Anvil of God

by J. Boyce Gleason

  “I want to leave by nightfall,” Pippin said. “I’ll help you pack.”

  “No!” Bertrada put her hands up. “Don’t help me so much. I’ll be fine if you just leave me alone. I’ll meet you at the gate at eighteenth bells.”

  Pippin waited. Eighteenth bells came and went. Nineteenth as well. Pippin stood just inside the gate while Childebrand and his knights tried vainly to be discreet in the shadows by the main gate. The rest of his small army waited outside near the camping grounds. Pippin would meet them once Bertrada arrived.

  At almost the twentieth bells, Bertrada came down the path from the stables, leading her white mare by its reins. Three handmaidens followed with horses. One led a mule packed with saddlebags and bedrolls.

  “Milord Mayor.” Bertrada bowed formally with a wide grin on her face. “We leave at your pleasure.”

  “Get on your horse, Bertie. If we’re lucky, we can reach Laon by midnight. If not, we sleep under the stars.” He smiled in return.

  “As milord commands,” she said and put foot to stirrup.

  Pippin led the troop out the gate and circled the villa to take the southern road to the camping grounds. Dusk was turning into darkness, and Pippin had trouble seeing the small group of soldiers that made up the rest of their contingent. When the road sloped downward, Pippin had a broader view of the landscape and saw his men collected by the side of the road.

  “Gunther?” Childebrand called out.

  “Huh-yah.”

  With that acknowledgment, Pippin continued past them down the road. The soldiers fell into line behind them. Once they were in formation, Pippin spurred his horse and picked up the pace.

  They turned onto the western road, heading for Laon along the River Oise. The road was well kept on their side of the river, and they made progress, helped considerably by the light of a half-moon that reflected off the water to their left. They rode quietly for a long time, and Pippin began to relax to the rhythm of the horses and the murmuring sounds of the river.

  It was good to be out in the night air, good to be away from the court, good to be on his own. Pippin knew he would not return soon. He could not suffer the embarrassment. He would not suffer the betrayal.

  Pippin had always felt close to his father, despite the time he had spent away with the Lombards. When he and Charles were on campaign, they were almost like brothers. They thought alike. They fought alike. They enjoyed each other’s company. Pippin believed he had earned his father’s trust and respect. And he knew that Gripho had not. Why Charles had chosen Gripho, Pippin could not understand.

  “Hello, brother.” Seemingly out of nowhere, a soldier appeared to his right, riding a brown horse and wearing a leather helmet and small plates of armor.

  Although startled, Pippin recognized the voice. “Trudi?”

  “A fine evening for a ride. I hope you don’t mind my joining you.” Trudi took off her helmet and shook her hair loose. She smiled at the surprised comments coming from the soldiers behind them.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You weren’t the only one disappointed today, Pippin. I need to be away from here—and quickly.”

  Pippin rode for a while, considering his sister’s plight. “You have to go back.”

  “I’ll go back no sooner than you.”

  “Charles will come get you.”

  “Not if I marry first.”

  For the second time that day, Pippin felt out of touch with the turn of events. “Is there something wrong with Aistulf?” he asked.

  “Oh, he seems like a fine man. He’s good looking enough. And I hear he’s good with a sword.” She paused. “I just have other plans.”

  Pippin blushed. Someone had taken her heart and probably a whole lot more. “Who is he?”

  “Brother, I came with you because I trust you. And because I know you find yourself in a similar position.”

  “My situation is different.”

  “Is it? Then why are you leaving so suddenly in the night? The nobles meet with Charles in the morning. From everything I’ve heard, the mayors are to be there to map out the fall campaign. I think I read your situation correctly, Pippin. It is the same as mine. We both had different plans. We both need to go.”

  “Who is he, Trudi?”

  Trudi looked at him. “Tell me you will help me, Pippin. Tell me you understand.”

  “Trudi, I know Aistulf. I know the Lombards. He will make a fine husband. He’s a little arrogant, I know. But you will love the court there. Rome is within a day’s ride. So is the Mediterranean Sea. You have to go back.”

  “Could you live without Bertie?”

  Pippin did not respond.

  “It is a simple question. You and Bertie aren’t yet married. What if Charles pawned you off to someone else? He spoke to Liutbrand about you and his daughter. Did you know that, Pippin? Could you go back to Rome? Could you abandon Bertie? Now that you are mayor, would you let anyone dictate whom you married?”

  “It’s not just about love, Trudi. This could start a war. Do you think the Lombards will sit by quietly and do nothing?”

  “If I marry, it will be too late.”

  “Who is he, Trudi?” Pippin pushed, more gently this time.

  “Tell me you will help me, Pippin. Tell me you understand.”

  “I will help you, Trudi. I don’t agree with what you’re doing, but I understand.”

  “Thank you.” Trudi laid her hand on his forearm. They rode together in silence for some time. She breathed a heavy sigh. “Odilo. I’m going to Bavaria. I will marry Duc Odilo.”

  Pippin whistled. The political implications of such a marriage were enormous, particularly after Gripho’s elevation to mayor. With Trudi marrying into the Agilolfing family, Gripho would lord over a middle kingdom within the realm. Suddenly, Pippin saw the political puzzle in his mind fall into place. “Sunni knows about the two of you,” Pippin stated rather than asked.

  “She knows I love him. She doesn’t know that I am leaving with you.”

  After a moment’s reflection, Pippin chuckled. Then he laughed.

  “What is it?” Trudi asked.

  “Carloman is going to have his hands full.” Pippin shook his head and flashed a hand signal to Childebrand. Without hesitation, the older warrior called out orders for doubling the pace. There would be no stopping in Laon that night.

  ***

  Sunni busied herself by closing the drapes, putting the wine away, and straightening the blankets around Charles.

  “Are you going to tuck me in?” he asked.

  “You’re not well, Charles.”

  “I’m not. But I’m not a child either.” He took hold of the belt on her night robe and pulled her next to him by the bed. She looked down to see the smirk on his face and found herself grinning in return.

  “You are every bit the child, Charles Martel. You always get what you want.”

  “And now I want you, my love.” He opened her robe and cupped her breasts in his hands, feeling their weight. With his right thumb and forefinger, he pulled her left nipple toward him. She followed it and climbed onto the bed. She straddled his blanketed form and leaned over him. Her hair fell around his head so that their two faces were cut off from the world.

  She inhaled the smell of him, felt the warmth of his breath, and kissed him lightly. The kiss became more urgent. She opened her mouth for him, and he teased her. At first, his tongue played around the edges, touching her lips and her teeth. She played back, touching his tongue lightly and retreating, encircling it and retreating, pushing into his mouth and retreating. With a moan, his tongue pushed deep inside her mouth, and his arms circled her body. He pressed the length of her to him, pulling her down by her hips to grind them against his.

  He tried to roll her over but was hampered by the bed sheets and blankets that lay between them. She laughed as he struggled to win his freedom. She moved to help by rolling off him and pulling the blankets off his legs. Unencumbered, Charles rose to his knees above
her, a warhorse rising to his hind legs, and pulled the nightshirt over his head.

  She raised her hands to touch his body. He became still above her, watching her. Some of the old wounds were whitish and indented, as the holes and rents in his skin never completely healed. Tears came to her then. She blinked them away and moved her hands playfully lower while his erection fought to rise. They met above his abdomen, and she circled him with her hands.

  She led his erection down her torso until it lay between her legs and then changed direction, pulling him inside her. When he could go no further, he stopped.

  “This is how I want you to remember me,” he whispered into her ear. “This intimacy. This moment.” He kissed her softly. Her tears came again, and this time she could not deny them. They fell lightly down her temples into the pillows below.

  “I love you,” he said.

  “I know,” she said. “I love you, too.”

  They began to move against each other slowly and with great tenderness, savoring as much of each other as their bodies would allow. In time, passion overtook them, and their thrusting and taking grew more heated and frantic. Their bodies arched and convulsed in wave after wave, until at last they came together and lay quietly in each other’s arms. Sunni had never stopped crying.

  “I don’t want to watch you die,” she said, struggling not to whimper.

  Charles looked at the vial at his bedside. “Christians believe,” he said, “that we go to meet our maker. Death is but the beginning of a new life in heaven.”

  “Pagans believe you return to the earth, that the power of your life is returned to be used again. You have great power, Charles. The earth will rejoice and welcome you home.” Sunni’s eyes filled again. “I just can’t watch you die.” They lay together, her body conforming to his as it had for countless nights during their sixteen years together. Sunni nuzzled her cheek into its place between his ear and his shoulder. A small tear escaped one of Charles’s eyes and trickled down into his ear.

  “It will be when the sun rises tomorrow,” he said, stroking her hair.

  Sunni looked up, and Charles put up his hand to stop her question. “I’ve enlisted the help of someone who knows her craft well.

  “At first my stomach will grow warm, and then my limbs will go cold.” Sunni didn’t breathe. “My vision will fade, and my breath will become short. In the end, there will be pain, and then my time on this earth will end. I’m not sure who will meet me—my god, the earth, or the devil—but I go on my own. You can’t go there with me. It will be fine if you go for a stroll early tomorrow morning. You will be with me in my last moments no matter where you are.”

  “I’ll always love you,” she said.

  “I know.”

  Although she woke before sunrise, Sunni never took her early morning stroll. Instead, she sent for Charles’s children and his grandson. And those who came said their good-byes and received his blessings. Sunni stayed with Charles through the warming in his stomach, the coldness in his limbs, the fading of his vision, the shortness of his breath, and the pain they both suffered for his passing from this world into the next. In the pagan fashion, she closed his eyes, kissed his forehead, and then kissed each of the eyelids she had just closed.

  “Good-bye, my love,” was all she had the power to say.

  4

  The Mourning After

  Carloman was finding it difficult to concentrate. He had not slept well. Since his father’s death two days before, he had cancelled the rest of the assembly and asked Boniface to handle the funeral services. Besieged with requests for meetings, decisions, and guidance on the most trivial of matters, he tried to buy time. He avoided the nobles, thinking that without Pippin, it would be fruitless to see them. He begged their indulgences and announced he would take a day to fast and pray, hoping that by then Pippin would return.

  One decision Carloman had made was to promote one of his Knights in Christ to serve as his family’s “champion.” Their history was so rife with assassination and murder that Carloman felt it necessary to create a special detail from those most loyal to him to protect his family. And he had found the perfect man to lead them.

  With Saxon-blond hair and piercing gray eyes, Johann of Cologne had an arresting presence. And Carloman took great comfort in the man’s absolutes. Johann was the type of man who would forgive no sin, tolerate no transgression, and give no quarter. He rarely left Carloman’s side.

  Carloman’s eyes returned to Charles’s bier. The man had been invincible. Even beside his father’s corpse, he felt small and unworthy. Fortunately, Boniface was there to guide him, and Johann to protect his flank. If not invincible, Carloman thought, at least I am well fortified.

  Boniface stayed with him throughout his all-night vigil but insisted that Carloman meet with the nobles, with or without Pippin. “Faith is one thing,” he said. “Weakness is another.”

  ***

  Knowing well the havoc a death such as that of Charles could bring, King Liutbrand was first to visit Carloman in the family chapel where Charles’s body lay awaiting the funeral at St. Denis. He came to offer the young man his help and to ensure that the betrothal of his son and Hiltrude was secure. He found Carloman praying over his father, clutching his prized relic, the finger of St. Martin, close to his chest.

  Charles’s body lay in a low, open stone casket. A lid bearing a carved likeness of Charles adorned the bier. Charles had been dressed in a purple cloak, a white shirt and vest with gold buttons, and black pantaloons. He wore soft leather boots that Liutbrand knew could serve no purpose other than decoration. A gold crucifix lay at his throat, and a matching gold wreath, made to look like ivy, circled his brow.

  Charles’s face was a ghostly caricature of the man who had conquered a continent. Pasty white skin hung slack from his facial bones. His closed eyelids were sunken and dark, his lips a purplish blue. Although his body had been washed and perfumed, its lurking odor of decay penetrated the smell of the autumn flowers decorating the chapel. What startled Liutbrand most, however, was the utter stillness of the body. Charles had been vibrant, dangerous. His presence had filled every room he entered. Now his corpse seemed insignificant, a frail thing, easily discarded and ignored.

  Boniface was at the altar, leading Carloman in prayer. Liutbrand bowed his head. He could wait. Several Knights in Christ stood near Carloman, eyes methodically watching the room. Liutbrand smiled at this, thinking at least the young man knew his family history.

  Carloman would need his help. Charles had been the power. Despite the mayor’s show of pageantry days before, no one would readily accept his young sons as mayor. Charles had beaten the realm into submission. If his sons were to rule, they would have to follow suit. Yes, Carloman and Pippin would need help. And Liutbrand meant to give it to them. Of course, help always had a price.

  As Boniface finished the prayers, Carloman let go of his relic and made the sign of the cross. He stood, approached Boniface, and knelt to receive the priest’s blessing. With his thumb, Boniface traced the sign of the cross on Carloman’s forehead and placed his palm on his godson’s head. To Liutbrand, the two froze for a moment into an odd tableau. Blinking, Liutbrand realized that Boniface was now the father. He would have to be taken into greater consideration, particularly when it came to matters concerning the pope. All would have been much simpler were Charles alive.

  “Mayor,” Liutbrand said when Carloman finally turned to him, “I am sorry for your loss. Your father was a great mean.” Liutbrand offered the young man his hands, which were readily taken in friendship.

  “Thank you, King Liutbrand. You have always been a great friend and ally. I appreciate your condolences.” Carloman looked at him gratefully, his eyes sunken and red. Next to the altar, Boniface was putting away his vestments and listening to every word.

  “I understand that the burial will take place next Sunday at St. Denis,” Liutbrand said.

  Carloman nodded distractedly. “Yes, it was quite extraordinary that t
he priests there granted the family such a boon. Their support has not always been so generous.”

  Boniface moved behind the young man’s right shoulder, and Liutbrand watched for Carloman’s reaction. The young man clearly accepted the priest as his counselor. Liutbrand saw an advantage and quickly changed tack.

  “And your brother, Pippin? I have heard he is no longer in Quierzy.”

  “Unfortunately, there was little warning of my father’s death. Pippin left for Burgundy the night before Charles died. We had reports of an uprising.”

  “And Hiltrude?”

  Carloman shrugged. “Apparently, she went with Pippin. I assume Charles gave his blessing, as she didn’t leave word with either Sunni or me. I’ve sent messengers to ensure their return for Charles’s funeral.”

  “Given her display the other night, I hope nothing is amiss with her betrothal to my son, Aistulf. Your father and I had an agreement. I expect that it is still in force.”

  “If I may,” Boniface interrupted and then waited for Carloman’s permission to join the conversation. Liutbrand frowned, but the young man nodded, and the priest continued. “The betrothal caught a number of us by surprise. And while we are all delighted with the union between your son, Aistulf, and our fair Hiltrude, no one has any understanding of the agreement between you and Charles. Given his recent death, it may be worthwhile for us to discuss the conditions.”

  “I would expect the son to honor the word of his father,” Liutbrand said.

  “I am sure that we will find an honorable solution to this dilemma,” Boniface said. “It is just that you have us at a disadvantage.”

  Carloman’s eyes kept drifting to his father’s corpse. He thought it somehow appropriate that he and Liutbrand discuss affairs of state with his father’s body in the room. As Liutbrand detailed the marriage arrangement between Aistulf and Hiltrude, its import penetrated Carloman’s distracted state. The longer Liutbrand spoke, the more alarmed Carloman became. When Liutbrand spoke casually about his troops stationed outside Rome, Carloman flushed.