Chapter 4

Summer, A.D.879

The Coast of France

“He’s home!” Melisande cried. “Father is home!”

She had watched the old Roman road for hours each day for the past week, knowing that he had promised to return for her thirteenth birthday, and knowing that if he had promised to do so, he would.

Ragwald, who sat in his student’s chair, head sunk wearily into his hands, immediately came to his feet, forgetting that his young ward was exasperating him no end. He was immensely glad to discover that his lord had returned, for these were the most treacherous of times for travelers. Not only were the Danes and other Vikings continually plaguing the shores and rivers, but in defense against those Viking, many barons, lords, counts, and wealthy landowners had begun a somewhat new way of life. Ragwald was old, and in his memory things were not so terribly different. Military strength had always been tremendously important. But it had been in this century—with the coming of the Vikings, or so it seemed—that their system of feudalism had arisen. Great lords now designed fortresses or castles, trained the right men to fight for them, and took in a number of vassals, men and women to work the land. These vassals provided the food and bounty, and received protection in return. With all these castles and fortresses risen across the land, the law had gone into the hands of those strong enough to hold it. A traveler could easily be waylaid—indeed, he could easily disappear completely.

Ragwald quickly joined Melisande on the parapet wall to watch with her as her father’s party neared the castle. He smiled. He shouldn’t have worried so. Count Manon de Beauville was one of the most powerful of the barons—and, Ragwald had determined, certainly one of the smartest. For one, he had taken Ragwald into his employ many years ago.

More than that, Count Manon was a noble with a keen mind, a man who looked to the past to learn from the mistakes and triumphs of others. In studying the Romans and their effect upon all the peoples they had conquered, he had discovered the many usages of stone. His fortress was one of the finest in the land. Motte and bailey, and as was customary, the main buildings were set upon a mound, a great trench was dug around them, and a wall was created before that trench. There were four towers to the castle, one to face the sea, one to face east, one west, and one south. Parapets in wood and stone lined the walls between the towers, giving the men a fantastic fighting ability from within. Few offenders had ever come too near the castle, for the retainers within the walls were expert with the firing of burning arrows, and they excelled with their caldrons of boiling oil. Strength brought respect in these days, and they were able to live within the castle walls in a realm of peace. They had never been attacked by any countryman seeking greater glory, and the almost inescapable raids here by the Danes had been quickly repulsed. Mostly the Danes came to plunder and take what they could. Sometimes, though, they came seeking their own lands, younger sons with nothing for them in their distant homes. When they found themselves battling Count Manon, they quickly went on to easier pickings.

There was so much of the coast that was unprotected!

Ragwald set a hand over his eyes, shielding them from the sun, watching as Count Manon rode his massive stallion. Warrior, across the trail through the fields. He was followed by mounted men all with linden shields, two carrying the blue and red colors of the castle with the battling rams of Beauville upon them, an insignia chosen by this count’s grandfather when he had served Charlemagne.

The count himself was a striking man, tall, dark, with just a few strands of gray in his head. His eyes were deeply blue against the sun-bronzed shade of his face. He sat on a horse very tall and very well. Seeing his daughter and Ragwald so eagerly awaiting him, he lifted a hand and smiled, then spurred his horse.

“Father!” Melisande cried delightedly, and ran from the parapet.

“Melisande!” Ragwald called after her. “By all the saints!” he cried in aggravation, lifting his hands to heaven. “Melisande, you are the heiress to a mighty stronghold, milady. Will you show the world some dignity, please!”

He spoke to empty space. He lifted his hands again in surrender, and followed her down the south stairs to the courtyard below.

The great gates had opened in anticipation of the count’s arrival. Manon rode through, and his daughter came running to him, pitting herself against Warrior, so very anxious to reach her father.

“Melisande!”

Count Manon threw his leg over the animal’s haunches and fell with an agile thump to the dirt, encompassing her into his arms. “Ah, sweeting, I have missed you sorely!” he assured her.

“You came back!” she said, overjoyed.

He nodded. Ragwald noted that the count studied his daughter with a slight frown. As well he might! In the few short months in which he had been gone, Melisande had changed. She would be thirteen years old in a few days’ time. She had grown very tall, taller than many men. Her hair, as rich a black as man might imagine, fell down the length of her back in beautiful inky, soft waves. Her face was no longer a child’s face, but finely sculpted, a face with exquisite bones and coloring, one to rival any beauty of the ancient Greek or Roman tales. She was quickly acquiring a woman’s shape, as well, Ragwald determined, deciding then and there that the count must soon be reminded that he had avoided making marital arrangements for his daughter.

For the moment, though, the joy that father and daughter found in one another was so deep that Ragwald kept his distance while the count spoke of presents and the girl demanded to know if he had been well, and then, of course, that he tell her everything about where he had been.

As the count told his tale, he slipped one arm around his daughter, then one around Ragwald, escorting them to the main tower, the keep. The ground floor, dug into the earth, stored their food and weapons, the upper floor housed their bedchambers, and the middle floor afforded them a great hall with a huge fireplace and massive oak table, a hall where a number of men could meet, or where their small family could gather intimately.

Everyone was delighted the count had returned, from the meanest of his vassals to the most affluent of tenants. The servants flocked to see him, and their best efforts went into the meal that welcomed him home. While he was greeted, he entertained them with stories about Paris, about the pilgrimage he had begun from there, about his visits with the Burgundian king.

The hour at last grew late. The servants had left them, and the count sat in one of the huge oak chairs before the fire, studying his daughter while she poked at the fire. Her cheeks were still pink with pleasure at his return, Ragwald noted.

“Gerald has called often in your absence,” Ragwald said, referring to the count of the neighboring land that jettied out into the sea.

“Has he? To see to the welfare of this place? Why, he must not know the mettle of my men, to think that Philippe and Gaston would not have had the fortress secure!” He smiled.

Ragwald was not so quick to smile. “I don’t trust him,” he muttered.

“Well, what do you think he is after?” the count demanded.

Ragwald shrugged, then felt his eyes stray to Melisande. “I don’t know. Perhaps your daughter.”

Melisande, still poking at the fire, started, and spun around to look at him, her delicate nose wrinkling. A wise young judge of character, milady! he thought, but did not say so out loud.

The count himself was frowning. “Gerald is older than I am!”

“Such things have never stopped a marriage before. And perhaps he does not want her for himself, but for his son, Geoffrey.”

“I like Geoffrey even less,” the count murmured.

There was a definite look of relief upon Melisande’s face. She looked to Ragwald with a certain triumph in her violet eyes.

He ignored her, addressing the count. “The girl is your only heir—”

“And there have been numerous laws stating that there is no reason a daughter should not inherit when there is no legal male issue!” Count Manon said firmly.

Ragwald inhaled and exhaled slowly. Noblemen could be so very difficult when they chose!

“My point, milord!” Ragwald said at last. “This is a powerful fortress—no man who knows it has dared attack it. The foreigners who have invaded here have quickly fled for more promising places. Someone might well covet your daughter and her holdings, Count Manon!”

The count watched Melisande. “She is only twelve years old—”

“Nearly thirteen. And children are oft wed at birth!”

“Betrothed,” Manon corrected.

“What difference is it?” Ragwald replied impatiently. “Many girls are brides at her age.”

“Well, she will not be,” the count said stubbornly. “Unless…” he began thoughtfully.

Melisande quickly leapt in, coming behind her father’s chair and staring at Ragwald. “Did you know, my dear tutor,” she said sweetly, rubbing her father’s shoulders, “that King Charlemagne never had his daughters wed, but kept them home and at his side, determined he would share them with no others.”

Ragwald waved a hand in the air. “Aye, lady! And wretched lives those girls then lived, for they did not wed, but took lovers, and their children were illegitimate!”

She frowned at him. “Ragwald, I have been taught as well as any son—”

“And you think that you will be as strong as a man?”

“Nay, sir! I shall be as strong as any woman!” She smiled. “You have taught me about the strength of my gender, Ragwald. Think of Fredegund, the wife of King Chilperic! She schemed to have his first queen repudiated, and then to have her slain, and she managed all manner of political assassinations once she was in power!”

“Oh, indeed! Think of her!” Ragwald snapped. “She ended her days being tortured and executed!”

“You are missing my point. She caused as much mayhem as any male might!”

Ragwald shook his head wearily. Count Manon was watching his daughter with amusement and affection. She was an incredibly bright young woman, ever thirsting for knowledge—and despite her youth, very aware that her father’s men assumed that she would marry and, when she did, give her power over to her husband.

She was very determined to hold tight to what she considered hers, and hers alone.

“What do the stars say, astrologer?” Count Manon demanded with a certain humor.

Astrology was an ancient science. Sometimes it seemed that the count properly respected it as such, but sometimes it seemed that he regarded it with as much humor as he did the old Roman legends that a god like Jupiter turned into all manner of animals to seduce human women.

Most often Ragwald would have defended the study of the stars instantly, but tonight he suddenly could not. Strange, but he felt as if he had been somewhat blinded recently. He watched the moon and knew when the tides would rise high. He watched it grow and wane, and knew when the people would be in good spirits and wild, knew when babes would be born, when some men would go mad. But he felt as if he could see nothing, nothing at all of the immediate future but an awful black void, and that frightened him terribly.

“The stars say your daughter must marry for her own safety,” he said stubbornly.

“Perhaps.” The count spoke softly, smiling up at Melisande. “But to me she is still a child. And I’d like her opinion on the few men I have in mind.”

“A child’s opinion?” Ragwald challenged.

“An educated child’s opinion!” Melisande answered sweetly, her violet eyes amused and victorious.

He started to wag a finger at her, then gripped his hands tightly behind his back instead. This young ward of his was too precocious.

The count stared at the fire, watching the fantastic display of colors, listening for a moment as the logs snapped and crackled. “I would very much like to see her marry for love,” he said thoughtfully.

“Love!” Ragwald exclaimed, so amazed that he flew around, his ragged cloak circling him as if he were a pagan dancer. “Love! Dear Lord above us! Who ever thought of such a foolish requirement for an advantageous marriage!”

Count Manon grinned, looking from his daughter to his old mentor, and back to the fire. “I was in love with her mother,” he replied, his voice still soft, reflective. “So much so that I could never take another wife when I lost her. It is a marvelous thing, love, Ragwald. You must try it some time.”

Ragwald sniffed. “You’re jesting.”

“Father is very serious,” Melisande assured him.

Ragwald shook his head, lifting his hands in bewilderment. “Count Manon, you married Lady Mary at your father’s command, you must recall. The love came later.” He cleared his throat delicately. “I believe, milord, that it is the, er, living together which creates this wonder of love.”

“Still, it is something I wish for my daughter.”

“Milord—”

“We will talk of it no more tonight. I am very weary from my journey, and I’ve presents for you both!” He rose, striding quickly toward one of the many trunks that had been brought up to the keep. He drew his calf knife and slit the rope that bound it, then threw open the top. He took a leather satchel out first and presented it to Ragwald. “There, astrologer! This may well keep you busy for a while!”

Ragwald looked from the satchel to the count. “And my good count? This is?”

“Open it, open it, nothing that will bite!” promised the count. “It is filled with medicinal herbs, purchased from a Greek physician serving the Burgundian princess, a very clever man. They are acquired from all over the world.”

Ragwald smiled, delighted with the gift. Chemistry was another science he adored, and he was fascinated with the healing qualities of herbs and how they might best be combined. For a moment, he forgot his determination to see to Melisande’s future well-being.

“And this!” the count exclaimed. “This is for you, my dear daughter!”

And so saying, he produced a tunic of mail.

Ragwald set the herbs aside and stared at it. It was magnificent. The mesh was extremely fine. It would be incredibly difficult to penetrate. At the same time, the garment was beautiful, decidedly feminine. It was decorated in elegant patterns with a fine gilding. The golden coloring glittered magnificently in the firelight.

“Father!” Melisande exclaimed. “It’s—exquisite!”

“Of course, it’s for ceremony,” he said.

“For ceremony,” she repeated, taking the garment from him almost reverently.

“You’ll need it soon enough, for you’ll ride with me, and learn more and more of how the fortress must be managed.”

“Oh, Father!” she threw her arms around him, her eyes alight.

He kissed her forehead. “You must go to bed now, Melisande. For I am very weary.”

“Of course, Father, of course!” she said quickly, penitent that she might have tired him in any way. “Now that you’re home, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter! I’ll have you in the morning and hours and hours after! And days! And weeks, and—”

“I believe your father mentioned going to bed, Melisande,” Ragwald said, staring at her.

She smiled. She even kissed his cheek. “I love you, too, Ragwald. Sleep well!” She kissed and hugged her father again, then hurried up to her bedchamber, the mail still clasped in her hands.

Ragwald looked back to Count Manon, then sighed deeply. “Milord, there are many men who believe that the whole of the collapse of the Roman empire might have been because of the emergence of women’s legal rights!”

Count Manon laughed loudly. “Those who think it must be very weak men!”

Ragwald leaned forward. “We live in a feudal society, Count Manon! This fortress is based upon your might, upon your skill! A woman’s place is to bear her lord’s children, to see to the management of the household—”

“She wields a sword well, I have watched her with her masters.”

Ragwald inhaled and exhaled. The sun rose and set on Melisande, as far as the count could see.

But he didn’t really understand. Ragwald loved her, as well. And that was why he worried so.

“She has an excellent mind, she is talented. But as good as she is, a stronger man would best her. Have you purchased that coat of mail so that she can go to war with your men? Would you see her wounded by a sword, her head split by a mace? An arrow might not pierce the armor well, but it might well catch her in the throat!”

“I do not intend her to go to war! It is ceremonial armor. It is armor for men’s minds!” the count insisted, tapping his head. He shrugged. “And my daughter is right. Women have ruled. Wives for their husbands, mothers for their sons. And most oft—”

“Most oft, as we mentioned, they came to evil ends!”

“Not always. We both know our history, astrologer!”

“What of Melisande herself?” Ragwald argued. “Would you have her spend her life alone, defending her property?”

“No. I would have her be strong, and make her own choices. She is an excellent swordswoman—”

“Fine. As she is bested by a man twice her weight, we will all commend her strength!”

“Ah, but a weaker man would lose.”

“She detests warfare.”

“So should we all.”

Ragwald sank deeper into his chair, exhaling a groan. “Have you any of that excellent Burgundian wine left, milord? You have given me a great need for it!”

Count Manon laughed. “Indeed, Ragwald, indeed!” And he rose, poked the dying fire, and procured the wine himself for his old friend and adviser. “I am not so careless as you might think, Ragwald. Perhaps I have given you a twitch in that head of yours on purpose! I have looked carefully to a few men who might prove worthy of my daughter.”

“And they are?”

Count Manon stroked his chin. “One is the nephew of an old friend, an Irish prince—”

Ragwald made a strangling sound. “The son of the Wolf of Norway?”

“The son of the man who seized and built Dubhlain and claimed himself the Ard-Ri’s, the High King’s, daughter in the making of it!” Manon continued softly. Then he leaned down on the chair, staring tensely at Ragwald. “I do have enemies, and they can be crafty and powerful. We are prey to constant invasion. Who better to best an invader than one who is bred from such warrior stock himself?”

Ragwald shook his head, staring at the count. “I think you’re ma—” He cut himself off. He and the count were the very best of friends, but it was still better wisdom not to suggest that one’s master might be bordering on insanity. He shook his head. “You spoke of love! Melisande has watched countless invasions, heard all the tales. And you think that she will fall in love with a Viking?”

Count Manon shrugged. “An Irishman. A prince of Eire. It all depends on how you look upon a jug of wine, eh, Ragwald? It might well be half full—and then again, it may well be half empty. It’s better to savor the jug for the exceptional quality of the wine that is in it, rather than rue the fact that there cannot be more. This is an exceptionally fine wine!”

“The logic eludes me!”

Count Manon grinned. “Well, we shall see. That is all. We shall see. I’ve thought long and hard on it. I’ve visited with noble families here, I’ve looked to their sons. I am not completely a fool. Gerald swears his friendship, and I know that he is interested in Melisande—whether for himself or his son, I am not sure. You tell me constantly that what I need is power. That is why I have looked to a half-Viking prince. Why I have issued an invitation for him to come here. I will have them meet. If they become enemies, then we will need to think no more of it.”

“What is a child going to think of a man!” Ragwald sniffed.

“Conar of Dubhlain is not so old, nearly twenty-one. He has already waged war with his father, brothers, and uncles on numerous campaigns. He is reputed to be one of the finest sword arms in all the world.”

“That shall surely win Melisande over immediately!”

“Actually, he was here once, long ago. His uncle often rode his ships along these shores, more oft the trader than the invader. We swore peace between us, and so Conar will feel obliged on behalf of his own relations to honor us and aid my daughter in any difficulty.”

Ragwald sniffed again. “The honor of a Viking!”

“This is an unusual Viking, as I have said. Through marriage his brother is kin to Alfred of Wessex. Many of the maidens in the households I have visited would dearly love to be ravished by a Viking—were the Viking he! You have not seen his like, my friend.”

Ragwald shivered, oddly cold. He sighed. “When will this Irish Viking come?”

“Soon. But of course, it will still be years before I even think of allowing Melisande to become any man’s wife!”

Ragwald shivered again, startled as a fiercer chill suddenly seized him. He tried to shake it off.

“Years, aye, years. You are right, she is just a child.” he agreed. “A very beautiful child growing a sumptuous form, but a child nevertheless…”

The count laughed. “Ragwald, you will not sway me! I am right in this.”

“I pray it is so,” Ragwald agreed.

They both looked to the flames. No matter how warm the fire, the chill seemed to stay with Ragwald.

What was it?

The stars had told him nothing. It had to be nothing. He looked at the count, grateful that he had returned, and the count smiled in turn.

“’Tis nice to have a peaceful night, eh, Ragwald?”

“Indeed.”

Neither of them had the least idea that it would be the last they would ever share.

For the count was not right at all.

Tragedy and circumstance were destined to alter all their plans of that evening.

And Melisande would wed before her birthday.

Indeed, she would wed before another twenty-four hours had passed them by.