The Cross and the Dragon (5 page)

“I know nothing of any of the men you speak of,” the merchant said, tugging at his collar.

“Do you have news of the royal family?” Alda asked. “We heard Queen Hildegard and the princes followed King Charles into Italy, and that the queen mother went to Aachen. But we’ve heard naught of the child Queen Hildegard was carrying.”

“The queen bore a girl this past winter, but the child lived only three months.” The merchant’s shoulders sagged.

“God rest her soul,” Alda murmured. Bowing her head, she made the sign of the cross. Every family she knew had lost babies, but the news never ceased to sadden her.

“It’s God’s will.” Theodelinda laid her hand over Alda’s. “I will have our priest dedicate tomorrow’s prime Mass to the princess. The rest of the royal family, are they well?”

“Yes, Countess. Did you know Gerberga and her sons surrendered in Verona?” he asked excitedly.

With wide eyes, Alda and Theodelinda shook their heads. “I thought our army was holding siege at Pavia, where Desiderius is hiding like the rat he is,” Alda said.

“This is the first we’ve heard about the king’s sister-by-marriage,” Theodelinda added, leaning forward. “Please, have some more wine.”

“Lady Alda, you are correct,” the merchant said, taking a drink. “Our army has had an enormous camp outside Pavia’s walls since autumn, but Gerberga and her sons fled to Verona with Desiderius’s son. Our king and some of his men gave chase. The Lombard prince escaped, but Gerberga did not resist.”

“Where are they now?” Alda asked.

“I know not.”

“And Desiderius is still in Pavia?” Theodelinda asked.

“Yes. Our king even spent the Feast of the Resurrection in Rome and prayed for the Lord’s aid. Yet the siege continues, and the Lombard king refuses to surrender.”

“Damned Lombards!” Alda said. “The queen mother was right. They are strong, stubborn sons of whores.”

* * * * *

Spring days lengthened and became warmer, the grain in the fields grew tall and rippled with the wind, and still no word from Alfihar. It was the height of summer, with the hay cut and drying in the fallow fields, when a messenger arrived at Drachenhaus with a rolled parchment bearing Alfihar’s seal.

He is alive
, Alda thought. Until this moment, she and her mother had not known.

“Saints be praised,” Theodelinda murmured, wiping her tears with her hand.

“Saints be praised,” Alda echoed, leaning against her mother’s shoulder. Her throat fluttering, Alda watched the clerk read the message.

His eyes scanning the text, the clerk smiled and translated into Frankish, “Alfihar, count of Drachenhaus by the grace of God and Charles, king of the Franks and Lombards and patrician of Rome, to our beloved mother, Dowager Countess Theodelinda: We send loving greetings in the name of our Lord to you and through you, to our dearling sister. We and our uncles are well. God has granted us victory in Lombardy. Rome is secure. Desiderius has been sent to the cloister. We will return within a week’s time with Beringar, count of Bonn; Leonhard, bishop of Bonn; Our Lord King Charles; and a company of many.”

* * * * *

While the rest of the household rushed to prepare the castle for guests a few days later, Alda and Veronica were embroidering falconry gloves for Alfihar. Servants were rubbing linseed oil and lemon balm into the castle’s furniture and the altar of the chapel attached to the manor, scrubbing the floors and baths, and hauling water to the bathhouse. Theodelinda had planned a feast and ordered servants to take inventory of flour, honey, and spices; clean the stables; pull weeds in the garden; and cut off spent blooms. Alda thought it was odd for everyone to be scurrying about while she passed the time with needlework.

“Was I a good mistress of this house?” she asked Veronica.

“Yes, the house ran smoothly, once you became accustomed to giving orders.”

“Why was my mother so hasty to take back the keys? The clerk had barely finished reading Alfihar’s message when she held out her hand and said, ‘Alda, you will not need those anymore.’” Alda imitated the gesture and her mother’s commanding tone.

“She is the dowager countess, Alda,” Veronica said, not taking her eyes off her embroidery. “You knew you could not keep the keys forever.”

“But without so much as a ‘thank you.’”

“You didn’t need to throw them at her. You almost spat when you said, ‘Here are the keys, Mother.’” Veronica looked up. “You were a good mistress of the house, and you will soon be a good mistress of, uh…”

Alda picked up the needle but then turned toward the window.

“I wonder what has become of Ganelon,” she said half to herself. “Alfihar’s message made no mention of him.”

“I assume the count of Dormagen will be with your brother, if he survived the battles,” Veronica replied, making another stitch.

Alda lifted the needle, then laid her hand on her lap. A cold, heavy fear sank into her chest. What if Alfihar and Ganelon had negotiated dowry and bride price?

Again, Alda picked up Alfihar’s glove. After embroidering two stitches in the dragon’s wing, she put the glove down again and looked toward the window.

“Do you think Alfihar will marry Empty Head soon?” Alda asked.

“Shh!” Veronica giggled. “Lady Gundrada might find out you call her that.”

“She cares nothing for affairs of the realm. She told me so while we were in Koblenz. We will be suffering a fool when she and Alfihar are…”

Two notes from the horn at the tower vibrated through the solar. For a moment, all noise seemed to stop. The guards sounded two notes only when they saw an invasion or the return of the men from the battlefront.

Alda caught her breath. “Veronica, was it…”

Veronica nodded.

“Saints be praised!” Alda shouted, raising both fists overhead.

Setting aside barely stitched embroidery, Alda and Veronica left the solar, arm in arm, their heels striking the oaken floor. They headed for the tower and ran up the stairs.

* * * * *

Alda knew her questions would be answered soon. Was Alfihar whole? What had happened to that beast who called himself Ganelon?

A breeze from the Rhine played with her hair as she stood at the top of the tower. She had expected these notes from the horn. The host of men was traveling on the road near the Rhine, the same road she and Alfihar had taken south almost a year ago.

The guard at the tower showed Alda what he saw. Soldiers, on horseback, in horse, ox and mule carts, on foot, emerged from the forest’s thick, green canopy. Alda saw Nonnenwerth’s sisters and tenants, as small as ants from this height, empty the church, the fields, and their homes to greet their men. A handful of the abbey’s tenants dragged boats to the bank of the river to ferry their men home.

The soldiers were in the clearing, just beyond the wheat fields. The gate to the fortress ground open. Peasants dropped their hoes in the fields and came up the mountain to the chapel to meet their kinsmen.

Panting from her climb up the stairs, Theodelinda joined Alda. When the guard showed the dowager countess what he saw, Theodelinda let out a shriek and embraced Alda.

Theodelinda, Alda, and Veronica hurried down the narrow stairways, their shoes scuffling on the steps. They ran outside to the steps of the chapel, whose bell clanged overhead.

The villagers cheered to see Theodelinda and Alda. Crowding the courtyard, they were murmuring and gossiping. Alda could feel the excitement and worry of the families: They would see their sons or husbands or brothers or fathers — if they lived.

“He is almost here,” Theodelinda squealed.

The villagers raised their voices when the royal couple and their guards came through the gate on horseback, hooves clattering against the hard ground. Alda was smiling, cheering, clapping.

King Charles wore an iron crown and a gold belt with a sword hilt to match. A bejeweled and plump Queen Hildegard rode beside her husband. Five-winter-old Prince Pepin rode a pony while toddling Prince Karl was carried in a horse-drawn portable cradle.

Mounted noblemen, some of the king’s courtiers among them, entered the courtyard next. Alda scanned the crowd and let out a breath when she beheld Alfihar. He looked the same. He still had both eyes and both feet. Like the other horses, his stallion was dirty and needed to be fed but easily carried his master and the armor that had been rolled and secured behind the saddle. The stubble on Alfihar’s chin matched his light brown hair.

Alda beamed to see her uncles, Beringar and Leonhard. Her smile faded when her gaze rested on the man she hoped not to see: Ganelon.
There he is
.
The war did not claim him
.

Her eyes were then drawn to two noblemen who were not from this part of the kingdom — actually, one nobleman, a tall, dark-haired man on a black stallion. Alda felt a pang near her heart.
Hruodland!

“Veronica,” Alda whispered, “yonder, near Alfihar, do you see?”

Veronica gasped. “Yes.”

“Could it be? Am I dreaming?” she said in a daze.

“Not unless we are both asleep,” Veronica whispered back.

“I thought I would never see him again.”

“What is he doing here? His home is leagues and leagues away.”

A wave of cheers drowned out conversation. Servants and commoners were following the noblemen in horse and ox carts and on foot. Alda instinctively moved closer to her mother. Soldiers crowded the courtyard.

Splatters of dried blood, mud, and manure stained their clothes, and on some men, bloodstains formed brown circles on their leggings. Some of the men in the ox carts had their arms or legs in splints. Others were missing fingers or hands. Some of the horses had scars on their legs and necks.

Villagers pushed past each other to meet their kinsmen in the army. The soldiers kissed their wives, hugged their mothers and fathers, picked up their children. Most families smiled and laughed and looked at each other in wonder. Some could barely speak. Others were talking all at once. Some children cried in the arms of the strange men who were their fathers. A couple of mothers and wives wept for a lost eye or hand. A few mothers and wives kept searching the crowd until a friend of their family shook his head. They wailed, sobbed, and fainted as the friend held them.

Alfihar guided his horse toward Alda and Theodelinda. He raised his hunting horn, carved from bone, to his lips and blew. The crowd fell silent.

“We have arrived at the House of the Dragon,” Alfihar called, “where we will have a great feast to celebrate our triumph. Your hostesses are my mother, Countess Theodelinda, and my sister, Lady Alda. Be merry!”

Alda had barely heard Alfihar. Her attention was drawn to Hruodland. Their eyes met for a moment. Hruodland smiled. Alda swallowed and smiled back. Veronica nudged Alda to follow her mother’s lead. With Theodelinda, she approached the king and bowed.

“We are honored, my lord king, to have a guest of such greatness,” Theodelinda said.

The dowager countess described the baths and the clean clothes that awaited them. She signaled the stable hands to attend to the horses and ordered her servants to attend to the noblemen’s needs.

Alfihar dismounted and handed the reins to a groom. He approached Theodelinda and Alda and embraced his mother, then his sister.

“Oh, how I have yearned to see home!” he roared.

Alda again watched Hruodland. He dismounted from his stallion and gave the reins to his servant. He pushed his hair away from his eyes. Like the other noblemen, he was dirty and unshaven. As he spoke in Roman, that strange tongue from the western part of Francia, she picked out the name of his brother, Gerard, but nothing else.

Alfihar, his arms now around both his mother and his sister, called to him. “Hruodland!”

“Hruodland,” Alda whispered.

Chapter 5

“Mother, Alda, I have brought a friend,” Alfihar said. “Prince Hruodland, this is my mother. Of course, you remember my sister.”

Hruodland’s dark eyes pierced Alda. Her knees weakened. Her heart pounded. Her mouth went dry.