Wheel of the Fates: Book Two of the Carolingian Chronicles

by J. Boyce Gleason

  Technically, Childeric, son of King Chilperic III was not yet a king. That would require Carloman or Pippin raising him to the throne through acclamation. So far, the two mayors had been reluctant to discuss the matter. In fact, they even disputed the existence of a Merovingian heir within the kingdom. Childeric’s sudden appearance in Paris, however, resolved the question of “if a Merovingian would be found” to “when he would be raised to the throne.” How her husband became involved in the king’s political resurrection, Miette would never know. She knew he was ambitious, but this was beyond her understanding.

  Miette took her place inside the receiving room. A smile of excitement took the corner of her mouth and she bowed her head to hide it. The outer door to the room began to open and Miette tried to remember what Lady Hélène had told her. “Head tilts forward, hands wide on the skirt. Right foot behind left and bow from the waist as the knees fold smoothly.”

  Miette folded gracefully into the formal bow she had been shown. She tried to slow her breathing to regain her composure. She wanted this moment to be perfect. She held herself still, resisting the urge to look up at their guest. Footsteps approached from her left and then, stopped in front of her. A trickle of sweat ran down the back of her spine. All she could see was a small patch of the wooden floor before her. An elegant pair of black shoes lined with gold embroidery entered her vision.

  “Milord, may I present the Lady Ragomfred?” her husband offered.

  “Milady.” The king’s deep masculine voice resonated within her.

  She looked up tentatively and his eyes embraced her. Deep pools of black, they penetrated hers like a lover’s, discarding her practiced layers of decorum. She began to panic at the frankness of his stare, but his smile reassured her. She didn’t look away. It was mesmerizing. She felt herself opening to him, as if she were offering him her innermost secrets. He smiled and his eyes twinkled in amusement. A tremor rolled through her.

  “My king.”

  Childeric laughed. “Not as yet, my dear. But soon.” He extended his hand to her. “Join us.”

  “Thank you milord.” She rose to take his hand and caught her husband’s eye.

  Clearly, he hadn’t envisioned the invitation and was alarmed by the development. But what else could she do, but accept? Childeric swept her through the foyer.

  Now that the future king’s eyes had released her, Miette had time to assess him. What struck her first was his hair. A symbol of Merovingian power, it fell nearly to his waist in long black tresses. Cinched behind his head with a simple gold band. It was, to Miette’s surprise, clean and combed – much like a woman’s. His beard too, was long, but it was parted into two long braids and laced with pearls and jade. It accentuated a hawk-like nose and two sensuous lips that smirked with a lifetime of indulgence.

  He was not a tall man. Surely, her husband was at least a hand taller. Nor was he physically strong in the way of the court’s warriors. He had none of the upper-body strength necessary to wield a long sword. Instead, he was lithe and graceful, almost like a dancer. To suggest, however, that he was not powerful would be to lie. The man exuded power. Every step he took was confidant, every gesture assured. A king, she thought.

  As they walked, her eyes strayed to his long and painted fingernails. Most were bejeweled and colorful. Several on his left hand had been allowed to curl under. The sight made her shudder. When she looked up, she found him watching her with an amused grin.

  Lord Ragomfred led them into a small vestibule off the grand hall. He stopped there and signaled to several servants who came forward to offer the future king wine and an assortment of cheeses. When he accepted, Miette copied her husband’s bow and the two stepped back to remove themselves from his presence while he ate.

  When he was finished, they returned to the vestibule. “Before showing you to your rooms, milord,” her husband said, “I hoped to introduce you to our household as well as to a few close friends in a welcome to your temporary home. I hope that you’ll not think the gesture too forward.”

  Childeric’s dark eyes turned on her husband and Miette’s breath caught in her throat.

  “I am not a pony for you to put on display, Lord Ragomfred.”

  Silence fell on the small party. Miette’s husband made a feeble attempt to bow, but Childeric waved him off.

  “For the moment, however, I suppose I am in your debt - that and your lovely wife has enchanted me with her presence. Lady Ragomfred, would you accompany me?”

  Her husband looked torn between relief and shock. Miette bowed her acceptance to Childeric. “I would be grateful.”

  The future king offered his right arm. Miette rested her left hand on it, and they turned to the portal leading into the grand hall. A servant scurried to push the door. It swung open, revealing over a hundred guests lined against the walls. Each of them bowed deeply in place. A number of servants knelt off to the left of the hall.

  A few guests? Miette thought. Her husband must be crazed to take such a risk.

  “Thank you for making this ordeal somewhat bearable,” Childeric whispered to her. She nodded her head and looked up to meet his dark eyes. Again, she fell into their depths. She was so disoriented she nearly stumbled.

  “You will, of course, be my lover,” he said.

  The shock of his bold assertion was muted by the distinct thrill that swept through her body. She imagined him kissing her beside his royal bed as he slowly undressed her and felt a tremor roll through her body. She groaned inwardly and fought to compose herself by focusing on their guests.

  The bulk of the court’s nobility stretched across the hall. At some unseen signal, probably from her husband, the nobles knelt, almost in unison. In that moment, the value of Ragomfred’s bold gamble became apparent. Assembled before them were most of the leading families of Neustria. On her left were Lady Hervet and Lady Trinon. On her right, Lady Hélène knelt next to at least a dozen of the women who had taken great delight in snubbing Miette. She smiled grandly at each of them. By taking her arm, Childeric had transformed her status at the court. Everyone in the room would now curry her favor and seek her support. She was more important than all of them. A warm languor suffused her body. Her long wait was over.

  “Lovers, my king?” She gave Childeric her most penetrating stare. “I am yours to command.”

  ✽✽✽

  Bertrada checked her reflection in the darkened window one last time before going downstairs. They were holding a private dinner at the inn with the Compte de Soissons and his family. She had tied her hair into two long braids that folded together just past her shoulders and hung down half the length of her back. She liked the effect. It looked how she felt, both youthful and sophisticated at the same time. The dress she wore was light blue and had simple lines that showed her figure well.

  She had to admit that Aude was right. Paris was good for her. She hadn’t felt this happy in a very long time. They had spent two wonderful days in Paris shopping. Her sister had a passion for the hunt. She had rousted the dressmakers, shoemakers and jewelers in the main markets and harassed those strange merchants from the orient who sold creams and lotions for hands and faces. Her father had turned pale when they brought him the bills.

  Descending the stairs, Bertrada felt all eyes in the room turn her way. She almost laughed at the looks from the men in the room. She paused to savor the moment before gliding down to the lobby. She felt beautiful.

  She joined and embraced her father and the Compte and Comptesse de Soissons as well as their daughters Mary and Catherine. The Compte was a tall man, thin and graceful. His nose was a long projection that defined his face and gave his voice a tinny sound. His wife was a stout woman with great breasts who used them as weapons on those around her. Bertrada remembered being crushed into them as a child and thinking she would suffocate beneath them.

  Both daughters were lovely girls, although Bertrada could tell that as they grew older, Mary was destined to look like her father and Catherine, her mother
. They were fifteen and fourteen respectively and their parents were appropriately ensuring that they were seen at court. Bertrada accepted a small glass of white wine from the innkeeper and waited for Aude to descend.

  Tedbalt’s arrival in Paris had been delayed for another two days and the relief Bertrada felt could not have been more profound. She didn’t know what to say to him. Although she was fond of the boy, their feelings had never matured to romance. She was still confused over Pippin and didn’t want to build up the poor boy’s hopes. He had been so hurt.

  At the Compte de Soisson’s gasp, Bertrada nearly spilled her drink. Looking up, she found most of their party staring at the top of the staircase.

  It was Aude. Bertrada had always thought of her sister as “pretty” in an innocent and unassuming way. Now, seeing her on the stairs, Bertrada was forced to revise her appraisal. Aude’s hair was pulled tightly into a bun that accentuated her dark features and set off the white lace of a dress that just barely covered the nakedness of her shoulders and the top of her breasts. Her waist was so thin Pippin could have circled it with his two hands. Her eyelids sparkled with a soft green color that proved a worthy counterpoint to the rouge on her lips. The girl radiated beauty. For the first time in her life, Bertrada had to admit she was a touch envious of her sister's youth. She gratefully accepted another glass of wine.

  Before Aude could descend a stair, the door to the inn flew open and Tedbalt was there. He was windblown and ruddy and covered in a great coat that emphasized his height. His hair was longer than the last time Bertrada had seen him and although he had his father’s nose, he had grown into it in a way that made it appealing. He took one step into the room and followed the eyes of everyone to the top of the stairs. The shock on his face was palpable. He watched Aude take every step down. By the time she reached the floor he looked like a man in love.

  Bertrada drank her wine in a gulp.

  Tedbalt greeted his parents and his sisters in workmanlike fashion. Bertrada’s father gave the young man a warm embrace and a short cuff to the back of the head. Everyone laughed. Eventually he finished exchanging the requisite pleasantries and turned to find her.

  He smiled. It was an easy smile. One filled with warmth and confidence. He was no longer the besotted youth who fumbled through his courtship with her.

  He’s turned into a man, she thought. And a good-looking one at that.

  “Hello, Bertie.”

  “Hello, Ted.” Bertrada couldn’t help but notice how hot the room felt.

  “You look wonderful.”

  “You’ve grown into quite a man.” She was sure she was smiling like an idiot. Then she remembered. “I am so sorry about Annette.”

  He sobered, his eyes welling before he could get them under control. “Thank you for remembering.”

  An awkward silence ensued. Bertrada snagged another glass of wine.

  “May I sit with you at dinner?” he asked.

  “Of course, you great oaf!” Aude swept into their presence and took Tedbalt by the arm. Bertrada noticed that she fit nicely there. “That’s the whole idea!” Her radiant smile lifted their mood and they all laughed.

  The innkeeper rang chimes to signal dinner and they allowed themselves to be ushered into the dining room. Tedbalt never let go of Aude’s arm.

  More wine was poured, this time, red. Bertrada suggested to the server that he bank the fire to reduce the heat in the room. He looked so puzzled at the request that she decided he must be part idiot. When the glasses were filled, Tedbalt’s father toasted their health. Bertrada’s father toasted their trade mission, and Bertrada toasted Paris. Everyone laughed, glasses clinked, and Bertrada again felt euphoric.

  “How goes the rebuilding effort?” Tedbalt asked.

  Bertrada told him about the nightmare of rebuilding a wall in winter and the devastation to the people in the city. She was about to describe her work at the hospital, when Aude cut in.

  “He doesn’t want to hear about that! We’re in Paris! We have to be able to come up with better conversation than that!!”

  “What would you suggest?” Tedbalt seemed thoroughly taken by her.

  “Let’s,” she whispered, “talk about the King!”

  “He’s not King yet.”

  Aude waved off Bertrada’s objection with the back of her hand. “It’s only a matter of time. I’ve heard his hair is longer than mine!”

  “I thought that was just a rumor,” Tedbalt said.

  “And his fingernails!” Aude held her hands nearly a foot apart. “They’re covered with jewels.”

  She wove a spell over the table with her stories of the Merovingian. At first Bertrada listened with the others as she sipped her wine. She remembered something Pippin had said about the strange line of kings but couldn’t quite remember what. She tried to join the conversation but couldn’t seem to find a way in. Either she spoke too slowly or out of turn. She began to feel foolish. Her euphoria dissipated.

  Aude was whispering of dark black magic and evil enchantment and telling stories of the King’s ability to see the future. She had Tedbalt’s complete attention.

  Bertrada looked down at her glass, disoriented. How many had she had?

  They started serving dinner. It was a healthy slab of roasted beef.

  “It’s just a matter of time before Carloman and Pippin elevate him,” Aude said.

  “Really?” Tedbalt turned his attention to Bertrada. “What does Pippin say about him?”

  “Oh, she’s no longer with Pippin,” Aude laughed. “That’s over.”

  The server set down Bertrada’s plate of beef. It was red and bloody. The smell of it wafted up towards her.

  “You’re no longer with Pippin?” Tedbalt asked.

  Bertrada had just enough time to shake her head no, and then she vomited on her plate.

  Chapter Five

  South of the Loire

  Pippin groaned awake and found himself lying spread-eagled on a mat inside his tent, still fully clothed, his head thundering from the drink he had consumed the night before. It took him a moment to remember where he was. When he did, he groaned even louder. He and his army were marching with Carloman and Boniface back to Paris.

  This is the way of it, thought Pippin. He was always deferring to Carloman. Despite his anger over Hunoald and Waifar, Pippin had agreed to fight in the east. Carloman's logic had won the day. If they split their forces, they risked losing control of Francia, so vengeance would have to wait.

  What bothered Pippin were his doubts about Carloman's motives. All his life, he had always trusted Carloman, but after Laon he didn't know what to think.

  He rolled off the mat and stood up. As with most mornings, his body refused to straighten. His joints ached, especially the spot just above his left shoulder blade where he had taken an arrow in Saxony and his left knee where his warhorse had fallen on him in Narbonne. The latter injury forced him to limp until he could loosen the joint. Making matters worse, his eyes had also crusted shut during the night and now refused all attempts to open them. He stumbled his way outside.

  There was a water bucket outside his tent and, whispering a word of thanks, Pippin dipped both hands into the cold liquid and splashed it on his face to try and rub some life into it. Displeased with the results, he lifted the bucket and upended it over his head, shouting at the cold shock of it.

  “Milord?” It was Gunther.

  Pippin groaned. Gunther only used such titles when Carloman was around. Pain pounded behind Pippin’s eyes at the thought. He wiped the water from his face and straightened. Carloman, however, was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Gunther stood beside a middle-aged woman and two children. Pippin guessed the boy was six and the girl ten. He didn’t recognize them and couldn’t understand why Gunther was being so deferential.

  “What do you want?” Pippin threw the bucket aside, cleared his throat and spat a thick mass of phlegm on the ground between them.

  “Milord, the Comptesse de Loches?”

 
; The hostages. Pippin had asked Gunther to bring them around at first light. Now, he wished he had said noon. He made a half-hearted attempt to bow.

  “Milady,” he said. “I-”

  With a look of disdain that would wither a nun, the Comptesse swept past Pippin and disappeared into his tent. Bewildered, Pippin turned to Gunther. The eyes on his short lieutenant were each as big as a gold solidus. Gunther shook his head in warning.

  The Comptesse reappeared from Pippin’s tent carrying a small towel. She thrust the cloth into Pippin’s hands.

  “You are not an animal, young man. Go make yourself presentable. I am a noblewoman whose family dates back to Roman times and, if I’m not mistaken, you are mayor of the palace. Go get yourself cleaned up. Your father would be ashamed to see you behaving like this.”

  Pippin was dumbfounded. “You knew my father?”

  “Of course, I knew your father.” She grabbed Pippin by the arm and turned him around to face his tent. “And he would be appalled to have you greet me in such fashion. Now, go!” She pushed him. “I’ll wait for you out here. And please.” She sniffed the air. “Change your chemise. It smells as if you've slept in it since you took our castle.”

  Much to his surprise, Pippin found himself back in his tent dispensing with his doublet and changing his chemise. His mind raced. Who was this woman? He couldn’t recall his father ever mentioning the Comptesse de Loches. He dried his hair and used the towel to wipe his armpits.

  Not that it should matter, he thought; she’s a hostage. He donned a new chemise and used his fingers to comb his short hair. Anger gripped him and he shook his head. The Comptesse was every bit as arrogant as her diminutive husband.