Anvil of God

by J. Boyce Gleason

  Carloman sighed. It was something he would have done. He shook his head remorsefully. “Do you have family?”

  “The church is my family.”

  “Then I will see to it that the church is well compensated to care for your needs.” Before the priest could reject the offer, Carloman held up his hand. “Peace, Father. May God take pity on your pain. I am not your enemy. Though it seems,” he said, turning to the enclave, “that I must become my brother’s keeper.”

  Seeking out Bishop Aidolf, he said, “I leave tomorrow to bring Gripho to justice. Here are my final terms. Whatever men you plan to send should meet me in Quierzy. What gold you plan to give, give now. Those who declare for me will receive the lands we discussed. Those who refuse get nothing. I will deal with the subject of Theudoald when I return.”

  “And the king?” Aidolf asked. “We will not support you without a commitment to restore the Merovingians.”

  Carloman searched the eyes in the room for room to negotiate. He saw little. His eyes flickered over the hideous torso of the priest from Laon.

  “You have my commitment.”

  Bishop Aidolf of Auxerre looked for and gained the silent assent of the enclave. He turned his attention back to Carloman and Boniface. “So you have ours. The enclave is ended. Go with God, Carloman.”

  8

  Trudi and Pippin

  Save for a few short stops to rest, Pippin and his men had not left their saddles since the last day they saw Reims. They were haggard, disgruntled, cold, and frustrated. Pippin had pushed the men far beyond their limits, ignoring their obvious exhaustion. Bradius was just ahead, and until he was caught, Pippin refused to eat and refused to sleep.

  Bradius was clever. Pippin would give him that. The man knew he was being followed. He used the woodlands bordering the southern road to frustrate their search. Repeatedly, Bradius had hidden, backtracked, and laid false trails to fool them. The only consistent thing he did was to move south. And while Bradius had hidden camps with stores of food, Pippin’s men had to scavenge or send men to buy supplies from nearby farmhouses and villages. The bastard stayed just beyond their reach.

  On the fourth day of their search, the afternoon sky turned gray, and the air was heavy and wet. It grew cold and began to rain.

  Pippin caught Gunther’s eye and turned away. They both knew a hard rain would wash away the tracks they were following.

  At first, just a few large drops fell. They landed hard, announcing their presence on impact with a quick staccato sound. After a slight hesitation, the skies opened, and the air became thick with water. With no wind to interrupt its course, the rain fell directly from above, overwhelming everything in its path. Its sound drummed off their armor. Water streamed off the road. In an instant, the trail left by Bradius was gone.

  “Shit,” Gunther said. Pippin turned away from him and rode on.

  ***

  Knowing they were being followed comforted Trudi. Bradius had led the small party south along the river road for most of the day and then doubled back through the wood to throw off pursuit. Someone was coming despite Bradius’s tricks. All she needed to do was wait. Any hour might bring relief.

  It was her second day since the confrontation over her necklace. Bradius had set a relentless pace, taking little time for rest or food. Fortunately, her head had begun to feel better, and the nausea had passed. She also was allowed to ride upright with only her hands tied. Far more important, however, was the fact that Bradius was ignoring her.

  She had been brought to his fire the previous night only to watch him drink with Auguste. She hadn’t said a word. To her relief, the men treated her as if she didn’t exist. She had survived the night untouched.

  In the saddle, her fantasies of rescue grew ever more elaborate: Odilo descending on her captors to save her; Odilo and his men waiting in the brush to ambush them; Odilo and his men barring the road to meet Bradius in a frontal assault. Always it was Odilo who won the confrontation, and always it was Odilo who took her in his arms. She imagined his kiss, the press of his body, the rich smell of him.

  In late afternoon, they camped. As before, Bradius sat at a separate fire on a small rise, away from the men. As before, he sent for her to sit with him. He had chosen a spot below a large tree and was busy fashioning a lean-to with a canvas cloth he had pulled from his saddlebag. Expecting rain, the men at the fire below did much the same.

  “I’ve never before met a girl in armor,” Bradius said. Trudi started at his voice. “Have you been in battle?” His tone was casual, curious.

  She was wary. “No,” she said.

  “What were you doing in Reims?”

  “I told you—”

  “Yes, yes, ‘the rape of Loivre.’ How noble.” He waved off her indignation. “But why were you riding with Pippin in the first place?”

  Trudi hesitated. “We had heard that there was trouble, an uprising of sorts. Pippin was named mayor of Champagne and Burgundy, so … we came.”

  “Felicitations,” Bradius said. “But you’ve avoided my question. Why are you here? It was clearly a hostile mission. You’ve never been in battle. Why would you go along on a sortie that would likely require hand-to-hand combat?”

  “I insisted.”

  Bradius looked at her. “That’s not it,” he said. “Either you’re lying or there’s something more you’re not telling me.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Trouble at home?” he asked with a smile. Trudi averted her eyes, blushing.

  “Let me guess,” he said, clearly amusing himself. “A young girl of marrying age—perhaps even a little older than marrying age—dressed in armor, an important but dictatorial father … hmmm. Whom did he pick to marry you?”

  Trudi didn’t answer. He continued.

  “Let’s see, who might be available for a woman as grand as Hiltrude, daughter of Charles? There’s Ateni of Provence, a nice catch if you like old farts with bad teeth. There’s Heden of Thuringia. But he’s pagan. Charles would never accept that. There’s Patrice of Burgundy. Now there’s a catch.”

  “It was Aistulf,” she said.

  Bradius seemed confused. “Aistulf? The Lombard? The swordsman? That Aistulf? What could be wrong with Aistulf? He’s young. He’s good looking. He’s from a powerful family.”

  “I’m in love with someone else.”

  “Ah, I should have known. It’s always love. And just who is this lucky fellow?”

  “Odilo of Bavaria,” she said, her chin rising.

  “And may truth guide his sword,” Bradius said, chuckling. “But I heard he was pagan. Does Charles know?”

  Trudi shook her head.

  “Does Odilo return your affection?”

  “I think so,” she said. “I hope so.”

  “You don’t know.”

  Again, Trudi shook her head.

  “One should know before running away,” he said.

  They ate a sparse meal, having had no time to hunt for game. Bradius broke out rations of hard bread, cheese, and, of course, his wine. He opened the wineskin, poured the red liquid into his cup, and swirled it around as if he were at court rather than on the run in the woods south of Reims. This time he gave her a cup.

  Saluting the sky as if in toast, Bradius declared, “It’s going to rain.”

  And it did. A deluge. Their spot on the high ground worked to their advantage as the rain washed down the hill away from them. Bradius moved under the canvas tarp of his lean-to and waved for Trudi to join him.

  She refused. Bradius shrugged and focused his attention on cutting another slice of cheese. When he had succeeded, he recaptured his wine and leaned back against the tree. Seeing her standing in the downpour soaked to the skin, Bradius chuckled again and raised his wine to her in salutation.

  It took less than a minute for Trudi to realize she was being foolish. If Bradius wished to do her harm, there was little she could do to stop him. Standing in the rain gave her little protection from him and none from the
downpour. Angry in embarrassment, she crowded into the lean-to with him. Bradius refilled her cup with wine and gave her some cheese. Together, they watched what was left of the fire sputter and die. Darkness began to fall. Despite the canvas lean-to, they were getting wet.

  Bradius offered her room to reposition herself away from the leakage. He kept the wine dry and ensured they both had full cups.

  “I’m not sure I like drinking with Charles’s daughter,” he said. “It is against my religion.”

  She smiled despite herself.

  “He is a butcher, you know.” Bradius’s voice turned serious. “He’s had blood on his hands since the day he named himself mayor.”

  “He was challenged!” Trudi retorted. “Every sector of the country rebelled.”

  “That should tell you something. Charles seized power from Plectrude and Ragomfred. It would be tolerable if he had left it at Neustria, but Charles had to subjugate the entire continent. How many people had to die for your father to rule?”

  Bradius drank as deeply as he grew passionate.

  “He didn’t need to come to Provence. He doesn’t need to rule in Aquitaine. Bavaria and Frisia would be separate countries but for your father’s butchery.”

  “Bavaria was at civil war. My father stepped in to stop it.”

  “And conveniently abducted the royal family and took over.”

  “That’s not what happened!”

  “It’s not? Tell me, Hiltrude, why does your family butcher the Saxons?”

  “They raid our countryside and attack our people.”

  “Who attacked first?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Those people are pagan. They have different beliefs than Charles and his precious church. He attacks the Saxons because they won’t kneel to his cross.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Trudi said. “Every year, more Saxons show up at our borders. Every year, they take over more land. They’ve pushed to the Rhine.” The heat of her argument and the wine brought a flush to her face.

  “And what about you?” she said. “You fought with the Saracen. My father had to beat back the Saracen before they took over our land and imposed their religion on us. How is that any different?”

  “At Poitiers? That was Abd ar-Rachman, a very different Saracen. And though your father fought to protect Christianity, no religion need dominate. When I fought with the Saracen, my beliefs were tolerated. You can’t say as much about your father.”

  A long silence followed. Bradius drank more, Trudi less.

  She had no answers to his accusations. He was right that war was almost an annual event for her family. She had roamed the kingdom with her father from the time she could walk, watching him put down one rebellion after another. It had never occurred to her that Charles might be anything other than the rightful ruler.

  She thought of Carloman and Boniface and their obsession with the Church. She thought of their efforts to either convert or banish the pagans. She thought about Sunni hiding her faith and her own dabbles in it. Why did the Church consider it so wrong?

  Trudi stared at this strange man sitting next to her and tried to understand him. She felt no threat emanating from him. The violence she had sensed in him had been replaced by a casual, condescending tone she could not reconcile. His melancholy remained, but his manner was more passionate. She watched him staring into the rain.

  “How long will you run?” she asked.

  “Until I figure out what to do with you,” he said without looking up.

  “That won’t end it,” she said, shivering.

  Shaking his head in agreement, Bradius said, “No. It won’t.”

  He pulled a blanket from his pack and began to wrap it around her. She stiffened at his touch. Chuckling, he pulled it around her and returned to his place. It took her a few minutes to realize he had no blanket for himself.

  “Tell me about Sunni,” he said into the dark. “Tell me about becoming pagan.”

  ***

  Bradius rode them hard. Several times, Trudi begged him to stop, only to be cautioned into silence. She could barely sit in her saddle, and her wrists were bleeding again from the ropes that bound her.

  When they camped and she had been unbound, she slumped by the fire, exhausted. Although the rain had ended that morning, her clothes had never dried. She was covered with mud, her hair was tangled and wild, and she shook from the cold. She clung to the fire for its warmth.

  Bradius, too, seemed exhausted. Dark circles had formed under his eyes, and his movements were hurried and angry. Despite his concern for discovery, he built up the fire and handed her what was left of their food.

  Rummaging through his horse’s pack, he found another skin of wine and poured himself a cup. This time, however, he didn’t perform his ceremony. He upended the cup and drained it. He poured himself more. Leaning back against the tree, he stared into the fire. Melancholy poured from his eyes. Trudi began to worry for his sanity. She needed to engage him, to draw him away from his darkness.

  “Tell me about your son.”

  His eyes flared, anger seething through them. When they met hers, however, they softened. So did his words.

  “He was a troubled boy,” Bradius began, looking down into his cup. “His mother died young, so I raised him alone.” He grunted a little laugh and looked up for a moment. “Unless you count Auguste. Unum would count him, so I suppose I should. Auguste and I raised him.” He smiled crookedly.

  “When he was very young, Unum was quiet and sensitive. There was a sadness about him that I could never touch.”

  “Maybe he missed his mother,” Trudi ventured.

  Bradius looked at her and nodded slowly, his eyes misting. “I’m sure he did.” A long silence ensued while he looked back into the fire. “I used to take him fishing, to a small eddy where fish in the river would congregate. He had a real knack for netting the most. It was the only time he would ever smile. That and when he was with Auguste. They were a pair. They rarely spoke, so they both felt right at home. The two would hunt together. Most times, they came back without any game. I always accused them of failing to raise a bow. They were just taking very long walks in the woods.”

  Although he was clearly talking to her, Trudi felt as if she had been forgotten. She was afraid to speak for fear of stopping his tale. Something, however, did stop him. He pondered the fire as if in a trance. For a long while, he said nothing.

  “Why do you say he was troubled?”

  He sighed. “When he was eleven, he killed another boy in warrior training. It was judged an accident, but it was not. The boy was huge, much larger than Unum or any of the others. He was fond of bullying and taunting the boys. One day in knife practice, he surprised Unum by head butting him just as their contest began. Unum went down, and the bigger boy kicked him between the legs.

  “The instructor applauded the move, cautioning the other boys not to focus solely on their opponent’s weapon. Unum lay on the ground humiliated. To make matters worse, he wept before the other boys. For days, they taunted him. Unum swore he would never cry again.”

  Bradius slopped more wine into his cup as if he were angry at its emptiness. He drank deeply, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He never once looked at her.

  “Later that week, they were in sword practice. Again the instructor paired him with the larger boy. Unum was so afraid and angry that his hands shook. They confronted each other, wooden swords aloft. The bigger boy rushed Unum, trying to knock him down. At the last possible moment, Unum sidestepped and put his sword between the boy’s legs. The bully went down hard, and before he could get up, Unum lifted his wooden sword high above his head. With both hands, he drove the point into the other boy’s testicles.

  “Screaming, the bully grabbed his crotch. Unum lifted his sword again. Before the instructor could intervene, Unum had crushed his windpipe. He lay at Unum’s feet, eyes wide. He turned red and then blue. He died within minutes.”

  “That
’s horrible,” Trudi said.

  “It changed Unum,” Bradius continued. “He carried an anger with him that he could never put down. He didn’t say anything for weeks. When he did, it was always hateful and arrogant. Yet, beneath this, I could see he was nervous. He would never speak to me about it. He just looked at me as if I knew his malady and could provide a remedy. I never could. Neither could Auguste. After a while, the few friends Unum had, he lost.”

  Bradius grew quiet and stared off into space. To rouse him, Trudi picked up his discarded cup and held it out for some wine. Bradius filled it for her; she drank and then held it out for him to finish. When he took it, their hands touched. He looked away.

  “He became sullen and defiant,” Bradius said, “insolent and cruel. After a year, I brought a lore master to see him. He took the boy into the woods for three days. When they returned, Unum was exhausted. He had not eaten or slept. But his nervousness was gone. So was his anger. A darkness still clung behind his eyes, but Unum was restored to me.”

  She touched his wrist with compassion. He withdrew from it, taking a long stick from the fire. Bradius drew three symbols in the dirt. “The boy’s skin was marked with three runes: Uruz, for inner strength; Thurisaz, for defense against harm; and Ansuz, the god rune, the divine breath of the ash.” Seeing Trudi’s questioning look, he elaborated. “The lore master said that taking a life so young had tainted Unum with the life that comes after. He had broken his barrier to the next world. The lore master explained that the barrier could never be healed, but it could be strengthened.

  “They fasted for three days. They inhaled the smoke of the sacred herbs. More than that, he wouldn’t say. The runes are wards to strengthen the barrier: Uruz, to give him strength; Thurisaz, to defend him against the taint; Ansuz, to restore the barrier between his life in this world and the next.”

  They sat quietly. Trudi knew Bradius would offer nothing further.

  “You must have loved him very much,” Trudi said.

  “All men love their children,” Bradius said, as if from a distance. “That’s what makes them vulnerable.”