“Ready?” she said.
He nodded, and Trudi headed east. She preempted his usual role of taking the lead. She didn’t want him to see her cry.
***
They rode in silence. The broad valley made their passage easy and their progress quick. The weather, too, blessed them with comfort. The sun rose lazily through puffy, white clouds and offered them the warmth and promise of spring. Without discussing it, they relaxed their pace and turned their faces to the sun. Tension left their shoulders, and the shadow of pursuit left their eyes. It was almost like a casual ride in the country.
Except neither of them spoke.
Trudi had shown Bradius little other than her back since he had refused her embrace on the rock. It was of little help that she knew he was right. He had done what needed to be done. She was who she was, and he was who he was. There was no more of a chance for them than there was for a pig to love a goat. But it did not change the way she felt, and she could not face his rejection.
That night, Bradius built a fire, fixed a small dinner, and then removed himself a short distance to savor his wine. It usually took two or three cups before he would relax. Sometimes more. He tried to strike up a conversation with her, but she would have none of it. She gave him little more than one-word answers to his questions and never offered a thought of her own.
They passed the next days moving steadily through the broad valley. Always, they arose at daybreak, broke their fast, and rode till sundown, stopping only for supplies, lunch, and to relieve themselves. Rarely did they talk. When they did, it was to convey basic information.
“We’ll camp here,” he’d say, or she would announce, “I have to pee.” They spoke about little else.
Their progress through the valley had taken them steadily between the two ranges to where the mountains converged before them, barring their path east. Their only road snaked upward into the foothills and promised a long and arduous journey ahead.
“We’ll be in the mountains for a while,” he said. “It will be tough going.”
“And after that?” she asked.
“We continue east until the Wormitt River. We follow it south to the Danube, then east to Regensburg.”
“And after that?” Trudi reined in her horse, forcing him to stop. “What happens after that?”
He shrugged and looked away. “You marry Odilo.”
“Is that what you want?”
His eyes focused on the mountains in the distance. “It’s what you want.”
“You don’t know what I want.”
Bradius did not respond.
“What happens to you?” Trudi moved her horse close to his. “What happens to you if I marry Odilo?”
“I don’t know,” he said and looked at the ground. “I don’t know.”
“Damn you.” She shoved him. “Look at me!”
He didn’t.
The back of her hand struck his shoulder. It was ineffectual. Her second blow was more forceful. She used the heel of her palm to punch his chest. She began to cry and unleashed a torrent of blows on him. He made no attempt to block them. Instead, he grabbed her elbows to constrict her ability to hit him.
“Stop,” he said. “You’ll hurt your shoulder.”
Trudi pulled away from him, wiping away her tears. Failing to staunch them, she dismounted and started to walk away. Bradius followed. “Please, Trudi,” he said, “stop.” When he reached her, she turned and stood very close to him, her eyes looking up into his.
“You feel it,” she said at last. “You … feel something for me.” Her voice was almost a whisper. “I know you do.” She took a big breath and plunged on. “Even when I was your prisoner, there was something. Then you saved me from Ansel. You came after me again, even after Aistulf beat you. And when we were out on that rock, and you looked at me—”
He took a long time to respond. “I am your vassal,” he said, “and you are to be the mother of kings.”
“That is not it,” she said. “That much I know.”
Bradius’s looked at his hands. “I …” He cut himself off with a shake of his head.
She waited for him, but he wouldn’t continue.
“What happened on the rock?” she asked.
“I … couldn’t,” he stammered. “I wanted …”
“Tell me,” she whispered. Her hand touched his face, drawing his eyes to hers. He tried to look away, but she grabbed his arm, and again her eyes found his. They bore into him and saw his pain. His eyes welled with tears. He shook his head, unable to speak. “Tell me,” she said, laughing softly, “or I’ll have to hit you again.”
He laughed, but it was a long time before he spoke. “I know what you feel. I feel it, too. I have for a long time. But I also see things. Strange things. My nightmares come now even when I am awake. When you kissed me on the rock, I saw blood covering your face and hands.”
“Blood?” Trudi asked.
“Unum haunts me. He shadows everything I hold dear. And everything I hold dear turns to ashes.”
“I am not my brother,” Trudi said. “I’m not.”
Bradius turned away. “I know,” he said, shaking his head. “But it doesn’t matter. Unum mocks me. He mocks my failure to prevent his death. How can he let me embrace the sister of his murderer? How can I embrace the sister of my enemy? Tell me, could you do that? I have sworn to serve you. I have pledged fealty. That much I can do. But when I think to touch you or kiss your lips, I see his blood everywhere.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Trudi said.
***
“I don’t know, Pippin.” Arnot stretched in the open space of the wine cellar, and Pippin had to stifle a laugh. Arnot’s entire body was covered with dirt. His eyes squinted when he spoke, and his hair stood out in several directions at once. “It’s a tough one. That door is imbedded in a stone. I can’t break through it, and I can’t dig around it. I’ve been tunneling on either side of it and hitting solid rock.”
“Can you go under it?” Pippin offered.
“I tried. I wouldn’t count on us getting through that door soon.”
“Do you need more men? I’ve got several who are in need of a little activity.”
“No. I can hardly breathe in the tunnel as it is. More men will suck up all the air that’s left. I’ve got to come out regularly to catch my breath.”
“I’ll send someone down to help. At least you can take turns.”
“What are you going to do if we can’t get Sunni and Gripho to come along?’
Pippin was surprised by the question. “Of course they’ll come. Any fool can see they’re losing.”
“Or maybe they’re waiting for help.”
“If they are, it will have to come from the east,” Pippin said. “Hunoald and Waifar won’t leave Aquitaine.” For over a century, the nobles in Aquitaine had worn out their enemies by locking themselves up in their castle-cities. They’d withhold taxes and send no men or food, knowing that it required four times the number of troops to take a city as it did to defend it. To them, rebellion was a game of attrition. Gripho would get no immediate help from them.
“Then the Alemannians and the Bavarians?”
“More likely.” It was one of the reasons Pippin wanted to stop the siege and negotiate a peace with Sunni and Gripho. If the regions west of the Rhine rebelled, Hunoald and Waifar would starve them of resources while the Saxons and the Lombards took advantage of their preoccupation and expanded territory.
“We don’t need war. We need peace,” Pippin said.
“Huy-yah.”
“You had better get back to it,” Pippin said, nodding toward the tunnel.
Arnot picked up his pick and shovel.
“Pippin?” Arnot called to him. “What if I can’t find a way in?”
“There aren’t any other choices, Arnot,” Pippin said. “You need to get through that door.”
***
Time had begun to heal their wounds. At least the physical ones, Trudi thought. The bruise
s on Bradius’s face had moved from purple to yellow to almost nothing. His hand was less swollen, and he now could use his fingers. They decided to stop at the village they saw at the foot of the mountains to pick up dried meats, an assortment of cheeses, bread, and, of course, wine for Bradius. As always, fearing pursuit, they were discreet. She stowed her armor and wore a dress to blend in. They entered the village separately. They gently probed merchants about soldiers asking questions. They haggled over prices to make sure no one commented on their wealth.
From the moment they arrived in the village, however, Trudi was struck by a heightened sense of activity. Everywhere she went, Trudi heard discussion about something called “the telling.” It was as if everything was connected to it. “We will wait for that till the telling,” a shopkeeper had said. And a girl lamented to a friend that, “Himmelt won’t ask me till the telling.”
Afraid to stand out, Trudi refrained from asking what “the telling” was. When it came up, she merely nodded her head as if she understood and discreetly gathered supplies so that she and Bradius could take their leave. She was about finished when she heard a shout from the street. “She speaks! Hurry, she speaks!” Sales stopped mid-transaction, cows were left half-milked, water was left half-pumped from the well, and if it were possible, Trudi thought, women would have stopped mid-birth to answer the call. The villagers flooded into the streets and headed for the north end of town.
She saw Bradius across the street. He nodded toward the eastern road. Trudi shook her head, nodding instead toward “the telling.” She had to know what it was. Curiosity had the better of her. It seemed as if Bradius was about to insist, but he shrugged and stepped into the road, following the crowd. Smiling, Trudi stepped into the street behind him.
The sun was warm, the sky a bright blue, and the excitement of the crowd was catching. It took less than five minutes to reach the north end of town. By that time, the crowd had swelled to over a hundred villagers. Green fields rolled gently before them, and as the villagers crested each successive rise, they looked like a human wave flooding the landscape. Far ahead in the distance, Trudi could see smoke from a small fire.
It burned atop a large stone in the middle of a clearing surrounded by a circle of large, broad, flat stones. The villagers did not violate the circle. Instead, they swarmed around its perimeter and maintained a respectful distance. There was something almost religious about it, Trudi thought. Almost like a mass.
Sitting cross-legged before the fire on the stone was a young woman of twenty years, naked to her waist. Rune lettering tattooed her skin. The symbols snaked up her arms, circled her shoulders, and ran down between and underneath her breasts. Her eyes were closed, and she rocked back and forth before the fire, apparently deeply entranced.
Her hair was long and black and adorned with what looked like dozens of small bones. When her head moved, they clacked in a ghoulish fashion. Her nose and ears were pierced with small silver rings to which tiny bells were attached. These provided a gentle chiming accompaniment to her movements.
“Who is she?” Trudi asked the man next to her.
“A sibyl,” he answered. “She sees beyond the illusion of our lives.”
With a moan, the sibyl stood and lifted her arms. Her hands opened skyward as if she were begging from some celestial body. Two women moved to her side and, kneeling, produced two small drums. Without any apparent direction, they began to play an odd syncopated beat. The sibyl swayed to its rhythm. In time, women in the crowd mimicked her movements. Several men began to chant.
Trudi squeezed between two people so that she could see. She found herself in the circle closest to the altar. She noticed Bradius had done the same. They were, at most, ten paces from the altar and five from each other. A host of smells accosted her.
Trudi recognized the fumes of several trance-inducing plants Sunni had shown her. Sunni, however, had never used more than one at a time. Trudi was shocked that the woman could move. Even at this distance, every breath Trudi took sent her reeling.
The crowd began to move in a slow, undulating motion to the strange beat of the drums. Trudi moved with them, losing herself to the fumes of the fire, the closeness of the bodies, and the rhythms of the dance. The chanting grew louder and the dancing more pronounced.
Without warning, the drums stopped. The dancing stopped. The sibyl stopped. And she opened her eyes. She was staring directly at Bradius.
“Death,” she said into the silence. Her face paled and resonated with loathing. She closed her eyes. No one moved. No one breathed. The sibyl started to sway again but stopped. She moaned and opened her eyes. This time, she looked directly at Trudi.
“Life,” she said, then quickly amended, “No.” She closed her eyes again and held out an outstretched palm as if to ward off Trudi. “Abomination.” The sibyl reeled backward in disgust. She shook her head, bones clacking violently. “No!” She pushed her palm into her forehead, as if squeezing the word from her mind. “Absolution,” she said.
The sibyl dropped her arms and stared at Trudi, her eyes suddenly clear and clearly alarmed. “Who are you?” she demanded.
The entire crowd turned to Trudi.
13
Breach
“Quiet,” Gripho whispered, securing one end of a coiled rope to a stone post just inside the rampart. It was night. Bart, Petr, and Gripho stood on the rampart looking out over the wall. Gripho had not wanted to include Heden’s sons on his plans. Soldiers would have been better, but the risk that they would warn Heden or Sunni was too great. The boys, he could manage, although he regretted bringing Petr. The boy was too weak. Again, secrecy had driven his decision to include the younger brother. If he hadn’t been included with Bart, the boy would have turned to his father. That, Gripho couldn’t allow.
Once he was sure that the rope was secure, Gripho tied the other end to a bucket of pitch and then carefully lowered the pail over the side. When the rope slackened, he pointed to Bart. “You first,” he said.
Bart chuckled and gave a quick smirk in the direction of his younger brother. He took the rope in his left hand and scurried over the wall. Petr shuffled nervously as his brother disappeared.
“Don’t step in the bucket,” Gripho whispered into the darkness.
“You next,” he told Petr. When the boy hesitated, Gripho said, “Go ahead. I’ll be right behind you.” Gripho was growing frustrated with Petr. The boy was such a baby. Eleven years old, but he acted more like six.
Petr had trouble getting over the wall. Bart’s weight had pulled the rope taut over the edge of the rampart, making it impossible for Petr to grab hold. When he saw the boy hesitate, Gripho extended his hand to lower him over the edge so that he could grab the rope where it came away from the wall. Gripho watched him disappear into the darkness.
Gripho had chosen the north end of the city for their midnight escapade. Its slope was the steepest of any surrounding the city, and he hoped that it would be the least watched. For days, he had waited until the moon waned. The weather, too, had cooperated. An overcast sky blocked the light of the stars, and the air was so moist it muffled sound and limited visibility.
With little ceremony, Gripho followed his two companions over the wall and caught the rope blithely as his body slid over the rampart. He moved down the rope hand over hand, using his legs to relieve some of the pressure on his arms.
“Watch out,” a voice below him whispered.
Gripho’s foot touched something. Petr had stopped his descent.
“Petr,” Gripho whispered. “Don’t stop. Keep going.”
“Can’t,” the boy whimpered. “I just can’t.”
“Hand over hand, Petr, just like I told you.”
“I can’t.”
“Petr, I swear I’ll skewer you right here if you don’t start moving.” Gripho let go of the rope with one hand and started to pull his sword from its scabbard. When the hushed scrape broke the silence, Petr renewed his descent with considerable speed. They reached the gr
ound without further incident, and Gripho smiled into the darkness.
“Let’s go get that catapult.”
The three moved quickly and quietly into the night. Cautiously, they approached the dirt wall Carloman had built around the city. Every thirty paces, torches adorned the barrier. Their flames threw off a reluctant glow that succeeded only in providing light for three or four paces apiece. The boys headed to the darkest part of the wall. Crouching next to it, they grew still, breathing softly to listen for movement. There was none. Bart made a move to climb over the mound, but Gripho held his arm and signaled him to wait.
After a few moments they heard footsteps striking the wooden planking on the other side of the wall. The sound grew as it approached them and then receded as it moved past. When they could no longer hear it, Gripho signaled for Bart and Petr to scramble over the wall. Gripho climbed up after them and handed the pitch bucket over the side. Relieved of his burden, he, too, dropped to the planks, and the three crouched inside the wall, waiting for the sound of alarm. It didn’t come. Silently, they moved down the hillside away from the siege wall, the light, and the soldiers. They followed the outline of the wall east.
The steepness of the slope slowed them. At times they slid their way downhill to circumvent campfires and pickets that barred their path. Their clothes grew wet and heavy with the earth’s touch. The boys moved silently and steadily east, fighting the incline to stay in sight of the wall.
Gripho listened as soldiers spoke to each other in the darkness. The men’s words were low and muted to match the mood of the night. No tension marked the voices droning through the dark. The men were bored. They were not ready for attack.
It took more than an hour for Gripho to lead Bart and Petr around the eastern end of the city. Above them on the hill, torches surrounding two of the catapults shone in the night. Separated by twenty paces or more, the machines sat on platforms facing the city wall. Gripho led the boys straight for them.
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