Breton Mark

M4 Margueritte: Broken, part 2 of 3

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

Margueritte spent most of January in the castle of Avalon, healing.  Doctor Pincher’s quick thinking and work saved her, but he could not save her baby.  She named him Galen and buried him in the sacred garden of the castle, beside the tower that held the Heart of Time.  Margueritte spent the month alternating between fits of tears and fits of rage.  In her angry times, everyone avoided her because she wanted to break things.  Mother Brianna, the only one allowed to follow her into the Second Heavens, said Margueritte could not go home until she stopped feeling the urge to break things.  They stayed the whole month.  Brianna went back and forth several times between the heavenly castle and the castle they were building on earth.  She updated Elsbeth, Margo and Jennifer on their progress, and invited Jennifer to join her, but Jennifer said no.  Going to Avalon would hurt her heart in some way, she said.

Elsbeth volunteered to go in Jennifer’s stead, but Brianna said, “No.  Absolutely not.”

By the end of January, Margueritte got over the feeling that she wanted to kill Giselle and instead felt sorry for the woman.  She wondered what leverage Abd al-Makti had over her to make her do such a horrid thing.  She had no doubt Abd al-Makti stood behind the death of her son.  His sorceries and murderous prints were all over the act.  But to what end? she wondered.

Margueritte spent almost the entire month of February inside, by the great fireplace, composing a letter to Roland.  Mother Brianna, Jennifer, Margo and Elsbeth all helped her think through the events.  Mother Brianna got the unquestionable word from the elf, fairy, dwarf, and dark elf lords and ladies that inhabited Avalon in the Second Heavens that Abd al-Makti was indeed behind the deed, so no one else doubted it.

“And I did like Giselle,” Margo kept saying.  “Even though she was Vascon.”

“We all liked her, and trusted her,” Brianna kept responding.  “She probably disappeared because she felt such guilt, she could not face us.  But she was always a kind and loving woman, and I feel it is best to remember her that way.”

“If she had stayed, we might have found forgiveness in our hearts,” Jennifer suggested.  “I have learned from Aden so much about grace and mercy.”  It came as such an honest thought, the others agreed it might have been possible, but Margueritte did not feel so sure for herself.  She spent many hours praying for forgiveness for wanting to see Ragenfrid and Giselle, and especially Abd al-Makti suffer horrible fates.

Elsbeth proved to be the most helpful in the letter writing.  “Maybe the sorcerer expected you to fall apart and become useless and stop making your soldiers, and stop building your castle, and collapse and cry every day for the rest of your life.  But that says he doesn’t know you.  You have all the Celtic blood in you, and from all the stories I have heard, the Breton are best at getting mad and getting revenge.”

Later, Elsbeth added, “He probably wanted you to go crying to Roland, and Roland would be disturbed and distracted from his battles, and that would disturb and distract Charles, so maybe they lose the battles.”

Margueritte tore up her letter and started over.  She wrote very carefully to Roland, and said she was sorry she failed him, but they had three healthy children who needed a good future, a future of peace, and the only way to insure that, was to beat the barbarians on the battlefield, and turn them to the faith of Jesus Christ, even as Father Aden, now called Bishop Aden, Apostle to the Breton, was turning the people to Christ.

Sadly, the pope will not confirm Aden as bishop, him being a married priest in the Celtic tradition, but everyone calls him bishop and treats him that way.  Even the Roman priests call him bishop and praise the work he is doing, so I suppose the approval of Rome is less important to the work here.  But likewise, you must concentrate on your more important duty of beating back the Bavarians, free Burgundians, Aleman, Thuringians, Saxons, Frisians, Lombards, Ostrogoths, and anyone else who might threaten the peace of Franconia.  And if the Muslims ever come out of Septimania, woe to them, and woe to Abd al-Makti.  But for now, our children need peace and a chance to grow up safe and secure in their lives.  Take care of yourself and Charles.  My love to Tomberlain and Owien.

She signed the letter at last and sent it with the post to Paris.  It would eventually reach Roland, and Margueritte only hoped her letter would get there ahead of the rumors, but she doubted it would.  For herself, she got to make clothes for the children, cook apple pies, watch one stone set upon another in her slowly growing castle wall, and go to church every Sunday.  Her father’s sarcophagus got laid in the wall of the new Saint Aubin’s church where it helped Margueritte remember that he still watched over them all.

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Margueritte felt glad when spring of 723 arrived and she could saddle Concord and ride the rest of the Breton March.  A year earlier, Peppin, the march sergeant at arms, stayed home and got all the young men to train.  He had nearly three hundred by summer’s end, and he put them through such grueling training on horseback, they were glad to take three afternoons per week to study Latin and geography (science), math, history, and military matters.  This year, Peppin would be going with Margueritte, presumably knowing what sort of young men to look for, and Walaric would take over the training, and take whatever young men Margueritte sent to him all during the summer months.  By then, word of what she was doing with the young men had spread around, and she found any number of free Franks who did not want their sons to be overlooked.

For Margueritte, she still had her clerics to write rental agreements, her surveyors still made their up-to-date maps, and her eyes were still open for who might be best to be elevated to baron, or secondary fief holder that she called vassals.  It was not that the baron necessarily got more land, but he got made responsible for a larger area of the county that he could tax, and he got handed vassals of his own—mostly with little say in the matter.  He got told to get along with his vassals as they were told to get along with their baron and the count or lose their land.  Margueritte also probably overcompensated in retaining wilderness areas and hunting preserves between the various barons, to give some buffer space in the name of peace.  She had no doubt some of that land would eventually go to the church, but she did not start out looking for church lands.  Some of it would probably be settled someday.  But by far, and about all she really stayed interested in, was finding horses and the young men she could train to be her heavy cavalry.  She kept thinking about what she wanted to do to Abd al-Makti, and it motivated her.

Margueritte went home in early October.  The weather turned early that year, and she wanted to get out of the cold.  Mother Brianna and Jennifer were very worried about her, and when Margueritte assured them that she felt fine, Brianna smiled and said she hoped Margueritte did not break too many things while she was away.

“No, Mother,” Margueritte answered with a straight face, before she returned the smile.  “But I thought hard about it several times.”

Margo, who seemed to take everything in stride and proved very good about going with the flow, said she had not worried at all.  If anything, she felt worried about what Margueritte might do to her poor vassals.

Elsbeth said, “You went away?”

“Yes, little mother,” Margueritte called her that.

Elsbeth smiled.  “I think I want to be a mother again.”  Then, since she had everyone’s attention, she added, “I hope Owien is all right.”  They had not heard anything from Paris since July.

The winter got rough, and men had to go out to hunt in the Vergen forest and in the county.  The hunting was good, so no one went hungry, but Margueritte concluded they needed to farm more land come the spring.  She laid out places where they had cut trees in the last several years.  She thought it would be good if they had Hammerhead, the ogre and his family around to rip the stumps from the soil.  She got the impression that they had moved out of the Pyrenees and up into Aquitaine, but it still felt too far away to be any help with the farm.  They had to work the old-fashioned way, with shovels and torches to burn the wood in great bonfires.  That was hard work in the snow, but then Margueritte understood what kept Roland’s brothers-in-law so busy the winter she spent on the Saxon March.

Soon enough, the children had their birthdays.  Martin turned seven, Brittany turned five and Grace turned four and finally looked to be slimming a little.  Margueritte cried a lot that winter.  The feeling came upon her suddenly, every so often.  She would weep, and if someone came around, they tried to comfort her, but nothing helped.  It did not seem anything in particular triggered her tears, and nothing in particular stopped her weeping.  She just wept every now and then, right up until March.

M4 Margueritte: Broken, part 1 of 3

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

Come the spring of 722, Roland, Tomberlain and Owien packed to go join Charles for battles and adventures on the frontier, while Margueritte got to sit around and watch stone masons stack one rock on top of another.  It did not feel fair.

“But what about all the land around the Mayenne River?  What about Laval?  We promised to visit and set tax rates and talk about security questions for the people there and check on any bills of sale.”  Margueritte turned to her brother.  “As count of the mark, it is up to you to show yourself to the people.”

“Forget it.  He isn’t even listening,” Margo said.  Tomberlain hugged their mother.

“Owien is leaving me,” Elsbeth cried.  She entered her last month of pregnancy, due any day, and tended to tears.  Margueritte almost asked Owien why he did not want to see his child born, but that was not her culture.  People did not think that way.  In her world, women bore and raised the children while men went off on whatever business the men thought important.

“I’ll be back,” Owien assured her.  “I’ll make you proud.”

Elsbeth stomped her foot.  “I don’t want to be proud of your glorious death.  I want you alive.”  She grabbed Owien and cried into his shirt.

“Don’t worry, Margueritte,” Tomberlain said, as he turned to hug her good-bye.  “You are the smart one, and the only one who can get all this organized.  You don’t need me to muck it up.”

“But Margo is the countess,” Margueritte countered.

“No way.  I would muck it up worse than Tomberlain,” Margo said, as she kissed Tomberlain good-bye with no fanfare.

“Roland?”  Margueritte turned to her husband as her last hope, but he had five-year-old Martin in his arms while Brittany at three and Grace at two, remained inside with all the little ones, watched by Jennifer, and the servants, Marta and Maven, and Lolly the dwarf who could actually make faces that made the little ones giggle.

Roland set Martin down and hugged Margueritte.  “I’ll miss you every day,” he said, but Margueritte looked past his shoulder.  There were three hundred men down on the long field.  The two hundred infantry looked sloppy, but the hundred horsemen looked to be in well trained order.  Wulfram and his lieutenants, Lambert and Folmar rode up, and Margueritte turned on the man.

“Captain.  How can you leave us poor defenseless women and children alone?  And defenseless?”

Wulfram almost laughed at the word defenseless coming from Margueritte’s mouth, but he thought it better to look at Roland.

“Now, don’t be that way,” Roland said kindly.  “Peppin is staying, and Wulfram is leaving his number one, Walaric, to help train the young men and horses.”

“I’ll miss you too,” Margueritte said, pecked at Roland’s lips, and let go.

The women watched the men ride back down the gentle hill and start out, Margo waving and Elsbeth crying most of the time.  Margueritte finally broke the frieze by heading toward the house.  The others followed, Margo and Mother Brianna helping Elsbeth.

Margueritte waited for Elsbeth to deliver a fine boy that she named Bogart, though she said he had not been named after the current Breton King Bogart, who in any case called himself David.  That was fine.  It was not a name Margueritte would ever pick out.  But once Elsbeth delivered, Margueritte packed herself and Giselle, as they did when they went to Saint Catherine’s.  She gathered her clerics from the school she had built for the young men from all over her piece of Anjou province who were learning to lance and ride, took Walaric and fifty of the best trained men she had, and set out for Laval.  She started throwing up regularly in the mornings by then, but only Giselle knew, and she was sworn to secrecy.

“But shouldn’t you stay home and rest for the baby’s sake?” Gisele asked.  Margueritte shook her head.  The exercise at that point would be a good thing, and she would be home by the time she really began to show.

“I’ll be fine,” Margueritte insisted.  “I am fine, but what is the matter?” she asked, because Giselle started crying softly.

Giselle shook her head.  “I miss my family, sometimes.”  That was all Margueritte could get out of her when she found her now and then softly crying all summer long.

“Maybe this fall we can arrange to send you to Paris for a visit,” Margueritte said to encourage the girl, but Giselle cried all the same.

Poor Margueritte had to remember everything, and for the first time she had to start writing things down to remember.  She thought she might be getting old at twenty-five.  She was looking for a few good men, as she said, and the horses to go with them.  She had to keep track of claimed land and fallow land and arrange for taxes and for military service.  She looked for land that might go to the church, and for land they might keep as a preserve.  She also looked for land to support the barons Tomberlain would be appointing to oversee different areas of the grant.  Realistically, she had to find good knights and noble families already living on the land to elevate, and that was not going to be easy.  If she elevated one man over his neighbors, it had better be the right man.

Margueritte kept her clerks busy writing rental agreements.  She kept her surveyors busy making an accurate map of the land.  She settled a number of disputes where there were overlapping claims, and got wined and dined, as she called it, in every manor house and village she came across.  It became exhausting, and come September, she only had two thoughts in mind.  First, it would take another whole year to get through it all.  Second, she felt glad to be going home.

Back home, she watched stone being set upon stone as her castle slowly took shape.  It felt worse than watching grass grow, she said.  She thought of Roland with Tomberlain and Owien having exciting adventures while her life seemed so dull.  And church every Sunday, she thought.  All she did was make clothes for the children who grew out of things almost before they were made.  Naturally, Brittany became slim and petite, like her mother, and grace was round like her grandfather, or maybe her grandmother Rosamund.  She had no chance to hand down outgrown clothes.  Things brightened briefly when Brittany turned four in November.  Martin turned six on December second.  Grace turned three at the end of December, and Margueritte could hardly hold Grace in her lap as her baby took up all the room.

“Baby is too big,” Grace pointed out by putting her hand on Margueritte’s belly.  Margueritte laughed, but had to stand, then had to go upstairs and lie down.  About an hour later, Giselle brought her a small cup of cider.  Margueritte sipped and looked at her companion.

“You have been a wonderful help to me and the children.  I know they all love you very much.  But I have been wondering why you don’t seem interested in having any children of your own.  With all the men, mostly young men around training to the horse and the lance, I’m surprised one has not sparked your interest.”

Giselle shook her head and said softly.  “No.  I didn’t mean it.  I’m sorry.”

“But here, I thought you were happy,” Margueritte said.  “The only time I ever saw you cry before this summer was right before my father died.”  Margueritte’s eyes got big as everything came crashing together in her head.  “Giselle.  What have you done?”  She leaned over and threw up.

“I’m so sorry,” Gisele said, and while Margueritte began to convulse and have a fit on her bed, Giselle ran out of the room, shouting.  “Something is wrong.  Help.  Get Doctor Pincher.  It is Margueritte.  Something is wrong.”

Brianna raced up the stairs, just ahead of Elsbeth and Margo.  Brianna called Doctor Pincher, and he came, but immediately he sent the women to fetch Lolly, or Luckless, or Goldenrod.

“We need to open the way to Avalon.  Hurry,” he said.

Giselle ran down the stairs with the others, grabbed her cloak, and ran to the stables.  Grimly was there, and she hurried him to tend to the Lady.  Then she got the horse she had ridden all year and saddled the beast.  She had secreted a few coins into her pocket, but not much.  She thought a bit of bread would be nice, but she dared not waste time.  She rode off into the falling snow and hoped it would cover her tracks.

Giselle thought to cross the Loire at Angers, but by the time she got there, she thought instead to seek shelter at Saint Martins in Tours.  The abbot would give her sanctuary, and paper and ink.  She would write to Margo.  Margo would listen.  She would confess herself, and she would warn them.  All she saw and heard in Anjou was war talk.  With Charles away fighting in distant Bavaria, it looked like Ragenfrid started rebuilding his army.  She overheard that he was gaining pledges from many Neustrian nobles.  It sounded very bad.