Wheel of the Fates: Book Two of the Carolingian Chronicles

by J. Boyce Gleason

  The three men were indeed staring at them. They had bathed and so looked less like ruffians. They were talking among themselves and laughing. The mustached man, in particular, seemed overly interested in the women’s table. Agnès looked over to the three men and lifted her glass in salute.

  “What’re you doing?” Bertrada’s whisper was urgent. “They’ll come over here!”

  And the mustached man did. He stopped at the bar and brought a new pint with him. He had piercing hazel eyes and placed the pint before Agnès. “My pardon, my good woman, but after such a long day on the road, I thought you might like another pint of ale.”

  “From a handsome man like you, how could I resist?” Agnès’ smile was as broad as her shoulders. They clinked beakers and she slopped some on the table. “Oh my!” She giggled.

  Bertrada didn’t know what to do. She was afraid to look at the man directly, but not looking at him would draw his attention. What was Agnès doing?

  “Did you find who you were looking for?” Agnès asked him.

  The man shook his head. “Two, maybe three women and a young man, were travelling this way.” His hand seemed to wave over their table by explanation. Bertrada felt like she had to pee.

  Agnès’s eyes never left his face. “What did they do?”

  He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. We serve at the pleasure of the Merovingian.” His chest puffed out at this. “I assume they’re a threat to his person.”

  “Two or three women? That seems unlikely.”

  “They escaped once already.” He frowned. “They are…more than they seem.”

  “What will you do to them, if you find them?”

  The man shrugged. “They’re a threat.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll find them.” Agnès clinked his glass again. “A king! Oh my!” Agnès blushed and then giggled.

  “Will there be a coronation?” Hélène asked.

  “When the mayors return from campaign in the fall.”

  “How wonderful!”

  Bertrada couldn’t bring herself to speak. Why the two women would banter with these men she couldn’t fathom.

  “Will your search take you to Meaux?” Agnès looked as if she was going to invite the man to dinner.

  “Perhaps.” He looked hopeful. “But, if not, maybe later in the year when our business is complete.”

  “Something I would look forward to.” Agnès all but batted her eyes at the man.

  “You’re are welcome to join our table,” he offered.

  Hélène stiffened. “Agnès, we are good Christian women!”

  Agnès frowned and then looked up at the man, shrugging as if she were helpless. She smiled. “Perhaps when you come to Meaux.”

  The mustache man gave a sly smile to Agnès, bowed, and returned to his table.

  “Have you lost your sanity?” Bertrada whispered.

  Agnès still seemed preoccupied by the other table. “Now they’re all focused on me – the widow. They don’t even see the two of you.” She smiled, her cheeks blushing.

  Hélène stood. “We should go before she gets any other ideas.”

  ✽✽✽

  When the three women came down to the main room in the morning, there were three more armed men at the inn. One was a bearded man with an angry scowl, who seemed surprised by the women’s presence. He began to question the man with the mustache who was waving away his concerns, but after some argument they turned towards Agnès.

  “Who are you and where are you going?”

  “I am Agnès. This is my sister and her daughter and we’re going to Meaux.”

  “Where are you coming from?”

  “My husband’s farm outside of Paris.”

  “Where is he?”

  Agnès spit. “Dead. I’m going home to my family.”

  “And you? He looked at Bertrada.

  Hélène answered. “We came when the pig grew sick. Now we go home.”

  “The girl can’t speak?” He grabbed her face. “Where did you get those bruises?”

  Hélène slapped his hand away. “We are Christian women and she is unmarried. The pig did that. He liked to hit women.”

  Again, Agnès spit on the ground.

  The mustached man interceded. “They aren’t the ones. I’ve seen them before. You haven’t.”

  “But three women on the road?”

  “Do they look like nobility to you?” He grabbed Agnès’s hands and turned them over. Dirt caked her nails and callouses lined her fingers.

  Agnès straightened her back and held a pinky aloft. “I beg your pardon, kind sir?” Her voice lilted in a mocking tone. “Will you fetch my carriage?”

  Hélène barked a laugh and then they all laughed. The bearded man finally nodded. “It’s been nearly a week and we have nothing to show for it.”

  “We’ll find them.” The mustached man seemed confident.

  “We should be on our way.” Agnès touched his arm. “I hope you find your way to Meaux.”

  “Milady.” He bowed and they all laughed again.

  ✽✽✽

  It rained that afternoon, a thin mist of a storm that cooled them after such a long walk. After an hour of it, however, their clothes were wet, and the cold had seeped into their bones.

  “We need to find shelter.” Bertrada hated being the weakest of the three, but she was miserable. Her shoes were sticking into the mud and it made walking even harder.

  Hélène didn’t even turn her head. “Almost there.”

  Another hour passed. They labored up a large hill hampered by their attire, now sodden and clinging to their limbs. “We have to stop.”

  “Here.” Hélène took her by the arm and walked her to the crest of the hill. “This is your new home.”

  As she looked down into the valley, understanding dawned in Bertrada. “It’s the perfect place to hide.”

  Agnès grunted and started down into the valley. “If they let us in. That will be Hélène’s job.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Hesse

  Arriving at Fritzlar, Carloman immediately ordered scavenger teams out to replenish their food stores and asked Father Sturm to assist in purchasing what was available in the marketplace. Hamar and Drogo arranged for their defenses, stationing troops near the river and pickets at intervals around the circumference of the large hill upon which the monastery stood.

  Carloman and the nobles in his army were given rooms in the monastic dormitory, which, like the chapel, stood at the top of the hill. As they climbed, the lush green forest landscape stretched out below them for miles, disturbed only by the blue of the Eder River and the brown buildings and mud streets that defined the town of Fritzlar.

  The dormitory was a long, one-story building made of stone flooring and plaster walls. A large circular eating hall occupied the east end of the building, a residence, the west. A single corridor ran through the residence wing providing interior access to some twenty rooms. Carloman found them simple and purposeful - a bed, a chamber pot, a cross on the wall, and a mat to kneel on - more than enough for him and his officers.

  The chapel, by comparison, was relatively small. Wood from Thor's oak was featured prominently in the archway over the door and on the altar. The pulpit, too, was made from the tree. Boniface had used half of a section of the great trunk to fashion it as a constant reminder of the Lord's dominance over the nature deities.

  Father Sturm proved to be a pleasant man whose generosity was as large as his considerable girth. A short, bearded priest with a stomach that extended well out over the rope cinching his brown cassock, he greeted them with enthusiasm, sending acolytes and priests scrambling to accommodate their presence.

  Boniface in particular was treated as a conquering hero. Sturm and the priests fawned over the bishop, providing him the best rooms, and assigning him a priest to act as his clerk. Sturm also announced that dinner would feature roasted duck and Bavarian Ale. This selection appeared to be widely valued among the priests of the monaste
ry.

  Father Sturm led them in a prayer of thanksgiving and left them alone until vespers. Carloman asked Boniface to show him the stump of Thor's oak and they descended into Fritzlar.

  Carloman couldn’t help but whistle at the size of its trunk. Boniface hadn’t been young when he felled the tree. And it would have been a challenge for a man at any age to do it alone. Boniface seemed to revel in the memory of it. He showed Carloman a great pine tree that had been planted nearby as a symbol of Christianity. It was a spruce and was already towering over the clearing.

  "I have a message for you," Boniface said, with a serious look. As he related the invitation from Immelt, Carloman grew furious.

  “They struck you?”

  “It was more like a shove.”

  “You travel under my protection. No one is to lay a hand on you.”

  “Which is why they sought me out. It’s likely that Theudebald is recruiting the Hessians. Your invitation to their blot may be your chance to thwart him.”

  “I will still have Immelt’s head.”

  "There’s a time for such gestures," Boniface said, "but perhaps this isn’t such a time. Immelt is a minor chieftain and not one to be taken too seriously. He’s one of the few left who adhere to the old ways."

  "He was important enough to deliver the message."

  "That, I think, was more a personal matter."

  “I see no reason for attending. Fealty is sworn and due. I shouldn’t need to attend their rite to demand it.”

  "Yet if allegiance is given willingly, there’s no need to lift a sword," Boniface said. "You don't have to spill blood.”

  It was a practical argument. His men could use the rest and needed to replenish their food stores. But, for once, Carloman wasn’t inclined to be practical. He was anxious to take the initiative. And he was surprised that Boniface would encourage him to attend this "blot."

  “Isn’t it a pagan ceremony?”

  "The rituals are empty relics of the past. You need not fear them. To sit in the High Seat asserts your place above the tribal leaders. It’s a place of honor."

  Carloman recognized the blot’s value, of course. Allying with northern tribal chieftains would be a powerful tool in his war against Odilo. In addition to augmenting the army with their numbers, the coalition of tribal chieftains would be a powerful symbol to the rebels. Even an assurance of neutrality by the Hessians would demoralize his enemy. Theudebald’s ability to recruit in Alemannia would be impaired and his supply lines through the north would be secure.

  Despite his misgivings, Carloman acquiesced. At least they wouldn’t have to wait long. Thor’s Day was only two days away.

  ✽✽✽

  “Tell me again how this isn’t a sin.” Carloman asked Boniface. They had led a retinue of soldiers, including Hamar, down to Fritzlar for the blot. Carloman had left Drogo in charge of the army in his absence. It was dusk and the rapidly descending sun left long shadows across the landscape. The ceremony itself was to be held outside the town on a large hill. Only he, Hamar and Boniface had been invited to attend.

  “It’s a pagan ceremony at a pagan holy site with pagans in attendance,” Carloman said.

  “Only two of the chieftains in attendance have not kissed the cross. And while the ceremony is pagan in origin, it is also how the chieftains parley to reach agreement. Think of it as the format for the discussion rather than a pagan rite.”

  “It will be a rite for the two pagans.”

  “But not for you.”

  “You’re turning a deaf ear, Boniface.”

  “Yes and no. The rites themselves are unimportant. You, yourself, have usurped pagan rites for your Knights in Christ.”

  Carloman looked up in surprise.

  “Oh, I have heard a confession or two about them. The point is: the belief in God is what matters. Rituals are a great source of comfort. The church would be foolish to ban them all. When I cut down Thor’s Oak, I planted a spruce. To the Hessians, it’s a symbol of their new god – the one and only God.

  “As long as the chieftains believe in Christ, the rite is irrelevant. It will disappear over time, or the Church will adopt it. This afternoon, you’re attending a war council. The rite merely makes the chieftains more comfortable with it.”

  “I’m more concerned about the numbers,” Hamar said. “Each of the six chieftains is bringing one second. That leaves Carloman and I outnumbered six-to-one. What if it’s a trap?”

  “Violence at a blot is strictly forbidden – punishable by death,” Boniface said. “And a grizzly death at that. You needn’t worry. There will be no bloodshed.”

  Boniface led them to a field outside of town. “Your men will have to wait here. I’ll take you and Hamar up to the grove.” He pointed to a hill subsumed by oak trees. Hamar lit torches to guide them in the waning light.

  Boniface found a path into the oaks and the three of them made their way up the hill. Before they reached the crest of the hill, the path leveled off into a clearing where they were met by the six chieftains and their seconds. To a man, the Hessians were taller than Carloman. Each of them wore great, long beards that reached their waists.

  “Hodar, Rasling, Ucher, Ragnar,” Boniface greeted four of the men, grasping their forearms. He nodded to two others. “Einbeck, Immelt.” Carloman noted them as the two pagans.

  Boniface assumed a more formal tone. “May I present, Carloman, son of Charles, son of Pippin, mayor of the palace to the Merovingian kings, conqueror of many kingdoms and keeper of the faith.”

  Most of the chieftains bowed. Einbeck and Immelt nodded.

  “Charles was a mighty general who cast a long shadow.” Hodar’s eyes appraised Carloman. “Does his son?”

  Carloman held the chieftain’s gaze. “My father’s shadow was long. Only the years can tell how long mine will be. But I am sure of this: my shadow will be long enough to defeat those who ally with Theudebald. On that I vow.”

  Hodar appeared to consider this and then nodded and motioned for the group towards the crest of the hill. At its top, they entered a circular plateau framed by the oak trees of the grove. Their branches interlaced to form a massive cordon twenty feet off the ground. It was so thick that it blocked what was left of the evening’s light and reminded Carloman of a fortress wall. A lone oak stood across the plateau, apart from the forest, but there was too little light to see it clearly. Hodar led them forward to a natural, bowl-like depression in the center of the clearing. Its circumference was shaped by rock, giving it the appearance of a small amphitheater. At its center, a large fire burned.

  Carloman had expected there to be an actual “high seat” from which he would preside over the blot. There was nothing so elaborate. They bade him stand on the outcropping of rock and presented him with a band of gold.

  Lifting it up, he saw that it had three sharp talons facing inward. Hodar signaled that Carloman should put it on his arm.

  “It is worn by the highest chief,” Boniface whispered to him. “It goes on your right arm.” Carloman pulled back his sleeve and slipped his hand through the ring. He pulled it up his arm until the three talons caught against his bicep. They were sharper than he had imagined and produced a warm sensation down his arm.

  At a signal from Hodar all six of the chieftains took places around the fire. Carloman looked to Boniface and the bishop nodded.

  Carloman pronounced in a loud voice. “The blot is begun.” From somewhere behind him, a lone drum began to beat and a procession of three men carrying statues approached the fire. One man carried the cross, the second the figure of a woman, the third the figure of a man.

  Hodar stood, opened his arms and looked skyward. “God of the cross, the Odin of gods, we bow to your strength, to your power.” All the chieftains bowed, so Carloman did, too. He didn’t like not knowing what was expected of him. The cross was placed facing him on the near side of the fire. The two other statues were placed to his left and right. As night had fallen the fire provided their only light and de
fined the limits of Carloman’s vision.

  Hodar began to chant in the Germanic dialect. It was low and guttural but there was a rhythm to it that begged a response every few lines. The other chieftains supplied it, grunting, “Dah!” at every missing beat. Hodar threw scented herbs on the fire and its smoke stung Carloman’s eyes.

  The longer Hodar chanted the more uncomfortable Carloman became. The night and open air unnerved him. They were vulnerable out here, standing in the shadow of the grove and illuminated by the fire. Any man or beast would find them easy prey. He thought he heard a struggle in the direction of the tall solitary oak, but no one reacted, and he assumed he was imagining dangers that weren’t there.

  It took him a moment to realize, Hodar had stopped his chant.

  One of the other chieftains – Carloman guessed it was Ragnar, – stood, “For what do we blot?”

  “War,” the chieftains said as one.

  From the shadows surrounding the great oak, a man stepped forward into the firelight. He carried a bowl filled with a steaming liquid and, bowing, offered it to Immelt. With equal solemnity, the wiry chieftain accepted it and offered it up to Hodar.

  “The blood of sacrifice,” he said.

  Hodar dipped his fingers in the liquid and painted Immelt’s forehead and cheeks. He then moved with Immelt around the fire, streaking each of the chieftains’ foreheads and cheeks in turn.

  Carloman guessed that they had slaughtered a goat under the large oak just outside the light of the fire. That must have been the struggle that he had heard. He understood the role blood played in pagan ceremonies. It was a measure of the sacrifice offered to gain favor with the gods. The greater the need, the larger the animal would be butchered.

  Boniface, however, was not so sanguine. When Hodar approached Carloman to paint his face, Boniface interceded. “No.”

  Hodar turned, clearly irked by the interruption. “It is custom to wear the blood of sacrifice.”

  “It is against our beliefs,” the bishop explained.

  “No.” Hodar spat the words, his anger growing. “It is your custom. Body of Christ. Blood of Christ. You eat. You drink.” He held up the bowl. “We wear. ”