Anvil of God

by J. Boyce Gleason

  Without so much as a glance, Gripho turned his horse and his back on the man to address the congregation.

  “All able-bodied men present will come with me at once.”

  Some rose to their feet. “Where are you taking us?” one asked.

  “Just get in line,” Gripho said.

  A man bolted for the door only to face drawn swords. The priest stormed in front of Gripho, grabbing the reins of his horse.

  “Take your men from here at once. You will not interrupt the holy mass.”

  Gripho signaled for the men in the congregation to continue and leaned down to address the priest. A knife appeared in his hand, and it went to the priest’s throat. “Do you know me?”

  The priest’s eyes grew wide at the blade.

  “Do you know me?” Gripho insisted. The priest hesitated, clearly not knowing.

  “I am mayor,” Gripho said. “Never tell me what to do, priest. I am sick of you robe-wearers thinking you serve a higher power. I am the higher power. I am the law. Never make that mistake again.” He put away his knife. “Let’s move along there,” he called to the men in the congregation. A well-dressed man near the front of the congregation was trying to say good-bye to his wife. He put a fat purse in her hands and gave her instructions about their house. “Now!” Gripho interrupted them. The man scrambled for the line.

  As the two-dozen men filed from the church in two lines, flanked by riders on either side, Gripho followed them out, thinking how much he liked being in command.

  “Devil!” the priest shouted after him.

  Gripho turned his horse to look back at the priest and smiled.

  ***

  Heden has done well, Sunni thought as she finished making a tour of the battlements. She was amazed at the progress he had made in preparing for the siege. Approaches to the city were blocked, battlements fortified, troops garrisoned, and stores stored. She hoped that it all would prove unnecessary but was impressed that Heden was so well prepared.

  She found him on a rampart with Odilo, looking down over the plain. A map drawn on sheepskin lay unfurled between them. They nodded to her briefly and returned their attention to the map.

  “I’ve already sent sorties to requisition food here, here, and here,” Heden said, pointing. “Carloman won’t find an egg within a day’s ride.”

  “How about the cattle?” Odilo asked.

  “They should start arriving here during the next two days.” Heden smiled. “Although I must say, I’ve become quite unpopular among the local population.”

  “And the wells?”

  “It’s too early to poison them. We’ll wait until our scouts bring word of his army. We don’t even know if Carloman is definitely coming.”

  “Oh, he’s coming,” Sunni said.

  “You have word?” Odilo asked.

  Sunni kissed her uncle on the cheek. “None,” she said. After an exchange of looks, Sunni added, “I’ve heard nothing about Trudi either.”

  “You’ve done well, old man,” Odilo told Heden. Heden bowed to acknowledge the compliment.

  “How long can you stay?” Sunni asked.

  “I must leave,” Odilo answered. “I’ve sent word to the Frisians and the Alemannians. If Carloman does war against Gripho, there must be a response.”

  “Your presence here would be significant,” Heden said.

  “We’d just be more mouths to feed.” Odilo smiled, clapping Heden’s shoulder. “You have more than you need to defend Laon. What you need is a diversion. If the rest of the kingdom rebels, Carloman can’t sit here in siege for long. He’ll have to respond.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Sunni said. “Everything hangs in the balance.”

  “Milady?” a voice called from the bottom of the stairs. “Milady!”

  The disheveled head of the Compte de Laon appeared on the stairs and was quickly followed by the rest of him. He was a plump man with large jowls and a puffy face. Although slightly out of breath, he quickly straightened his coat to restore a modest degree of dignity. He bowed to Odilo and then to Heden before continuing.

  “My good Compte,” Sunni said.

  “Milady, this situation is growing intolerable,” the Compte said. “When I welcomed you to Laon, I had no idea that this, this foreigner would be commanding my troops and taking control of my city. We have citizens being conscripted into service, and the surrounding towns and villages stripped of their cattle and food stores. These people won’t have enough food to survive the winter.”

  “My good Compte,” Sunni interrupted, in an effort to placate the man. But once started, the Compte would not be so easily deterred.

  “Your man here,” he indicated Heden, “has turned the city into an armed camp. He has put in place curfews, limited merchants’ ability to sell their wares, and displaced families from their homes to house his soldiers. Are we at war? If so, the news hasn’t reached my ears.”

  “No war has been declared, Compte,” Sunni said. “However, the risk of one is very high. My apologies for involving your fair city in this, but the die is cast. Our success is now your success. If Carloman breaks with my son over his rights to succeed their father, we could be under siege within a week.” Sunni’s eyes bored into the red-faced Compte. “Have you ever lived through a siege?”

  The Compte shook his head.

  “This man has.” She indicated Heden. “And you would do well to support him in his preparations.”

  Heden described for the Compte the rigorous steps necessary for defending the city: the storage and rationing of food and supplies inside the walls; the spoiling of resources Carloman might find outside them; the spikes outside the gates to slow Carloman’s attack, the archers on the wall to thin his ranks, and for close-in work, the burning tar, cinders, and rocks needed to pour over the walls.

  As Heden spoke, the price of defending Gripho’s claim came to life around her. Sunni saw hundreds dying of hunger and disease behind blockaded walls as catapults and rock-throwers pummeled Laon’s defenses. She saw the walls breached and thousands more slaughtered in relentless attacks to take the city, bodies heaped outside the wall as defenders poured flaming pitch and cinders over the ramparts. She paled at the cost.

  “Once into the breach, there is no way back,” Heden was saying. “You either win or die. The fighting is ferocious. Men who survive—they rape, kill, and steal without remorse. No one is spared. Carloman will wait for a day or two, to ensure the appetites of his men are sated, and then enter the city to restore order.” Heden looked at the Compte with deadly serious eyes. “That’s what you should be worrying about, Compte.”

  The Compte’s face flushed.

  “Can’t you just fight him?” he asked.

  “No,” Sunni said. “He has too many men. Our best bet is to stay here.”

  The Compte stared out onto the plain below them and took a long moment to gather his composure. He straightened his coat and faced Sunni squarely.

  “Although it has been many years, milady, I am no stranger to combat. I fought with Charles against Ragomfred. My brother was killed at Charles’s side. I know the costs of war. But I beg you to reconsider, milady. This fight is between you and Carloman. Leave the people of this city out of it. The cost to them will be high whether you win or lose. There must be a way to negotiate.”

  Sunni looked to him with compassion. Perhaps it was because he was Bertrada’s father, and she knew she had put him in a delicate position. No one knew where Pippin stood. But she had heard the truth in his words. “If there is, I will find it,” she said. “But until then, I must have your help and support.”

  “I am sworn by your late husband to protect these people. I will honor my pledge. You will have whatever support I can find.”

  “I understand there has been some resistance to our requests for men,” Heden said.

  “Perhaps if you didn’t send armed men into church during mass to conscript soldiers, you might find less resistance” replied the Compte.

 
; Sunni raised an eyebrow.

  “No offense, milady,” the Compte continued, “but your son has made a habit of impressing men during mass. Our priest has taken great offense to his violation of the church’s sanctity.”

  “I can assure you that such behavior will stop,” she said.

  “Thank you, milady.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “Yes, I believe there is,” the Compte said, turning to Heden. “If there is to be a siege, might we not evacuate the women and young children? It would cut down on the number of mouths to feed.”

  “I agree. The elderly and sick can go, too,” Sunni said.

  “I will send word about time and place,” Heden said, frowning. “All departures must be orderly and controlled. I will not tolerate panic. No able men will be allowed to leave, and no one will take their belongings or food. My men will inspect everyone leaving. You will have two days. No more.”

  The Compte bowed and turned to go. Just as his head was about to disappear down the stairs, he turned to address Sunni one more time.

  “Milady, for the sake of us all, if there is a way to avoid this siege, I beg that you find it.”

  “You have my word,” Sunni said.

  With a quick nod to Heden and Odilo, he turned and disappeared down the stairs.

  “I’d watch that one,” Odilo said.

  She nodded but thought he might be the only sane one among them.

  ***

  Father Martin genuflected before the tabernacle and hurriedly touched his right fingertips to his forehead, his sternum, and his two shoulders. Muttering to himself, he made his way to the confessional at the back of the church. While serving under Monsignor Beaulieu had its merits, the sacrament of confession was not one of them. The monsignor had made it clear from the beginning that he refused to hear confession, leaving it to Father Martin to carry twice the load. Father Martin hated confession. Listening to one parishioner after another recount one sin after another had become an unholy burden to him.

  At first, he had enjoyed the discreet window into the souls of his congregation. Knowing their secrets, knowing their lusts and lies, had a euphoric effect on him. He had felt powerful for the first time in his life. But the feeling of power soon gave way to the burden of responsibility for those secrets. And the burden eventually gave way to the boredom at their repetition. One lust led to another as surely as one lie spawned a second. He hated his parishioners’ pettiness. He hated their greed. Most of all, he hated the never-ending repetition. No matter how many times he had counseled repentance and been reassured that they would not sin again, they always did. No wonder that Monsignor Beaulieu avoided the duty.

  A line of parishioners wound its way from the confessional along the far wall of the church, down to the fourth station of the cross. It was far more people than he expected for the middle of the week. Typically he would have seven or eight parishioners. There must have been thirty or more lining the wall, clutching rosary beads, and mumbling their Hail Marys. He hadn’t noticed that they all were women until he opened the confessional door. Looking from face to face along the line, he saw that they were, to a person, afraid.

  “What is going on here?” he asked an old woman who stood first in line. “What has happened?”

  “They’re taking out the women and children,” the woman said. She was heavily wrinkled and had but three teeth in the front of her mouth. “For the siege, Father. We’re leaving, come morning. The men, they’re staying.”

  A chill ran down Father Martin’s spine. He had heard talk about a siege when he went to complain about the interruption of his mass. He had discounted it as rumor, of course. Civil war in Neustria had been unknown for over a generation. It was a thing of the past. Everyone said so. Besides, the succession had gone smoothly. Charles had three sons. The kingdom had been divided and the nobles pledged. What could cause a civil war? Father Martin could think of no good reason. Yet if they were evacuating the people …

  He had been horrified to learn that the knight who had invaded his church had indeed been one of Charles’s sons, the “boy mayor.” He could still see the malevolence in the young man’s eyes. They held no fear, no remorse. It was as if he enjoyed the confrontation. A trickle of sweat ran down the back of Father Martin’s neck.

  He was desperate to ask what the old woman knew about the evacuation plans. Were priests to be included? He prayed it would be so. Maybe he could offer to minister to those being relocated? He would ask the monsignor. He knew he should be reassuring his frightened parishioners, but all he could manage at the time was a thin smile for their benefit. He tried to hide the slight tremble in his hands by putting them behind his back.

  Muttering something about the evacuation being “a precaution,” he opened the door to the confessional and entered the small chamber the monsignor called “the box.” He sat heavily on the wooden seat built into the back of the confessional, leaned forward, and pulled open the small window to the compartment next to him. He placed his head in his hand and sighed.

  “Yes, my child,” he said.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” the supplicant, said. “It has been three days since my last confession.”

  A loud crash interrupted them. It sounded like the huge oak door of the church had fallen off its hinges. Father Martin could hear a flurry of movement and gasps outside the confessional box. He started to excuse himself so that he could go investigate when a second crash sounded. Father Martin stood and reached for the door.

  “Priest!” a harsh and threatening voice called. “Prieeeeesst!”

  Father Martin’s hand froze at the door. He knew that voice. It had haunted him since the day the boy mayor had entered his church on horseback.

  “Where are you, priest?”

  Father Martin could hear his parishioners scurrying away from the confessional. He could hear Gripho’s steps drawing near. Father Martin’s hand started to shake. He began to pray. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

  The head of an ax splintered through the door of the confessional inches from his face. Father Martin stared at the curved edge of the ax dumbly as if its presence made no sense. The ax head twisted in the door and disappeared. Father Martin peered through the crack only to see the ax fall again. He jumped to the back of the confessional just before the door exploded.

  “There you are,” Gripho said. His features were young, and his frame was short, but the boy’s body was massive. With one hand, he grabbed Father Martin by the collar and dragged him out of the confessional. The priest scrambled to gain his feet, but the young knight’s grip held him down. He was being dragged to the front to the church. Once there, the boy mayor dropped him at the foot of the altar.

  “No, please,” the priest whimpered, hiding his face. “Please.”

  Gripho kicked him in the head. The blow caught him on the temple, and bright flashes crowded Father Martin’s sight. When they disappeared, the priest found himself staring up the length of a long blade. Its point rested against the soft spot at the base of his neck. He started to cry.

  “Shut up, priest,” the boy mayor said. “Did I not say that I am the law? Did you think that running to that pitiful Compte de Laon could protect you from me?” He let the weight of the blade sink into the soft flesh of Father Martin’s neck. The priest felt the tip of the blade puncture his skin, and his bowels released. A moment later, he fainted.

  When he awoke, Gripho was gone. Lying back against the cool of the floor, Father Martin thanked God for his life. He touched the place on his neck were the sword had cut him. Although his fingers came away with blood, he knew he was not seriously injured. Gripho had only meant to frighten him.

  Father Martin decided to speak to Monsignor Beaulieu about ministering to those being evacuated. The thought of being imprisoned inside a city under siege with that monster was more than he could take. He would have to find a way to le
ave.

  Struggling to his feet, he found the church empty. He was relieved that no one had witnessed his humiliation. The smell of his own waste assaulted his nostrils. Disgusted, he turned toward the door that led to the sacristy. It wasn’t until he reached the door that he also smelled smoke. It was a subtle smell. He almost hadn’t caught it.

  Frantically, he searched for its source. He found his answer behind him on the altar. A lit candle lay on its side, fueling flames that rose lazily from the altar cloth. They rolled along the length of the altar and licked the wooden reredos that rose behind it. The flames began to curl through its ornate, hand-chiseled wood lattice, surrounding the cross and the statues of the Virgin Mary and Michael the Archangel in halos of flame.

  Father Martin began to panic. The Holy Eucharist! Already transformed into the body of Christ, he could not let it burn. He ran to the altar, fumbling for the key to the tabernacle. Ignoring the flames around him, he inserted the key into the latch that locked the two small wooden doors housing the Eucharist. Springing the lock, he threw open the doors and thrust both hands into the dark enclosure.

  He found the chalice that held the Eucharist, just as the flames leapt to the sleeves of his cassock. In a second, both were aflame. Screaming, he reeled backward, holding the chalice aloft. The flames flew up his arms until they engulfed his hands and swirled around the chalice. He stared at his arms in disbelief. Despite his pain, he was transfixed. A sign from God. He was sure of it.

  He heard a gust of wind blowing next to him and turned to see the entire reredos plume into flame. In seconds, it spread to the wall and up to the ceiling. The church was on fire. Father Martin did the only thing he could think to do. He ran.

  ***

  Buried in her maps, Sunni barely heard the knock at her door.

  “Come in,” she called without looking up.

  The commotion at the door, however, required her attention. Standing, she investigated and found the door partially open with only a man’s buttocks backing their way into her chamber. Fortunately, she thought to herself, he’s fully clothed.