Anvil of God

by J. Boyce Gleason

  “So you think I should just declare for Theudoald?”

  Greta nodded her head. “I’m just repeating what everyone else is saying.”

  “Well, stop it.” Carloman began to pace. He could not stand the thought of Theudoald being mayor of Neustria. The man was an ass. Carloman hated his lace collars and lace cuffs. Carloman hated his presumption. He hated the condescending airs and affected manners. He had been stunned by the support the nobles had shown Theudoald so far. Theudoald had never joined them on campaign, had never once defended the kingdom. Now the church was supporting Theudoald. It was a slap to his father’s face. It was a slap to his.

  “You know, he’s really not so bad,” Greta said.

  “Who?”

  “Theudoald. He is very well educated. Distinguished, gray hair. He writes. He speaks several languages.”

  “You’ve spoken with him?”

  “It’s hard not to. He’s everywhere I go. And he is very good looking.”

  “Are you in jest? If you are seen with him, the court will think you are my intermediary. It’s no wonder that the nobles believe it is already decided.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Carloman. This isn’t my doing.”

  “He will not be mayor.” Carloman seethed. “He will not.” He slapped the table. Vessels with lotions and creams lifted off its thin wooden top and came down again with a clatter.

  Greta rose from the table, straightened the collar on his robe. Her touch reassured him. “I’m sorry, love,” she said.

  His anger, however, wouldn’t abate. “If I pick Gripho, there will be fighting right here in the streets of Paris. And I’m not sure that I’ll have the resources to defeat Theudoald. If I pick Theudoald, I’ll have the treasure, but there will be civil war from one end of the kingdom to the other.”

  Greta started to kiss him softly and repeatedly on his cheek and neck.

  “The man’s a buffoon,” Carloman said. “I cannot believe he has such support.”

  “It is his hair,” Greta said into his neck. “He has nice hair.”

  “Do you mock me?” Carloman grabbed her by the arms and shook her. Her cheeks blotched red. Carloman was surprised at the sense of satisfaction this gave him. He wondered what had made him want to wound her pride so. She looked up into his eyes for a long moment and then sighed. She crossed the room, found a flagon of wine, and returned with a goblet for him.

  “I’m sorry, love,” she said. “I should have left you to your prayers. It’s just that … I’ve been so alone these last days.”

  Carloman struggled to comprehend.

  “Sunni’s gone, so is Bertrada, so are Pippin and Gripho and Charles,” she said. “And you are either preoccupied by Boniface or your prayers. There’s been little room left for me.”

  He stood before her, wondering how he had gotten so angry and why it had left him so quickly. A gap now stood between them.

  “I’m sorry, too,” he said. “I shouldn’t have gotten so angry. I’ll go to Hélène’s ‘gathering.’ But I’m not interested in Eileen’s assessment of Drogo’s skills with a sword.”

  “I knew you were listening,” she said, hugging him. When she let him go, she stayed in his arms and playfully pressed her body against him. He put his arms around her, and she kissed him on the lips, and her eyelids lowered. When she spoke, her voice was low and whispery.

  “You were getting ready for bed, weren’t you?”

  Startled by her quick change in emotion, Carloman could do little more than nod.

  “Well, perhaps I can help you with that,” she said, reaching for his robe. She slid it off his shoulders and let it sink to the floor and began to pull his shift over his head. This required her to stand on her toes to reach over his shoulders. As she did so, she let her breasts push into his chest and touched her lips to the side of his neck.

  He should have felt something. A quickening of pulse, an ache to touch her, heat where her skin had touched his, something. Confused, he took her into his arms and kissed her mouth. He watched his hands caress her body and struggle against the clasps and ties that kept her clothes in place. He watched as her kisses became more urgent. He watched as she pulled herself from her clothes, letting them fall to her feet while her hands traveled his body and her mouth kissed his nipples. She ground her pubis into him.

  Nothing stirred. He threw himself into their embrace, but his body remained detached. She pushed him back against the bed. She untied his pantaloons. Her mouth descended on him, her head rising and falling with him between her lips.

  High above her, he looked away. He felt her hesitate and then start anew. Again he felt her pause, this time longer. She rocked back on her heels and used her hand to try and pump life into him. Carloman’s cheeks flushed. She stopped altogether.

  He lay naked on the bed with his pantaloons around his ankles. His penis lay long and flaccid on his thigh. She looked up at him, her eyes still hooded with lust. Then she, too, looked away.

  Kissing him lightly on the tip of his penis, she rose to her feet. Circling the bed, she returned to her table, sat naked in the chair, and took up her brush. She began to stroke it through her hair in long, languid strokes.

  “I think I’ll wear my blue dress to Hélène’s tomorrow night,” she said. “You know, the one with the white collar? I think it will look nice with those earrings you gave me and the boots I bought today.”

  Carloman lay inert on the bed for several moments before rising to his feet to put his clothes away. Drawing on a nightshirt, he said, “Yes, that would be lovely.”

  ***

  Liutbrand waved away the fly. This late in the year, the insect was hesitant and slow. The king of the Lombards was tempted to catch it in his hand and crush it for its impudence. At the moment, however, he was preoccupied. He let the creature escape.

  He was ready to leave. He had been in Paris too long, with too little to show for it. Although he had a commitment from Carloman that Aistulf’s betrothed would return, he had seen no evidence to assuage his doubt. A messenger brought news of Pippin, but Liutbrand doubted the account of Trudi’s disappearance. It was too convenient. Given her performance the night before she left, Liutbrand was convinced that the story of her abduction was a lie. Her reluctance for the match with Aistulf was obvious. Pippin’s support for her was also painfully clear. He had hoped for more from his adopted son. It was time to leave.

  Carloman had, of course, attempted to placate his concerns. Twice he had let the young man persuade him to stay longer in Paris, awaiting Trudi’s return. Liutbrand liked the pragmatic young man. Carloman had a gift for strategy. He understood consequences. His only flaw was his slavish devotion to his faith. It would be his undoing. Pippin had no such predilection; Liutbrand chuckled to himself. His only predilections were for women and winning. That boy was all instinct, a pure fighter.

  Liutbrand shook his head. Trudi was the key to his plans. With the pope under his protection, Liutbrand could already exert influence over the Church and all its holdings. By linking his heirs with Charles’s progeny, he placed the Lombards in line to inherit Charles’s legacy. With boldness and luck, his family could rule the continent within two generations. Trudi’s children would be in direct line for succession. With the Merovingians so weak, his grandson could even be king of the Franks. His plan could survive without Trudi, but it would require waiting another generation, maybe two. Liutbrand was too old to wait that long.

  He sent for Aistulf.

  When his son arrived, Liutbrand closed the door behind him and motioned for Aistulf to take a chair. Instead, Aistulf casually walked to the window.

  “How may I be of assistance, Father?” his son asked.

  “I’m going home,” Liutbrand said.

  That seemed to get his son’s attention. “And I’m not?”

  “I want you to find your future wife and bring her back to the peninsula.”

  “Ah, yes, Father, your grand plan. And if Charles’s warrior princess refuses to
come?”

  “It isn’t up to her to decide. Take the bulk of our military contingent, find her, and bring her home. I’ve got other things to do.”

  The young man’s eyebrows lifted.

  “I’m going to Rome,” Liutbrand said. “My agreement with Charles and Carloman was Trudi’s hand in exchange for my restraint. Until she shows her face in our court, I’m not inclined to be restrained when it comes to invading Rome.”

  “You’re willing to risk a war with them?” Aistulf’s eyes returned to the window.

  Liutbrand grunted. Sometimes his son could be so detached. “There is no risk. Carloman hasn’t got the troops or the time to deal with us. He needs everything he has just to hold onto the kingdom. You take care of getting Trudi. I’ll take care of the pope.

  “We’ll leave together,” Liutbrand told his son, “pay our respects to our host, and ride out by the southern road. Once outside the city, I go south, you go east. The messenger said Pippin was in Reims. Start there and find her.”

  Aistulf made no response.

  Liutbrand’s eyes began to blink rapidly. “What is it?”

  Aistulf turned to him. “Why we are wasting our time on these barbarians? It is inconceivable that they are as important as you think. For centuries, the only threat to our power on the peninsula was the emperor in Constantinople. Yet here you are casting our lot with these,” Aistulf crinkled his face with disdain, “glorified peasants.”

  Liutbrand started to speak, but Aistulf cut him off.

  “You know the type of people we’re dealing with. When was the last time you saw anyone interrupt a funeral to spit on the corpse?” Aistulf shook his head.

  “And have you taken a good look at Charles’s daughter? I’ll grant you that there is something dynamic about the girl, but she dresses in armor! It’s as if she is going to do battle with the next man she sees.

  “She will never fit in at court. And if I force her to come with me, she will skewer me in the night while I sleep. It was intolerable that you dragged me to this pigsty from the peninsula in the first place. Now you want me to rope in the sow and bring her home to court.” He shuddered.

  “Grow up, boy.” Aistulf’s face reddened. “This is not about wedded bliss. This is about power.”

  “Am I to rape her to produce your heirs?” Aistulf asked.

  Liutbrand stood very still. He let his silence speak for his anger. When he finally did speak, his voice was a menacing whisper.

  “She is the key to hegemony. Find her. Bring her back.” When Aistulf attempted to interrupt, Liutbrand slammed his hand down on the table.

  “She has been promised! Hiltrude may be unwilling, but she’s not stupid. She is the daughter of Charles Martel. She understands power. Marry her, and the Roman Empire will be restored. Your son may be king of the Franks as well as king of the Lombards. Bring her back, and Hiltrude will become your wife and the mother of your children. But first, you must find her.”

  Aistulf reddened, bowed formally, and left the room.

  “Good boy,” Liutbrand said. “Good boy.”

  ***

  It took three flights of stairs to reach the guest rooms at the rectory of St. Denis. Bishop Wido was out of breath and sweating by the time he reached the landing. His short legs had made the ascent particularly difficult, but his need was urgent. He banged on the door to the quarters given to Bishop Aidolf.

  “Yes?” Aidolf’s muffled voice called.

  “They are seeking to completely undermine the enclave.” Wido burst into the room. “They have gotten side agreements from Gairhard and three other bishops for—”

  He stopped in his tracks.

  Bishop Aidolf stood at the center of the room, stark naked, sinking his penis into the anus of a young man of twenty bent before him. Aidolf’s eyes were glazed, half closed in lust. The shock of his naked flesh held Wido stunned. The man was incredibly fit, and despite Wido’s best intentions, he stared openly at the man’s penis. He was stunned by its size. It took him a moment to realize that Aidolf had stopped midthrust. When Wido finally met Aidolf’s eyes, the bishop stared back with disdain. He began pushing himself once more into the young man.

  With an effort, Wido regained his composure and turned his back on the lurid display.

  “So they aren’t so easily intimidated,” Aidolf said. Wido could hear the sound of flesh slapping flesh. As Aidolf spoke, the pace increased.

  “No … no, they aren’t,” Wido croaked. “They are coming to the enclave to reject our ultimatum. They believe they have enough support without us.”

  “They’re wrong,” Aidolf said. A low groan escaped from his paramour.

  “Please, pull yourself out of that man,” Wido said. “This is hardly proper.”

  The only response he received was heavy breathing.

  Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, Wido wiped the sweat from his brow. He didn’t know what to do. He wanted to leave but needed Aidolf’s support. He heard a gasp behind him that was quickly followed by a clenched groan. After that, he heard nothing. When Aidolf appeared at his side, he was still naked. He took the handkerchief from Wido’s hand and wiped off his penis.

  “I need a drink,” he said to Wido. “Want one?”

  “Yes.” Wido was drained. “Yes, I believe I would.”

  Aidolf walked across the room to a table filled with liquors as his young man scurried from the room. Aidolf poured himself a goblet of an amber liquid and a second for Wido.

  “What I don’t understand about you, Wido, is that you were always Charles’s man. Why switch sides? What has Theudoald promised you?”

  Wido took a long pull from the drink in his hand. It burned on the way down. He was relieved that Aidolf had picked up a robe to put on. He took his time, however, shrugging into it. Wido forced himself to look away from the man’s nakedness. He knew Aidolf was trying to intimidate him. Unfortunately, the man was succeeding.

  “Who could stand up to Charles?” Wido said. His voice sounded shrill even to him. This wasn’t going well. He took another drink that burned less this time and started again. “I was a joke to Charles,” he said, looking into his cup. “He called me ‘Bishop Dwarf.’ And while he let it be widely known that he took me hunting, what most people didn’t know is that he made me carry his spears. He never took me seriously and never stopped raiding the coffers of St. Wandrille. He took our land, our wealth, and our resources. The humiliation never stopped.

  “Theudoald, on the other hand, calls me ‘friend.’ He treats me with respect. Nothing,” he looked up at Aidolf with hard eyes, “nothing would make me happier than to see him displace Charles’s sons.”

  “So it is personal,” Aidolf said with a smile. “Revenge is my favorite of motives. What is it then that you want from me?”

  “The bishops are afraid of you. You must bring them into line.”

  “Are you going to threaten me again?”

  Wido’s face reddened.

  “You were astute to recognize my vulnerability,” Aidolf said, waving toward the door through which the acolyte had disappeared. “I can’t afford for Boniface to interfere with my passions. He has the pope’s ear, as you know. But you underestimate me, Wido.” His voice had gone cold and hard. “Threaten me again, and you will understand what revenge can really mean.

  “You are fortunate that I agree with your strategy. I have no interest in helping Charles’s sons. The weaker they are, the stronger we will be. We will put a Merovingian on the throne. That much is certain. If we can make Theudoald mayor of Neustria, so much the better. Now, my little Bishop Dwarf.” He leaned over Wido. “I trust that your investigation on behalf of that hypocrite Gairhard will result in nothing?”

  “It might help if your monks were more discreet,” Wido said, stiffening against the threat.

  Aidolf smiled. “Oh, we will be discreet,” he said. “Of that you can be assured, but what of you, my small friend? I noticed your intense interest in my initiation of that young acolyt
e. Perhaps you would care to join us next time?” As he spoke, Aidolf’s robe parted, and Wido could see the white of the man’s penis dangling in the darkness.

  Wido’s stomach clenched, and his face flushed red. He stood frozen while the heat from Aidolf’s body wafted toward him. Aidolf opened his robe further and took hold of his penis and began to stroke the length of it. Stumbling backward, Wido tore his eyes from the sight and fled the room.

  He heard Aidolf’s laugh follow him down all three flights of stairs.

  ***

  Carloman had never felt comfortable around Lady Hélène. The widow of a prominent Austrasian nobleman, she was now in her thirties, lived in Paris, and was most notable for throwing lavish parties. Carloman had been to several of her soirées, and this one was no different. There was good Burgundy wine and even a flagon or two from Bordeaux that she had reserved for him and Greta.

  But he always found Hélène odd. She was beautiful in a mysterious way. She had piercing blue eyes, which was rare except among the Saxons. Her hair was dark brown, but closely cropped, which was never in fashion. She had a slight accent that was hard to place. To Carloman, it had echoes of Aquitaine. Widowed for four or five years, she had never taken an interest in another man, though many had tried to court her.

  Greta had once told him that Hélène was rumored to be having an affair with Charles. There certainly had been a connection between them, but Carloman refused to believe it was sexual. When Charles and Sunni were together, they exuded sexuality. Charles and Hélène were something different. Exactly what, he had never figured out.

  As he circulated through her apartments, he ran into several noblemen and knights he had needed to see. For that, at least, the night was not a complete waste of time. He was feeling cheered after hearing Boniface’s news that Bishop Gairhard had agreed to petition his fellow bishops to reconsider supporting Theudoald as mayor. Carloman was confident that with three or more bishops siding with them, they would have enough gold and troops to gain the conclave’s support and settle the question of succession.