Anvil of God

by J. Boyce Gleason

  The ground became harder, and they began to climb. Past a group of boulders, they ducked under a tree that leaned across their path. There, without warning, Trudi bent in the moonlight and disappeared. She pulled him after her.

  ***

  It took every ounce of Trudi’s control not to just tackle Odilo in the moonlight. The day had been so magical—the stab of panic at the boar’s rush, the thrill of spearing it, the rush at severing its head. This is what men must feel after battle, she thought. This is power.

  All day long, she had wanted to laugh out loud. She drank ale with the men and felt at home in their company. More than that, she reveled in their attention as they feted her success. For the first time in her life, she felt beautiful.

  At dinner, she had flirted with Odilo by the fire and watched the hunger build in his eyes. She could feel the heat inside him every time she touched his hand or his arm. She felt more than beautiful with him. She felt glorious.

  But as the evening progressed, her hand strayed regularly to the amulet at her throat. She became impatient for the feast’s end. When she had finally led him away from the fire, her breath was short from the excitement.

  Ducking into the cave, she noted with satisfaction that Sunni had spared no detail in preparing it for the rite. A small fire burned near the opening, and its smoke ascended through a small hole at the top of the cave. Blankets had been laid, wine poured, and bedding stowed. Near the fire sat a polished mahogany box, about two feet wide and a foot deep. An earthen decanter lay near it.

  Trudi made Odilo sit on the blanket and went to the box. From it, she took three candles. While she lit the candles, she kept her back to him to hide the shaking in her hands. She could barely breathe. Carefully, she placed the candles in a triangle around the blanket. She next took a handful of herbs from the box and threw them onto the fire. A sweet aroma filled the air while a smoky haze gathered at the roof of the cave and then slowly descended upon them.

  She brought the box next to Odilo, opened it, and turned to him, kneeling before him on both knees.

  Surprisingly, he looked nervous. He was as eager as a young boy. She began to smile. She felt surprisingly in control. She reached for his two hands, lifted them to her lips, and kissed them.

  She took a deep breath. “This is a rite of passage into womanhood. I have elected to share this rite with you. Do you wish to share it with me?”

  “Yes.” It was his turn to smile.

  “This I do of my own will,” she said. “Not of yours. Not of my father’s. This I do of no one’s will but my own.”

  Odilo nodded. In this rite, he was required to move only at her bidding. He could not touch her unless she asked him to. She could tell it was driving him frantic.

  “Then let us begin,” Trudi said.

  She stood and removed her robe, her vest, her tunic, and lastly her underclothes. She took her time, folding each garment and placing them in a pile. She delighted in how such a mundane thing could become so sensual by having a man watch. The tension between them built with each abandoned piece of attire. His eyes never left her.

  She liked it. She liked his watching her. When she was finally naked, she stood before him, letting his eyes have her. She felt but a moment’s hesitation—a hint of timidity that sent a shiver down her spine—but the hunger in his face restored her sense of power.

  The heat of the fire beat against her skin. Her blood raced. The smoke made her dizzy. Everything inside the cave looked blue and black from the smoke and the undulating firelight flickering against their skin. Trudi held her shoulders back, her head high, and looked directly at him. She realized she had stopped breathing.

  “Undress,” she said.

  Odilo shucked his boots and stood to take off the rest of his clothes. Far less deliberate than she, he pulled his chemise over his head and hopped up and down to remove his pants. Trudi couldn’t help but smile. When he was finally naked, he stood before her, expectantly. His body was lean but lacked the youthful skin she had seen on boys her own age. His skin was dark and covered with scars. A thin layer of sweat covered him, making him gleam in the firelight. He was already erect. This, too, made her smile.

  “Lie down,” she commanded. He lay on the blanket. She knelt beside him. Her hand touched the skin of his chest experimentally. The heat of it resonated within her. Her hand moved over his chest, barely touching him. She felt her own skin flush and withdrew her hand.

  “We are of the earth,” she said and bent to grasp a handful of dirt from the floor. It was a reddish clay mixture and moist. She spread it from the base of his neck, down across his chest and stomach to the top of his pubic hair. His stomach trembled and clenched under the touch of her fingers.

  “We are of the earth,” he replied, following the forms of the ritual.

  She grabbed a second handful and smeared it from her left shoulder down over her breast and stomach to end similarly in her pubic hair. She grabbed a third handful and repeated this act with her left hand so that a V shape covered her torso. Her nipples stood erect under the reddish mud.

  “Our blood is of the earth.” She reached for the decanter and poured a small portion of the liquid into her hand. She smelled boar’s blood for the second time that day as she wiped some of the liquid on his lips and on each of his cheeks. She then took the flagon and poured the fluid into a small pool on his belly and along the length of his erection.

  “Our blood is of the earth,” he said as she marked her face and stomach in the same manner as his and poured the blood over her pubic hair. She returned the decanter to its place beside the box.

  “Our breath is of the earth.” She drew to her one of the candles and, from the box, a dried plant Sunni had given to her. She held it to the candle and, as it burned, breathed in its smoke.

  “Our breath is of the earth,” he said, and she leaned over him to blow the smoke into his mouth. He inhaled it from her lips. As she did this, her lips brushed his.

  The cave swirled with colors as the light of the fire and the candles bounced wildly off the dark and white patches of their bodies. She was looking at him intensely now, watching him wait for her. Groaning, he arched his back. She waited for him to compose himself.

  “This I do now, I do alone.” She pulled from the box a carved piece of polished wood with a figure of a woman cut into its shaft, the same figure that adorned her pendant. The phallus gleamed in the firelight. She straddled his stomach and positioned the phallus between her legs.

  “I am a woman of the earth.” With a sharp push, Trudi shoved the phallus head into her, rupturing her hymen. Gasping, she waited for the pain to subside.

  “My blood is the earth’s blood.” She let her weight down again, taking the phallus completely inside her.

  “They are joined,” he whispered.

  Odilo lay beneath her, his body taut with anticipation. After a long moment, she leaned forward to kiss him on the mouth. In a fluid motion, she pulled the phallus out of her and reached back for his manhood. Slowly she sat back, taking him inside her. She straightened until she, again, had her full weight on him. She threw her head back and paused to regain her composure. She looked down at him. His eyes were pleading with her.

  “Now.” The smile returned to her face. “You can touch me.”

  3

  For Want of a Nail

  The first sounds Gripho heard from his position behind the platform supporting Charles’s chair were those of knights and guests assembling for his elevation. Swords and armor clanked. Loud voices acknowledged other voices. Horns practiced their trills. The heightened murmur of the expectant crowd swirled through the courtyard where Charles would receive Gripho’s hands.

  An ancient symbol of vassalage, commendation or “the laying of the hands” was the critical rite of knighthood. It was the ultimate gesture of both submission and honor. Charles took few vassals directly into his hands. Those who could boast of it were men of power, allies of great stature, or fearsome enemies he had
conquered. Each of these men, too, had taken the clasped hands of lesser men into their own.

  Some men were bound to the large monasteries. Some to families from landed estates. The laying of hands pledged one’s life and position to one’s lord.

  The knights attending Gripho’s elevation were great and terrible warlords, representing the collective might of the Franks. Many had supported Charles and flourished. Others had opposed him, been vanquished, and restored to power only after hostages had been taken and fealty pledged. All had one thing in common. They had submitted their clasped hands to Charles and so committed their fortunes, their might, and their lives to him.

  Now it was Gripho’s turn to join their ranks.

  From his position behind the platform, Gripho could see little. He heard the crowd quiet at the appearance of his family, their footsteps echoing through the platform. Sunni would be positioned to the left of Charles’s seat while Carloman, Pippin, Hiltrude, and Carloman’s son, Drogo, stood to the right. Once they were in place, a polite applause greeted them. The courtyard again grew quiet as the crowd turned its attention to Charles’s empty chair on the platform.

  Horns announced him. Loud, fat, base notes, one overlapping another, created the sound of an imposing and never-ending presence. Middle tones layered on top of these, rising in chords above the base, bringing a heightened sense of expectation. At exactly the same moment, all the horns paused. And in the lull that was left, a high horn began to trill. A second joined in, then a third, and a fourth until a rolling fanfare cascaded down upon the crowd. At an unseen signal, these too quieted. Charles had arrived.

  At a barked command, the Knights in Christ snapped erect in a clipped note of metal striking metal. As Charles passed through their ranks, knights on each side of him slammed fist to shield, echoing his progress toward the platform. Gripho heard Charles’s footsteps ascending, and again, all was quiet.

  It was time. Gripho checked his armor, held his head high, and waited. The drums began. In a rhythm known to marching men everywhere, big bass drums boomed and echoed off the walls of the villa. Gripho emerged from behind the platform, and the pace of the drums quickened. When he reached the platform, it doubled. By the time he climbed the stairs and turned to face the crowd, the drums were frenzied. He looked into the expectant faces of the crowd, and the drums stopped.

  With just one beat of hesitation, the knights and celebrants erupted into a shout of acclamation so great that Gripho felt its force.

  In that moment, he understood all the care and caution his mother had taken to ensure he reached this platform. This was power. It was for this he had waited all his life. He would no longer stand in the shadow of Carloman and Pippin. Now he was their equal. Surveying the room, Gripho saw the hope brimming in the eyes of the knights from pagan territories. He realized he was their hope. He drew his sword and held it aloft. The acclamation grew louder.

  He turned back to Charles and knelt. The crowd quieted and knelt with him. Gripho placed his sword at Charles’s feet. He smiled up at his father and raised his clasped hands. Charles, with a small smile of his own, took Gripho’s hands into his. The crowd erupted again.

  Charles waited for silence. “You will honor my commands and prohibitions,” he said, his smile gone.

  “I will honor them.”

  “You acknowledge my right to punish the transgression of my commands and prohibitions.”

  “I acknowledge your right.”

  “You commit yourself and your vassals to my military service.”

  “I so commit.”

  “You pledge tribute.”

  “I pledge tribute.”

  “You pledge fidelity.”

  “I pledge fidelity.”

  “You will not place the life of your sovereign in peril.”

  “I will not.”

  “You will do nothing to endanger him.”

  “I will do nothing to endanger him.”

  “You will introduce no enemies to the realm.”

  “I will introduce no enemies.”

  “You will not abide the infidelity of another.”

  “I will not.”

  “On your life, you pledge.”

  “On my life, I pledge.”

  Charles rose from his throne. “Rise, Gripho, vassal of the realm.”

  The crowd roared its approval. Gripho stood, turned to the crowd, and waved. Cheers and shouts greeted him. With Charles’s leave, Gripho bowed and descended the stairs. The knights lining each side of the walkway repeated their gesture of fists on shield to salute Gripho’s exit. The crowd continued roaring until after Gripho disappeared.

  ***

  From Pippin’s perspective in the courtyard, the silence had been ominous. No horns, no cheering—just he, Carloman, Drogo, and Sunni making slow progress through the crowd to the platform. And although he knew that the ceremony had been designed to honor Gripho, Pippin couldn’t help but feel awkward, walking through a silent crowd. It was strange. The smattering of applause the family finally received only emphasized his misgivings.

  Ominous, too, was Charles’s entrance. Although he arrived with great fanfare, Charles looked a little disoriented. Pippin’s father made his way down the aisle with gauntlets thundering but climbed unsteadily to the platform. Up close, there was no question, Charles looked peaked. Pippin tried to catch his eye but failed.

  Even Carloman’s Knights in Christ gave him pause. The show of gauntlets slapping shields had Pippin reevaluating their purpose. When Carloman had formed them, Pippin thought of them as little more than a prayer group—knights from different regions getting together to celebrate their faith. But their display today showed them as a force, and a formidable one at that. Did they serve Charles or Carloman?

  What startled Pippin most, however, was the crowd’s reaction to Gripho. Although it was obvious that many of those cheering loudest were from Bavaria and Alemannia, where Gripho and Sunni had kin among the Agilolfing clan, the strength of the crowd’s acclamation was surprising. Gripho was a boy. He had barely fought in battle. What had he done to deserve such adulation? Pippin glanced at Sunnichild. She was beaming.

  Gripho knelt before Charles and, looking up, smiled at their father. When Charles smiled back, Pippin’s stomach clenched, and he began to sweat. Charles did not smile at his sons. He demanded of them. This was not the father he knew.

  Looking around the room, Pippin realized his world had changed. Charles had grown old. Carloman had built an elite force of religious fanatics, loyal only to him. Gripho had the support of Sunni’s family as well as the knights in the east.

  Where are my allies? Pippin thought. Who will follow me?

  He had been away too long, too long with the Lombards in Rome, too long on campaign with Charles, too long with Bertie—just too long.

  Although no one was looking at him, Pippin’s face flushed with embarrassment. He had been foolish. Power might be won on a battlefield, but it was kept in rooms like this. His disdain for politics had led him to squander all he had won through the force of arms. Trapped in his supporting role, he watched the rest of the ceremony, smiling a wooden smile. By the time the Knights in Christ gave Gripho the same salute they had given Charles, Pippin’s embarrassment had turned into fury.

  ***

  “Milady?” The cleric looked up at her questioningly.

  “Good afternoon, Brother David.” Sunni would have been more comfortable if the palace clerk were not a priest. Although she had no proof, Sunni always felt that Boniface had staffed the position to gain inside information about palace business. Unfortunately, there was little she could do about it. The church was the only reliable source for literate workers, and Charles had made it clear that this was the way it would be.

  Being literate, Sunni was a vital link to Charles in the administration of palace business. So often was he out on campaign that Sunni had been forced to take over responsibility for signing many of his charters and missives. She was so accustomed to this role th
at she continued in it even when Charles was back in the palace.

  Sunni held out her hands, and Brother David handed her the day’s documents. A wiry little man, he reeked with a foul odor that made Sunni nauseous. It was the smell of something rotting, sickly sweet and musty at the same time. She was certain the man didn’t bathe, and she had never seen him in anything but the same stained grayish robe and sandals. On many days, she had left the clerical room with the brother’s stench on her clothes. Sometimes it stayed for hours.

  On the afternoon of Gripho’s elevation, Sunni had sought out the tedium of the clerk’s office to take her mind off Charles. At the ceremony, he had looked ghastly. She worried that his health was worse than he had let on. She took the reports from the clerk and began her customary review.

  She checked the receipts of the tax she had imposed on the Paris Fair. The tax had produced a minor windfall to the treasury as well as a flurry of complaints. She had ignored the latter for the benefit of the former.

  She picked up a newly drafted charter that Boniface had penned for Charles’s signature. It concerned the donation of the villa at Clichy to the monastery at St. Denis. Sunni raised her eyebrows and whistled softly. The villa at Clichy was one of the loveliest in the realm. It was a kingly gift, so kingly that it had to be the price for something equally significant. Sunni’s forehead creased. What could Charles want of the Merovingian priests? Why would he ask Boniface—

  Sunni could no longer breathe.

  With a certainty she could not describe, Sunni knew Charles was dying. She also knew where he was to be buried. Charles would be buried in the Merovingian crypt of St. Denis, as if he were king.

  To Sunni, this vanity could only be Charles’s idea. He would thus proclaim that he was as much a king as any Merovingian who ever sat on the throne. St. Denis was the family church of the Merovingians. To bury Charles in their crypt—the very man who for the past twenty-seven years had usurped their sovereignty—would be sacrilege to the St. Denis priests. She was surprised that Charles hadn’t had to pay more to buy their souls.