Anvil of God

by J. Boyce Gleason

  She had expected to inquire after the constable of Reims to locate Pippin. Although it was not a large city, she thought it would take some effort to track him down. But there in the middle of the courtyard just inside the gate stood Pippin. Gunther was to one side giving orders to men from the city garrison. Childebrand stood nearby, reviewing maps on a small table. A long line of people snaked through the courtyard waiting to speak with him. And there were armed men everywhere. Even from this distance, Bertrada could tell Pippin was angry.

  She led her companions to the table and waited for him to finish. The news from the courier required his full attention.

  “And you did nothing?” Pippin queried a short, balding man with a medallion that named him as Charles’s emissary.

  “Please understand, my lord,” the emissary said. “We have only a small garrison here. We could not stand up to such numbers. I spoke with the city’s elders, and the consensus was to accommodate them as best we could until they moved on.”

  “And your accommodations include allowing murder and rape?”

  “Until today, there were no such problems.” The emissary shook his head. “No one was murdered. There was no bloodshed. I will admit that, on occasion, a few of the local girls from the countryside received the gentlemen’s attention.” The emissary lowered his voice in confidence. “But you must agree that such behavior would not require our intervention. As noblemen, one should expect to see a certain amount of droit du seigneur.” His eyebrows arched, seeking agreement. When he received none from Pippin, he looked insulted. “You can hardly expect us to have interceded!”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” Pippin ripped the emissary’s medallion from his neck. “You are relieved.” Surprised, the man hesitated, looking for further instruction. Pippin simply said, “Go.”

  “Of course, my lord.” The former emissary bowed, and Pippin turned away.

  Seeing Bertrada, Pippin abandoned the line of waiting nobles. He kissed her, but his eyes fixed on the horseman who had accompanied her, a messenger from Charles’s court. “Do you have something for me?”

  The messenger nodded but made no move for his pouch. He looked away, as if something on the horizon held his attention. Then he looked to Bertrada, fidgeting with the reins in his hands.

  She stepped forward and put her hand on Pippin’s chest. “Charles is dead, Pippin. He died the morning after we left Quierzy.”

  Pippin’s eyes flickered but never left the messenger. When he did finally return her gaze, his eyes plead for refutation. When she offered none, he looked away. Like the messenger before him, his eyes searched the horizon. Underneath her hand, Bertrada felt his body coil and flex.

  “Give it to me.” Pippin held out his hand to the messenger without looking at him. The man handed him the sealed letter. Pippin took it, stared down at the familiar seal, but made no move to break it. Looking up, his eyes sought out Childebrand. The older man’s one eye looked down on his nephew sympathetically. He put his hand on Pippin’s shoulder and took the envelope from his hands.

  “We must go back, Pippin,” Bertrada said, filling the silence. “I know you wanted to leave all that behind. I know you wanted to start over in Burgundy. But this changes things. We have to go back.”

  “I can’t,” he said.

  “You must,” Bertrada said. “Carloman needs you. Your presence is expected.”

  “Trudi’s been taken,” he said, color creeping into his face. He took Bertrada’s arm and walked to the edge of the courtyard to recount the events of the night. Her eyes filled when he told her what had been done to the peasant women. They widened in alarm when he described finding the two bodies outside the inn with no trace of his sister. “We shut the gates and searched house by house until we were sure that none of the bandits remained inside the city walls. A large party was seen taking the road south toward Châlon sur Marne. I’m readying the men to give chase.” He looked back at the horizon. “They can only be half a day ahead.”

  “Find her,” Bertrada said with more heat than she intended. “Bring her back.” Although he nodded, for a sliver of a moment, she saw his anger falter, replaced by a sudden stab of pain and doubt. He looked away, and it was gone. She could have wept then, but Pippin did not have time for grief. “I will wait here for you,” she said.

  “Stay with Childebrand,” he said.

  Gunther had gathered their company at the city’s gates. Several new men from the local garrison filled in for those who had fallen. Pippin returned to speak with Childebrand, ignoring the long line of petitioners. Bertrada watched as the two argued. On several occasions, Pippin gestured toward her. In the end, he proffered Childebrand the emissary’s emblem, which Childebrand, with his head bowed, reluctantly accepted.

  Bertrada watched Pippin mount the horse next to Gunther. Childebrand waved for the guards to open the city’s gates, and Gunther signaled for the party to ride. Pippin took the southern road in a cloud of dust. He did not look back to say good-bye.

  ***

  Carloman prayed. He asked forgiveness of his sins. He asked guidance in his daily trials and blessings on his family. He arrived at the point in his ritual where words should have been unnecessary. But he did not feel the presence of his Savior. His body didn’t flush with fervor. His mind didn’t clear of worldly concerns. For some reason that Carloman could not grasp, the Lord’s holy touch eluded him, leaving him with a vast emptiness where the ecstasy of his faith should have been.

  Carloman lowered his outstretched hand. He let go of the holy relic he wore around his neck, crossed himself, and stood. Maybe tomorrow, he thought. Maybe I’m just too tired today.

  He had moved the court to the family residence in Paris on the Ile de la Cité. Of all the residences, this was his favorite since it was where he had spent the best moments of his youth. There was a monastery across the Seine, St. Germain des Prés, where he had received his first communion and was married. Early each morning, he rose and, surrounded by Johann and his knights, made the short pilgrimage across the bridge and along the river to the church. There, he attended mass and then returned to conduct the business of the day.

  For days now, he had been meeting with Neustrian nobles, trying to shore up support against a challenge from Theudoald. Ragomfred and Maurice had been very busy and very clever in undermining the basis for his succession. By echoing Hunoald’s call for the elevation of a Merovingian king, they provided a convenient excuse to nobles who didn’t want to give their allegiance to Carloman. And the idea was gaining support.

  Nary a friend among the Franks, Carloman thought ruefully.

  Everywhere Carloman went, people were talking about Hunoald’s renouncement. It had plagued him now for days. Division among the Frankish nobles implied weakness. It invited discussion. It legitimized dissension and alternative proposals.

  “Damn him!” Carloman said aloud, surprising himself. Realizing he was still in church, he hurriedly made the sign of the cross and started back to the Île de la Cité. His walk was brisk. Images of Waifar spitting into his father’s face haunted him. He could still see the spittle on Charles’s forehead. He could see Hunoald’s stump extending toward him like a sword as the Gasçon renounced him. Hunoald will die, thought Carloman. Waifar as well.

  Surrounded by Johann and his Knights in Christ, Carloman crossed the bridge onto the Île de la Cité and turned right toward the residential compound. It was time to talk to Sunni, he thought. He had seldom seen her since the funeral; she had been campaigning to gain support among the Neustrian nobles. Using a distant family tie to Charles’s stepmother, Plectrude, Sunni had rallied nobles against Theudoald’s claim with appeals of her own.

  Carloman had spent much of his time since the funeral focusing on gaining ecclesiastical support. He had moved quickly to put the plan he and Boniface had crafted into place. God knew, he needed a show of support. He had Boniface ask the bishops attending Charles’s funeral to stay in Paris. A conclave was offered to discuss increase
d Church support in exchange for confiscated church land. Bishop Aidolf of Auxerre had agreed to come. So had the bishops from St. Denis and Rouen. Carloman was not sure that it would be enough. He prayed it would be.

  Greta was at the gate waiting for him. For a woman in her late twenties, she carried herself like a queen. Several women stood with her, chatting casually, clearly enjoying the morning sun. There was not a guard in sight. Carloman turned on Johann, fury in his eyes. The young blond knight was already moving knights into place to protect Greta.

  “Good morning, my love,” Greta called to Carloman.

  “Greta, you must not leave the residence without a guard.”

  She made a show of examining her spot just inside the gate. “But I haven’t left the residence.” She laughed. Carloman frowned. She enjoyed mocking him in front of her friends.

  “Please, Greta, there is danger. Remember—”

  “Yes, yes. I know all about your family history,” Greta interrupted. “I just am sick of constantly being under guard. You would think that I was Johann’s prisoner.”

  “Better than someone else’s,” Carloman growled.

  Greta laughed. “You can be so lordly, sometimes, Carloman. Anyway, I’m glad you’re back. You’re just in time to see Sunni off.”

  “Sunni?”

  “Yes, she’s heading back to Quierzy.”

  Carloman was stunned. No one had told him. Again, he turned on his blond protector. “How could I not have been forewarned of this?” he barked.

  “I am sorry, milord. I have no knowledge of it,” Johann said, his eyes furious with embarrassment.

  He turned back to his wife. “I don’t understand.”

  Sunni’s carriage appeared from behind the carriage house. Unlike the cart she had taken from Quierzy, this one was worthy of a queen. A small sitting room on wheels, its black polished wooden doors rode high above wheels as tall as a man. Drawn by six white horses, it bespoke wealth, nobility, and power. Behind the carriage rode Gripho and Odilo with his contingent of Bavarian knights.

  They were an impressive group with their armor clean and their horses well groomed. They sat straight in the saddle and moved with a calm assurance. Only Gripho looked ill at ease.

  The carriage stopped at the gate, and Sunni opened the carriage door and waited for the driver to place a small wooden staircase outside her door so she could descend to greet them.

  “Thank you, Samson,” she said to the driver. She turned her head to Carloman and Greta.

  “How lovely of you two. Thank you so much for seeing me off.”

  “I … uh … didn’t know you were leaving,” Carloman said.

  “It is rather sudden,” Sunni agreed. “But my uncle was leaving for Bavaria and will be traveling the road to Quierzy. He offered to accompany me home. And I have to say, I am ready to go home.”

  Every instinct in Carloman’s body screamed at him not to let her leave. “Yes, I know the feeling,” he said. “But I would like you to stay. There is much to discuss, and I hope when Pippin arrives to better clarify our areas of responsibility.”

  “I’m just going down the road, Carloman.” Sunni chuckled. More soberly, she asked, “Have you heard from Pippin?”

  “No. But he should return any day now.”

  “Come see me when you’re ready, Carloman,” Sunni said. “I’ve been through enough of late.”

  A long silence followed while Carloman thought through his choices. He had no real authority to tell her to stay. Gripho was a mayor in his own right, and she, acting as regent, could decide where and when they came and went. He could not use force. Odilo’s men would stop anything but a full assault, and even a minor one could trigger a civil war. Reason had not worked. He was hamstrung.

  “At least you’re in good company,” he said with a nod to Odilo. The Bavarian nodded in return.

  “Stay close to Quierzy, Sunni,” Carloman said. “Greta and I will be returning soon. Once the conclave is done and Pippin returns, the issue of the challenge will be settled. Then it will be time to talk.”

  “I wish you well, Carloman,” Sunni said, with a sad smile on her face.

  “Fare well, my brother,” Carloman called to Gripho as Sunni regained her seat in the carriage. The boy’s nod was somewhat insolent.

  From his saddle next to Gripho, Odilo called out to him. “Remember what we discussed, Carloman. Keep your family intact.”

  Carloman nodded to the Bavarian. “May honor strengthen your sword, Odilo.”

  “And may truth guide its way, Carloman.”

  Carloman and Johann stood aside to let the procession pass. Twenty Bavarian knights moved in pairs to the gate to lead the black carriage with the high wheels out onto the avenue. Twenty more followed behind. Each pair saluted Carloman with perfect precision as they passed, and Carloman took care to salute them just as precisely in return.

  When they were gone, Carloman noticed that Greta was crying.

  “Why the tears?” he said, putting his arm around her.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I looked into the carriage to wave good-bye to Sunni and saw that she was crying. So I started crying, too.”

  “They’re just down the road,” Carloman said, trying to reassure her. He only wished that there were someone to reassure him.

  ***

  Trudi’s wrists hurt. Struggling to massage the pain there, she found more in her shoulders and her ankles. When she moved, she discovered the pounding in her head. It lanced through her with each jostling of the horse and made her nauseous. She tried to speak, but in the way of dreams, she could not.

  It took several minutes to figure out that she was lying face down across a horse’s back as if she were a sack of flour. Her hands and feet were tied and held together by a rope under the horse’s belly. The only thing she could see was the horse’s flank and the muddy ground that passed under her eyes. She watched it roll by distantly. The ball of cloth stuffed in her mouth made even groaning difficult.

  The gag brought home the reality of her situation. And with that reality came all the horror of her helplessness. She started to panic. Screaming against the cloth in her mouth, she bucked wildly against the horse, trying to throw herself free. Her stomach landed hard on the pommel of the saddle, and pain stabbed through her as the air rushed out of her lungs from her clenching diaphragm.

  She couldn’t breathe. She lay helpless for long moments, struggling to inhale. Her heart pounded in her ears. Blood rushed to her head, and her eyes started to bulge. Just as she began to lose consciousness, her diaphragm loosened in a spurt of pain, and Trudi sucked in air through her nose in long strained draughts. She stopped struggling to free herself, all her attention focused on breathing and staying conscious.

  “I don’t suppose you’ll do that again,” a male voice behind her said. Trudi tried to scream through the cloth gag. He laughed at her.

  They rode for hours. The pain in Trudi’s head stabbed against the back of her eyes. Her wrists chafed raw and started to bleed. Several times, she lost consciousness, always awakening to the shock of her situation. Wracked with pain, she couldn’t help but long for the end of their journey, but she knew instinctively that the night would be worse. She tried not to think of the women of Loivre. When it started to get dark, Trudi began to cry.

  She had fantasies of Odilo coming to her rescue, or Pippin. But each bruising jolt of her horse undermined her hope. She wasn’t even sure that Pippin was alive. The last she had seen of him, he was storming into the inn. What if he was ambushed? What if he had been killed? Her fears rose unchecked within her, and she could not set them aside.

  They rode for hours without stopping. Trudi abandoned herself to the pace and let the pain wash over her. Just before the last light of day disappeared, the party turned off the road. Riding single file, they entered a forest that quickly shut out most of the remaining light. After another half hour of riding, they stopped to make camp. Her horse was tethered to a tree. They left her there. No
one came to untie her. She began to fear they might leave her there all night.

  When they did come for her, two sets of rough hands unbound the cord holding her hands and her feet. She cried out through her gag as the ropes cinched tighter so that the knots could be loosened. They left her wrists bound but undid her ankles. Then with little in the way of care, two men lifted her off the horse and stood her on her feet. Her legs wouldn’t hold her. Grabbing her by the elbows, they dragged her to into the camp.

  Two fires had been lit in the middle of a broad clearing. One large fire stood at the center of the camp, and a second, smaller version, sat at the top of a small incline away from the trail. Both were situated under trees to disperse the smoke from their flames. A crowd had gathered around the larger of the two, where a large pot was cooking stew.

  The two men took her up the incline to the smaller fire. A man lounged there with his back against the tree, staring at the fire. He was alone, pouring wine from a skin into an earthenware cup. Without looking up at the threesome, he waved with the cup hand, gesturing that Trudi be seated near him. He tilted the cup and smelled the wine before he sipped. Then, swirling the liquid around his tongue, he closed his eyes to savor its flavor. The men took off her gag. She spent the next few moments working her tongue and spitting out pieces of cloth.

  What she noticed first was the thin white scar running from his left ear to the left-hand corner of his upper lip. He appeared to be about thirty years old with short dark hair and a tired, worn look about him, like a blade in want of a stone or armor dented from too many blows. His clothes, too, looked disheveled and haphazard. Trudi imagined that they probably looked that way even before the day’s ride.

  When he had finished tasting the wine, his eyes opened, and he set the wine cup down. Only then did he turn to look at Trudi. Her sense of danger soared the minute she saw his eyes. He regarded her as one would an object, an object in which one had little interest.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “My name is Trudi,” she said.