Quierzy, August 740
Everyone had plans for me. My older brothers Karlomann and Pippin intended to imprison me in an abbey. My late mother’s brother urged my father to betroth me to the aged Count of Provence. Swanahild, my father’s Bavarian wife, wanted my father to negotiate a marriage with her kinsman Odilo.
No one had asked me what I thought best for our family.
For the moment, nothing would change. My ailing father said he couldn’t bear to part with me. That didn’t stop my suitors, even though I was almost twenty-three, when most women were wives or nuns. One of those wooers had arrived across the paved courtyard, just inside the southern gate to the villa—Odilo, Duke of the Bavarians.
Standing with Swanahild and my brother Grifo, I watched the small group against the backdrop of the wall of squared sandstone, the same material as the century-old great hall behind us. Swanahild had demanded her fourteen-year-old son and I accompany her to greet Odilo and his party. She had fussed over my appearance, complaining how my copper-colored hair and hazel eyes made me plain and that my height intimidated men.
I had responded with a snort of derision to my fair, petite, always perfumed, always bejeweled stepmother. If my stature bothered a would-be husband seeking rights over me, I was glad to have something to unnerve him. No matter my appearance, men wanted to wed me because of my family. In defiance, I had chosen my plainest gown—as unadorned as the daughter of the mayor of the palace can have—and my cross, medal of Saint Bathilde, and silver girdle as my only jewelry.
I counted ten men in the Bavarian party—six of them armed and armored, a churchman, and three servants—and three packhorses, five mules, and five horses. The leader, tall and muscular, wore a red-plumed helmet, and was surrendering his sword to the villa’s guards, as all guests did. Even if Odilo was Swanahild’s kinsman, my father would never allow weapons anywhere near him or our family.
“Count Swidger must have moved quickly for them to travel so lightly,” I said in a low voice.
Grifo snickered. Swanahild frowned. Did she think I would marry a half-Alaman, half-Bavarian driven out by the nobles he was supposed to rule, even if he was an Agilolfing like her?
“Never you mind Swidger,” Swanahild muttered. “You are both to be gracious to our guest.”
Odilo removed his helmet and handed it to a manservant. Grooms from our house led his servants with their horses and carts, toward the stables to our left and behind us at the back of the property.
As he approached us, I noticed his light brown hair was wet with sweat. Even though it was midmorning, Quierzy’s warm air was as moist as dew, and armor and its padding would make anyone hot. Oh Mary, Mother of God, he was handsome, better looking than I had remembered. I had last seen him eleven years ago, and women in the court had fawned over him. Although he was past thirty now, they would still seek his attention. I resolved not to be one of them, despite those chiseled features and striking sapphire eyes. Yet I found myself wishing I had followed Swanahild’s advice to wear my rings, necklaces, and garnet girdle with my embroidered midnight-blue dress over a vermillion underskirt. Beside Swanahild, I must have looked dull.
Odilo addressed Swanahild in a melodious baritone. “Illustrious Matron, I thank you for your hospitality.” His accent was from Alamannia, where he had grown up. “And you, fair lady, must be Chiltrude. My kinswoman’s letters do not begin to capture your beauty.”
It wasn’t the first time a man had tried to flatter me, hoping to curry favor with my father. “You are too kind,” I said out of courtesy.
Swanahild smiled and gave me a slight nod of approval. She gestured toward her son, fair-haired like her and already my height. “Of course, you remember Grifo.”
“I recognized your son as soon as I saw him,” Odilo said. “Your strapping lad has Agilolfing blood. He will grow into a fine warrior.”
Grifo stood a bit straighter.
“He certainly will, and he will be an excellent mayor,” Swanahild said. “Odilo, you and your party are welcome to refresh yourselves in our baths and then come to the table.”
After my time in a tub on the women’s side of the bathhouse, I decided, I would wear the midnight-blue dress with its scarlet and yellow embroidery and my best jewelry. I would slather on the imported sandalwood perfume and wear my hair in waves rather than braids. It would remind Odilo that I was the daughter of the most powerful man in Francia, so powerful he could rule in the name of a dead king. It had nothing to do with increasing Odilo’s ardor.
Or so I told myself.