Aftermath
Blythe was overjoyed to have Dieter home. She’d fretted about his safety, and worn herself out wondering what would become of her and their unborn babe if he died on the battlefield.
Her German was improving but she wasn’t yet fluent. The servants didn’t fault her for it. Indeed, they did their best to help her learn. However, she felt isolated, with no one to confide in. The dogs seemed to sense her need for companionship and rarely left her side.
A host of neighbors welcomed Dieter back, loudly congratulating him on again playing an important role in the liberation of Saxony.
Blythe’s heart swelled with justifiable pride; relief surged—the reason for her existence had returned safely. She’d been going through the motions of living; the love in his eyes and the strength of his fierce embrace renewed her.
Neither spoke as they clung to each other amid the cheering throng.
When they entered the house, the always stoic Anna embraced him tearfully; Bernhardt swallowed the lump in his throat as he shook his master’s hand. Interestingly, the silent dogs stood patiently, tails wagging as they waited their turn for Dieter’s attention.
For weeks afterwards, he was hailed as a hero wherever they went, but she sensed a malaise in him, a reluctance to speak about the battle.
Their lovemaking was as fulfilling and euphoric as ever. They invented new and exciting ways to please each other. Out of the bedroom, he was morose and moody. He’d always had a hearty appetite, but rarely finished a meal, even when his favorite dishes were served.
She worried when nightmares disturbed his sleep, unsure if she should tell him he’d cried out. One night, after a loud outburst, he sat up in bed, hugging the pillow. She put her arm around him, alarmed to discover he was sweating and shivering at the same time.
“Are you ill, my love?” she asked, draping his bed-robe around his shoulders.
“Nein,” he replied, watching her light the candles. “Just a bad dream.”
She took a chance. “The battle?”
He gathered her into his arms. “I’m sorry I woke you.”
“You can tell me about it,” she coaxed.
“It’s nothing.”
She shifted their positions and put her arms around him. “I’ve told you some of my parents’ story, but you don’t know what happened when my father first learned he was the illegitimate son of a Norman earl.”
“You’re tired,” he replied wearily. “Don’t worry. The dreams will stop.”
She sifted her fingertips through his hair, hoping her next words would convince him to trust her. “My father’s lifelong hatred of Normans took control of his wits. He was so filled with anger, he lashed out at everyone, then went off on the First Crusade.”
“I knew he was a Crusader, but I didn’t know how that came about.”
“It took months of hardship and danger to convince him what he should have done was try to resolve his anger with my mother’s help.”
He took a deep breath. “It’s true I witnessed some horrific things during the battle, but they’re not for a woman’s ears. The memories will fade.”
She suspected he deemed it unmanly to talk about the atrocities he’d seen. “Tell me,” she whispered. “They will fade more quickly if you share them.”
* * *
Men dealt with the horrors of war. That was the warrior’s mantra. Dieter was exhausted trying to forget the suffering he’d witnessed during and in the aftermath of the battle, but he kept reliving Welfesholz over and over. Andernach had not affected him as deeply, though he wondered now if he’d suppressed the horrors of that battle, knowing there was more to come in the fight against Heinrich.
The vivid nightmares were worsening. Sometimes, he was the knight whose head was lopped off, not the man riding next to him, though he’d heard the whoosh of the axe and half expected to see his own severed head lying in the mud.
He was aware his torment was affecting his wife and the members of his household, but admitting his inability to forget would be considered unmanly.
Blythe kissed the top of his head. “I am your wife. That means we share everything, Dieter. The good and the bad. Tell me. I want my happy husband back.”
Her words sent a chill racing up his spine. His behavior had been worse than he thought. He’d shut Blythe out, judging himself capable of cleansing his soul. Yet, he lay in the loving arms of his soul-mate, his head nestled atop breasts that were showing signs of preparing for the babe she carried. He’d rather die than risk losing his wife and child.
He put his hand on her swelling belly and began to describe the death and destruction he’d seen, haltingly at first, then in a torrent of words that spilled from deep within.