“Tell me,” said Michel, deliberately not
answering the question asked of him, “do you think Danise would be
happy with Redmond?”
“Do you?” Sister Gertrude gave him such a
searching look that words failed him. She did not comment on it,
but he knew she had not missed his remark about not knowing how any
man could walk away from marriage to Danise. This tough, outspoken
woman was too intelligent not to take note of his words. In spite
of her sharp tongue he liked Sister Gertrude and he shared her
disgust for Clodion. Unquestionably, Redmond would be the better
husband for Danise, but, much as Michel liked Redmond, he could not
bear to think of Danise in Redmond’s arms. He had a feeling he and
Sister Gertrude were in agreement on that, too.
“Michel, come here,” Savarec called to him.
Michel excused himself to Sister Gertrude and went to join the
other men. He could feel her probing eyes on him until he had to
force himself not to turn around and look at her again.
Nor would he permit his glance to stray
toward Danise, who stood just a few feet away from him at
Hildegarde’s side. He knew if he did, he would not be able to look
away from her. But while he greeted Charles, or talked with Redmond
and Savarec, or exclaimed with honest interest over the drawings on
parchment that were the plans for Charles’s new palace, Danise
remained in his thoughts.
“You have not yet met my friend, Alcuin,”
Charles said, “though he has heard much about you.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you, too,” Michel
said to the cleric who sat beside the king, “and all of it
good.”
Alcuin frowned as if struck by some
peculiarity in Michel, and looked more closely at him. Michel was
growing used to this kind of response. Charles having asked shortly
after his appearance at Duren if anyone there knew of a missing
man, or if anyone meeting Michel could recognize him, his situation
was common knowledge. Most of the warriors and their womenfolk knew
of men who suffered confusion after a hard knock or a wound to the
head, though seldom did anyone survive for more than a week without
recovering from the condition. Thus, Michel was looked upon as
something of a curiosity.
“Is anything wrong? Do you know me?” Michel
asked Alcuin. With his intense awareness of Danise’s presence, he
sensed it when she stepped away from Hildegarde’s side to move
nearer to him. She touched his arm as if to offer comfort or
encouragement. He was grateful for the contact, but he kept his
primary attention on Alcuin, hoping to hear from the great scholar
something that would provide a clue to his identity.
“Nothing wrong,” Alcuin said, “only that I
see in you a likeness to a woman I met last year at Agen. It is not
a physical resemblance. The similarity is more in the way you act
with others. There is in you the same independence of spirit.
Danise, does Michel remind you of India?”
“Alcuin, you are right,” Danise exclaimed. “I
did not see it before, but now that you mention it, yes, it is so.
There is something in Michel which is very similar to India.”
“Who is this woman?” Michel asked. “Is she
here at Duren? Can I meet her?”
“Her lover, Count Theuderic, died at
Roncevaux with my Hugo,” Danise said, so low that Michel had to
bend down to hear her. “Afterward, she returned to her own home.
Michel, could you be from her land?”
“I won’t know that until I remember who I
am.” Michel looked over Danise’s bowed head toward Alcuin, who
still sat beside Charles. The other men stood or sat about, talking
among themselves – Duke Bernard, Savarec, Redmond, Clodion, and
others whom Michel had met in recent days. He saw none of them. He
gazed straight at Alcuin, sharing a long, deep look that told
Michel the scholar knew, or suspected, far more than he had
revealed.
“We must talk,” Michel said to him. “Later,
perhaps.” Alcuin nodded and then, breaking their intense eye
contact, returned his attention to the plans for Charles’s
palace.
“Perhaps he can help you,” Danise murmured,
her hand still on Michel’s arm. “How wonderful it would be for you
if Alcuin can offer some clue to open your memory.”
There was one in that gathering of men and
women near to the king and queen who was mightily displeased by
what he had just seen.
“Savarec,” demanded Clodion, “do you always
permit your daughter such familiarities with men whose origins are
unknown?”
“Danise meant her sympathy for me in a kindly
way and nothing more,” Michel spoke up before Savarec could answer.
Clodion would not be silenced.
“Has this unknown man become another suitor
for your daughter’s hand, Savarec?” Clodion’s voice dripped
contempt for Michel. “If he has, I consider his suit an insult to
me and to Redmond. I warn you, Savarec, to guard Danise more
closely or I will withdraw as Autichar did.”
“It would be a blessing if you were to do
so.” Sister Gertrude moved to stand next to Danise and Michel.
“Danise has done nothing wrong, nothing that any honest woman would
not do for a man who has been ill and in her care.”
“Indeed, Count Clodion.” Hildegarde now spoke
from her chair. Looking over her shoulder toward where Danise and
Michel were standing with Sister Gertrude, she went on, “I find no
fault in Danise’s actions, nor in Sister Gertrude’s guarding of
her. Be patient, Clodion, and press your own suit for Danise with
the polite consideration that is the only way to win a lady’s
heart.”
It was plain to see in Clodion’s face what
his opinion of this sentiment was, but he did not respond to the
queen’s gentle scolding.
“There, do you hear that?” said Charles,
laughing away the dispute. “As usual, my wife shows more wisdom
than most men. Treat Danise kindly, Clodion, and when the time is
right, she will make her choice. Now, let us return to
consideration of my palace. Clodion, will you look at these plans
and tell me as a devoted hunter, what do you think of the size and
placement of the stables?”
“Come, Danise.” Sister Gertrude shepherded
her charge along the few steps back to the queen’s side.
Michel’s head had begun to ache again. He
stood alone, rubbing at his temples until Redmond joined him.
“Is it true?” Redmond asked. “Do you also
want to wed Danise?”
“That was Clodion’s spite talking, not
truth,” Michel ground out, wishing the pain in his head would stop.
“How could I ask for Danise, when, for all I know, I may already
have a wife?” The very thought of it made his head ache still
more.
“I thought you’d say something like that. No
one ought to listen to anything Clodion says.” Redmond paused,
looking at his friend with a worried expression. “Michel, are you
ill again?”
“My head is throbbing. My eyes ache.” Michel
gritted his teeth against a wave of nausea. “I need to find a quiet
place, somewhere out of the sun.”
“I’ll help you back to Savarec’s tent. It
will be the best place for you.” Redmond took his arm, guiding him
in that direction.
“What’s wrong?” Danise had seen them. She
came to Michel and took his hand. “Can I help? Is there something
you need?”
You
, he wanted to say,
I need
you
. He tightened his fingers over hers. The desire to put his
arms around her, to kiss her beautiful, trembling mouth was nearly
overpowering. And the pain in his head grew worse, until it brought
tears to his eyes. Swaying on his feet, he clung to Danise’s
hand.
“He needs to lie down.” Sister Gertrude’s
voice was sharp, bracing Michel, directing him through yet another
wave of nearly unbearable pain. “Leave him to Redmond, Danise.
Redmond will see him safe to his bed. Your place today is with the
queen.”
“Michel?” She was worried about him. He could
see it in her eyes when he forced his own eyes open to look at her.
He knew she would not leave him unless he told her to. Much as he
wanted her with him, he knew Sister Gertrude was right. Clodion
would be watching this little scene and might cause trouble for her
or for Savarec if he thought Danise was showing too much favor to a
stranger. He owed Savarec – he owed -
“I’ll be fine with Redmond,” he managed to
say. He glanced toward Sister Gertrude and saw her approving nod as
she turned Danise away from him.
“Why is everything so damned complicated?” he
groaned to Redmond as, with his friend supporting him, he made his
stumbling way toward Savarec’s tent.
“I have lately begun to ask the same
question,” Redmond replied. “Here we are. Guntram, he’s sick again
and he needs to lie down. Watch over him, will you? I cannot stay,
I am expected by Charles. We are to discuss our situation against
the Saxons this afternoon, so I cannot be absent.”
Scarcely had Redmond left them than Michel
became violently ill, losing everything he had eaten that day.
Guntram found a bucket and stayed with him, supplying wine to rinse
out his mouth afterward and a cool damp cloth so he could wipe his
face.
“Your tunic is soiled. I’ll give it to
Clothilde to wash,” Guntram said, adding in his rough way, “You
stay in bed.”
“Feeling the way I do, I can’t do anything
else.” Clad only in his long-sleeved linen undershirt, Michel lay
back on his narrow bed. At first he felt as if the top of his head
would burst open, but he soon discovered that if he lay very still
with his eyes closed and the cloth Guntram had given him laid
across his eyes to shut out all the light, then the pain would
begin to ease. After a while, he slept.
* * *
He wakened to midnight darkness. In the other
bed Savarec snored softlv. From outside the tent came the muffled
sounds of a large camp at rest. He could hear the sentries talking
softly together, could hear a woman’s husky laugh, while some
distance away a man sang a plaintive song.
He knew exactly where he was. His head was
perfectly clear, all trace of pain gone. And he was stricken with
terror such as he had never known before – no, not even when he had
fallen into the tomb of an early Merovingian queen and the walls
had caved in around him and he had thought they would not dig him
out in time and he would die there, curled up beside the queen’s
bones with his head pillowed on her golden serving tray. This was a
thousand times worse than being buried alive.
For Bradford Michael Bailey had recovered his
memory.
He did not sleep at all during the remainder
of that night. Fearing to waken Savarec or Guntram, either of whom
would be sure to ask questions he did not want to answer, Mike made
himself stay quietly in his bed when he would rather have gone for
a long walk while he thought through the implications of his
situation. Because he was so horrified by what had happened to him,
he deliberately tried to be methodical and as unemotional as he
could. From past experience he knew this was the best way to stave
off panic.
The first item for consideration was whether
he had any hope of returning to his own time. The possibility of
such a resolution seemed remote. Mike believed that Hank would be
glad to be rid of someone who was bent on interfering with his work
on the space-time continuum. Hank would probably make no attempt at
all to get him back. With grim humor Mike thought that his removal
to the eighth century could be classed as a perfect crime. As far
as the twentieth century was concerned he was as good as dead, yet
Hank had no inconvenient body to dispose of and if anyone should
inquire of Hank or his friend Alice, they could honestly say they
had no idea where Bradford Michael Bailey might be.
For one angry, crazed minute Mike wondered
what the two of them would do with his much-loved car, which he had
left parked in the driveway of Alice’s house, but he quickly
dismissed the question as irrelevant under the present
circumstances. The fact that he thought of the car at all indicated
how close to cracking he was. He could not afford to give way to
fear. He had to get hold of himself. He would do what he had done
when he was accidentally buried in that ancient queen’s grave. He
would stay calm and he would use his brain, for muscle alone would
not help him here.
Having reached this point in his reasoning,
Mike next tried to accept what he saw as reality. The chances were
good that he would have to spend the rest of his life in the eighth
century. He would have to get used to that fact as soon as
possible.
Fortunately, he was not without knowledge of
the time in which he found himself. In the twentieth century he had
been a noted archaeologist specializing in the violent Merovingian
era, a period of intrigues and murders within the Frankish royal
family, and of ruinous local wars between nobles. At the end of
that period the Carolingians, the dynasty of which Charles was the
most famous member, seized power and then brought order to a land
in sad need of strong rulers. Charles, known to the twentieth
century as Charlemagne, was one of the few kings in history whom
Mike admired. Having met the man, Mike liked him as a person and,
while generally not in favor of kings, he thought he could live
under Charles’s rule.
With the return of his memory Mike now had an
explanation for many of the mysterious mistakes he had made since
his arrival at Duren. He had been experiencing flashes of recall,
but his knowledge of Frankish weapons, coins, and customs was a
hundred years or so out of date. Using the information amassed
through his studies and his work at archaeological digs, he felt
confident of his ability to catch up easily.
To begin with, he knew how to use Frankish
weapons. In the twentieth century, he and a colleague had
supervised the forging of replicas of both
scramasax
and
fransisca
, and then had practiced using them. This was why
he had learned to wield a broadsword so quickly under Redmond’s
tutoring. In addition, he could ride a horse well. For the rest, he
could learn what he needed to know by watching other people and by
listening. It was a great advantage that he was able to pick up new
languages with little effort. With the skills he already possessed,
he believed he could make his way in Frankish society without
serious difficulty. He would not starve or go homeless.