The bishops crossed themselves and again bowed their heads to pray.
“Adjutorium nostrum in nominee domini,” Boniface began.
Aidolf’s response was automatic. “Qui fecit caelum et terram.”
***
Pippin and his men couldn’t have made any more noise entering the inn. One day, thought Bertrada upstairs in her room, I’ll have to teach him about making a proper entrance. She heard him ask at the desk in a loud voice if she was within. Bounding up the steps and down the hall, he was outside her door. He began to pound on the door and to bellow her name.
“I can hear you!” she called out to him.
It didn’t help. The banging and bellowing continued until she crossed the room and opened the door. Pippin stood there, arm raised, ready to pound again. He looked at her the way a hungry man looks at supper.
Bertrada blocked his path, acting as if she didn’t know him. “Can I help you, sir?”
Growling, he picked her up and swept into her room, closing the door behind him with his foot. He spun her in the air like a child, and in seconds they were on her bed with blankets, sheets, and clothing flying.
“Pippin!” She giggled. “Give me some time! You haven’t even said hello.”
“H’lo,” he mumbled, his mouth filled with her breast.
“It’s so nice to see you again,” she continued.
Pippin pulled his head up to survey her body. “You, too,” he said, grinning. He burrowed his tongue into her belly button.
“And how are you?” She laughed. “Are you well?” Again his response was muffled, this time by the soft flesh just above her pubic hair.
“I beg your pardon?” she said, squirming underneath his tongue. His head moved down the length of her body until Bertrada finally gave in.
When they finished making love, Bertrada asked the question she had been afraid to ask. “How goes the siege?”
Pippin sat up, his eyes no longer playful. “Carloman has lost his way.”
Bertrada reached out to him. “It’s that bad?”
Pippin nodded. “He won’t listen, at least not to me. He’s all wrapped up in this religious struggle over Gripho. He thinks he’s got to defend the Church. I’m worried that for Carloman, this is only the beginning. He’ll rip the wall down to get Sunni and Gripho.”
“You can’t let that happen,” she said.
“I want to talk with Sunni and see if we can stop this before it gets out of control.”
“Will Sunni and Gripho agree to leave with you?”
“If I give my word that they have my protection,” he said. “But we have to do it before the breach is made.”
Bertrada nodded. She had expected as much.
“The men are here,” Pippin said, pointing outside.
“I heard.” Bertrada laughed. “Let me get dressed. I’ll show you the tunnel.”
***
By the time Carloman received word of Theudoald’s death, the funeral had already taken place. All reports indicated that the former mayor had died in his sleep from unknown causes. Given the political tension surrounding his death, Boniface had commissioned an investigation and was coming to Laon to meet with him.
When he received word that his godfather was in camp, Carloman ordered a flagon of good wine brought to his tent and awaited his mentor’s arrival. Within minutes, Boniface strode through the tent flaps, his figure a silhouetted against the light behind him. The wind accompanied him into the tent; the canvas billowed with its force. The bishop’s face was still dusty from his ride. Smiling, Carloman rose to greet him, but before he could say a word, Boniface signaled for silence.
“Everyone out!” he commanded.
At a nod from Carloman, Johann cleared the servants and soldiers from the tent. At another nod from Carloman, Johann left as well. Carloman spread his arms, querying his mentor silently.
“Did you do it?” Boniface demanded.
Carloman had no idea what Boniface meant.
“Did you murder Theudoald?”
“Are you daft?”
“Answer me! Did you murder him?”
“I thought he died in his sleep.”
“Answer my question!”
“Of course not. I can’t believe you would even consider such an accusation.”
Boniface looked hard into Carloman’s face and visibly relaxed. “I had to ask.” He made for the washstand. Pouring water into its bowl, he washed his face and hands. “The bishops insisted on an investigation into his death. They think it was poison.”
Part of Carloman was chastened by the news. He, too, could be a target. On the whole, however, he could not believe his good fortune. Theudoald’s death made the issue of succession so much simpler. The Church now had no alternatives, and the nobles had no more excuses. Although he never liked the man, one thing left him puzzled. “Who would kill Theudoald?”
“The bishops think you would.”
Carloman studied Boniface’s face. He didn’t like what he saw. “You also thought I could. Didn’t you?”
Boniface shook his head. “I didn’t believe you would, but you are Charles’s son. How well do you know the Lady Hélène?”
It took a moment for the question to sink in. Then a chill ran down Carloman’s spine. Hélène? It couldn’t be. He could see her smiling provocatively in his mind while they flirted at her party. She had joked that she was Charles’s “assassin.” Ridiculous! Still. But that couldn’t be it. Hélène was no assassin.
“She slept with Theudoald the night before he died.”
Carloman’s stomach tensed. This news shocked him. He had sensed no connection between the two. To the contrary, Hélène only had disdain for Theudoald. Carloman was embarrassed that he felt jealous of the liaison.
“There were scratch marks down his back,” Boniface said, watching him.
Carloman racked his brain for answers. How well did he know Hélène? Not well, he admitted. Could she have been telling the truth about his father? Could she have taken his jest seriously? Could she have killed Theudoald? To each of these questions, Carloman had no sure answers. He looked at the man he trusted most in his life, his mentor and confessor. “Would you hear my confession?” Carloman asked.
Startled, Boniface looked at his godson strangely. He pulled up two chairs.
Carloman sat with his head in his hands. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned …”
***
As they approached the northwest corner the city, Pippin instinctively mapped its strengths and vulnerabilities to a siege. From this approach, Laon looked impervious. The walls towered over a steep slope that was only interrupted by a small plateau, perhaps two hundred paces wide. Carloman rightly had used it to house his shield wall, but it would be of little use other than to keep in deserters. The only sortie from this part of the wall was by rope.
At the end of the plateau, the ground fell away again for another hundred feet to the flat farmland surrounding the city. A farmhouse stood at the base of the slope. It looked puny compared to the towering city walls above it.
As they drew close, Pippin could see that the house was in fact much larger than he had perceived. With its back to the slope, the building framed an expansive farm with a barn, three pens for large animals, a stable, and a grainery. It was, he thought, a testament to Bertrada’s family wealth. Her father’s farm was bigger than many villages throughout the kingdom.
Bertrada led Pippin up to the main house. Although in good repair, it had the eerie silence of abandonment. No chickens squawked, no cows mooed; the animal pens were empty as was the grainery.
“Whatever they couldn’t bring into the city,” Bertrada said, “must have been scavenged by Carloman. We’ll see what is left of the wine cellar.” She led him around the back of the house to a set of doors built into the ground. Holding torches aloft, they went underground. At the bottom of the stairs, they found themselves in a long, fortified cavern with hundreds of casks lining the walls on either side. Those
closest to the door were missing; some had been forced open with an ax.
“I hope Carloman appreciates your father’s hospitality,” Pippin said.
Bertrada led him between the casks deep into the cavern. They passed well over a hundred barrels before they reached the far wall. By their direction, Pippin guessed they were well beneath the plateau. This far in, the only disturbance to the dust covering the floor was their footprints.
“Where is it?” Pippin brought his torch closer to the wall, looking for the promised tunnel.
“There,” Bertrada said.
He used the torch to disperse a network of cobwebs. “There’s nothing here.”
“Yes, there is.”
Pippin handed her his torch and pushed against the flat stone of the wall. Nothing moved. He used his hands to feel along the left side for an edge. He did the same along the top. There was nothing. On the right side, however, his fingers felt a draft of colder air. He took back his torch and traced the contours of the wall. When he brought it to the right side, the torch fire flared. He threw his shoulder against the stone. It didn’t move. He looked at Bertrada, puzzled.
She smiled and handed him her torch. She went to the wine cask to his right. “It’s a trick,” she said. “The opening is behind the wine. She pushed against the right hand side of the cask, and it shifted away from her, creating an opening in the wall large enough for them to duck through.
Pippin led the way with his torch and found himself in a dirt tunnel that led further into the mountainside. He couldn’t see past the light of his torch. Looking back at Bertrada, he saw her nod. Crouching with the torch in front of him, he moved into the darkness. No more than shoulder high, the tunnel had been dug through the earth and supported by wooden beams and trusses. The air had a musty smell of dead things. After two hundred paces, the slope of the tunnel floor gradually tilted upward. They found themselves before a small wooden door. There were no hinges, no handles, and no latch.
“You said it can only be opened from the inside?”
“We don’t need this door to get into the city; we only use it if there is no other way out.”
“What can we expect on the other side?”
“A stairway to a storeroom beneath the city. It holds some of my father’s treasure. From there, we take a tunnel and another staircase up to the main house. My grandfather built it as an escape route. In the event of a successful siege, our family can flee with at least part of our wealth.”
“I’ll have Arnot work on it,” Pippin said. “I’ve never known of a door he couldn’t open.”
“Are you sure you can’t get a message into the city to have my father open it?”
Pippin shook his head. “Carloman brought men loyal only to him. This has to be the way.”
“Arnot won’t be able to get through. We’ll have to wait for my father to come out when the wall is breached.”
“That will be too late. I need to get them out before that.”
Bertrada looked dejected in the torchlight. “I just don’t think it can be done.”
“We don’t have another choice.”
***
Boniface stood over his godson, appalled by the implications of the confession Carloman had made. If Lady Hélène really was Charles’s assassin, Carloman could be found guilty despite his intentions. Even if the bishops heard of it, they would weaken Carloman beyond all recognition. They had already pushed him into agreeing to raise the Merovingian. Carloman would lose the support of the Church and, very likely, would fail to put down Gripho’s rebellion and any of the pagan rebellions that might follow.
“I know that you intended no harm, but the responsibility may lie at your feet nonetheless.” Boniface was sweating. This must not disrupt his life’s work. Carloman was the key to a Christian kingdom. Boniface was sure of it. There had to be a better way. Boniface folded his hands and crossed Carloman’s Spartan-like tent to the small altar the man had erected. Kneeling before the cross, Boniface prayed for forgiveness and then prayed for guidance.
His mind leapt to the rebellions brewing in the east. Surely the pagan uprisings wouldn’t end with Gripho’s siege. With every rebellion, calls for tolerance of the pagans would be raised. Some states might even declare themselves pagan. If Carloman failed to put them down, would Pippin? In truth, Boniface didn’t know.
Everything hung in the balance. Damn that woman! Boniface quickly crossed himself. He would have to handle this carefully. Being bound by the seal of the confessional was helpful since he could not disclose Carloman’s confession to the bishops. That, however, was not enough. He would need to divert the investigation away from Carloman altogether. And that would require some effort.
As to Carloman, as long as he was required to atone for his sin, the Lord’s work would be done. That much Boniface could do. The question was: how evil a sin is it? It could be interpreted either way. Carloman surely suspected that his sin could be serious. He had, after all, requested the confession.
Boniface considered the potential in this. Carloman’s faith was so absolute that a serious breach of that faith would devastate him. Or perhaps, with guidance, push him to be more assertive … Carloman had been reluctant to take on Gripho. And with Theudoald no longer a threat, Carloman might relent. Any hesitancy would be taken for a sign of weakness, and other rebellions would certainly follow. That could not be allowed.
Yes, atonement could be a powerful tool to keep Carloman on course.
Crossing himself again, Boniface rose, bowed to the figure of Christ on the altar, and turned to face his godson. He walked to Carloman’s chair and placed one hand on his godson’s shoulder.
“You have spoken in the sanctity of the confessional, my son. That was wise. Your sin will not pass my lips again. On one level, this is a political matter. Let me deal with it as such. I will talk to the bishops. I will resolve their questions. You must never speak of it again.”
He turned to face his godson. “As to your sin,” Boniface said in his gravest of voices. “Although your conversation was unintentional, it was mired in desire. No, don’t protest! You flirted with that woman just as assuredly as I stand here before you today. And you flirted with the thought of murder.”
Carloman’s face flushed with embarrassment.
“God has an uncanny way of listening to the desires in men’s hearts. Your earthly passions have led you astray and to horrible consequences.”
Carloman nodded.
“This is no venal sin, Carloman,” Boniface cautioned. “This is mortal sin. You have compromised your life with Christ.”
Carloman looked as if he had been struck. He knelt before Boniface.
“This cannot be,” said Carloman. “I have sinned but not by intent. I raised no hand against Theudoald.”
“Although it was not committed by your hand, your heart and your desires administered the poison to your rival just as if you had done it yourself.”
“Surely, it is not the same!”
“Murder is the gravest of sins,” Boniface said, his voice rising with passion. “Even wishing it taints your soul. In His Sermon on the Mount, Christ said, ‘Thou shall not kill, and whosoever shall kill shall be in danger of the judgment.’” Carloman was visibly shaken. Without sympathy, Boniface continued, “‘But I say unto you that whosoever is angry with his brother without cause shall be in danger of the judgment.’”
“This will take more than an Act of Contrition to resolve, Carloman. For this, you must atone.”
In a gesture that Boniface had taught him at seven years old, Carloman reached down to pick up the hem of Boniface’s robe. Bringing it to his lips, Carloman kissed the garment and then prostrated himself on the ground before Boniface. The bishop smiled. He made the sign of the cross over his godson and sighed audibly.
“Your penance will be heavy, my son.”
Boniface could barely hear Carloman’s response. But when he heard it, he knew his instincts had been correct.
“Bless
ed be God forever,” Carloman said.
***
“Are you all right, Father?” Drogo asked.
“Yes, son, I’m fine.”
“You don’t look well,” the boy said.
They had gone up the hill with Johann to inspect the damage inflicted by the catapults. Finding the wall still largely intact, Carloman had unleashed a torrent of reproach on the captain of the catapults. Although visibly shaken, the man stood his ground. The wall was holding, he explained, because to a great extent it was backed by solid earth. While some of the city was built above ground, the wall encased the hillside as much as it shielded the city, and its thickness negated much of the catapults’ impact.
Carloman ignored the obvious truth of the man’s argument and threatened him with a ride on his own catapult if the walls were not soon breached.
It had been two weeks since Boniface had visited. After hearing Carloman’s confession, the bishop had insisted that Carloman atone for his sin prior to asking forgiveness. Until then, he said, the gates of heaven were barred. Boniface had returned to Paris, leaving him adrift on a sea of doubt.
While Carloman struggled to accept such a dire consequence for a sin so unintentional, he had to acknowledge the truth in Boniface’s words; lusting after a woman in your heart was a sin just as grave as adultery. The scripture held the same true for murder. Had he wished Theudoald’s death? His own words haunted him. Can you take care of that one for me? He had killed many times in combat and had never questioned the morality of it. That was justice. But killing by poison? A small thread of guilt coursed through him, and the more he tried to deny its existence, the stronger it became. He racked his conscience, seeking absolution, but none came.
For three days, he consumed nothing but water and lay prostrate in prayer before the altar. Though hunger savaged his body, he received it gladly to assuage the guilt in his soul. His fast, however, brought no solace. No path to redemption appeared, and the touch of God still escaped his grasp. He was desolate, weak, and confused.
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