The Cross and the Dragon (19 page)

After All Saints Day, Milo and his wife led the procession headed toward Rennes. Hruodland, Alda, and Gerard followed. Guards trailed after them and protected the baggage train, where Veronica and other servants rode. Alda was glad to leave Guillaume behind in Nantes.

A crumbling stone road led into the forest. More sunlight poured though the bare tree branches, but evening came earlier. The horses’ hooves crunched the layer of beech and oak leaves on the ground.

“Stay close to me,” Hruodland said to Alda. “We are on the frontier.”

“There are enough men to deter any bandits.” She stared into the forest, still thick despite the loss of leaves.

“It is not only the bandits. We are in Breton country. Yes, they pay tribute — for now, and they claim to be Christians. But these are people who sleep in the forest and marry their own sisters. Lord knows what they would do to a Frankish lady.”

Occasionally, the travelers had to stop their progress. Milo was bent over, coughing, struggling for air. He spat on the ground. Blood. Alda’s eyes widened. She made the sign of the cross.

“Why did you make the sign of the cross?” Hruodland asked.

“Your father… I had seen six winters at the time, but I shall never forget it. My younger sister, God rest her soul, when she spat blood like that…” Her voice trailed off.

Alda remembered how she and her family had knelt by the cradle and prayed for her sister, who had seen but five months at the time. The baby’s skin burned, and she had coughed and coughed and coughed. Alda winced at the memory.

“Your sister what?” Hruodland asked, raising his voice and bringing Alda back to the present.

“Hush!” Alda whispered. “This is for your ears only.”

“What is it?” he muttered.

“When my sister coughed and spat blood like that,” Alda shuddered, “she was not long for this world.”

“No,” he said, his voice barely audible. “No, it cannot be. He has survived so many battles.”

Milo again was racked by a coughing fit so bad he had to stop his horse.

Mother of God, please let me be wrong.
Making the sign of the cross, Alda mouthed, “
Ave Maria, gratia plena
.”

* * * * *

After five days of travel, Alda saw the glimmer of the sun on water through the leafless trees. She pointed ahead and asked her husband, “What is that river yonder?” In the chill morning air, her words smoked in front of her.

“The Vilaine,” Hruodland answered. “We are near Rennes.”

“What is Rennes like?”

“It is larger than Nantes. With the Bretons so close, we have fortified the defenses.”

Suddenly, Milo had to stop his horse as he doubled over in another coughing fit. When the fit passed, the travelers started riding again. The forest thinned, and Alda saw the first sign of civilization: swineherds using crops and crooks to keep their charges near. The plump and sleek swine foraged through dried, brown leaves for acorns and beechnuts, and Alda thought they would make many fine dinners when most of them would be slaughtered later this month.

She saw the city ahead, just past the wooden bridge over the river. The red brick wall put the guards at the same level as the trees. The horses’ hooves and ox-drawn carts clattered on the planks of the bridge over the Vilaine, which the fall sun made a glittering gold. Guards within the city walls pulled the great wooden gates open to admit the count and his family.

Alda gasped when she beheld the church at the heart of the city. The church and its bell tower were made with beige stone and dwarfed the wooden count’s manor and the tavern flanking it.

“The church is beautiful,” Alda murmured.

“One of my great-uncles had it built two centuries ago,” Hruodland said. “My nurse told me stories about the church when I was but a child and had just returned to Rennes.” He squinted as if he were thinking back over the years. “She said her grandmother told her that my uncle spared no expense. He wanted that church to be a proper home for a saint.”

“Which saint?”

“Saint Melaine. His relics attract pilgrims from many leagues. The church and abbey are built around his tomb. Is there any place more worthy of the man who brought the True Faith here?”

Luc, the bishop of Rennes and younger brother of the count, stood on the church steps. He was a short, pudgy man, but he stood out in his white bishop’s robe and pointed linen helmet. Above him, carved into the church, Christ made His Final Judgment. Alda laid her hand on her cross, filled with joy to be so close to such a legendary saint.

* * * * *

Milo’s cough worsened over the next few weeks as cold winds blew through bare trees and seeped into his manor. His spells would last for minutes, to the point where he had to take rattling breaths as he coughed. He spat blood on the floor. He insisted that he was well, even though his fits interrupted his judgment of a dispute between neighbors or his punishment of a thief. His coughs became more frequent during Mass and during meals while his family sat in awkward silence.

Before dawn one morning, Alda awakened in the solar to hear Hruodland and a maidservant speaking Roman with a note of urgency. Hruodland sat up immediately, dragging the furs and blankets from Alda’s body. Shivering, Alda reached for her shift.

“What is it?” she asked while she and Hruodland hurriedly dressed.

“My father,” he mumbled, pulling on his boots. “Something is wrong.”

He threw his fur-lined, woolen cloak on his shoulders and followed the servant. Her teeth chattering, Alda felt for her cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders. She rubbed her hands vigorously to keep warm before putting on her gloves.

Hurrying to Milo’s bed, she saw servants bringing candles to the solar and lighting them, filling the room with the smell of tallow. The countess, who was already dressed, was babbling to Hruodland and Gerard in Roman. Tears streaked her face. With the bed curtains drawn back, Alda could see the count lying on his side, his face white as bone. He struggled for breath, as if it hurt to take air into his lungs. Buried under blankets and furs, he was sweating, yet he shivered as if he lay on ice.

Alda made the sign of the cross. She heard Veronica whisper her name behind her.

“What is happening?” Alda whispered in Frankish.

“I do not know exactly,” Veronica answered. “I heard the countess call out. Her maids came to her, and then all this chaos.”

The physician, a young, sickly looking monk, bounded up the stairs and said something in Roman. A servant used a candle to light Saint John’s wort twigs sitting in a small pot nearby. The wood gave more smoke than heat, and Milo coughed even more.

As the darkness lightened to gray, the bell tolled, calling the faithful to sunrise Mass.

“Come, Veronica,” Alda whispered in Frankish, even though she knew most of the people in the room would not understand her. “Let us go to the church and pray. We are no help here.”

* * * * *

Hruodland did not notice Alda and Veronica leave the solar. His eyes were on his father. He watched the physician feel Milo’s hands.

“Have him sit up,” the physician said. “I need to examine what he coughs up.”

As menservants lifted Milo, the blanket fell away, revealing a cross and medal of Saint Sebastian, patron saint of soldiers, on his bare, pale, scarred chest. Milo had another coughing fit, and the physician held a bowl under the old count’s lips. When the fit subsided, he collapsed against the pillows. The physician examined the bowl in the candlelight.

“Blood,” he said. “His humors are unbalanced. He needs to be bled.”

Hruodland and Gerard nodded numbly as their father doubled over in another coughing fit. A manservant who often assisted the physician stepped forward and drew his knife. The monk restrained Milo while his assistant made the incision in the count’s arm. When enough blood had been drained, the physician crushed garlic on the wound and used a stained, brown rag to bind it. The blood seeped through the rag, then stopped.

Light from the morning sun shone into the solar through windows covered with resin-coated parchment. Milo still coughed, sweated, and shivered despite the extra blanket one of the servants placed on his bed. Hruodland heard footsteps on the stairs and turned toward the sound. He saw Alda and Veronica followed by his uncle Luc, wearing a brown wool cloak over his robe.

Hruodland’s eyes brightened when Alda reached for his hand and squeezed it.

“Veronica and I went to church to pray for him,” she whispered. “I could not think of anything else that we could do, other than telling your uncle.”

“Thank you,” he murmured.

He did not take his eyes off his father while Luc asked the physician, “How is he?”

“I am going to try a purgative,” said the physician, his hand on his chin. “That will rid his body of bad humors.”

The physician had the servants prop Milo up again and awaken him. The physician gave the count a purgative of dill and sour milk. Milo vomited into a basin and then lay on his side, clutching his belly.

“Am I dying, Brother?” he rasped to the physician.

“I don’t know,” he answered.

* * * * *

As the days shortened and the wind became even colder, Milo did not get better. He slept most of the time. When he was awake, he saw things no one else could see. He often gazed at a small, wooden carving of the Blessed Mother.

Hruodland had never felt so helpless. He could fight off Ganelon. He could smite Aquitanians, Lombards, and Saxons in battle. But he could do nothing about his father’s illness except stand there and watch.

“Is there nothing more you can do?” Hruodland asked the physician, his voice cracking.

“Nothing I do works.”

“Is he…” Hruodland could not bear to finish the question.

“Yes,” the physician said softly. “I am sorry.”

Alda put her hand to her mouth and then wrapped her arms around her husband. Hruodland held her tightly, as if she were the only thing he had left. He regretted every unkind thought and word and deed toward his father.

With Gerard fated for the clergy, Hruodland would be the count soon. He had trained his whole life to be a good warrior and lead men into battle and had watched his father judge quarrels between peasants and bring in the harvest.

But he wished it wasn’t happening now. He had thought there would be time to better his relationship with the man who had sired him. And now that time was gone.

Hruodland swallowed his tears and kissed his wife. If he was going to inherit the March of Brittany soon, he had better act like the count.

“I must send messengers to Uncle Guillaume and Uncle Charles,” he murmured.

* * * * * *

A vigil formed at the count’s manor. Hruodland was numb. He visited his father but did not know what to say to him. He often muttered the Pater Noster, hoping Jesus would heal the old man and give father and son another chance
.
My inheritance can wait.

Propped on pillows, Milo opened his eyes a crack. Hruodland’s heart rose for a moment.
Have my prayers been answered?
he wondered.

“I am dying,” the old count murmured. “Luc, please pray for my soul. Hruodland, be a good count. I bequeath my sword and seax to you. May they serve you or your son well in battle.”

Hruodland could stand no more. After the land, the blades were the greatest gifts from his father. Hruodland turned his back on the sickbed, went to one of the windows, and stared at the frost on the parchment. His shoulders heaved as he wept soundlessly. He felt Alda’s hand on his back. He tried to wipe his eyes with his hand.

“There is no need,” Alda whispered. “I am your wife.”

“Why does God do this?” Hruodland sobbed. “He takes everyone I love.”

“Everyone dies,” Alda said gently. “Your father had a long life. Take comfort in that.”

* * * * *

Alda did not tell Hruodland her own worries, which seemed so petty. Soon, she would be a countess, what she was born to be, but this was happening too soon.
I don’t know the servants’ names or their families or who is quarreling with whom. How am I ever going to give orders when I can barely speak the language?