The Cross and the Dragon (28 page)

“Hruodland very well could be dead by now,” Leonhard said. “He will certainly be dead by the time we tell the king. Or am I mistaken?”

“No mistake,” Gerard muttered. “It too soon to be talking remarriage for Alda.”

“Too soon?” Ganelon snorted. “You are already assuming the title of count even before your brother is in the grave.”

Gerard’s lips drew into a taut line.

“You have no claim on Alda,” Ganelon added.

“Neither do you,” Gerard shot back.

As Ganelon frowned, Gerard smiled, glad to see his barb hit its mark.

If circumstances were different,
Gerard thought,
I would ask for her hand myself. She was a good wife with a good dowry. What a shame she could not have children.
He shook his head at the irony. The fact that Alda could not conceive was the very reason he had encouraged Hruodland to stay married to her. Gerard had never wanted to take the vow and join the Church, even if it did almost assure him a bishopric. He had wanted to rule the March of Brittany, and now he had his inheritance.
But I wish it had not happened like this
.

“I could have a claim on Alda,” Ganelon mused. “I have been looking for a wife.”

“You need Alda’s consent,” Gerard retorted. “You think she consent to you?”

“Alda’s future is our concern, not yours,” Leonhard snapped.

* * * * *

After three days of travel, the scouting party met the king’s army at Bordeaux. Dark clouds were gathering as Leonhard and the other noblemen were immediately led to Charles. Standing beside the king, a panting messenger was leaning against a sweaty horse. Charles was holding a parchment. As he read it, he scowled, and his face and thick neck turned crimson.

“Damned Saxons!” he spat, crushing the parchment in his hands.

Leonhard felt the blood leave his face.

“The Saxons have broken their oath of loyalty,” the king growled. “Widukind, that God-cursed scum, came out of his hole in Nordmannia and roused the tribes. Not only did they destroy the palace in Paderborn; they are burning churches again and advancing toward the Rhine.” The king threw the parchment on the ground. “I shall send aid now to drive them off, but come next spring, the heathens will know my full wrath. Bishop Leonhard, what news do you have?”

“Sad news,” he answered, looking down. “The rear guard and the baggage train were slaughtered by the Gascons.”

“Who survived?” the king asked.

“No one,” Leonhard said quietly.

“No one?” the king echoed, his voice cracked. “No one? Not Anselm, not Eggihard, not… Hruodland?”

“They all perished,” Leonhard said, as the other three noblemen looked down. All four made the sign of the cross. “And they all received Christian burials.”
If Hruodland is not in his grave now, he soon will be.

“This cannot be. First the Saxons and now this.” Kicking at the ground, he screamed a litany of obscenities.

“Someday, we will establish a march between Francia and Hispania,” he continued, “but now we must prepare for another war with the Saxons. Filthy heathens.” He spat on the ground. “They cannot face us like real men. Instead, they wait until our backs are turned and slaughter women and children and missionaries. They will pay in blood.”

* * * * *

An hour before dawn, Gerard was awakened by the sound of many feet running. He rose, threw on a tunic and boots, and left his tent and the whore who had made him forget Roncevaux and feel alive for a few hours. A group had gathered around the tent where Beringar and Leonhard slept. Rubbing his eyes, he walked toward the commotion and peeked through the tent flaps. Leonhard’s physician was shaking Beringar’s massive shoulders as Leonhard screamed Beringar’s name.

Beringar stared at nothing. His broad chest was still.

“What is happening?” Gerard whispered to one of the soldiers in Frankish.

“His servants said he clutched at his chest, yelled ‘Mother of God, help me!’ and now he is as you see him,” the soldier whispered back.

“Beringar! Beringar! Answer me!” Leonhard shouted.

Ganelon stole past Gerard. Standing behind Leonhard, he laid his hand on the bishop’s shoulder. “The sight at Roncevaux must have been too much for Beringar’s heart.”

“This cannot be. This cannot be. He was perfectly well this morning.” Leonhard turned away, his shoulders heaving with sobs.

Gerard stuck out his lower lip. Something was amiss about Beringar’s death. Although no longer young, Beringar had been strong — in body and mind. He had seen death on the battlefield before. So why should the carnage at Roncevaux be too much to bear?

As Gerard watched Leonhard give last rites to his brother, two other questions repeated themselves in his mind
: Is Hruodland at peace now? What shall I tell Alda?

* * * * *

Alda stared at Gerard as if he had spoken a foreign tongue beyond her comprehension. She was standing on the church steps on a fall morning, frozen in the light of the slanting sun. The sobs and keening from the inhabitants of Nantes sounded distant to her.

“No,” she whispered. “No.”

Gerard spoke again. His lips moved, but only a few words reached her ears. Ambush. All slain.

“No,” Alda said vehemently, shaking her head as if she could will this away. “No.”

The townsfolk’s keening grew louder.

“Not Hruodland,” Alda moaned, laying her hand over her heart. “I would know.”

Gerard reached into a pouch on his belt and pressed an object into her hand. She knew it by touch but had to look at it. She was holding the iron dragon that was supposed to keep Hruodland from harm.

Alda fell silent. She became an empty shell like the ones that washed up on the banks of the Rhine, all the life devoured and only a hollow body remaining.

* * * * *

Grief clouded Alda’s vision as she sat by the fire at the wake for Hruodland. She was only vaguely aware of the meal the household had just eaten and songs the musicians were playing.

Prime Mass that morning seemed to be centuries ago. Alda barely remembered Gerard telling her about Roncevaux. She had no memory of ordering the servants to make preparations for the wake.

He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.
The thought repeated itself in Alda’s mind until the words themselves were no longer words but a rhythm that grew into a fog. And yet she could not believe it. She stared at the dragon she held in her hand.

Veronica pressed the cup of wine into Alda’s free hand. “Drink this. Please.”

Alda blinked, but she could not see through the fog. Although Veronica sat beside her, her foster sister’s voice seemed to come from leagues away. To placate Veronica, Alda took a sip — the wine was tasteless to her — and passed the cup back.

“Alda, I am worried,” Veronica said. “You are like a statue. You did not eat at dinner. You barely speak. You do not weep.”

“I cannot weep at a wake,” Alda said tonelessly.

“At least, I would know you are… well. All you do is stare at that ring that Hruodland gave to you and the amulet. Drink some more wine. Perhaps, it will revive you.”

“The dead cannot be revived.” Alda caressed her dragon.

“Only a part of your life is gone. You are still alive.”

Gerard sat down on the other side of Alda and put his arm around her shoulders. Alda barely felt his hand. “How are you faring?” he asked.

Slowly, Alda met Gerard’s gaze. She did not know what to say. The whole world had gone.

She did not resist as he drew her closer and kissed her. Although the taste of wine was strong on his breath, Alda closed her eyes and yielded to him for a moment. Then, she burst into tears.

“What is wrong?” Gerard asked, startled.

“You are not Hruodland,” she sobbed, pulling away from him. She dropped the dragon in her lap and buried her face in her hands.

“Of course, I am not Hruodland,” he said irritably, dropping his arm from her shoulder.

Alda wiped her tears with her sleeve. “I loved your brother.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I have lain with no one but him.”

“It is no concern of mine,” Gerard grumbled.

Alda buried her face in her hands again. Her body was racked with sobs. Veronica pulled Alda into an embrace.

“Hruodland will forgive you for weeping,” Veronica whispered.

Sitting nearby, Bishop Guillaume snorted. “She is as faithless to her husband in death as she was when he was alive.”

Alda pulled herself from Veronica, sat up straight, and wiped her wet face. Anger burned in the pit of her gut as the word “faithless” pierced through the fog of grief and rang through her mind.

“I never betrayed Hruodland,” she snapped. “Never. Call me willful. Call me proud. Call me ugly and ill mannered. But never call me faithless.”

* * * * *

Alda lay awake in the solar as the lauds bells rang. She sat up and drew back the bed curtain, admitting the light of the night candle.

“Hruodland,” she murmured, staring at the dragon amulet, “you said you would return. This should have kept you from harm. Why did it not protect you?”

She kissed the ring Hruodland had given her. “You cannot be dead. Why can’t I feel in my heart that you are dead?”

She lay against the pillow, waiting to awaken from this nightmare.

* * * * *

Alda’s empty shell of a body went to prime Mass the next morning and said prayers and then came home to give orders to the servants before it retreated to a bench near the fire with its knees drawn up to its chin.

“I do not care if you are the lord of this castle,” she heard Veronica say from afar. “You are not to disturb my sister.”

“Veronica,” Gerard said sternly, “I have no wish to strike you, but I will not tolerate insolence.”

“I am Alda’s servant, not yours,” she shot back.

“Peace, Veronica,” Alda said tonelessly. She put her feet on the floor and turned toward the voices behind her. “What is your will, my lord?”

“You seem ill,” Gerard said.

“I am well,” Alda said. Her body was well.

“Veronica, find the cupbearer to fetch your lady some wine,” Gerard said.

Veronica nodded numbly and left to do as she was bid.

Alda turned toward the flames. She did not need wine. Without Hruodland, she needed a place that was solid under her feet. Drachenhaus.

“By your leave, my lord,” Alda said, “I will instruct my servants to prepare for my journey home.”

“No. This is your home.”

“What did you say?” She squinted.

“This is your home,” he repeated.

“Your uncle has made it obvious that I am not welcome here.”

“I am welcoming you here,” Gerard cried.

“It is not enough,” she said softly.

“But I love you,” he blurted.

Alda’s hands dropped to her side. She stared at him. He seemed perfectly sober. She steadied herself on the bench. Veronica came with a cup full of wine. Taking the cup, Gerard approached Alda, took hold of her wrist, raised her arm, and pushed the cup into her hand.

Alda took a gulp of wine before answering, “Gerard, I love you as I would love my brother.”

“That is what I meant.”

“Despite my affection for you, I cannot stay here. I bore Hruodland no children, and I am not going to stay in a place where I am called faithless.”

“You would have an honored place in my household,” he pleaded. “I will protect you.”

“I have an honored place at Drachenhaus and the protection of my brother.”

His eyes pained, Gerard sat down beside her and held her hand. “Your home will not be the same as when you left it.”