Anvil of God

by J. Boyce Gleason

  “Now is everything,” Sunni said.

  “Trudi is everything,” Odilo said. “I’ve got to find her.”

  The two searched for an hour but could not find her.

  ***

  It was a cool night, the air heavy with moisture. In the main hall, six great fires blazed in braziers around the room. Minstrels strolled, jugglers juggled, and magicians performed their tricks in a room filled with banners of red, green, blue, and yellow. Tapestries depicting battles long past had been cleaned and repaired. Large candelabras and candleholders were placed strategically to light the room. Along several walls, large tables were laden with food and drink.

  Had she been in a different frame of mind, Sunni would have loved this. There was much to celebrate. As guests arrived, they joined a colorful procession through the main hall, greeting every member of Charles’s family. Gowns of blue and white and red swished in a series of half-circles, clockwise around Sunni and Charles, and then counterclockwise around Greta and Carloman, and on to Bertrada and Pippin until all hands had been touched, all greetings given, and all introductions made.

  After an hour or so, when the talk of politics had lost its zeal, minstrels and jugglers masterfully redirected dying conversations and broke apart well-formed cliques. Servants carried large trays of ale, wine, and mead, and soon laughter and song carried through the hall. A musical sextet captured guests’ feet in one corner of the room. The colorful gowns swirled and bowed and floated in time with the music. Cups were raised to Charles and to Gripho. Stories were told, memories recalled, and intimacies shared.

  Occasionally fights erupted. These were quickly subdued before swords could be drawn and blood spilled. Several corners of the hall sporadically broke into song, some with bawdy lyrics more appropriate to the battlefield.

  “To the ball came ten virgins, in all their gentleness …

  And when it was all over, there were ten virgins less …”

  Pippin and Bertrada moved through the room gracefully. They lightly inserted themselves into one conversation after another until they had engaged most nobles in the room. Bertrada’s youthful, fresh looks made this possible. Older men gave way willingly to engage her in their conversation. Pippin, usually more cautious and deliberate, seemed more sober in his demeanor. He took advantage of Bertrada’s reception by group after group and found a way to engage a least one person in every conversation. A nice couple, Sunni thought. People like them.

  Sunni had spent the better part of the evening avoiding King Liutbrand and his son, Aistulf. They had agreed early in the evening to talk later, but as far as Sunni was concerned, it couldn’t be late enough. She used the room to keep her distance and worried over what she would say without first talking with Trudi. By the twenty-second bells, however, even Sunni could no longer put off the moment. After a deep sigh, she made her way across the room to speak with Liutbrand and his son.

  “King Liutbrand.” Sunni extended her hand.

  He took it in his, raised it to his lips, and kissed the top part of her knuckles. “Milady. May I present my son, Aistulf?”

  “It is nice to see you again.”

  “Milady.” Aistulf took her hand and bowed.

  If Trudi couldn’t have Odilo, Sunni thought to herself, she certainly could do a lot worse. Aistulf was taller than she remembered, lithe, and powerful. His face was narrow, like his father’s, but darker and less open. He looks like a warrior. “I hear we have much to talk about.”

  “Yes, although much has already been discussed,” Liutbrand said. “We were hoping to meet Hiltrude but have not yet seen her. I thought Charles might make his announcement.”

  “Unfortunately, she has taken ill with a stomach ailment. I, myself, fell victim to it yesterday.”

  “So I was informed. I hope you are feeling better.”

  “Yes. Yes, I am. Thank you.”

  “Please give Hiltrude our compliments and—”

  Liutbrand stared across the room, puzzled. Aistulf followed his gaze. Sunni turned to see what had so grabbed their attention and found her answer. Trudi had arrived.

  Dressed in a long white gown, Trudi wore no jewelry, no ribbons, no bows, no powders. Her hair was pinned up but poorly. Several strands hung down by her face. Taking tentative steps, the girl swayed visibly and stumbled five steps into the room. Her face strained above her newfound entourage, clearly looking for someone.

  Sunni excused herself and waded through the crowd to Trudi’s side. She took Trudi by the arm and walked her back the five steps to the door.

  “No!” Trudi wrenched her arm away and turned to the room.

  “Trudi, listen to me.”

  “Liar,” she hissed.

  Liutbrand and Aistulf arrived at just that moment.

  “Well, King Liutbrand! So nice to meet.” Trudi leaned toward the king with her hand outstretched. He made to take it, but Trudi lost her balance and had to grab his arm to stabilize herself. “Excuse me,” she whispered.

  “Trudi!” Sunni tried to intercede. Trudi brushed right by her.

  “And you must be my betrothed, Aistulf.” Trudi threw her arms over Aistulf’s shoulders. Aistulf held her off as best he could. Trudi laughed and slipped her arm through his. “Don’t we look regal?”

  Liutbrand looked furious. “I expect, Sunnichild, that you will get her under control,” he said. “I will not be delayed by some foolish girl.” He walked off. Aistulf followed.

  “Trudi!” Sunni grabbed the girl by both her arms.

  “Liar,” Trudi whispered. “Where’s my power now?” Trudi tilted her head back. Tears brimmed in her eyes. “You whored me.” She could barely speak the words. “You had me lie with Odilo. You made me believe I had a choice. You made me a whore.” She looked directly into Sunni’s eyes. “I hate you.”

  Sunni’s palm flew across the girl’s face so suddenly that Trudi had no time to block it. Nearby guests heard the crack of Sunni’s slap, but turning to see what had happened, only saw Sunni holding both of Trudi’s arms at her side.

  “Listen to me, little girl. Do you think power is given? It is taken. Stop sniveling in front of all these people and become the woman you wish to be. If you want to be with Odilo, make the choice.” Sunni stormed away from her.

  Ten steps into the crowd, Sunni reconsidered. The girl needed her. Sunni turned to find Trudi still standing in the doorway, the outline of a red handprint beginning to form on her left cheek.

  “Trudi?” Odilo had come to the girl’s aid.

  Trudi held up her hand to ward him off. “No,” she pleaded. “No. Please, Odilo. No.” She turned her head away.

  Distantly, Sunni heard musical instruments calling the crowd’s attention to another part of the room. Looking up, she saw Charles on a small platform with King Liutbrand and Aistulf. As the crowd quieted, the two seemed to be disagreeing with Charles. Charles shook his head vigorously.

  No, thought Sunni. Not now.

  “Good nobles and gentlewomen,” Charles called out over the quieted room. “As many of you know, there is a long friendship between my family and the Lombards of the Roman peninsula. My son Pippin,” Charles pointed out his second son in the crowd to a smattering of applause, “lived with King Liutbrand for many years and was adopted as his son. Today, that relationship grows ever stronger as my good friend Liutbrand’s son, Aistulf,” Charles placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder, “has agreed to take as his bride my daughter, Hiltrude.”

  The crowd erupted with applause. Charles waved his hand ceremoniously to turn the crowd’s attention to where Trudi stood by the door. Five hundred pairs of eyes turned to her. Sunni saw Trudi look to her father and then look to Odilo. She tried to stand up straight and compose herself. When she spoke, all she could manage was, “I—” Then Trudi did the one thing she had sworn to Sunni she would never do in front of her father. She burst into tears.

  ***

  By tradition, Charles should have met with the nobles he had summoned for assembly over s
everal days to map out military plans for the season, air grievances, make judgments, resolve land disputes, and grant offices. This assembly was different.

  By Charles’s command, the September assembly began on the large parade grounds near Quierzy, with the nobles in rank alongside their men. There would be no preliminary meetings with Charles. The nobles would receive their orders with their men.

  Across the parade ground, the troops amassed in ranks, representing every region of the realm. Several hundred of the lesser nobles were on horse while several thousand fighting men stood alongside them, shield and spear at the ready. They were the elite fighting force of the Franks. They were not, however, all the troops Charles had at his disposal. Each of the nobles also had regional forces garrisoned throughout the realm that could be called upon to support specific military campaigns.

  Charles rode to the parade ground on his black warhorse, followed by Carloman, Pippin, and Gripho. Charles acknowledged each of the nobles as he passed before them.

  “Ateni.”

  “Huh-yah, milord.”

  “Radbod.”

  “Huh-yah.” With each acknowledgment, the troops from that particular garrison slapped spear to shield and stood at attention. They remained so until Charles had reviewed the entire assembly.

  When they were finished, Charles and his three sons rode to the pavilion, dismounted, and climbed onto a platform. At a signal from Childebrand, a score of men ran out onto the parade ground and positioned themselves one to a garrison. These were criers. They would repeat Charles’s words so that all the troops could hear.

  Charles looked out over the assembled might of the Franks. Drawing his sword, he raised it high above his head.

  “To the glory of the Franks!” he called.

  And in one voice, the assembled force shouted in return. “Huh-yahhh!”

  “To the glory of the Franks!” he called again.

  “Huh-yahhh!” they answered.

  “Huh-yahhh!” Charles shouted.

  “Huh-yahhh!” they echoed.

  Charles sheathed his sword and began to pace back and forth across the stage.

  “We are soldiers, you and I,” Charles began.

  “We are soldiers, you and I!” shouted the criers. Charles looked up at the interruption but continued on.

  “We are men of war. And we have been at war for as long as I can remember. We wage war against foreign enemies: The Vikings in the north, the Saxons to the east, and the Saracen to the west. But too often, we are at war against each other, region against region, family against family. The cost of this is always high. Our sons and brothers perish, our treasuries are spent, and our common faith and fealty challenged.

  “The time has come to forge a lasting peace among the Franks. With the conclusion of this last campaign in Provence against the traitor Maurontus and the Saracen plague, we are at last united under one Frankish flag. Let us turn away from historic grievances and feuds to claim a brotherhood amongst the Franks. Let us turn our swords against the Vikings, the Saxons, and the Saracen, but not against each other.

  “To build this brotherhood among the Franks, let us start with brothers. On the day I was born, there were three mayors of the palace, so again shall there be three. These three.” Charles swept his arm to indicate his sons. “These three brothers will unite the Franks as mayors of the palace.”

  Charles paused for the criers.

  “Huh-yahhh!” the Alemannians and the Bavarians shouted.

  “Huh-yahhh!” echoed the Austrasians. Some of the Knights in Christ began beating their swords against their shields. Others joined in until the entire field was in an uproar.

  Charles put up his hands to signal for quiet. When he received it, he spoke again.

  “I hereby elevate Carloman to mayor of the palace for Austrasia, Alemannia, and assign him tribute and fealty from the duchy of Aquitaine.”

  “Huh-yahhh!” shouted the troops.

  “Pippin shall be mayor of the palace for Burgundy, Provence, and Southern Neustria.”

  “Huh-yahhh!”

  “Gripho shall be mayor of the palace for Thuringia and Northern Neustria and will receive tribute and fealty from the duchy of Bavaria.”

  “Huh-yahhh!”

  Charles waved to an attendant, and three chairs were brought onto the stage. He bade his sons to sit. “Today on this field, a new brotherhood of the Franks is born, forged in battle but united by blood. I call upon the nobles here today to pledge their fealty by commendation.”

  With that, Childebrand rode forward before the troops and called out the first name. “Ateni of Provence.”

  Ateni clearly was startled when his name was called. He rode his horse forward, and after a moment’s hesitation, dismounted, climbed the stairs, and knelt before Pippin, laying his hands in those of Charles’s son.

  “Liutfred of Alemannia,” Childebrand read.

  Showing a similar set of emotions, Liutfred rode his horse forward, dismounted, climbed the stage, and placed his hands in those of Carloman. Childebrand continued reading the list until all were accounted for and then placed his own hands in Carloman’s.

  Charles remounted his horse to watch the procession of nobles pledging fealty to his sons. He drew his sword and, standing straight in his stirrups, shouted his war cry, “Francia! Francia!”

  War cries from every region responded.

  “Austrasia! Austrasia!”

  “Neustria! Neustria!”

  “Burgundy! Burgundy!”

  Holding his sword out with its blade flat, Charles spurred his warhorse and let his weapon slap the shields of his soldiers, mounted and foot alike. He galloped the length of the gathered troops.

  They began to chant.

  “Charles! Charles! Charles! Charles!”

  “Huh-yahhh! Huh-yahhh! Huh-yahhh!”

  When Charles had completed his romp among the troops and the shouting had died down, Childebrand took the stage and announced that the nobles would meet at the pavilion on the next day at the tenth bells. With a great grin on his face, Charles dismissed the nobles.

  ***

  “Northern Neustria?” Pippin fumed. “He gave Gripho Paris? He gave him St. Denis, Quierzy, Laon? He gave him the keys to the kingdom.”

  Childebrand could do little to console Pippin. His nephew had cornered him immediately after the assembly. “Pippin, I’m not the one you should question. I’m just an old dog of a warrior. Talk to your father. He must have had his reasons.”

  “I know what his reason is,” Pippin said. “Her name is Sunnichild. I just don’t understand why I’ve fallen so far out of his favor. The men follow me in battle. He relies on my strategies for victory.”

  In truth, Childebrand didn’t understand it himself. Pippin was a pillar of Charles’s army. He fought like a madman. And Charles relied on him heavily. No, Childebrand could not understand Charles’s decision at all.

  As a stepbrother of Charles, Childebrand could have, in his own right, made a legitimate claim to being mayor, but he had little interest in it. He was a soldier. He liked being a soldier. He liked being around soldiers. Nearing fifty, with one eye taken from him in a knife fight, Childebrand had to admit that life on campaign was more difficult now than it had been when he was younger. But if Charles could go on campaign every year, so could he.

  Pippin was pacing back and forth. Childebrand watched him, seeing the echo of the boy’s father.

  “So be it,” Pippin said. “I don’t need Paris. I’ll do fine in Burgundy and Provence. I’ll be happy with the Loire Valley. There’s great hunting. Good wine and fine weather. What else could a man want?”

  He is angry, thought Childebrand. And hurt. “And your father?” Childebrand asked.

  “He’s made his decision. Carloman and Gripho can figure out what happens next. They’ve got all the power. I’m going to Burgundy.”

  “Now?” Childebrand asked.

  “We had a dispatch about trouble there. I’ll take twenty men on ho
rse. Send two hundred foot soldiers to follow. We’ll travel light. That should be enough to handle it.”

  “Won’t you at least say good-bye to your father?”

  “I won’t whine in front of him,” Pippin said. “I won’t contest Gripho’s claim. Charles made his decision. It is clear that I’ve lost my father’s faith. But I don’t have to stay around to be humbled by every noble in Quierzy. Today was embarrassing enough.”

  “Who will you take with you?” Childebrand asked.

  “You for one, old man, assuming Carloman will give you leave.”

  Childebrand smiled at that. He was never one to ask permission. To signal his assent, he removed the small metal orb he used in place of his lost right eye. There was no need for such decoration out on campaign. He liked to tell people that he could see better without it.

  “Your family in Burgundy can help,” Pippin said. “I’ll also need you to marshal the nobles from Provence and Burgundy and to locate some supplies. Ateni will likely stay here for the meeting, as will Patrice, but we should be able to leave with a suitable force by nightfall.”

  “I’ll get started.” Childebrand patted the ax he wore at his hip.

  The gesture caught Pippin’s eye. “Why do you wear a Saxon ax?”

  Childebrand looked down. It was an elegant weapon with a curved edge, counterbalanced on its opposite face by a small hatchet. “I was always tripping over my sword.”

  “I’ll leave word for Carloman. Do me a favor—don’t speak of this to my father. He’ll want to stop me.”

  “Huh-yah.”

  “Now,” Pippin said almost to himself, “all I have to do is convince Bertrada to go with me.”

  Childebrand couldn’t help laughing.

  ***

  They weren’t ready by nightfall. For this, however, Pippin could hardly blame Childebrand, who had his twenty men of horse ready, the men of foot waiting, and six carts of supplies. It was Bertrada who caused the delay.

  “You can’t expect me to pack and leave without notice,” she fumed at Pippin. “I’m not one of your soldiers. I have attendants. I have to close up my house. I have to provide for the servants. You have all that taken care of for you. I have to do this myself.”