Anvil of God
Page 1
Anvil of God
Anvil of God
Book One of the Carolingian Chronicles
J. Boyce Gleason
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Kingdom of the Franks
Lords and Ladies of the Realm
Prologue
1 Charles Arrives
2 Jeu de Moulin
3 For Want of a Nail
4 The Mourning After
5 Après Charles
6 Sunni
7 Carloman
8 Trudi and Pippin
9 Laon
10 Stepping into Footprints
11 Trial
12 Pursuit
13 Breach
14 Choices
15 Betrayal and Sacrifice
16 Endings
Author's Note
Footnotes
Copyright © 2021 by J. Boyce Gleason
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the express written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Certain characters in this novel are historical figures and many events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names and events as well as incidents and dialogue are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
ISBN:
978-0-578-89132-3 (sc)
978-0-578-89133-0 (e)
978-0-578-90253-1 (hc)
First Printing, 2013
Dedication
To my wife, Mary Margaret Puglisi Gleason. A beautiful, generous, and caring woman, Mary Margaret has been the great love in my life and, in the best sense of the term, my better half. I could never have written this book if she had not supported willingly my illusions of literary grandeur.
We married young, two brave souls committing our hearts at life’s door, and grew up together as most young couples do. She gave birth to our three sons and shaped our family, imbuing it with love and the strong values she inherited from her two wonderful parents, Joe and Josephine Puglisi. She also had the grace to welcome the love and values I inherited from my parents, Jan and Bud Gleason.
Although we faced the challenges that life threw our way—illness, financial hardship, the death of parents, the challenge of raising three boys—Mary Margaret was and remains the grounding force in the whirlwind of our lives. She is the tie that binds us. The walking definition of good, she is selfless, caring, and always committed to doing the right thing. She makes us a better family and has made me a better father, a better husband, and a better man. She is my love, my heart, and my life.
Thank you, sweetie. I’ll stand at life’s door with you anytime.
Acknowledgements
Many people helped make this book possible: author Barbara Dimmick, who refused to let me put down my pen; the late Upton Brady who, as my editor and agent, brought humor, wisdom, and a substantial knowledge of the Catholic Church to the process; author Merle Drown who, as my editor, “clears out the underbrush” of the stuff I put down on paper; and the dozens of readers who kept pace with my drafts and offered comments and criticism to help me make this a better story.
Kingdom of the Franks
Lords and Ladies of the Realm
Regions Names
Alemannia. Liutfred
Austrasia Charles Martel, mayor of the palace
Sunnichild (wife of Charles Martel)
Carloman (eldest son of Charles Martel)
Pippin (second son of Charles Martel)
Hiltrude (oldest daughter of Charles Martel)
Gripho (son of Charles Martel and Sunnichild)
Childebrand (half-brother to Charles Martel)
Theudoald (half-brother to Charles Martel)
Drogo (son of Carloman)
Johann (a knight loyal to Carloman)
Ansel (a knight loyal to Carloman)
Monty (a knight loyal to Carloman)
Brand (a knight loyal to Carloman)
Gunther (a knight loyal to Pippin)
Arnot (a knight loyal to Pippin)
Aquitaine Duc Hunoald
Waifar (Hunoald’s son)
Bavaria Duc Odilo
Grimoald (Odilo’s cousin, the former Duc)
Burgundy Bradius
Frisia Radbod
Neustria Ragomfred
Charibert, Compte de Laon
Bertrada (The Compte de Laon’s daughter)
Lady Hélène
Provence Ateni
Maurontus
Thuringia Heden
Bart (Heden’s son)
Petr (Heden’s son)
Lombardy King Liutbrand
Aistulf (King Liutbrand’s son
The Church His Holiness the Pope, Gregory III
Bishop, Legate to the Holy See, Boniface
Bishop of Auxerre, Aidolf
Bishop of Paris, Gairhard
Bishop of St. Wandrille, Wido
Parish Priest, Paris, Father Daniel
Parish Priest, Laon, Father Martin
Prologue
Maurontus
Outside Narbonne, AD 740
“God’s will be done,” Carloman whispered as the forward line closed on the enemy. One hundred and fifty men across, they moved in a syncopated march—left foot first to support their four-foot shields, the right behind for power and balance. With each forward step, the Frankish line shouted, “Hyuh!” while the rebels relied on drums to keep their men in formation.
“Stay close,” one of his captains called. “Meet them as one. Meet them with force.” Left foot forward, right foot behind, the shield walls slammed into each other, the men grunting as their shoulders strained under the impact. The second lines closed behind the first, pressing their shields against the backs of their comrades to add their weight to the wall. The third, in its turn, supported the second.
“Engage!” the captain shouted, and the second line stabbed their short swords above and below the forward shields, attempting to catch an eye or a foot to weaken the enemy wall. Shouts and curses echoed across both lines as the blades found flesh and the wounded were pinned between the shields. No one, not even the dead, could leave a shield wall.
Carloman’s father, the great Charles the Hammer, had brought his army south to quell a disorganized pagan uprising and instead found a well-organized enemy. The rebel Maurontus had plundered a wide swath through the rich lands of the south, recruiting hundreds to his banner. Making matters worse, the rebel had enlisted the support of the Saracens holding Narbonne and augmented his troops with regulars. The Franks fought men well-seasoned by battle.
Initially, Maurontus attacked in skirmishes, targeting Charles’s rear guard and supply lines to weaken them as they marched south. But after two months of sporadic fighting, Charles had lured Maurontus into a frontal assault by pretending to split his army for an attack on Narbonne. Maurontus took the bait, attacking with the full weight of his army. To Charles and Carloman’s surprise, even with their army reunited, the two sides were closely matched. They were now in danger of falling victim to their own trap.
As the sun rose across the sky, Carloman began to worry that the heat would be a factor. Coming from the north, the Franks wore leathers and animal skin beneath their armor; they would tire more quickly than their southern counterparts. He looked to the far side of the field for his men of horse. Twice as large as the enemy’s cavalry, it was the one significant advantage they had over Maurontus. To be a factor, however, the shields needed to force a break in the line.
“There!” Charles po
inted to the near side of the enemy line where several shields had fallen. “Can’t you see it, Carloman? Strike, God damn it. Strike!”
Carloman made the sign of the cross for his father’s blasphemy and then waved for the signalman to order a cavalry charge. He couldn’t help but smile at his father’s exuberance. During the past twenty years, Charles had brought to heel every army from the Pyrenees to the Danube, and the man still thrilled at the turn of a battle.
Maurontus, however, reacted to the threat, storming across the field to push his reserves into line. The Frankish cavalry would be too late.
Then Pippin was there, crashing his warhorse into the gap. Carloman’s younger brother trampled a spearman, wheeled his horse behind the enemy shield wall, and hacked down on the unprotected backs of the men on foot. More of the wall crumpled under his assault, and the Frankish shields pushed forward.
“He is a madman,” Carloman said.
“He’ll be surrounded. Cavalry’s too far away.” Charles spurred his warhorse, racing to the line. Carloman followed, veering toward their cavalry. It would take more than two knights to save his brother.
Maurontus called up his own cavalry, and Pippin was forced to turn his back to the shields to face the oncoming threat. The rebels closed on him from three sides. Carloman groaned. Pippin had no shield. He carried only a broadsword into the melee.
Pippin’s warhorse reared at the rider in front of him while Pippin swung at the knight to his left. His blade caught the Saracen at the base of his shoulder and clipped off his left arm. Blood splashed over Pippin as he tried to turn to his right, but his warhorse came down heavily on its fore legs, throwing Pippin off balance.
The Saracen knight to Pippin’s right lifted his blade for a double-handed blow. At the last second, Pippin raised his broadsword in an attempt to protect his right side. The move saved his life. He caught the knight’s blow near the pommel, and their hands froze above his head. Had the Saracen held a heavier blade, Pippin wouldn’t have had a chance.
Pippin struggled to turn his mount as the Saracen drew back his sword. He won’t make it, thought Carloman. Although large enough to stop the blow from the lighter Saracen blade, Pippin’s broadsword would be too long and heavy for him to recover in time for the next. The other knight’s curved blade descended. Pippin’s blade circled behind his head.
“No!” Charles’s voice raged over the battlefield.
Pippin slammed the pommel of his sword into his opponent’s faceplate. The metal crumpled inward, and the knight reeled in his saddle. The man’s intended blow veered right, and Pippin’s horse stepped left to restore its balance.
Charles crashed into the frenzy and took off the rebel’s head. The man’s torso momentarily sat erect in its saddle and then fell backward. Sidling his horse next to Pippin’s, Charles fell into a rhythm of attack with his son that held the enemy at bay.
Carloman led the cavalry through the gap in the line and struck the enemy’s men of horse like a cudgel. Swords fell in every direction, but in the end, the size of the Frankish cavalry won out. The enemy broke into disarray, and Carloman’s men fell on them like butchers. Those who lived fled early. Carloman ordered his men to give chase.
Charles and Pippin had run out of horsed knights to fight and were busy chopping away at what was left of the rebel shields. Aided by the break in the line, the Frankish infantry surged past them, and then there was no one left to fight. Maurontus’s army was in rout.
Charles, Carloman, and Pippin screamed war cries at their retreating foes. And then they laughed—a great, rich laugh of men who knew they were safe for a moment on a field where death came easily. They clasped forearms, and Pippin raced off to rejoin the butchery.
Carloman stayed with Charles. “He’s reckless.”
Charles nodded. “But he has a talent for battle. He saw that opening before we did. He knew it could turn the day. And he trusted his men to follow.”
“But, he—” Carloman froze. Charles was hunched over in his saddle, holding his left arm.
“Father?”
Charles’s face was deathly pale. He groaned and struggled for breath. “A bolt.”
Carloman moved his horse closer and used both hands to search his father’s body. “There’s no arrow, Father.”
“A rock then. Something struck me. I can barely lift my arm.”
Carloman looked to the back of their line. His son Drogo was there, as was his half-brother Gripho. He waved for them to come.
“Accompany Father back to the tent. A rock-thrower must have clipped him.”
“I’m fine.” Charles straightened in his saddle, flexing his left hand. “Gripho, go with your brother. Make sure we find Maurontus’s treasure. And Carloman, bring me that bastard’s head.”
Carloman nodded. Charles’s word was law. He and Gripho turned away to give chase, circling the body-strewn battlefield to speed their pace. A sudden pang of doubt struck Carloman, and he reined in his horse to look back across the field. Charles had his hand on Drogo’s shoulder as the two trotted their horses back to camp. Carloman could not tell if the gesture was out of affection or his father’s need for support.
1
Charles Arrives
Quierzy
Stepping into the darkness of the stairwell, Sunni inhaled the musty scent of aging stone and stretched out her hand as a guide. Although the stairs were steep, she climbed with ease, having made this journey to watch for Charles every night since her husband left for Narbonne.
She did this more out of duty than necessity. When the army’s banners were sighted, news of their arrival would be shouted from the rampart and echoed throughout the town. The fate of the entire court was tied up in Charles’s success, and everyone from the lowest servant to Bishop Boniface would storm the staircase to see who had returned from campaign and who had not.
The banners would appear above the horizon along the eastern road, advancing in successive waves of color. The ranks of cavalry and foot soldiers would follow. In time, the sounds of their march would reach the walls, and the court would strain to see the knights’ standards.
Because the absence of a standard from the ranks foretold a knight’s death, those who could see would call out to those who could not, and a strange dichotomy would take over the assembled crowd. Cheers would greet the names announced while shouts for those unnamed were called forward. “Where is Stephen D’Anjou? Can you see Stephen?” and “What about Wilfred? Oh my God, not Wilfred!”
Sunni had seen families collapse in grief beside others who danced in celebration. Sobs and laughter would blend on the rampart in a discordant release until the hands of the celebrants stretched out to those who mourned, and the court would grieve its loss.
Arriving at the top of the stairs, Sunni discovered she would not be alone. A dozen steps away, Charles’s daughter Trudi stared out at the horizon. They watched as the sun dipped low, casting a reddish glow to the underside of the cloud cover. A cold blast of wind made the girl shiver. Without thinking, Sunni kissed the locket she wore around her neck to ward off the night spirits.
“God help me,” Trudi said. There was pain in her lament, but Sunni was reluctant to intrude. Stepmothers, she knew, are not always welcome. She found her own place on the rampart to watch the eastern road.
Trudi had her own reasons to await Charles’s return. She was eighteen, old for a maiden. Charles had declared that, upon his return, he would decide whom the girl would marry. Although Trudi had never spoken to Sunni of this decision, her distaste was visible to any that knew her. Her body was coiled tight, her face a stew of emotions.
Sunni had argued for the girl, hoping to stop Charles from using his daughter as an instrument of his diplomacy, but he had insisted. Trudi would wed someone of noble blood. Charles would send her away to marry a noble on the Roman peninsula, or in Alemannia or Frisia, wherever there was an alliance to solidify, a political gain to be made. Her marriage would seal a bargain she knew nothing about.
She would be forced from the people she loved, away from the life she knew. She would be alone. Sunni’s eyes welled. It was not so many years ago that she had shared a similar fate. It was, perhaps, the only thing they had in common.
Trudi had her father’s face, which, although a man’s face, was still handsome on her. Unfortunately, it was not the only trait she had inherited from him. She was tall for a woman, with broad shoulders and uncommon strength. Thank God, the girl had breasts and hips, Sunni thought, or she might be mistaken for a man. Trudi’s hair was by far her best feature. It cascaded past her shoulders in waves of brown curls that Sunni envied for their thickness.
To Sunni’s frustration, Trudi rarely did anything to enhance her beauty. Most girls her age were using the latest creams and powders. Trudi wore none. She refused to wear a dress, preferring pantaloons and vestments more suited to boys. Sunni had never seen her flirt. She had never seen her blush. The girl talked to boys her age the way they talked to each other.
Sunni had, over the years, tried to involve Trudi with the other girls at court. Such efforts, however, never kept Trudi’s attention.
“They spend their time spinning thread and mooning over knights,” Trudi would say, her eyes rolling. “They talk about each of the boys as if he was a prized horse. ‘Look at his legs,’ or ‘I just love his shoulders.’” Trudi preferred to find her friends among the boys her age.
Making matters worse, Charles had indulged the girl’s fantasy of becoming a warrior. Against Sunni’s objections, he let Trudi train with the boys who would become his knights. Trudi strutted about court in armor and dismissed Sunni’s advice. Sunni gently persisted, only to suffer the girl’s continued rebuff. The one time Sunni’s advice had been welcomed was when the girl’s menses had set in.