Anvil of God

by J. Boyce Gleason

  ***

  “You’re joking!” Bertie laughed.

  “I’m absolutely serious,” Trudi said.

  “He is quite good looking. And from what I hear, quite experienced,” Bertie said with a sideways glance and an evil grin. “To be truthful,” she whispered, “I’ve always had a crush on Odilo myself. He’s so—” Bertie’s face flushed. Shaking her head, she said, “How did this happen? It is all so sudden.”

  “I’m not really sure what has happened,” Trudi said. “I left before I spoke to him. He doesn’t even know I’m gone.”

  “The whole court knows you are gone by now,” Bertie said. “Even the cooks.”

  “I had to leave. I won’t be sold or bartered.”

  “Then you had better stay one step ahead of your father and King Liutbrand,” Bertie said. “They will come looking for you.”

  “Do you think Odilo will have me?” Trudi asked.

  Bertie looked at the warrior girl with some sympathy. She was an innocent, and Odilo was not. But would he marry her? He would be a fool not to. The girl was a prize, and the politics were obvious. With Sunni, Gripho, and now Trudi, the Agilolfings would be a force. She reached over and patted Trudi’s hand.

  “I’m sure he’ll have you. How will you send him word?”

  “I plan on waiting for him in St. Vitrey. If he’ll have me, we’ll travel east to Bavaria from there.”

  “And if he won’t?”

  “I can’t go home.”

  “Charles will always welcome you home.”

  “I wish I could believe you,” Trudi said.

  For a time, the two rode in silence, enjoying the quiet of the countryside. As they made their way south, the number of houses lining the road increased, and the road became more crowded. Gunther said they were within two days of Reims. Bertie couldn’t wait. She’d sell her soul for a bath.

  Remembering Pippin’s description of Trudi’s odd behavior, Bertie asked, “And just what were you doing down by the river this morning? You nearly frightened Pippin into the priesthood.”

  “Oh, it was a pagan exercise Sunni showed me,” Trudi said. Bertie couldn’t keep the shock from her face. Trudi added quickly, “She said it helped with lovemaking.”

  After a moment, Bertie blushed. “Is it something you can teach me?” she whispered.

  Trudi laughed. “We’ll have to find someplace a little more—um—private.”

  “I should hope so.” Bertie giggled. “It would have been much harder to explain if Pippin had found the two of us.”

  ***

  Carloman rubbed his eyes. Although he had confused a few names in the parade of nobles and lost track of the conversation at times, for the most part, he had kept his composure and avoided making any obvious mistakes. Save, perhaps, the threat to Theudoald.

  The bishops and priests had come offering condolences and prayers from their churches and monasteries but had taken the opportunity to remind him of his promise to return the churches’ lands. Ateni of Provence had paid his respects, as had Liutfred of Alemannia, the latter seeking assurances regarding Gripho’s claims. And while Liutfred hadn’t threatened him, he had come close. The Alemannian had made it clear that he expected Gripho to be treated fairly despite his young age. He was disturbed when Carloman offered only vague assurances.

  Everyone had asked about elevating a Merovingian king to keep the peace.

  Even at this late hour, a number of mourners had crowded into the small chapel. Boniface had again stepped to the altar to lead them in prayer. Carloman knelt. Without hesitation, all the congregants fell to their knees. The Latin words droned above him and around him, but he could not hold them any longer in his mind. He felt himself nod briefly into his folded hands.

  When he looked up, a new retinue had joined them. Odilo stood to the side of the chapel, his head bowed and his arms folded in front of him. Carloman nodded to him and waited for an end to the prayers. After the room’s final amen, Carloman stood and made his way toward the Bavarian.

  “My sympathies,” Odilo said.

  With a slight nod, Carloman indicated an alcove off to their right and waved off Johann. He and Odilo pushed through the mourners into the relative quiet.

  “Your father was a great man.”

  “Thank you.” Carloman held a handkerchief to his nose.

  “Perhaps this is not the appropriate time and place,” Odilo began.

  “No one else has hesitated.”

  “It’s just that, one hears things.”

  Carloman stopped wiping his nose and looked at the Bavarian. “Such as?”

  “Parisian nobles holding midnight meetings. Sunni sending dozens of couriers scurrying throughout Neustria. The Alemannians grumbling to the Frisians. Will there be war, Carloman?”

  “There is no reason for war.”

  “But there may be a challenge.”

  “There is always that possibility.”

  “And if so, with whom will you side?” Odilo’s face was calm. He might have asked if it would rain tomorrow.

  “There is no good answer to that question, Odilo. A declaration from me one way or another could start the war you fear. By taking a side, I force everyone’s hand.”

  “One could also argue that your declaration could avoid war. A clear signal from you might dissuade those susceptible to pressure.”

  “Perhaps,” Carloman said, but he didn’t offer anything more.

  After a few moments, the Bavarian shook his head. “I shall be clear, Carloman, even if you will not. The Agilolfing family will defend Gripho’s claim. As will the Alemannians. And I would not underestimate Sunni. She is not without support.” Odilo sighed. “Brother warring against brother is no way to start your reign as mayor, Carloman. Put down the challenge. Let us all go home to our families and mourn the loss of your father rather than curse his passing. Put down the challenge and keep your father’s family intact.”

  Odilo never raised his voice. No hint of a threat tainted his tone. Yet the ultimatum had been delivered.

  “One more thing,” Odilo said. “A piece of friendly advice. If Theudoald makes his challenge and backs it with force, be the first to raise a Merovingian king. Don’t leave that to him. He’ll use it to undermine your support. Nobles are skittish when it comes to attacking a king.”

  “Thank you for your concern,” Carloman said.

  Odilo put his hand on Carloman’s shoulder. “I am sorry for your loss,” he said. “I will be leaving shortly after the funeral. I had hoped to give my condolences to your sister. Is there any word of her return?”

  Carloman shook his head. “Unfortunately, not.” The handkerchief returned to his nose. “She left with Pippin, who was taking the southern road to Reims. I sent some knights to ensure her return. I expect we will see her shortly after the funeral.”

  “Perhaps our paths will cross on my way back to Bavaria,” Odilo said carefully. “She’s not in danger?” Carloman looked up quizzically. “The knights?” Odilo offered.

  Oddly, the question gave Carloman pause. He had ordered one of Trudi’s friends, Ansel, to lead a group of knights to find his sister. But the knight had reacted strangely to the order. Rather than being honored at the task, Ansel had tried to suggest he was unworthy. And stranger still, when Carloman dismissed the knight’s modesty and ordered him to leave immediately, the young man broke into a profound sweat.

  “No danger at all,” Carloman said. He blew his nose, tucked his handkerchief back in his sleeve, and looked toward the growing crowd in the chapel. “If you will forgive me,” he said, gesturing toward the chapel.

  “Of course.” The Bavarian bowed. “May honor strengthen your sword.”

  “And may truth guide its way,” Carloman replied.

  ***

  “We are ready, milady.”

  Sunni nodded, dropping the veil over her face, and braced herself for the long procession taking Charles’s body to St. Denis. She hated the notion of grieving in public. She hated weari
ng black. It was a Christian tradition. Pagans wore white. And without Charles, she did not feel at all like pretending anymore. She also hated leaving. She, like Charles, would not be returning to Quierzy, although few but her closest confidants knew it.

  She had arranged for her personal items to be sent discreetly to Laon during the funeral festivities. Other precious gifts and artifacts would be left behind to avoid suspicion. As she exited her chambers, six Bavarian knights of her choosing fell in beside her. There would be more among her retinue in the procession. She didn’t believe she would need them, but her instincts pushed caution, so she was cautious.

  They made a small parade through the villa, Sunni, her handmaidens, and her armed escort. Not a word was spoken as they descended the broad staircases and advanced through the halls. She nodded to the servants and attendants as they passed. When they reached the main hallway, the bulk of Charles’s court was waiting. Several hundred voices hushed in an instant upon her arrival, and in near unison, all heads bowed.

  Gracefully, Sunni bowed in return and swept her entourage through the crowded hall to where Carloman, Gripho, and Boniface were waiting. Greta stood nearby with her arm around her son, Drogo.

  Sunni went to them first, kissed Greta on each cheek, and hugged Drogo to her chest. She felt him stiffen beneath her embrace. Remembering that he was no longer a boy, she let him go, smiled, and mussed his hair. He managed a small smile in return.

  Turning next to her son, she kissed him more formally, like Greta, once on each cheek. His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. “May honor strengthen your sword,” she whispered to him. He bowed, unable to speak the rejoinder. Finally she turned to Carloman and Boniface. Much to their surprise, Sunni curtsied before them.

  “Milord,” she addressed Carloman. “Your grace,” to Boniface.

  Carloman took her hand to raise her to her feet. As she pulled herself erect, Johann and several Knights in Christ advanced to the party from both sides. Startled by the intensity of the young man, Sunni looked to Carloman, who immediately raised his hand to stop their advance.

  “Forgive me, Sunni,” he said. “The road can be dangerous even for mourners.”

  “Of course.” She smiled at Carloman without showing a trace of suspicion and turned to her stepson’s knights. “Thank you, Johann. But as you can see, I have given today’s honor to the sons of my native country. Perhaps I will have the pleasure of your men’s company at another time.” She nodded her head in dismissal. Johann’s reputation named him a Christian of the most intolerant kind. Sunni had no doubts that if Johann knew of her pagan beliefs, he would strike her dead on the spot.

  Johann looked to Carloman, who nodded his assent. In unison, Johann and his knights bowed to Sunni and stepped away.

  “It’s time,” Boniface said.

  The party advanced to the great doors of the hall where an open-bed carriage carrying Charles’s casket awaited them. As tradition called for Sunni to accompany the body, Carloman helped her into the seat beside the driver. Stepping back, he motioned for the doors to be opened. Sunni had hoped that Gripho could accompany her on this journey, but the carriage did not allow for two passengers. Sunni took her seat next to the driver, an elderly man with wisps of white hair falling around his face. He smiled a broad smile with broken and brown teeth. Sunni nodded a silent salutation.

  “Milady.” He paused for a moment. “Samson,” he said, introducing himself. “Like from the Bible.”

  Sunni nodded again, and they left the villa, making their way down to the river. As they exited, scores of Frankish nobles lined up behind them on horseback. Armored and carrying their banners aloft, they struck Sunni as a haunting echo of their recent return from the campaign in Provence. There’s just no one to lead them, she thought.

  “Different without the mayor,” Samson said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Different without Charles … to lead them, milady.”

  Sunni stared at the driver for a long moment and then shook her head. She must be more exhausted than she knew. She would have to be more careful. She could not afford to speak her thoughts aloud. Much depended on the next few days.

  A crowd had formed at the entrance to the eastern road. Sunni thought there was something odd about them; fifty or sixty strong, they blocked the procession’s access to the road. They weren’t hostile, just quiet. No one among them spoke. They stood together in the chill of the morning, warding off the cold and waiting.

  Led by her six Bavarian knights, the carriage approached them. They parted, politely backing away to provide access to the road. She heard mixed and muffled voices calling out to her from the gathering.

  “… for your loss.”

  “God bless you, ma’am.”

  “… a great man.”

  “So sorry …”

  A young girl stepped forward into the road and laid a bouquet of fall flowers beside the road. As she stepped back, another took her place to lay a second bouquet. Hands with flowers reached from the crowd, and soon the side of the road was covered with bouquets and flowers. Sunni nodded to her well-wishers, suddenly thankful for their good-byes.

  Once they reached the main road, however, Sunni was startled to see that the crowd was not limited to the small group at the entrance. People lined both sides of the eastern road. Five and six deep, their number stretched out as far as she could see. Those closest to the road were nobles or wealthy gentry. Farther back, villagers and servants strained to see. Several children had been lifted high on their parents’ shoulders. Their gaze followed the outstretched arms beneath them, pointing to her carriage.

  Sunni’s sense of intimacy shattered. Thinking their curiosity ghoulish, she scowled beneath her veil.

  “Ah, milady, no. More, they’re feeling part of something large,” Samson said. “A big part of their lives, Charles. One of their own, passing on. Many of ’em scared. Many grieve.” Samson pointed to an old woman kneeling beside the road, rocking back and forth, her face contorted in anguish, a strangled moan escaping her lips.

  More flowers lay along their path. Some placed a wooden crucifix, others the branch of a tree. Sunni smiled at this; the branch was a symbol of the tree of life, a pagan belief. The priests had tried to say it was a local custom symbolizing the palms honoring Jesus. She knew it to be a symbol of one’s life force returning to the earth.

  On both sides of the road, fighting men came forward at her approach, bowed, and plunged their sword point down into the earth.

  Sunni nodded her head. They, too, grieve.

  As the carriage moved east, Sunni noticed that the crowd lining the road wore simpler clothes; some came in rags. Their faces and hands were smudged from toil. Paysans, she thought to herself. People of the country.

  “Charles was a savior to them,” Samson offered. “Not Jesus on the cross, mind you, no. Did his saving here in this world. Saved ’em when it mattered. Saracen came over the mountains, and none could stop ’em. At Poitiers, Charles did, surprised ’em at midnight. Killed their Sultan. Run ’em off like wolves in the pasture.”

  Several peasants began to kneel as the carriage passed. First their heads bowed, and then their knees bent. Others followed, and the gesture spread like a wave until all were on their knees. As if in prayer, silence took them. The carriage continued to roll, its wheels creaking in contrast to the quiet. To Sunni, it was almost reverent.

  Among the branches and flowers, there were few crucifixes here in the countryside. She noticed the peasants closest to the road were laying something different alongside their path. Sunni couldn’t make out what the new tokens were.

  “Hammers,” Samson said before she could ask, “to honor his passing.”

  Looking up, she saw hundreds strewn along their path.

  ***

  It was Trudi who first noticed the odd odor. It was morning, and she and Bertie were riding together as had become their custom. Despite their differences, they enjoyed each other’s company. Something about the burnin
g-wood smell, however, nagged at her. “There’s another scent,” she insisted. “Something sweeter.”

  She saw Gunther’s head tilt up, and his eyes grow wide. He spurred his horse. Arriving next to Pippin and Childebrand, Gunther quickly engaged the two in urgent conversation. When they were done, he ordered the party to pick up its pace.

  As they advanced, the sweet aroma grew more pungent, and Trudi rode forward to join Pippin. Bertrada followed. The knights’ faces were grim and stern. They straightened in their saddles, checked their weapons. Childebrand fingered his ax. Pippin ordered Gunther and a team of scouts forward. The air was thickening with smoke.

  “What is it?” Trudi asked.

  “Fire,” Pippin said.

  “We know that,” Bertrada said. “What’s on fire?”

  “A village.”

  “Oh, my God,” Bertie said, her eyes moistening.

  “What’s that sweet aroma?” Trudi asked.

  Pippin said nothing.

  “The people—” Trudi urged her horse into a gallop to chase the departing scouts.

  Childebrand moved his horse to cut her off, forcing her to rein in. He spoke in a lowered voice. “We don’t know what’s going on yet, child. Let’s just wait for the scouts to carry out their orders.”

  “I’m not a child,” Trudi said.

  “No, I suppose you’re not,” Childebrand said, “at least not to most of these boys. But to me, you’ll always be my niece.” He softened his tone. “This is an army, Trudi, not a hunting party. If you are going to dress like a warrior, you should act like one. Nobody goes off like that unless they are ordered to. And nobody does any ordering save your brother, Gunther, and me.”

  Trudi’s angry stare softened under his gaze. “I’m sorry, Uncle,” she said.

  “We’ll hear soon enough. And we’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  ***

  It took just more than an hour for one of the scouts to return. It was Arnot. Pippin had always liked the man. He spoke little, traveled well, and had the uncanny ability of going unnoticed.