“And he believes I would tell you?”
“Well, yes...after I seduce you. Pillow talk, that sort of thing.”
She said it with such confidence, as if she was sure he would succumb. Pippin felt his face flush, suddenly unsure that he wouldn’t. Her eyes found his again. This time there was a challenge in them, almost as if she was baiting him to try.
Pippin knew she was toying with him, but even so it was having its intended effect. He had never known a woman who spoke of such intimate matters so openly. He wondered what she would look like naked. He shook his head in an effort to control his thoughts. “Is your husband really impotent?”
Miette smiled and leaned forward, showing him just a hint of her décolletage. “Yes. At least with me.” Again, her eyes challenged him.
“I’m surprised you told me that.”
She smiled. “I’m drawn to powerful men, Pippin. I was impressed with you at the ball. Very few men could stand up to Childeric. And my husband? You terrify him. I find that strangely compelling. But don’t worry. I won’t seduce you.”
“You won’t?” Despite his amusement, Pippin felt a stab of disappointment.
“I won’t have to. I think you’ll tell me everything I want to know.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Because I can return the favor.” Her finger traced a fold line down her dress and she studied him watching her. “What do you want to know? How many families are allied with the king? Which ones?”
“Maybe I already know.”
She smiled, letting the boast lie. Her face grew serious. “The two of us are pragmatic people, not ideologues like my husband or your brother Carloman. Rather than waste good Neustrian blood over this matter of elevation, I suggest there are more mutually beneficial ways for the two of us to proceed – even if we don’t want the same things.”
Although wary, Pippin nodded for her to continue.
“I suggest a secret correspondence between us.”
“I thought you said this was Childeric’s idea.”
She smiled. “Seducing you was his idea. I’m talking about a much more delicate level of cooperation.”
The servant returned with two glasses of rosé. Miette raised her glass with a sly grin. “To the future king!”
Pippin’s grin became a smirk. “Whoever he may be.” The rosé was crisp and cool on his tongue. He was enjoying the banter. The woman was a mystery. “Why would you do such a thing to your husband?”
“My husband is a political ally. She put down her glass, suddenly earnest. “I’m here in service of my king.” Her cheeks flushed at this and it looked as if she was about to say more, but she waved away her emotions with a sweep of her hand. “This is the easiest way. He gets what he wants, and you get what you want.”
Pippin had an inspiration. “You share his bed.”
The blush returned but she maintained her composure. She sat back, assessing him and then smiled. “How dare you, sir. I’m a married woman.” Her tone suggested quite the opposite.
She was so close, so available. “He’s a dangerous man, my lady. I doubt he’d approve of such betrayal.”
“Betrayal?” She knelt before him and ran a finger up his leg. “This is his idea. And what I’m proposing would be better described as diplomacy.”
He felt a thrill go up his leg at her touch and a voice far away in his head screamed that he should show her the door, but Pippin ignored it. “I thought you weren’t
going to seduce me.”
“Have I?” With a self-satisfied smile, she sat back in her chair and rearranged the folds of her dress and placed her hands demurely in her lap. “So? How much longer will you be in Paris?”
He told her. He convinced himself that it was no state secret and intelligence of no real value.
“Will your army remain behind?”
Pippin hesitated, assessing how much more he should divulge and then nodded. “A battalion. Childeric may have assurances from Neustrian nobles, but they won’t take the field against my men. Not when I can return with an entire army.”
“And what if, after the war, there’s little left of your army?”
Pippin frowned. It was a good point.
Lady Ragomfred stood. “Fair is fair. Show me a list of the nobles you fear are with the king.”
He walked her to his room, but when she entered it, she bypassed his desk and went straight to his bed, assessing it and the room with a studied gaze. “A bit small for someone of your stature.”
“I need little by way of comfort.”
“Do you?”
Pippin felt his face flush. “Not all men are the same.”
She gave a sardonic laugh. “To that I can vouch.”
She studied his lists, her hands moving quickly through the names. “These two have allied with Childeric. These three are still neutral. And this one,” she pointed to a name on the bribe list, “is a liar. He could be in either camp.”
Pippin frowned. It was worse than he had thought.
“Now, was that so difficult?” Her voice was mocking and playful, but she was standing dangerously close to him and he felt disoriented. She turned to face him, her body mere inches from his. She looked up into his face, and Pippin knew she wanted him to kiss her.
He took her by the arm, and they returned to the salon. “I look forward to our next meeting, my lady.”
He watched her go, mesmerized by her confidence. As she exited, she stopped to examine the maps on his wall. When she turned back, her face showed no trace of her smile or their previous banter.
“Now that our friendship is sealed, Pippin. Beware of reports sighting Bertrada in the banlieu south of Paris. If you decide you must investigate, take plenty of men with you.”
And then she was gone.
✽✽✽
Raising the hood of her cloak as she left Pippin’s palace, Miette couldn’t miss the fact that her hands were trembling. She scurried across the bridge that connected the Île de la Cité to the northern bank and ducked between two homes into a side alley. If she followed it for two blocks it would lead to where her carriage waited. Once hidden from view, however, Miette stopped to lean against the wall to compose herself. It was then she discovered that her whole body was shaking with fright.
What was she thinking? Warning Pippin about the trap at the banlieu had been as foolish as it was suicidal. If Childeric ever discovered her betrayal, he would beat her to death. No emotional bond would protect her from his wrath. When the trap failed – and surely it would fail – he would suspect duplicity and she would be his primary suspect.
Yet some instinct had goaded her to warn Pippin.
Her mind raced at her folly and she tried to calm herself by closing her eyes and taking deep breaths. Her panic seemed to redouble with her effort. She had an overwhelming desire to flee even though she had nowhere to run.
The longer she tried to contain her fear, however, the more she realized her anxiety was not something new; it was something that had grown over time. The euphoria she had once felt for Childeric and her newfound role at court had been slowly replaced by a growing sense of apprehension. Where she had once reveled in his game of dominating wills and sexual exploration, she now found their trysts simply violent and degrading. And no matter how many times Miette’s husband had explained “succession in the game of kings” it seemed cowardly to attack a woman pregnant with child.
Her disillusionment had spiked when Childeric commanded her to sleep with Pippin. It was humiliating. He had mollified her, of course, explaining that she was a trusted weapon in his defense, and that the intelligence she gained would protect him and his dynasty.
But who would protect her when Childeric cast her aside? Not her husband. No. He was weak in the face of Childeric. He had already shouted her down when she complained about Childeric’s growing violence, telling her not to destroy all that they had worked to achieve.
Only Pippin had stood up to the future king.
Miette felt her breath slow and her trembling hands calm. She straightened her back and squared her shoulders. She didn’t know if she would survive her betrayal, but at least she now understood why she did it. By the time she reached her awaiting carriage, she strode to it with confidence.
Chapter Seventeen
Outside Paris
They slept most of the morning away but awoke when Patrice brought in vegetables from the garden. Hélène took the cue and started chopping them into the stewpot that hung in the fireplace. Its aroma filled the house and for the moment, Bertrada felt safe. Hélène’s presence plus the warmth and quiet of the house, somehow reassured her that Childeric’s men wouldn’t find them there.
Agnès arrived at dusk, carrying bread and cheese in a wrap slung over her shoulder. Her face was grim. “There are armed men about town. They were asking for two women, one of them blond.”
Bertrada’s moment of safety vanished. “What did they look like?”
“Ruffians, save they ride war horses.”
Hélène nodded. “Those are the men chasing us. I suppose they knew we couldn’t go back to the palace and there’s little safety to the north. I’m not surprised they’re here. They had to guess we’d head south and east.”
Bertrada tried to sound calm. “Can we get away?”
“Maybe it’s best that you stay here for a few days. They may move on.”
“What if they start searching houses?”
“If they do, we’ll have to move. It will take them some time to reach here and news like that travels quickly. We should be able to avoid them.
The four of them ate much of their meal in silence. Bertrada asked questions to fill the void.
“How do you two know each other?”
Patrice looked up at the question while Hélène seemed to focus on her stew. It was Agnès who answered. “I’m from the mountains. My family raised us in the ways of the Church. But, in the mountains, the journey of the devout is … different. There are many paths to faith. I chose the most difficult one. I chose the dark path.”
Hélène seized the story. “When I was young, I left my father’s house. Unlike my sister Catherine, I refused to be sold to the highest male bidder. I swore that if I ever got married – and many years later I did – it would be a match of my own choosing. I fled to the mountains and sought refuge in a monastery. It was there I met Agnès. She showed me her path and I chose to take it up as well.”
It sounded like heresy to Bertrada. “I don’t understand. Doesn’t the dark path lead to Satan?”
“You know of the seven virtues?”
“Of course. Temperance, Justice, Prudence, Fortitude, Faith, Hope and Charity.”
“The monastery asks each of the faithful to adhere to all the virtues but to dedicate their lives to the pursuit and fulfillment of one. That pursuit becomes our life’s work and is called a “path.” The wooden path is the path to Temperance, The iron path – the path to Prudence. Our path – the dark path – is the path to Justice.”
“It’s a difficult road.” Agnès dipped some of her bread into the stew. “I’m not as righteous as Hélène.”
Hélène smiled. “She means she met a man who led her astray…a good man and a good father.” She rubbed Patrice’s head. “It was the right choice.”
“But you never did like him.” Agnès teased and the two women smiled.
It was a sweet moment. Bertrada could sense the bond between the two women. It was old and weathered and had lived through the pain of life. Despite that, the affection between them was clearly still strong. “Did you have such a choice, Hélène?”
The women’s faces faltered at the question.
“Would you like some more stew?” Agnès moved to pick up her bowl, but Hélène stayed her with a hand.
“We always have choices.” Her eyes were fierce and her voice a whisper. “That doesn’t mean there are always good choices. I came to such a moment in my life, much like Agnès. Yet, all my choices led to the ruin of everyone I loved.”
“How did you choose?”
“The truth is always present to the righteous eye.” Hélène’s eyes filled with emotion. She tried to speak again but couldn’t.
“Sometimes the path requires sacrifice.” Agnès took Hélène’s hand in her own. “To protect those she loved, she chose her own ruin.”
When the meal had ended, they washed their dishes and moved the table aside to make room for their bedrolls. Agnès sent Patrice to sleep in the barn and produced a spare bedroll. She left Bertrada and Hélène by the fire and moved her bedroll to the other side of the room.
Although exhausted, Bertrada had trouble falling asleep. The haunted look in Hélène’s eyes disturbed her. What had she sacrificed? And for whom? The fire dwindled down to a narrow flame, giving only the barest crimson finger of light to the room. She drifted in and out of a fitful sleep and awoke to see Agnès kneeling beside Hélène. Hélène turned her face up in the flickering light. She was crying. Agnès brushed away her tears and then, leaning forward, kissed Hélène on the mouth. It was the gentlest embrace Bertrada had ever seen. Agnès stood and held out her hand. Hélène took it. Picking up her bedroll she followed Agnès to the other side of the room.
From her place by the fire, Bertrada could hear every sound they made, every sigh, every moan, and every cry. She thought about her own choices and wondered if they would lead to such a desolate place. She went to sleep listening to Hélène weep softly in Agnès’s arms.
✽✽✽
Bertrada woke up to an empty house. Sunlight streamed through the two front windows and she found milk and bread on the table. She ripped off a piece from the loaf and washed it down, wondering where everyone had gone. Stepping outside in her shift, she saw Patrice in the pen feeding the chickens. She waved and he pointed to the back of the house. Bertrada walked tentatively around the back so as not to surprise the two women.
She found them standing next to each other, dressed in what looked like loose petticoats and a pair of men’s pantaloons, going through the motions of what looked like a very slow dance. Their movements flowed from pose to pose in unison. Sometimes they bent at the waist and their legs arced high over their heads, at others their arms swept up in a dancer’s pose, trailing their hands in a delicate weaving pattern. It was oddly beautiful.
“Join us.” Hélène had not turned her head or missed a step. “It’s one of the rituals of our path. It focuses the mind and spirit.”
Bertrada stood next to them and tried to mimic their movements.
“Don’t forget to breathe.” Hélène whispered. “Let each pose flow in with your breath and release it on the way out.”
Bertrada was already behind and skipped a pose to catch up. “Let the rhythm find you. Be open to its flow.”
Bertrada only felt awkward. She tired quickly and some of the poses were too difficult for her to hold. By the end of their “ritual” her limbs were shaking, and she was covered in sweat. They knelt, facing the sun, and bowed down to touch their foreheads to the ground.
Agnès took them over to the well and drew out a bucket of water. All three of them drank deeply.
“As long as you’re here,” Agnès grinned. “I’ve got a fence to mend and could use a few extra hands with the planting.”
Bertrada was so tired she could barely move. “I’m happy to help, but first you might need to carry me back to the house. I’m exhausted!”
The two older women laughed and together they helped Bertrada return to the house.
Bertrada sat down at the table and took another handful of the bread. She watched the two women banter back and forth as they cut up more vegetables. Bertrada found it odd that Hélène was so comfortable here. As a noble woman, she was used to servants and luxury, yet here she was in this one-room house acting like she belonged in the kitchen chopping tomatoes with Agnès.
She liked these women. They were strong, resolute, compassionate – qualities Bertrada had always claimed for herself. Yet, next to Hélène and Agnès, she felt little more than a spoiled child.
Agnès noticed her watching them. “Have you made your choice, milady?”
Bertrada blushed at the woman’s use of the title. “Please, there’s no need to use such a formal address.”
“It is, however, a formal question.” Agnès had stopped chopping, so had Hélène. They were waiting for her answer. The significance of the choice filled her with dread. On one side was a child, Pippin, and all the horror that came with his family’s power. On the other was a life of ease, comfort and peace. At first it seemed an easy choice. But try as she might, she couldn’t imagine the second side. Her life looked empty, devoid of love. It wasn’t really a choice at all. What was it that Hélène had said? “Truth is always present to the righteous eye.”
“I will keep the babe.”
The moment the words left her mouth, she knew they were just. All the tension in the room evaporated. Hélène and Agnès went back to chopping their vegetables and trading affectionate insults.
Bertrada got up to help them. She grabbed a knife and some asparagus. “What do I do now?”
Hélène was smiling. “We stay here until we can come up with a place to hide. And then we try to figure out how to get there unnoticed.”
Chapter Eighteen
The Reichswald Forest
Although snow still clung to the north side of the sibyl's mountain home, a haze of green had begun to infiltrate the forest canopy. Sunlight sparkled off surging streams that splashed their way down into the valley and the earth smelled of loam and life. The sibyl savored the morning air on her tongue. Cool, crisp and wet, it tasted of possibilities.
As ritual required, she had waited for her moon’s blood to flow before her descent into the valley with her two attendants. The villagers there would expect her. They wouldn’t plant before she blessed their fields; they would not marry until she kissed the bellies of their brides and they wouldn’t name their children before she marked their babies’ foreheads with the gods-rune. She relished the stature this gave her and the awe she could evoke.
Wheel of the Fates: Book Two of the Carolingian Chronicles Page 19