As they rode west, Hrotgund saw smoldering houses and blackened fields, bodies spread about them, hacked and wounded in hideous ways; some in the fields, some lying close to the road. The stench of blood soon became familiar. She recalled her aunt’s words: “It is never wise to anger the Franks.” Women marched by the road, some with their clothes half-torn away, some leading children, far more rarely some men. She had never asked herself, in her short life, how those who served her, who worked the fields or did other tasks, had become slaves. Now she saw what slaughter, destruction and loss had brought them to serve the Thuringii – as, should they have survived, they would now serve the Franks. Was she a slave now? Was Berthefred? Though a large warrior sat behind the driver, facing them, he and the others treated the two with more regard than those haggard, shattered people trudging along the road. Still, she knew her life was not her own, that Chlothar had won her as much as any of the booty in the wagons behind them. What would he do with her? Whatever he wished.

Most of the forest was still uncut, and so they soon entered stands of beech, oak and pine. Scattered rays of sun lanced through the high forest cover, dappling the darkened road. Each time they came to a patch of cleared land, she saw more bodies, more burned houses. Sometimes they passed shining ponds, peaceful expanses reflecting the sky. But stray bodies floated even on these. At last, as they came out again from the forest, she saw farmers and their oxen driving plows, the sloping thatched roofs intact, women singing or chattering as they churned butter and made beer, children running about and laughing. And so they had left Thuringia. Still, seeing all this peace, she felt only terror, knowing how quickly it could turn to blood and flame.

For long spells, she cried, over and over, crushed by the weight of all she had witnessed, by the loss of so many dead. Berthefred held her against his chest, struggling to remain stoic. But more than once she woke to his tears on her face. More than once, too, she woke to a Frank standing over her, raising his ax, or to her aunt’s face, drenched with the blood from her split skull, a hideous grin on her face. Then she would wake again, trembling from the nightmare, struggling not to scream.

One night when they made camp, the warriors began to talk excitedly, a story passing from one to the next. She still struggled to comprehend their tongue, but enough retold the tale for her to understand that Theuderic, having commandeered a house, had invited his brother to dine with him alone. Chlothar arrived and started to go in. But dark as the room was, he could see a curtain along the wall and under it… feet. At once he stepped outside and called his men in with him. Theuderic, seeing his plot foiled, sought a pretext for having invited him, and so he grabbed a finely worked silver platter from among his own spoils and grandly gave it to his brother. Chlothar accepted it with a smile, as if he believed this was why he had been invited. Then he left. But it was not this near escape that amused his warriors, who told the tale with such gusto. Soon after he left, Theuderic regretted the loss of his platter, and so he sent a man to ask for it back. Chlothar might have refused, but he returned it with great good humor – making it plain he knew the real reason for Theuderic’s invitation.

Had Theuderic succeeded in killing his brother, no doubt many of the warriors would readily have changed sides. But for now they were proud of Chlothar for having escaped the ambush, if also amused at Theuderic’s feints. Hrotgund listened dully to this tale. Her own uncle having killed her father, she saw nothing strange in Theuderic trying to kill his brother. These were the ways of kings, and all she had ever known.

The wagon began to rattle and the ride became rougher, yet faster. Looking behind them, she saw a wide path of flat stones, its surface broken where some were missing. “Roman road,” said her escort. “Very old.” And so they came into Chlothar’s kingdom: the kingdom of Soissons. It was filled, like Thuringia, with thick dark forests, the clearings along them green with grain, scattered orchards filled with flowering trees, the huts of wattle and daub, with deeply sloping, thickly thatched roofs. Cows stood stolidly in some fields, sheep grazed in others; pigs foraged at the edges of the forests.

Here and there, set some distance back, she saw a house built of stone, red tiles falling away from a slightly angled roof, the walls half in ruins. Sometimes she could see painted walls, red, black and ocher, among the ruins. Sometimes too she saw simple stones, carved with symbols, set along the road. “Roman,” said the Frank. “They show how far.”

Sometimes she saw a familiar sight – wooden pillars, with a head carved at the top, or carved stones beneath a bower of bent trees: altars to Odin, Thor and other gods. But she also noticed small wooden stands with crossed sticks set upright on them. Some of the Frankish warriors wore these as pendants. Seeing her look, her guard said, “The Cross. It is the sign of the Christ, who is our king’s god. Many of the warriors follow Him too.”

“And you?”

“I stay faithful to the old gods, the gods of our fathers.” He looked sternly at her. “Your gods, too.”

“Yes.” But at once she thought of the household gods, burned and buried in the ash, and how they had failed to protect the palace and all she loved.

When they came to a fork in the road, a warrior rode up leading a horse. He pointed to Berthefred. “Get on.” The boy hesitated, then climbed to his feet. Hrotgund at once clutched his waist. “No! No!” “Let go of him, girl!” The Frank firmly pulled her away. “He must be made a man.” Hearing this, Berthefred stood straighter. He kissed his sister’s golden hair, then said softly, “Do not fear, Hrotgund. I will make you proud.” He jumped on to the bare-backed horse, one of the Thuringii’s silver steeds, and followed the warrior down the old Roman road, joining the wagons headed that way.

“Where will they take him?” she asked.

“To the palace. He must be one of us now.”

So Berthefred was to join Chlothar. She did not trust the Franks. But then, she had not trusted her uncle either. She could only take some comfort in the fact that they had not killed her brother along with so many others, nor separated them until now. Still, as the oxen pulled the wagon on to a dirt road, she wept bitterly to be without him. Only hours later did she think again about her own fate.

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