towards a more peaceful era – under Frankish protection.

  King Charles already ruled a vast realm and brought prosperity to hitherto war-torn regions. Men and women dressed well, their grain stores were bulging, and they treated their non-free vassals fairly. With Charles’ royal stance, shrewd intelligence and strong features partly obscured by an imposing moustache and beard, she knew him to be a formidable character – but one she could never share her secret with.

  Her people were great warriors, civilised, and clever administrators, but they were also brutal, short of temper, and often without mercy. They were Christian. And therein lay Hilda’s biggest fear.

  Some women, like her and her late mother before her, were known as wise-women, whom the Church had recently begun to pursue. Her calling was no longer widely accepted, although at home, people still asked for her help. But the usually affable priest at her manor at Vaulun had suddenly berated her, calling her practices dangerous. So it began…

  Shaking off her thoughts, her gaze drifted to her father, a close adviser to the king. Although older than Charles by a score years, Milo, count of Vaulun could hold his own, looking resplendent in a fine silk tunic, a simple, yet beautifully carved leather belt, and his aristocratic face with a slightly long nose and dark-blue eyes.

  Bursting with pride, Hilda regarded her father, now talking at ease with a young man of a darker hue, clearly of Visigoth heritage with his black hair falling over strong shoulders, bright eyes, and a moustache reaching to his chin. There was something uncivilised about him. Shivers ran down her spine when he laughed at something her father said and patted him on the back. They raised their cups and took deep draughts of wine. Her father’s complexion reddened as the spirit took effect. She smiled.

  “Lady…”

  Rolling her eyes in mock annoyance, Hilda jumped out of the maid’s way again. This time, the girl carried a tray bearing two large bowls and several loaves of freshly baked bread which she deposited in front of King Charles and other strategic places on the grand table, before she rushed back past Hilda with an apologetic smile.

  “Nanthild! Daughter!” Father’s voice reached her. He waved her over. Disappointment hit her briefly, as she had enjoyed watching the preparations from the side. Hilda did not crave the attention other girls here present cherished.

  As she crossed the room to join him, the eyes of the young man by her father’s side never left her. It unnerved her a little – she was unused to male attention – and her heart beat a solid drum in her ears.

  “My dear daughter, come,” her father said affectionately, his eyes full of joy, as he bid her sit on a stool beside him. Turning to the young man who was on Hilda’s other side, he added, “I will be lost without her. She has been looking after me well since my wife, her mother, passed away.”

  A frown shrouded his features briefly at the memory, and she wanted to reach out to him, but refrained. Eight years earlier, her mother had died giving birth to her only brother – who himself had only survived for a sennight. Both Hilda and her father had felt their loss strongly, and the count had thrown himself even more into diplomacy and warfare for the king.

  “I’m sorry to hear,” the young man responded solemnly, his voice a low hum. “We have seen so much death and sadness, too, including the loss of of my parents last summer.”

  Nodding, Hilda kept staring at the table, uncertain how to react.

  “Here, let me…” The stranger filled a goblet with wine and handed it to her.

  She looked at him from under her lashes. “I thank you, lord.” She raised it and took a small sip. The pungent scent of berries and grapes blurred her senses, and the full taste of even the one sip made her head spin.

  “’Tis strong, this wine they brought up from Septimania.” Her father laughed. “But you will get used to it, daughter.”

  She carefully placed the goblet onto the table, trying not to reveal her trembling hand, and pulled her brows together, before risking a glance at him. What did he mean? Father was overly cheerful, his demeanour jovial. She saw contentment in his features as he gazed at her. And relief.

  Her heart froze. Had he not said earlier he ‘would be lost’ without her?

  Father smiled and patted her hand. “We will talk later, my child. But first, I must introduce you to Bellon. He is a young lord from a noble family from Septimania who has been taking part in our recent campaigns. Charles has promised to create a fiefdom for him. Soon, he will appoint this brave warrior as Count of Carcassonne!”

  She turned to the Visigoth. “My felicitations, lord. King Charles must think you a worthy ally to heap upon you so much responsibility.”

  “Nanthild!” She need not see her father’s face to sense his fury at her sharp tone.

  But Bellon only laughed. “Indeed, he might, Lady Nanthild. In fact, I sincerely hope he does.” He still grinned and looked straight at her. His eyes were of a deep, mossy green, and the light danced in them with humour. How insolent! This was an absurd situation.

  Thankfully, Charles’ senescal announced the beginning of the meal, and, once the king had begun to eat, everyone at the tables helped themselves to ladlefuls of cuts of game and bird.

  Bellon broke the gaze and offered to fill her trencher. What was the world coming to? Hilda cast a glance at her father who nodded. She inclined her head, having suddenly lost her voice. And her appetite.

  ***

  Bellon placed a roast lamb cut and a small ladle of vegetable stew onto the lady Nanthild’s trencher and smiled. “Would you like another spoonful?”

  “Thank you. This is quite enough.” Her cheeks turned a becoming red as she protested mildly, keeping her gaze firmly downcast.

  He tilted his head and watched her as she took a piece with her knife and blew on it. The steam rose from the morsel, infused with the aroma of rosemary and thyme. Her delicate nose breathed in the scent, and her face lit up. The girl knew how to savour a moment. Then her eyes met his, and the look of bliss vanished.

  “Are you not eating, lord?” She put the meat in her mouth, chewed, and stabbed another. Watching, Bellon felt sorry for the attacked piece – and relieved it was not him on the receiving end.

  “I shall momentarily.” Reluctantly, he broke the eye contact and helped himself before he passed the bowl along the table to his neighbour, Clovis, a Frankish nobleman from Charles’ entourage. The knight took it swiftly, laughing as he filled his trencher to the point of overflowing.

  “A pretty wench, but with a sharp tongue.” Clovis smirked. “She’ll learn…”

  Bellon felt his anger rise. He narrowed his eyebrows and glared at Clovis who, oblivious to his fury, tucked into his meat, still chuckling. It was one thing discussing strategy with Charles’ men, but another to have them insult the ladies present. He ignored the oaf and pulled a chunk of soft meat off the bone.

  When Charles had first discussed the new earldom with him, he was extremely pleased. Over recent years, he had worked hard for the king, trying to bring peace to war-torn Septimania. His home town of Carcassonne had been under attack from the Saracens and the Basques time and again, and he knew the loyal Visigoths were fighting a losing battle without the help of the powerful Franks.

  Bellon admired their administration, their culture and the trained skills of their warriors. Whilst he had learnt much from dealing with the Saracens at Béziers and Narbonne, he had sought an ally to ensure his region was finally safe. And he was making good progress.

  With Bellon appointed as comes of Carcassonne, Charles gained a reliable vassal and a staunch supporter. He would protect the people who fell into his responsibility, so they could live their lives safely. In truth, Bellon felt a little daunted by the task, but as he had gained great experience in warfare and strategy, he was ready for it.

  All that was missing
, as Charles had drily pointed out, was a wife of good stock. So, to consolidate their relationship, Charles introduced Milo to him, a nobleman from the far north-east, whose daughter, Nanthild, was of Frankish blood and, apparently, a beauty. Bellon had shrugged it off as a father’s talk. He fully knew of what was expected from him as part of his new position, and he was prepared to do his duty for peace in Septimania.

  Then he had set eyes on her.

  He shook his head, grinning, and took another bite of lamb.

  “What amuses you?” Lady Nanthild asked, gazing at him through lowered lashes.

  Had she been watching him, like he had watched her earlier? He swallowed and reached for his wine. “Fate, lady.”

  Her eyes opened wide, and she put her knife down and wiped her fingers on a piece of cloth. “Why, true. You have reason to celebrate being appointed to rule over your own lands.”

  Bellon nodded. “I have.”

  Milo leaned forward, a smile playing on his lips. They had yet to complete their discussion, so Bellon knew the girl had no notion of what awaited her.

  But having watched her over the preceding days, he was certain of his choice, and grateful to God for his good fortune. He would never want another. Her dark-blue eyes resembled a stormy lake and showed a fierce intelligence hidden behind her demure demeanour – a trait soldiers like Clovis clearly did not appreciate. But Bellon did. He found the company of babbling women tiresome, and much preferred a good conversation about the estate, the countryside, and what needed to be done. The lady beside him appeared promising.

  Only three years younger to his twenty, Nanthild was tall for a girl, almost his height. He had noticed that men of smaller stature felt uncomfortable in her company, which made him laugh. Tonight, her long blonde hair was loosely tamed in a plait and covered by a delicate veil. He found her figure a little too thin for his taste, but it did not matter. Bellon considered himself fortunate.

  But what if she did not return his growing feelings? He shook his head. He would handle it when the time came. First, they had to finalise the agreement and announce the betrothal.

  “Lady,” he began, “would you tell me of your home?”

  Bellon knew little of the northern territories other than the usual impressions from his brief excursions. Unsurprisingly, he had found it dull and cold compared to the brilliant sunshine of his own region.

  He saw her swallow, then she offered him a smile. “Of course. My home village of Vaulun is surrounded by forests and meadows.” She cast a glance at her father who nodded in encouragement. “The land is more hilly, and you find plenty of wild boar and deer roaming. I always chase them away as they eat my herbs…” She blushed.

  Bellon smiled. “You have a herb garden?” Vaulun sounded more idyllic than he had given it credit for.

  Her gaze became closed. “Yes. I grow all kinds of herbs, even though the winter’s chill often destroys any the deer leave behind.”

  “I apologise. I did not mean to insult you. In fact, my mother grew herbs and also vines. She loved adding new aromas to our food and drink.” He leaned back a little, allowing her to regain her composure.

  Lady Nanthild nodded enthusiastically. “How wonderful! The famous Septimanian sun must help them grow. So you know how much work it takes to—”

  “Work?” Clovis snorted from Bellon’s other side. “Womenfolk have no sense of work.”

  Bellon saw both Nanthild’s and her father’s backs straighten. Milo’s expression turned thunderous. Bellon slowly put his knife down and shifted to glare at the man. “Please explain yourself, Clovis. If you must insult a lady, you may at least give her your reasons.”

  Clovis laughed, a harsh sound that did not reach his eyes. “Women are only good for two things: child-bearing and, well, I won’t go into the other as the lady might still be innocent.”

  “Do you have a wife?” Bellon’s voice was curt, his temper rising, but steadying his breathing, he decided not to allow the brute to rile up his humour.

  “Yes. And she has no fancy pastimes like the lady Nanthild. She works the house, keeps it in good stead, and raises my offspring. That’s all she’s good for. The rest I seek elsewhere.”

  The lady stood, toppling the stool over with a clatter. “If you will excuse me, my lords, I have lost my appetite.” She stepped over the obstacle and marched from the room, her back straight, without another glance at them.

  “If I were you, I would learn to keep my mouth shut when near ladies,” Milo suggested, his tone low and threatening. “’Tis my daughter you were insulting.”

  Clovis downed his wine. “They’re all the same under their fancy silken gowns.”

  Bellon rose quickly, prepared to drag the odious man outside, before Milo would do anything stupid.

  “My lords, I beg you.” Charles’ voice came loud and clear from the royal table to their left. “We are celebrating Easter, the feast of the resurrection. A feast of peace. I will have no disagreements at tonight’s gathering in here nor, as it were, out-of-doors.” The king, his eyebrows raised and his mouth set in a firm line, brokered no contradiction.

  Seething inside, Bellon acknowledged the command with a nod, clenched and unclenched his fist, then sat down slowly as Clovis called for a nearby servant boy to refill his goblet. When the lad spilled a little wine, Clovis slapped the back of his head. “Useless cur!”

  Watching the boy retreat, Bellon took another deep breath. A stern glance from the king pre-empted any retort.

  His appetite lost, he picked up his own goblet and turned his back on Clovis, edging closer to Milo instead. The man was trembling with fury. But both knew that unleashing Charles’ wrath over a personal disagreement would be disadvantageous. Disastrous, even.

  “We must talk,” Milo whispered.

  Bellon nodded. It was time.

  Chapter Three

  Maddie woke with a start. Pain shot into her neck. She blinked, trying to get her bearings.

  Oh, yes. She was in her mother’s house, lying on the old sofa. A coil spring poked her rib. She pushed herself upright. Crack. Crack.

  “Ouch!” No surprise her back was hurting. She slowly stood and stretched, then jumped when she knocked the mug over with her foot, spilling tea over the worn oak floorboards.

  “Damn!” She picked up the mug and dashed into the kitchen, ditching it in the sink. “Where’s the kitchen roll when you need it?” She glanced around the bare surfaces. Her mother had lived with very few possessions.

  Grabbing a worn dish cloth hanging on a hook beside the sink, she went back to the living room and mopped the liquid off the floor. There was nothing she could do about the water trickling through the gaps between the floorboards.

  “Great!” She sat back and sighed. “Deep breath.”

  Her words echoed around the walls. Apart from a few paintings and select pieces of her grandmother’s large furniture, Elizabeth’s large house was bare. Maddie wondered again how her mother could live like this. She must’ve had the money for a relatively comfortable retirement, so why hadn’t she sold up and moved into a nice, modern place?

  The silence of the house unnerved Maddie. Only in remote places had she experienced such quiet. Out in the open countryside she’d welcomed it. The past was talking to her there, in ancient ruins or painted caves.

  Here, within the confines of the thick stone walls, it was different. Goosebumps rose on her skin, and she quickly brushed her hand over them. “You can hear yourself think,” she joked, her laugh hollow. In York, there was always noise, even when she closed her double-glazed windows. Trucks, drunk students, barking dogs. Day and night, York was alive. This place was dead.

  ‘Dead.’

  Maddie stared at the lady in the painting, the only picture in the room. Yes, she was dead, too, so she was in no position to whisper. Shrugging off the uneasy sensation as a trick of the mind, Maddie looked away and snorted. Most likely, the poor woman had died of boredom.

  Her stomach rumbled, and she che
cked her watch. 7.25 pm. “Time for food,” she said loudly to break the silence. She went into the kitchen and opened the fridge – another relic from the 1980s. Its humming was a welcome sound.

  Last night, she had found that the pre-made pizza she’d bought at Carrefour supermarket was a waste. The oven, connected to a portable gas canister, could not heat it into an edible form. At first, it was still frozen. Then, half an hour later, it had become burnt on the surface, and the base was rock hard. Eating it would have seriously threatened even the healthiest set of teeth! So tonight, she would cook.

  Maddie hated cooking. But in the absence of a decent oven, or even a microwave, she had no choice. She lit two rings on the gas hob, put some butter into a much-used frying pan, set it on a ring and placed a saucepan filled with water on the other. She found a worn chopping board and discarded it immediately. The germs on that must be having a ball!

  She took two plates from the dresser and scrubbed them under the slowly-heating water of the tap before using one to cut up mushrooms, tomatoes, and one half of a huge green pepper. “Nice to see tomatoes are less watery here,” she quipped. Then she chucked them into the pan, followed by ready-made tomato sauce from a jar. Finally, she stirred the bubbling mass.

  “Oh! Forgot the herbs.”

  She poked her nose into the small larder behind the kitchen, not looking too closely into the dark cobweb-covered corners. Elizabeth’s spice rack revealed salt, pepper, paprika and a closed ceramic jar of dried herbes. This would do. She grabbed the jar and the spices and returned to the kitchen.

  Thud.

  Maddie nearly dropped her load on the kitchen table. Behind her, the larder door had slammed shut. Having stood open throughout her scrutiny of the small room’s contents, it startled her. There was no draught. She opened the door again, glanced around, then turned off the light at the old black switch inside the larder.

  She shook off her discomfort, shut the door firmly and returned to the cooker. By now, the water was bubbling in the saucepan, and she quickly stirred it, then grabbed a handful of tagliatelle from a pack before returning the rest of it to the fridge. She’d have the second half tomorrow, with more fresh vegetables, perhaps. She was eating better here than back home!