Barbarian’s Concubine

Three days later, the Frankish leaders gathered to divide the spoils of war. Neither I nor anyone else was allowed to be present, as was their custom. Clovis said that emotions ran too high when there was gold for the taking, and the leaders did not need the added pressure of greedy warriors shouting what they wanted, like children clamoring for sweetmeats. There was always the potential for violence, as a leader saw the man before him take the jeweled goblet he’d been eyeing, or the gold armbands he’d thought to share out among his men.

I sat on a stool in the atrium, playing a cithara and trying not to think about what was happening in the garden courtyard. Because our quarters looked out on the garden, I—and everyone else—had been banished from that part of the house.

A shallow, rectangular pool sat in the center of the atrium, the ceiling above it open to the sky, allowing rainwater to refresh the pool. Remigius paced in slow circuits of the pool with his hands behind his back, his expression serenely confident, while Albus perched on a stool against the wall, looking equally at peace. They knew they would get what they came for.

The twentieth time Remigius strolled by me, I stopped my strumming and asked, “What is it that is special about the pink vase?”

Remigius stopped and looked at me. “So you are speaking to me again?”

I stared at him.

“I can only say again, Nimia, how very sorry both I and Father Albus are for what happened. It never occurred to us that Sygarius might use the catacomb to spirit you away.”

“I suffered greatly for your lack of foresight.”

He grimaced, and spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “My mind is not one made for subterfuge. I should never have attempted to arrange such a meeting, with so much potential to go wrong. I reached beyond my limits. And now I fear I have lost your faith, not only in me, but in Christ.”

“I’ve had a difficult time,” I said, a non-answer he could interpret as he pleased. Like Clovis, I saw no reason to estrange the man when he was basically goodhearted, and besides that might prove useful in the future. “Tell me about the vase.”

“In truth, we know little of its origins. Legend has it, though, that it is the vessel from which wine was served at Christ’s Last Supper.”

“Do you think that’s true?”

“Who’s to say? I am tempted to believe it, for there is something special about that vase. One has only to touch it, to feel its holiness.”

With that, I could not argue.

A roar of angry voices echoed through the rooms and closed doors between the courtyard and the atrium. We both turned our heads that way, listening. Muffled shouts. Rumbles of upset.

Remigius and I exchanged glances. “I suddenly do not mind being barred from the event,” he said.

I nodded.

The disturbance, whatever it was, settled down, and it was sometime later that the atmosphere shifted, and doors were thrown open. Servants appeared with flagons of wine and trays of cups.

Clovis came to us, his expression haggard. He glanced at me, then went to Remigius and took both the priest’s hands in his own. “I have terrible news, old friend.”

Remigius’s look of happy expectation fell into one of worry. “The vase? Someone took it?”

“It’s worse than that, I’m afraid. It was destroyed.”

“No!” I cried, jumping up from my stool.

Remigius’s face went white. “How?” he whispered.

Clovis released his hands, and ran both his own through his hair, pulling on it in frustration. “I blame myself. I asked that I be allowed to take it for you, separate and above the allotment of spoils that were to be mine. One of the men—no friend to your church, I’m afraid—took offense, drew his axe, and smashed it in Wotan’s name.”

Remigius crossed himself. “It is a grievous loss to the church. If, if you’ll excuse me . . .” Clearly shaken, Remigius went to Albus to deliver the bad news.

“Smashed!” I said. “By whom? I’ll smash him. How could he? How?” Tears started in my eyes. “Now I won’t even be able to visit it in that cursed church. How could you let it happen, Clovis? How?”

I was making a scene, but Clovis let me, and I didn’t care that I was attracting attention. Even Remigius was looking over at me in concern.

When I’d raved myself into an exhausted, tear-streaked mess, Clovis took my hand. “Come, my love. No use regretting the arrow already flown from the bow.”

“Could I at least have the shards?”

“Shh. Quiet yourself. It is gone.” He nodded to Remigius, and led me away, back to our quarters.

I spouted dark words beneath my breath the whole way, and cast murderous glares at the Franks who crossed our path. Barbarians! I would find the guilty one and I would, I would—

Clovis shut the door to our quarters, and pulled me over to the bed.

“Not now, Clovis.”

He chuckled. “ ‘Not now,’ she says. You’ll be tearing my clothes off in a few moments.”

I snorted, and swiped angry tears from my eyes.

“I have something for you,” he said.

“I don’t want it. All I wanted was the vase. No jewel can make up for that.”

“I didn’t think it could. Open the chest by the window.”

“No.”

“Nimia.”

I rolled my eyes and stomped over to the chest, and flung back the lid.

The vase lay within, on a bed of crimson cloth.

My breath left me and I froze, not believing it. I began to tremble all over.

“I found a somewhat similar vase and exchanged them, and then set up the angry scene with Ragnachar. He’s the one who smashed the false vase. No one was there who could have said it was or was not the original.”

I carefully lowered the lid of the chest and turned to look at Clovis. “You did that for me? What of Remigius?”

“What of him? And thank you for your performance in the atrium. It will have left no doubt in his mind that the vase is well and truly smashed.”

I ran to him, and threw my arms around his neck, kissing him all over his face. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. How will I ever repay you?”

“Such a silly question,” he said, his hands going to my buttocks and pulling me against him.

Which reminded me of something he needed to know. I pulled my head back and looked into his eyes, and placed my fingertips over his lips. “I’m going to have a baby.”

His arms around me tensed, and his face went smooth. His eyes that were laughing a moment before turned still and cold. “Whose?”

“Yours. If the gods are kind.”

“And if they’re not?”

I shook my head.

“And if they’re not?” he repeated.

“You know,” I whispered. “His.”

He swore darkly, and dropped his arms from my waist. And then he left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Leaving me alone, but for the babe within me.