Hrotgund lived in two worlds. Awake, she lived in the domestic and devout world of Athies; asleep, she kept returning to that day at Erfurt, and to all those she had lost. But she was learning ways to find peace: prayer, the thought of Christ, feeding the hungry, reading the Psalms. All these things lifted her from herself, made her lighter in a mysterious way. Still, when she drifted off to sleep, again the horrors, the fears returned. Often she woke in a sweat and spent the rest of the night in prayer.

She kept seeing that scramasax raised over her brother, always waking just before it fell, sick with terror at what might have happened, and urgently wondering what had become of him.

“Is my brother learning to write too?”

“I think that unlikely, child,” said Father Elias, lost in the page before him. “A warrior has no need of a stylus.” She sighed, wishing Berthefred would find some way to reach her.

She had not seen Frankish warriors since those who destroyed Erfurt. So when several rode in through the gate at Athies, seeing their long mustaches and knots of red hair, she had to fight down a wave of fear. This became sheer terror as one rode up beyond the others, dismounted and strode towards her.

She struggled not to scream.

“Hrotgund!” As he came closer, she looked into his eyes, then cried out, “Berthefred!” He smiled broadly and lifted his sister to his breast. Through her tears and gratitude, she forgot his dyed hair, his Frankish tunic, the scramasax at his side. Here was her brother, restored to her!

Still hugging him tightly, fighting back her last tears, she asked, “How is that you have come?”

“Why to see you, by special permission.” He looked down a little sheepishly. “But also to prepare the way for the Queen.”

Hrotgund had not smelled roast horse since long before she left Erfurt. But now to celebrate the immense joy of her brother’s arrival, she had ordered a feast prepared. Workers dug a pit in the courtyard and set a huge spit in it, then slaughtered one of the older horses and set it over the fire. As the large carcass turned, crackling and smoking, servants set up trestles in the main hall and laid boards across them, then covered them with a bright red and green tablecloth, embroidered with flowers. In the kitchen, the cook and other slaves boiled lentils, flavoring them with vinegar and fish sauce. They washed and tore heads of lettuce from the garden and mixed them with fresh herbs.

As all this went on, Hrotgund led her brother into the chapel, pleased to see he was wearing a cross. “Agh,” he said, “everyone at court is a Catholic. One cannot do otherwise.” She flinched at his lack of respect, but nonetheless stood him in front of the altar and raised her hands to Heaven to give thanks. Seeing it pleased her, he raised his hands too, and as she finished, said, “Amen”. Still, he seemed relieved when they were done. She smiled with affection; he had always been impatient.

She took him around the house as slaves set bowls and spoons about the table, but he was less impressed than she had expected by the paintings on the walls. “We have better at the palace,” he said. Regretting his own rudeness, he turned to his little sister and stroked her soft blonde hair. “What need I of pictures, dear sister, when I can see you in the flesh?” A rush of love filled her; she was as truly and completely happy as she had ever been.

Seeing the garden behind the villa, he looked about to be sure it was empty, then led her out to stroll among the fragrant rows of herbs. “Do not be fooled, Hrotgund,” he said softly. “We are prizes, you and I, as well as they treat us. Theuderic rules Thuringia for now, but he is the oldest of the brothers, and Chlothar expects it to be his one day. It may serve him then to have the last of the royal line by his side.”

Was this why, though a captive, she was treated as a princess? “Why would he need us? The Franks already rule our homeland.”

“By force, not by right. In the eyes of the Emperor and the Church, we remain the true heirs.”

“The Emperor? The one far to the East? Do the Franks care what he thinks?”

“Only in this. They are a small number ruling over many more Romans, and so if they can cite the Empire’s name, their subjects will more readily accept them. They claim to be the heirs of Rome in Gaul and use the Emperor’s coins, struck with his image, and pay him a modest homage. The father, Clovis, the one who conquered Gaul, did you know he was a consul?”

“What is that?’

“An officer of the Empire. The Emperor himself sent him the honor. And so you see these Franks, who drove Roman rule from Gaul, now draw power from those they defeated.”

She studied his dyed red hair and hanging mustache, still so foreign to her. “And you? Have you become a Frank?”

“Hmph!” He looked around again for listening ears, then leaned close to her. “That is what I let them think. But one day I will rule, Hrotgund. One day I will stir the Thuringii to rise up.”

A thrill of fear shot through her small, frail body. “Oh Berthefred! Should ever they suspect...”

He hugged her to him. “Do not fear, little sister. I hide such thoughts. For now, I serve Chlothar, and I do so well.”

Slaves held torches all around the reception hall. Father Elias sat by Hrotgund’s left on a bench along one wall, Berthefred to her right, and beyond both several of the warriors who had come with Berthefred, all looking outward over the table. Frotlindis and Framberta brought bowls of water and cloths around to each guest and washed and dried their hands. The villa did not have a large household, and so several of the peasants helped bring in the black biconic pots. These held soups made of pheasant, leeks and lentils. Others brought in large wooden bowls filled with roasted sparrows and long boards, each holding a haunch of horse or a cut of the ribs. Small round loaves of the estate’s best bread were set beside each guest’s bowl and spoon. Several of the Franks had brought their own drinking horns, others drank from simple cups. Father Elias had trained two little boys to be cup-bearers and now one brought a wooden bucket, its top bound with ornate iron bands, around to each guest and filled their vessel with fresh-made beer. Another poured some of the estate’s wine from a brass pitcher through a strainer he set on the priest’s goblet. The priest politely asked if anyone else wanted wine, but the warriors scoffed at his offer. Then he poured part of his wine into Hrotgund’s goblet, and had the boy add water to both.

Servants ladled soup into the guests’ wooden bowls. Some tasted it with their spoons, others dipped the bowls towards their mouths. All used their hands to pick up bits of boiled pheasant. When they were done, a servant came around and dumped what was left into a bucket. The warriors used their own knives to cut bits of horsemeat from the boards set around the table, flavoring this meat with pinches of salt from small wooden bowls and vinegar, honey or garum from flasks set around the table.

As always, Hrotgund ate little, but it delighted her to see her brother greedily spoon the soup into his mouth, tearing apart a bit of sparrow with his teeth, even breaking and sucking the tiny bones for their marrow, and then feasting on horsemeat, holding several ribs in one hand as he buried his face in the dripping meat. She had forgotten what an appetite he had, and how it pleased her to see him indulge it.

Early the next day, more warriors appeared, leading strange beasts: light brown with faces like horses’, but flat and ugly. Their backs were misshapen, rising around the burdens they carried, sinking, Hrotgund thought, where these weighed them down.

Berthefred laughed. “These are camels,” he said. “The Romans brought them from Egypt and the Franks still use them as beasts of burden. They suit the purpose much better than horses.” Still, she stared. In all her life, she had never seen a completely new animal and she still found it hard to believe these were real.

The servants began to unload the camels, taking packs of cloth and colorful cushions from their backs, and trunks from a wagon behind them. “All this is for Ingund,” said Berthefred. “She is the foremost of Chlothar’s wives and is to help with your education.”

“What can she teach me that the father cannot?”

Berthefred grunted. “Women things.” Hrotgund had no idea what these were. Her aunt had taught her to pray to the household gods, how to make garlands out of flowers and a little of how to weave. But that was all any woman had ever taught her. “Do you remember our mother, Berthefred?”

His face softened. “Yes.”

The catch in his voice made her start. Having never known the woman who died giving birth to her, she had not considered what it meant to a little boy to lose his mother. “What did she look like?”

He lifted his eyes and looked deep into hers, those lively blue eyes framed by golden hair. “Like you, little sister. Exactly like you.”

The room next to Hrotgund’s had been prepared for the Queen. A bed, newly built, was covered with a bright blue cloth embroidered with birds, stags and boars in the angular Frankish style. Like Hrotgund’s, it had a raised back. A small table by the wall, with Roman-style clawed feet, held her finely polished mirror and boxes of hammered bronze, filled with her bracelets, pendants and fibulae. Her trunks sat to either side of this. A large frame, set across from the bed, held a tapestry, hiding the damaged paintings on the old Roman wall.

Several warriors were quartered in a small house at the back of the herb garden. Berthefred had his own room, close to his sister’s. But he was not to stay for long.

Ingund -->