The Cross and the Dragon (3 page)

In the shade of a yew hedge, Alda leaned over, hands on her knees, bracing herself against the sobs that rocked her body. She would never run to him when he came home from war and throw her arms around his neck. She would never know the feel of his embrace or the taste of his lips. He was lost to her, and all she could have was an occasional rumor from a passing merchant.

“I wish I knew some words to comfort you,” Veronica said, stroking Alda’s back.

“Hruodland wants me. I know he does. Why can’t Alfihar see that?”

“Affection has nothing to do with marriage, especially marriage of the royal family. And the rumor is that Hruodland’s father wants him to marry the daughter of the Breton duke. No count’s sister can compete with that, even if the Breton were as ugly as a toad and you were as fair as the sun.”

“But why must Alfihar insist on marrying me to a man I despise?”

“I hear Count Ganelon is wealthy.”

“Oh, he drips with wealth and spares no expense on himself. A pity he won’t use his treasure to care for his household. Why can’t Alfihar see the obvious?” Alda wiped the tears from her cheeks.

“Your brother is a good man, but blinded by pride.”

* * * * *

As the afternoon wore on, Alda grew more resentful of Ganelon. He had won. On the journey to Geneva with their soldiers, he had jeered at her interest in warfare, and now she was in the courtyard near the women’s quarters, embroidering a skirt with Veronica.

“God curse Ganelon,” Alda said between clenched teeth. “Because of him, we are here instead of listening to the plans for war.”

“Why not go inside, then?” Veronica asked. “You cannot avoid Alfihar forever.”

“I am in no hurry for his tirade. I did nothing wrong.”

Veronica quickly looked down as if she were concentrating on a complicated stitch.

Again, Alda’s curiosity about the plans for war gnawed at her. Laying down her embroidery, Alda gazed at the mountains, most of them steel gray and austere, some snow-capped, all cutting into the sky, more formidable than any fortress.
How will they ever cross them?

“If only Father were here,” Alda mused, picking up the needle again. “He would find me a lord who knows how to respect a lady, at least a man who knows it’s rude to tell a woman she’s too thin, even if it is true.”

“I’ve been thinking about what he said at dinner,” Veronica said. “It’s like when your mother points out the defects in a merchant’s wares to make him lower the price.”

“God’s wounds, you’re right! I expected haggling over the bride price and dowry but not insults. What is Ganelon thinking? That I will run to my brother and beg him to lower the bride price because I’m too ugly for any man to want me?”

“I told you God did not bless Ganelon with a good brain.” Veronica giggled.

“Or a good heart.” Alda twisted a thread. “What if Uncle Leonhard cannot sway Alfihar? If I marry Ganelon, could I send a message to the Church or anyone else? I would be at Ganelon’s mercy, and he has no mercy. I fear him, Veronica.”

“I know,” Veronica said softly.

“It’s more than that. Either this marriage will cost me my life, or I will become a murderer.”

Veronica dropped her needle. “Alda, you don’t mean that. He cannot…” She shook her head. “You don’t have a murderous heart.”

“I do mean it. He could make my heart as black as his.”

Alda managed five more stitches before letting her needlework fall to her lap. Staring at the door to the great hall, she fidgeted. She could almost see Alfihar’s flushed face, could almost feel his hands shaking her shoulders.

She glanced at the mountains, then the door. Setting her embroidery aside, she started to pace. She stopped and gazed at the door, tapping her finger to her lips. She could almost hear the noblemen arguing about Lombardy.

She narrowed her eyes. Veronica was right. Alfihar was going to scold her anyway. She might as well listen to the debate.

“Maybe I can sneak in without anyone noticing me,” she muttered.

“Do you want me to put away our embroidery?” Veronica asked, already gathering needles and threads.

Nodding, Alda strode to the door and peeked inside. Bright with the light from the windows, lamps, and fire, the hall was spacious, especially now that the planks of the trestle tables and benches had been stacked against the walls. The nobles had gathered twenty-five paces to her right. Their voices echoed, forming a jumble of words.

Slipping inside, she crept toward the crowd. At the front of the room was a dais, where the king and queen sat on thrones. Even without his crown, Charles, the hero who had united Francia, would look like a king. A towering man in his mid-twenties, his torso and neck were massive with muscle. Round-faced, he had a long nose and large, bright eyes.

Charles’s queen, Hildegard, a Swabian from an important family, was magnificent next to her husband. A year older than Alda, she was great with her second child and wore a vermillion gown that flattered her figure. Embroidered with gold thread, the gown lay over a purple fine linen tunic and matched her silk veil, secured with gold pins and topped by a crown, glittering with the rest of her finery.

See those jewels, Alfihar?
Alda thought.
See those clothes? King Charles treats his wife like the high-born lady she is. Choose a man like that for me.

When she reached the back of the crowd, Alda stood on her toes and craned her neck. Just off the dais and to the king’s right, Queen Mother Bertrada, grim-faced, sat stiffly in an ornate chair. Tall and well past forty winters, she covered her hair with a black silk widow’s veil secured by a silver and sapphire circlet. Beside her, a nurse sat on a stool and held the sleeping baby Prince Karl, the son of Charles and Hildegard. Prince Pepin, Charles’s four-winter-old stoop-shouldered son by his first wife, a Frankish noblewoman, played with silver warriors at his nurse’s feet. Near the children, two clerks with wax tablets and styluses listened intently to the conversation.

Hruodland and the king’s uncle Bernard, a rugged warrior who had seen forty winters, stood just behind Bertrada, facing the king. Alda’s gaze lingered on Hruodland. His sky blue tunic fit snugly on his torso and fell to his knees, showing off powerful calves in red silk leggings secured with dark blue bands of cloth. How she wished she could be closer! She scanned the crowd. Ganelon’s pale head was in the front row near her brother and uncles.

Alda glanced over her shoulder. The door to the outside, her escape from Ganelon, was twenty paces away. At the sound of Hruodland’s voice, she turned toward the dais.

“We should split the army in two,” he said. “We can move faster through the mountains.”

“If we move as one,” Ganelon argued, a sneer in his voice, “we would overwhelm the Lombards.”

“We can’t overwhelm them if we’re stuck in the Alps,” Hruodland retorted.

“Lord Bernard,” King Charles said in a tenor voice, “what say you?”

“We could more easily move our men if we do as Hruodland says,” Bernard said, his voice raspy. “And we can confound Desiderius if we invade by two routes. I can take my men through the Great Saint Bernard Pass, you lead your followers through Mount Cenis, and we reunite where the paths meet in a valley.”

“And what say you, my lady mother?”

“Split the army,” Bertrada answered, her chin jutting. “With this foe, you will need every advantage. The Lombards are strong sons of whores in fortified cities. They will not surrender easily.”

“My lady queen mother,” Hildegard said smoothly, “if God wills it, we cannot fail. The Lombards closed the roads to keep the pope’s envoy from us, but the Good Lord delivered him to us by sea. Surely, He will protect our men.”

Charles laid his hand over his wife’s and smiled at her.
You see, Alfihar?
Alda thought.
That is what I am talking about, a man who not only respects his wife but is fond of her.

“Then we will hold Masses and litanies asking the Good Lord for His favor,” Bertrada said. “I will see to it personally.”

“My lady queen and my lady queen mother are wise,” Charles said. “Let us do as Lord Bernard says. We will leave tomorrow after prime. We have no time to waste.”

Even as the crowd dispersed and men filed past her, Alda stayed rooted to the mosaic floor, feeling as if she had been punched in the chest. She clutched her iron dragon amulet, hoping to draw strength from its oval stone, a fragment of Drachenfels Mountain near her home.
Tomorrow! They are leaving tomorrow!

Her need to speak to Alfihar shoved aside her fear of his scolding. She approached her brother, weaving her way through the crowd. After she took a few steps, Alfihar turned and saw her. The annoyance on his face softened. He nodded to his uncles and said something to Ganelon, then made his way toward her.

“What troubles you?” he asked.

“The war in Lombardy.” She grabbed Alfihar’s hand.

“You are always this way before I go to war. Do not worry. I will be home in a few months.” He patted her hand.

Alda gave him a tremulous smile.
That’s what Father said the spring before he was killed.
“Promise me you will keep your dragon amulet with you at all times.”

“I promise. And you wear yours as well.”

“Yes, Alfihar. I will pray for you.”

“I know.” Alfihar kissed her forehead. “Tell the servants to pack for both of us. You must leave for home tomorrow.”

“Very well,” Alda murmured.

For a moment, neither spoke. Then Alfihar frowned and his features hardened. Alda’s eyes widened. Not only was he about to scold her: he was going to humiliate her in public!

“I do not wish for us to part in anger,” he said in a low, stern voice, “but I must say this. I am your brother, and it is your duty to obey me.”

Alda nodded. She refused to allow Ganelon to turn what might be her last conversation with Alfihar into harsh words. She would not quarrel with her brother this time, but their argument was far from over.

* * * * *

At the evening meal, Alda sat beside Alfihar. Beringar’s deep laugh drew her attention. His receding hairline of sandy locks was one of the few signs he was past his prime. But two decades of wearing armor had made Beringar’s shoulders and chest as broad as the trunk of an old tree and his arms like thick branches. Beside Beringar was his younger, thinner brother, Leonhard. In white robes, Leonhard had the look of a scholar: pale skin, clerical tonsure, bright gray eyes, and hands like those a woodcarver would create for Jesus — long, clean fingers, square at the tips.

Her gaze then fell on Ganelon. He was looking her up and down as if he were appraising a horse. Alda, unnerved, shifted in her seat.

Heaven forbid that I be destined to be his wife. Maybe the war will claim him
, she thought, feeling a twinge of shame at wishing for a countryman’s death. Then, she felt a flush of anger. Already his evil was preying on her!

She looked toward Hruodland, now seated five paces away with his younger brother, Gerard, who was preparing for the priesthood. Alda’s melancholy deepened. After the war in Lombardy
,
he would return to the March of Brittany, many leagues west of her home. She would pray for Hruodland to survive the battles, even though she had one certainty.
I shall never see him again.

Chapter 3

Late September 773

Drachenhaus on the Rhine, south of Bonn

During the evening meal in the great hall, Alda’s gaze fell on the tapestries recounting Siegfried’s deeds in reds, greens, and yellows, brilliant even by firelight. She realized how much she had missed Drachenhaus, built with stone from Drachenfels Mountain across the Rhine, where Siegfried had slain the dragon centuries ago and bathed in its blood for invulnerability. The mountain’s rock carried that magic, and Alda felt it envelop her.

When servants brought in stews, soups, roasted pork, and bread, the aromas from the food blended with the wood smoke from the fire, lemon balm rubbed on the wooden tables and benches, and the fresh mint and thyme strewn on the stone floor. Alda stared at Alfihar’s empty chair at the head of the table. Where was her brother tonight? Was he shivering near a fire with their uncles and Hruodland? Were they exhausted from their trek up peaks so high and sharp they cut into the sky, dwarfing the mountain on which her home sat? She shuddered. After the warriors’ struggle with the Alps’ steep paths and trackless ridges, a well-armed and well-armored enemy awaited them.