Wheel of the Fates: Book Two of the Carolingian Chronicles

by J. Boyce Gleason

  “We’ve met.” Pippin bowed in acknowledgement and then looked to Boniface for an explanation, but the good bishop was looking anywhere but at the two women. Pippin wondered what he had gotten himself into.

  The Comptesse returned her attention to her sister. “You’ve cut your hair short! It suits you. You look lovely tonight. That green scarf brings out the color of your eyes.”

  Lady Hélène looked bemused. “You were always the flatterer, sister.”

  The Bishop of Auxerres looked like a predator awaiting his kill. With a cough, he leaned in and asked, “Comptesse, how do you know…Wynnfred?”

  But the Comptesse had already moved to take Pippin from the circle. “So nice to see you all again,” she was saying, “but you must forgive me. Milord Mayor must pay his respects to our host.” The Comptesse pulled Pippin in the direction of Childeric and he dutifully followed her. This time, as they made their way across the room, the crowd parted before them and Pippin found himself quickly before Childeric’s makeshift throne. The crowd hushed in anticipation. Pippin’s only thought was how small the Merovingian looked sitting on Ragomfred’s chair. He had to suppress an urge to laugh. Again, silence took the room.

  With practiced elegance, the Comptesse stepped into the breach.

  “Milord and Lady Ragomfred, may I present to you the Lord Mayor, Pippin, son of Charles, son of Pippin of Herstal.”

  “Milord Pippin,” Ragomfred bowed. Pippin returned the gesture. “May I in turn present Childeric, son of his Highness Chilperic III?”

  “Childeric,” Pippin acknowledged, nodding politely with a slight smile on his face.

  Childeric offered his ring for Pippin to kiss. The room seemed to pivot on the gesture. All eyes focused on the outstretched hand with its bejeweled fingernails and proffered ring.

  Pippin started to chuckle, and then laughed out loud. “Do not rush things, Childeric,” Pippin’s voice carried the room. “You haven’t been anointed by the holy oil and the dove has yet to fly. You are not yet a king.”

  “My day will come, Mayor.”

  “Should your claim be true.”

  “Oh, it’s true, Mayor. Have no doubt. It’s true.”

  There was no hint of deception in the small man’s eyes. He was telling the truth. A wave a doubt assailed Pippin. The Comptesse stepped forward, reattached herself to Pippin’s arm and bowed politely to the heir and to their hosts. “I am grateful to make your-”

  “Do you believe it is right for a king to rule who has no power?” Pippin asked.

  The Comptesse glared at Pippin and again pinched the inside of his arm. He ignored her.

  The Merovingian’s eyes, however, were twinkling with delight. “The Romans used to say that power is fleeting. You, of all people, should understand that.”

  “Yet the Romans ruled for a thousand years.”

  “Ah yes, Rome ruled,” the Merovingian said. “But their generals came and went like customers at a house of courtesans.” Titters from the crowd punctuated his point. “The power behind Rome was that her citizens believed in Rome itself. In Francia, we believe in the divine right of our kings. We have since the heavenly dove brought the holy oil to anoint Clovis. The question that should be asked, Milord Mayor, is who believes in you?”

  In the hushed silence that followed Childeric’s question, Pippin recognized that this was a mistake. A trickle of sweat rolled down his back.

  Childeric’s eyes continued to bore into him. “Let me see if I understand the power you claim to have. You have half an army. You have no treasure with which to wage war. Without a king or the church’s support, you have no financial or moral authority to rule Francia and your brother drew your right of succession into question by imprisoning your half-brother Gripho and seizing his territory. Do I have this right, or am I missing something?”

  It had been naive to bait him. Pippin had never felt more foolish.

  The tension in the room blossomed in the ensuing quiet. Childeric’s eyes remained locked on Pippin.

  “You, of all people,” Childeric stood, “know that you’re not meant to rule.” His voice softened. “I see the suffering within you. I see the blackness coiling in the corners of your eyes. I see your doubt.”

  Pippin looked away.

  “I asked you once before, Mayor,” Childeric said, almost as if he addressed a child. “Who believes in you?” He waited for Pippin’s response. “Did your father?” His last words were almost a whisper. “Do you?”

  Childeric had touched upon the one place Pippin was always vulnerable. Pippin could see the wave of blackness rise above him.

  Childeric leaned towards Pippin. “Pledge me your sword. Rule in my name and all of Francia will be united behind you. Defy me and Francia will be divided until the very end of your days. But know this, Mayor, either way, I will be king.”

  Pippin’s strength seemed to crumple before the onslaught of Childeric’s words. His hands reached down to detach his sword and scabbard from his belt.

  “Milord, Mayor-” Again the Comptesse tried to interrupt.

  But Childeric raised his hand to silence her.

  Pippin lifted the sword and scabbard aloft before Childeric.

  A smile crept onto the heir’s face and he sat back in his oversized chair to await Pippin’s vow.

  “Oh Pippin!” a small voice cried from across the room. Pippin’s head snapped to find it. It was Bertrada. She was standing in the doorway to the patio. She had been crying. A tall young man stood next to her, with his arm around her shoulders. She leaned into him for support.

  Fury swept over Pippin and his eyes leapt back to his sword. His body began to shake. His lungs pumped air in and out through his teeth in rapid succession and his body coiled for combat. When he looked back to Childeric, his eyes were filled with rage.

  Childeric’s bodyguards stepped forward, their hands reaching for their swords, but Childeric held them back with a gesture.

  Pippin drew his sword and held it high over his head. With both hands he slammed its point into the floor at his feet. The blade stood erect, embedded in the soft wood.

  “I am the son of Charles, the son of Pippin.” He turned to address the room filled with nobles. He pointed to his sword. “THIS is my power. With THIS, I have fought and bled with the sons of Francia since the time I was seven…just as my father fought before me and his father fought before him. And tomorrow, I will take this sword with many in this room to fight again for Francia against the evil of Theudebald and the treason of Odilo.”

  Pippin stopped for a deep breath.

  “Power isn’t my purpose.” He turned back to Childeric. “Though it, too, is a weapon. Know that when I wield that weapon it is for the might and glory of Francia. I wield it for the safety of our people and the wealth of our noblemen. I wield it so that our sons and our daughters aren’t threatened by Saxons or Saracens.

  Pippin stared defiantly at the intent faces of the nobles.

  “I refuse to wield it for a man who has never lifted a sword in defense of his realm, and yet has the nerve to ask me to kiss his ring. Those who have served and given sons in combat know me.”

  “Huh-yah,” several voices in the crowd echoed.

  “I will not fail. Francia will not fail.” Menace was heavy in his voice.

  “Huh-yah,” more voices agreed.

  “And while some stay behind to play chess with puppet kings, I will lead men into battle in defense of our land.”

  “Huh-yah!” shouted his chorus.

  “I will double the usual treasure of all those who join with me on my campaign in Alemannia and Bavaria.”

  It was a princely sum and the room hushed in a stunned silence.

  He turned to face Childeric. “Do not speak to me of Rome or your divine right of kings. The first Merovingians were warriors. Clovis united Francia by the power of his sword. Your line has become weak. You ask for my sword? Tell me, Childeric, where is yours?”

  Pippin grabbed the pommel of his sword
with one hand and wrenched his blade from the floor. He braved one last look over his shoulder at Bertrada by the patio. She was still standing in the doorway, her young man beside her, but he no longer had his arm around her. Pippin shook his head in disgust and headed for the stairs

  Chapter Thirteen

  Paris

  The Comptesse did not follow Pippin from the room. She held back to study the girl who had broken Childeric’s spell. Although young and beautiful, a tremendous sadness held her captive. That Pippin loved her was obvious. And from the look of the girl, she loved him too. But something held her back, something important, something noble. She had made the decision to end their relationship. This was a sacrifice for her.

  Satisfied with her assessment, Catherine was about to follow Pippin’s footsteps out of the hall when something else about the girl caught her eye. It was a small thing, the girl tugged at the breast line of her gown, but it caused the Comptesse to consider the girl anew.

  When she released her gaze, she found that she wasn’t alone in studying Pippin’s deliverer. Childeric’s eyes studied the girl as well. And as if sensing her gaze, Childeric looked up from the girl directly into the Comptesse’s eyes. Surprised by the frankness of his gaze, she dipped into a curtsey and turned to leave.

  On her way to the door, she drew alongside her sister.

  “Do you still honor the dark path, Hélène?” Catherine asked.

  “Yes, of course, sister.”

  “Then I require your services.”

  “I’ve always been in your service, Catherine.”

  “The girl, the one who spoke out just now, to break Childeric’s spell?”

  “Bertrada, a beautiful girl. Until the siege of Laon, she was Pippin’s lover. Then, something happened that ended their relationship. Few know of this. But, because of my oaths…”

  “Watch after her. No harm must come to her. Start this instant. No one,” the Comptesse turned as they walked to be sure her sister understood the importance, “no one under any circumstances is to harm her. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, of course, Catherine. Consider it done. But may I ask why?”

  The Comptesse looked again at Bertrada, testing her instincts and knew them to be true. “She may not know it yet,” the Comptesse said, “but that girl is with child. I’d swear by our mother’s grave that I’m right. And if she is, then Pippin is the father.”

  “My vow is my life.” Lady Hélène bowed solemnly.

  “And make sure you tell—” the Comptesse turned back to her sister, but Hélène was gone. Catherine searched the crowd, but her short-haired sibling was nowhere to be found. Neither was Pippin. She would have to ask Wynnfred to escort her home. Despite the gravity of the night’s events, that made her smile.

  ✽✽✽

  Miette was furious at, yet impressed by, Pippin’s challenge to Childeric. Ragomfred was right; Pippin was a force. His courage in the face of Childeric’s withering verbal assault had stunned the room. Oddly, she discovered a small part of her rooting for him. She wondered at this, replaying the confrontation over in her mind. Somehow, Pippin had seemed been both vulnerable and powerful at the same time. She had detected no deception to him, no court artifice to cater to the nobles in the room. He was as he appeared to be. Miette worried that Childeric had lost in the exchange.

  Her future king, however, calmly studied the jewels that studded his long fingernails while the mayor made his exit. When Pippin was gone, the room’s attention turned back to him. Silence settled around the Merovingian like a gaoler’s noose. Miette held her breath.

  Someone coughed. The collective gaze of the evening's revelers turned to the Merovingian. He indulged himself with a yawn. Lifting his gaze from his fingers to the stunned and blank faces in the room, he stood with practiced majesty and let the room absorb the strength of his confidence. He smiled and cocked his head slightly to the left.

  “I had imagined him to be somewhat…taller,” he offered.

  Miette nearly wept with relief. A chuckle answered from off to his right and Childeric played off it with a chortle of his own.

  “One would think that a son of Charles, son of Pippin, son of…well, whoever sired the other Pippin,” he waved dismissively, “…would be so much more imposing.” He was rewarded with more chuckling. A palliative relief began filtering through the crowd.

  “I am thankful, however, that at least he has a big sword…” There was outright laughter. “I’m also delighted that he’s finally off to protect Francia with it!” The laughter grew. “Isn’t that why we have short mayors with such big swords?”

  He let the laughter roll past him and waited for it to ease. He let his face fall into mock seriousness. “I just wish he hadn’t damaged Lord Ragomfred’s floor.”

  This time he rode the laughter like a wave. With a wink, he bellowed, “I propose a toast!” He gestured for a cup and raised it high above him. The room jumped to mirror his movement.

  “To our beloved Mayor Pippin!” he shouted, “Pippin the Short!”

  The room burst into laughter and then, upon reflection, applause. Childeric smiled and bowed deeply in response.

  As the room returned to its prior frivolity, Childeric turned to Miette. “I thought you said that he had little treasure?”

  “From everything I’ve heard he has none.”

  “Then find out if his boast is the truth or lie.”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “And that woman who called out to Pippin,” he whispered. “Who is she?”

  “Bertrada,” Miette replied, “daughter of the Compte de Laon. I had thought that she was Pippin’s mistress, but she came in the company of the son of the Compte de Soissons.”

  Childeric nodded and signaled to the younger of his two bodyguards, Calleau. The huge, bald, young man approached. He stood at least six hands tall and his shoulders looked as if they could carry a warhorse into battle. His face was broad and plain but accented by a fierce block of a jaw that seemed at odds with the rest of his small, round head.

  Childeric tilted his head to whisper.

  “Yes, Excellency.” The brute nodded, his eyes darting towards Bertrada and the Compte’s son, who were making their way to the door.

  ✽✽✽

  “I should have guessed as much,” Bertrada said. “It’s as if a host of demons have been loosed on the night to torment me.” Their coach was not in its designated spot so Bertrada had sent Tedbalt off to search for it.

  Her feet hurt, she was lightheaded and one step short of bursting into tears. She was afraid for Pippin. She had seen the darkness in his eyes and the doubt on his face. She was sure that if she hadn’t called out, he never would have come to his senses.

  And why should I care? Bertrada chastised herself. But she knew in her heart, that she did care. After Pippin’s departure, Bertrada had been stunned by the mocking words of the Merovingian. They had infuriated her. And she had been more infuriated by the crowd’s fawning response. Despite Aude’s protests, Bertrada had insisted that they leave immediately. She couldn’t wait to get away from them.

  She also needed to get away from Tedbalt and Aude. Why did I kiss him? Her stomach squeezed into a knot. What do I want from him? She could see that Tedbalt still had affection for her. But she also knew her sister was besotted with the man. Bile gathered at the back of her throat.

  “It’s no longer here.” Tedbalt returned from his search for the coach. “I checked with every coachman waiting and no one has seen it.”

  Bertrada’s alarm grew.

  “How will we get home?” She could hear the panic in her voice. “We have to get away from here.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Tedbalt said. “I’m terribly embarrassed. “Perhaps I can prey upon the graces of good bishop Boniface to take us back to the-”

  “Can I be of assistance?” A woman in a nearby coach called out. “Bertrada? Is that you?”

  The door of the coach opened, and the coachman scrambled to pla
ce a step down so the woman could descend. She was dressed in a green cloak with a hood that obscured her face. Still, Bertrada was sure she knew the voice. The woman drew closer.

  “Lady Hélène!” Bertrada sighed with relief. The woman had been a friend of her father and was now a close confidant of Carloman’s wife, Greta. Hélène had lost her husband years ago and had never remarried. She was one of the court’s more celebrated hostesses.

  “Yes, we could use some help. Our coach has mysteriously disappeared. and we’re desperate in our need of a ride back across the river.”

  “Please.” Lady Hélène held the door to her coach open for them, “I think we can all fit.”

  Bertrada nearly wept with gratitude. She kissed the woman on both cheeks and climbed into the cab. After a moment’s hesitation, so did Tedbalt and Aude.

  “I am forever in your debt.”

  “It’s my pleasure. Please, Bertrada, why don’t you sit next to this fine-looking young man, so you can face forward? You look a little peaked.”

  “I am a little out of sorts.”

  Lady Hélène took the seat opposite Bertrada on the street side of the coach and closed the window shade, leaving only a small crack. Bertrada introduced her fellow passengers as the coach pulled out into the street. They traveled several blocks before Bertrada realized she was babbling girlishly out of relief. Lady Hélène, however, seemed not to notice. She was focused on the small slit in the window’s curtain.

  “I’m sorry,” Bertrada said. “I’m such the fool of late.”

  “It’s perfectly all right, dear.” Lady Hélène patted her knee and then returned her gaze to the slit in the window curtain. The cab's occupants fell into an awkward silence as the coach steered through ever-darkening streets. Riders occasionally overtook them and each time, Lady Hélène peered out into the darkness.

  “Is something wrong, Lady Hélène?” Bertrada asked. “You seem worried.”

  “Hopefully, it’s nothing. I’ve heard rumors that highwayman roam this road. Tedbalt, do you know how to use a sword?”