Wheel of the Fates: Book Two of the Carolingian Chronicles

by J. Boyce Gleason

  “As I said,” Boniface repeated. “He’s more like your father than you suspect.”

  Pippin swept the legs out from under the knight facing him with the flat of his sword and quickly placed the point of his sword against the soft flesh of the man’s neck.

  “Yield!” the man cried and the crowd hooted. Pippin, however, was already on to his next opponent.

  It was Hamar. Both sides of the contest roared in anticipation. The fighting by all the other combatants melted away as each of the remaining knights offered truces to witness the contest. Hamar and Pippin circled each other, their breath billowing in the morning air.

  Hamar was the first to attack. With incredible speed he launched a series of blows that had the crowd cheering and Pippin in full retreat. Pippin fell back desperately, using both sword and shield to deflect Hamar’s blows. Frustrated, Hamar paused to assess his opponent and, again, the two men circled.

  Hamar feinted, hoping to draw Pippin out, but Pippin chose caution. When Hamar struck again, his attack was as fast as it was unrelenting. Again, Pippin retreated before him. One of Hamar’s thrusts caught Pippin’s right arm, but the young mayor continued on, countering each blow with grim concentration.

  Carloman stood high on the hill wondering what held his brother back. Pippin made no attempt to counterattack.

  A third time, Pippin retreated before the speed of Hamar. Many in the crowd began to boo. Hamar could no longer hide his anger and frustration. His face was red with fury and he banged his chest plate with his sword, unconsciously, mimicking Gunther’s earlier challenge.

  Pippin, by contrast, was expressionless. His eyes looked dead as he faced Carloman’s champion. Hamar roared and attacked again. Pippin again fell back before the barrage, but never left an opening for Hamar to exploit. They circled. Hamar’s chest heaved as he sought to regain his wind. Pippin raised his shield and closed.

  From atop his hill, Carloman noticed that Pippin held his sword awkwardly. The wound Hamar dealt must have done more damage than he had thought.

  It was obvious that Hamar saw it too. Before Pippin could raise his arm, Hamar thrust for Pippin’s shoulder.

  Pippin was no longer there. He stood to one side of Hamar and punched forward with his shield, catching Carloman’s champion in the face. Hamar stepped back, stunned. Pippin’s followers roared.

  Growling, Hamar attacked. Again, Pippin fell back before him and deflected the onslaught. This time, however, several of Hamar’s blows went wild. One such blow left Hamar off-balance and Pippin quickly took advantage by again stepping forward and to punch Hamar with his shield. Hamar stumbled backwards but stood his ground.

  Pippin waited for Hamar to compose himself. When Hamar attacked next, Pippin was a blur, spinning lithely beside him and kicking the side of Hamar’s knee and then banging the side of his head with the sword’s pommel. Hamar fell back. This time, when he began to circle, Hamar was limping.

  The soldiers surrounding the battle began to bang their swords on their shields. They sensed Hamar’s vulnerability. Pippin lowered his shield and saluted Carloman’s champion, raising the pommel of his sword to his forehead. It was a gesture to acknowledge the honor of one beaten in battle. Hamar screamed his outrage and charged.

  Pippin stepped aside and slammed Hamar once more with his shield. Hamar went down to one knee, his blade punching into the earth to stop his fall. Pippin’s sword flashed in the afternoon light. The crowd hushed to silence as the blade fell in a deadly arc above Hamar’s head.

  “No,” Carloman said under his breath.

  At the last second, Pippin stepped to his left and swept his sword so that it struck Hamar’s blade just under the pommel. The blow lifted Hamar’s weapon into the sunlight, flipping it far from its owner. Hamar, still on one knee, closed his eyes. Pippin waited.

  “I wished you had delivered the blow,” Hamar said.

  “No honor was at stake,” Pippin said. “And we need your sword in the east." He offered Hamar his hand.

  The crowd erupted. Somewhere in the back a chant began. It quickly gained momentum and it soon took over the collective voice of the crowd.

  “CARLOMAN! CARLOMAN! CARLOMAN!” Everyone looked up the hill to where he stood.

  “They want their purse.” Boniface chuckled.

  “Yes, of course, they do.” Bowing to his mentor, Carloman collected the two purses and strode down the hill. The cheering rose in volume with each step he made. He soon found himself standing next to Pippin and Hamar, the crowd delirious. He signaled for quiet.

  “The day is yours, brother.” He handed Pippin the two purses.

  Pippin lifted them over his head and then, with a bow, gave one to Hamar and held the man’s hand aloft. The crowd roared anew. Pippin’s men rushed into the arena and carried him around the makeshift field.

  Carloman looked around to find Boniface. He was where he had left him, standing alone at the top of the hill. His friend and mentor had been right. There might be more to Pippin than Carloman had thought. And it could change everything. Carloman nodded his head in acknowledgement of his godfather’s wisdom. He hated it when the bishop was right.

  ✽✽✽

  Pippin winced as Childebrand poured salt into the hole in his shoulder. The wound had surprised him. Hamar was faster than he had expected. Childebrand squeezed together the two edges of the wound with his fingers and shoved a needle and string through them until the knot in the string took hold. His face was a mask of concentration, his tongue flicking across his lips as he sewed. Gunther sat next to Pippin, waiting his turn under Childebrand’s needle.

  “Don’t know why you took the field,” the short knight was saying, “I could have bested 'im.”

  Pippin grunted as Childebrand pulled tight the thread.

  “Oh, he’s good,” Gunther admitted. “Fast as a fox. But no match for the likes of me. You shouldn’t’ve stepped in. You don’t need all the glory, Pippin.”

  Pippin winced. Childebrand sank the needle in again, this time more roughly.

  “Easy,” Pippin chided. “I’m on your side.”

  As he spoke, the Comptesse de Loches made her way across the field where the mêlée had taken place. Her pace faltered as she passed the first of many large swaths of bloodstained grass. By the time she reached the last, her pace had slowed. She lingered at the edge of the field, bowed her head in prayer and made the sign of the cross.

  When she turned in his direction, Pippin stood and made his way to her, brushing off Childebrand’s needle and his protest.

  “Comptesse.” Pippin bowed. Her eyes took in his half-sewn shoulder. She grumbled her disapproval before speaking. “Milord Pippin.”

  “Milady-”

  The Comptesse held up her hand to cut him off. Her eyes warned him to silence. Pippin closed his mouth.

  “I have yet to forgive you for your disturbing behavior in Tours,” she began. “But we are finally near Paris and I am in need of an escort.”

  “I’ll have four of my men take you into the city.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” the Comptesse snapped. “The Lady Ragomfred is holding a ball in honor of the expected heir.” She paused. “I’d like you to escort me there.”

  Pippin’s face colored at the suggestion. “I just spoke to Carloman. He doesn’t think we should attend. He said it would only fuel the Merovingian’s fire.”

  “What do you think?” The Comptesse’s eyes narrowed.

  “I can’t see how it would help. It either forces a confrontation, which plays into the hands of our detractors, or it builds momentum for his elevation. What purpose would be served?”

  “What would your father have said?”

  Pippin thought before answering. “He wouldn’t have cared. He would have gone just to see how the court would react.”

  The Comptesse waited for more.

  “And he would have enjoyed their discomfort.” Pippin smiled at the thought. “He wouldn’t have let anyone think for a moment that he w
asn’t in charge.”

  Now, the Comptesse was smiling. Pippin chuckled at his own naïveté. He bowed to the Comptesse and offered her his arm.

  “Milady, would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the Ragomfred ball?”

  “Why, I would be delighted, milord Mayor.” She took his arm. “I’ll send a tailor to provide you with some proper clothes. I daresay he’ll do a better job of sewing than your lieutenant.”

  “But-”

  The Comptesse held up her hand to stop his protest.

  “If you are to escort me, you will dress appropriately.”

  Pippin decided that, perhaps, discretion was in order. He bowed again to her and began to escort her from the field.

  “I still haven’t forgiven you for your behavior at Tours.”

  “Comptesse,” Pippin protested. “I’ve apologized several times for that.”

  “Yes.” She looked over her shoulder at the bloodstained field behind her. “But your tendency to violence is disturbing.”

  “I didn’t kill him,” Pippin said.

  The Comptesse de Loches grunted.

  Chapter Ten

  Regensburg

  One of Trudi’s eyes opened before she came awake. She was cold, terribly cold, and her face hurt. Odilo was snoring softly next to her and the fire in the corner was nearly out. For some reason, the bed was hard.

  She struggled to sit up and found herself on the table in the great hall. Looking down at herself, she discovered that her robe was torn open and her nakedness was on display for all to see. Confused, she pulled at the corners of the garment to cover herself and saw the ugly line of dried blood that descended her belly and the blood on her thighs.

  She remembered.

  She reeled backward onto the table with revulsion as the memory of Theudebald’s rape revisited itself upon her. Again, she felt Theudebald’s knife on her skin. Again, he struck her face and head. Again, his flesh penetrated her flesh.

  His ravaging cascaded over her. She tried to ward against it, batting at the air above her, but her defenses were as useless as they had been the night before. Unchecked, the memories assaulted her and Trudi wept with humiliation.

  She struggled to sit up, her hands fumbling to cover her nakedness. Odilo’s soft snore broke through her confusion and the paradox of his presence gripped her. Anger surged through her. How could he sleep?

  In a rage she turned to strike him, to demand why he had failed to awaken, why he failed to protect her, but a sharp pain lanced across her abdomen and her anger turned to fear. She flung open her robe. Grabbing a corner of the fabric, she wiped away the fluids that smeared her. When she was finished, she thrust a hand between her legs. She lifted her fingers up to the firelight. They were streaked with blood.

  Panic seized her. She gathered the bottom of her robe and stuffed it between her legs. Holding the ball of fabric tight against her, she edged off the table and tried to stand. She was so lightheaded she nearly fainted. She put a hand out to steady herself, and after a couple of deep breaths, made for the door and shuffled her way across the room.

  The hallway leading to the stairs was empty. Trudi offered a quick prayer of thanks and crept through the darkness. She peered up past the curve of the staircase and seeing no one, advanced up it. She stopped again to peer past the next curve and again moved on. She just had to make it to her apartment unseen. Then she could decide what to do.

  Unbidden, an old wives’s tale leapt to Trudi’s mind and struck her like a rock. “Ravaged women share the blame; their bodies be forever stained.”

  She began to sob. She covered her mouth to mute the sound. Her feet stopped their ascent and she sat on the stairway, curling herself into a ball. She rocked herself back and forth.

  Harsh voices on the stairs above frightened her into silence. Soldiers were descending the steps towards her. Scurrying, Trudi retraced her steps down the stairs to the main hallway and looked for places to hide. She found no furniture or draperies to shield her. Her only option was to return to the great hall. She shuddered. She couldn’t go back there. The soldiers’ steps were now directly above her. Within seconds they would find her. She stepped into the shadow of the stairwell, hoping its darkness would keep her out of sight.

  Their accents were too harsh for Trudi to understand, but the progress of the soldiers’ voices allowed her to mark their descent down the circular staircase. They were above and behind her - alongside her - before her. She held her breath. She prayed. They passed within several feet of her and walked on to the great hall.

  The moment they were out of sight, Trudi was again on the stairs, making her way to the second floor. She was desperate now, all her attention on reaching her rooms. She made the second landing. No more than fifty feet separated her from her apartment. She cautiously peered around the corner to look down the hall. There was someone there. A large form patrolled near her doorway and seemed to be walking away from her. She waited.

  Shouts came from downstairs and Trudi heard footsteps coming up the staircase. They must have seen her blood on the table. She had to risk getting to her room. Holding the ball of cloth between her legs, she sprinted down the hallway towards her door. The dark figure, a guard, at the end of the hall turned and called out to her.

  Trudi reached her door first and struggled to open it. The latch wouldn’t cooperate and slipped in her hand.

  “Duchesse!” The guard ran towards her.

  The latch lifted and she was inside. She slammed the door and locked it from the inside as the guard banged on her door.

  “Duchesse! Your robe! Are you well?”

  Trudi rested her cheek against the door; silently thanking it for the temporary safety it afforded her. She tried to compose herself.

  “Duchesse!”

  “It’s the baby. Send for a doctor.” Trudi started to cry.

  “Please let me in.”

  She pounded on the door. “Send for the doctor!”

  After a moment’s hesitation, she heard the man’s footsteps running down the hallway. Relieved that he had gone, Trudi slid down the length of the door to sit on the floor. She longed to crawl to her bed but knew she could not.

  “Ravaged women share the blame; their bodies be forever stained.”

  She had to get control of herself. She stood and found the mirror on the wall across the room. A beaten and very frightened, pregnant young woman stared back at her.

  Anger coursed through her. They must never know.

  She took off what was left of her bloody robe, hurriedly stuffed it beneath her bed, and returned naked to the washbasin.

  With a clean towel, she washed the remaining evidence of the rape from her thighs and then hid the towel under the bed with her robe. She rolled a second towel into a pad and placed it between her legs to staunch the bleeding. Next, she washed her face, tentatively probing the swollen and bruised parts of her cheek and lips.

  She donned a new nightdress and began to brush her hair.

  There was pounding at her door. It was Odilo.

  “Trudi! What’s happened?”

  Her anger spiked at the sound of his voice. How could he sleep through it?

  Furiously, Trudi fought to choke back her tears. “Get the doctor. I’m bleeding!”

  “Trudi?”

  “I fell down the stairs. I think my cheek is broken.” Why didn’t he protect me?

  “Open the door!”

  Trudi cleaned away every trace of her hurried toilet and climbed into her bed. The pounding on the door continued. She pulled the blankets over her.

  Odilo, with the help of a guard, kicked in the door. He ran to the bed to take Trudi into his arms.

  She recoiled. “Don’t touch me!”

  Odilo retreated, stunned.

  “I’m bleeding,” Trudi said. “I need a doctor.”

  Odilo took her into her arms and searched the bruising on her face. “You fell?”

  “I’m losing the baby!” she shouted.

  Odi
lo grabbed the guard and began barking instructions. Trudi waved her hand to interrupt them. “Post a guard,” she said in a faint voice.

  With a frightened look on his face, Odilo nodded. “I’ll be right back.”

  Much to Trudi’s relief, the two left her room. She rolled over, drew the blankets around her, and cradled her belly in her arms. She tried not to think about the growing wetness between her legs.

  ✽✽✽

  Eta arrived with two Bavarian midwives in tow, dressed in crisp, white smocks and grey skirts. With a wave of authority, she took complete control of Trudi’s chambers. She brusquely dismissed all the men from her quarters, hung temporary drapes to cordon off her bed from the rest of the apartment and ordered workman to replace the door. Banks of candles were produced to push back the night. New bed linens and blankets replaced those she had soiled and the furniture that served no utilitarian purpose was removed while supplies of linens, bandages, soaps, sponges and washbasins were brought in and placed in perfectly aligned rows on the table next to her bed.

  The two midwives, large and buxom with broad hands, ignored the panic and passion of Trudi’s protests and gently removed her robe. They washed her methodically and thoroughly from foot to scalp.

  There was no question that the women knew she had been raped. They found and disposed of the ripped and bloody clothing Trudi had hidden beneath her bed. And they had watched as Eta examined her. Trudi saw their eyes hardened with recognition when her loins were inspected. She watched as their mouths pulled into frowns when Eta probed her scalp and dressed the wounds to her breast and belly. No words were exchanged between them. But they knew.

  Trudi wept in humiliation. The midwives with their big hands replaced the bloody pad between her legs and lifted her again to settle a new night robe around her shoulders. They laid her back onto a deep soft pillow and tucked her in between two stiff, white bed linens. Trudi turned her face into the pillow to hide her tears. One by one, she heard the midwives leave. Only one remained. When her tears had been spent, Trudi turned from the soft haven of her pillow to find Eta sitting next to her.