Wheel of the Fates: Book Two of the Carolingian Chronicles

by J. Boyce Gleason

  “But you sacrifice to false gods.”

  “No false gods. Only gods. Here is your god.” He pointed to the cross.

  “There is only one God.” Boniface pointed to the two other statues. “These are false.”

  Hodar frowned in apparent confusion. “They are not false. They are like…like…your saints.”

  Carloman put a reassuring hand on the bishop’s shoulder. “It’s just a rite.” He said, purposely echoing Boniface’s words. Carloman turned his face to Hodar to receive the streaks of blood. They were warm.

  The chieftain poured the rest of the blood over each of the statues, ending with the male. The air was filled with the newly spilt blood's pungent odor.

  “Mighty Thor,” Hodar lifted his hands before the fire. “We ask your blessing for war. Give thunder and fire to conquer our enemies…”

  At the mention of Thor, Boniface grew even more agitated. Carloman could see his mentor struggling with the turn of the events. It was as if the chieftains were testing the bishop’s resolve.

  “Something is wrong,” Boniface whispered, without taking his eyes off Hodar. “They know better than this. They’re trying to provoke us.”

  More wood was added to the fire as the chieftain spoke, and the blaze leapt to consume it. As the fire grew its blaze pushed back the darkness and painted the grass and the rocks and trees around them in its flickering red light.

  The chieftains were chanting again in their Germanic dialect and although Carloman couldn’t understand the words, the malice of them was evident, the anger palpable. Immelt caught Carloman’s eye and smiled, an odd look of derision on his face. Carloman struggled for comprehension. What was he missing?

  The blaze crackled on a wet log and a spark leapt skyward. Carloman’s eyes followed. In the distance he could see the long branches of the great oak, now illuminated by the red light of the larger fire. It was there that Carloman found the answer to his question.

  Ignoring a protest from Boniface he stepped from the circle and made for the tree. It was some fifty strides away from the fire. Hamar grabbed a torch and followed with Boniface close on his heels. The chanting behind them stopped.

  Two human corpses hung from the tree by their necks. With each step he took, the blood on Carloman’s face grew more appalling to him. A third body, hung upside down by his feet, had a gaping slash cut across his throat, still spilling blood.

  “The blood of sacrifice.” Carloman spat.

  “Sweet Mary.” Boniface made the sign of the cross.

  The chieftains had followed them to the great oak and formed a semi-circle around them.

  Carloman stepped forward. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  Hodar shrugged. “Offering.” Seeing Carloman frown, he added, “Thieves.”

  “God doesn’t ask for such sacrifice.” Boniface said.

  Hodar looked confused. “Did God not die on his cross?”

  “Yes.” Carloman said.

  “He was sacrifice. Like Odin from tree, he was sacrifice.”

  “God gave his life for the sins of others.” Boniface said.

  “This man gave his life for others.”

  “Not willingly.”

  Hodar shrugged.

  “I’ve had enough.” Carloman took off the gold armband and tossed it to Hodar. A stunned silence took the clearing.

  Boniface whispered. “Don’t strike a blow, Carloman. I beg you. They mean to provoke us into violating the blot. It will justify their betrayal.”

  Carloman looked to the bishop and smiled. “Hamar, give your torch to the Bishop. I’m going to need both of your hands.”

  “Listen to your priest, Carloman.” Immelt’s grin had grown triumphant.

  Carloman ignored him. “Hodar, you’ve sworn an oath of fealty and bent your knee to accept the Christian faith. My only question today is, do you honor your oaths?”

  “You are not your father. Your shadow is not yet long.”

  “Fealty is fealty.” Carloman said. “Allegiance is owed.”

  “You are far from your army to make such demands.”

  “You will kneel or die.”

  “It is death to violate a blot.”

  “Kneel or die, so help me, God.”

  “Fuck your God,” Immelt leapt in front of Carloman, his sneering face an inch from Carloman’s nose. “Fuck your book. Shit on your– ”

  Immelt’s eyes registered surprise at the knife in his throat. He made a gurgling noise and coughed blood onto Carloman’s face. Carloman’s mind registered some

  satisfaction that this blood joined the blood of the blot’s “sacrifice.”

  He pulled his knife out of the man’s throat as the chieftains descended upon them.

  “Michaeli Archangelo!” Carloman drew his sword and spun to his right to avoid the initial charge of the chieftains. He wanted to keep them between him and Hamar. He slashed his blade down on the nearest chieftain, clipping off the man’s leg at the knee. Without waiting to watch the man fall, Carloman smashed his elbow into the face of the next attacker and was reassured by the sound of facial bones cracking.

  Again, Carloman whirled. It was too dark to see clearly and there were too many of them, but he ducked, parried, stabbed and retreated, always trying to keep Hamar to his left and the enemy between them.

  To block an overhanded blow, he crossed both his blade and his knife above his head, but the shock of it overpowered Carloman, forcing him to kneel. The chieftain howled in triumph and pressed forward to give a finishing blow. The man’s sword arced behind him and then high above his head. Carloman stabbed upward with his knife, slicing the man’s belly from his groin to his sternum.

  The Hessian’s blade went wide but still caught Carloman’s left shoulder. Carloman shouted and spun away from the pain, stabbed blindly with his sword. He hit nothing. Another blade stabbed forward and Carloman nearly fell trying to parry the thrust. Reeling, he stepped backward to orient himself in the darkness and found himself surrounded by the three corpses hanging from the great oak.

  He ducked behind one of them to stave off an attack and began using them as shields in his battle with the Hessians. He darted in and out of the swinging bodies to keep his attackers at bay.

  One of the chieftains screamed as his clothing conflagrated. A human torch, he whirled among the Hessians, howling in horror as his skin immolated. It both distracted and illuminated Carloman’s attackers. Although he was relieved to have his threats clarified, their numbers dismayed him. They couldn’t vanquish so many. He had been foolish to come to this place and to trust these people.

  With desperation his only ally, Carloman again shouted, “Michaeli Archangelo” and pressed the attack, hoping to catch the distracted chieftains off-guard.

  To Carloman’s surprise, his battle cry was answered.

  “Michaeli Archangelo!”

  The men Carloman had left in the nearby field had come to their rescue. With a visceral roar, they charged across the field.

  The Hessians abandoned Carloman and Hamar and fled for the grove. Carloman’s men gave chase but were too late. What was left of the Hessian chieftains disappeared into the darkness of the grove.

  Carloman bent over double to catch his breath. “Hamar?”

  “Here, milord.” His champion was covered in blood, but little of it was Hamar’s.

  “Boniface?”

  “Here, Carloman.” Boniface stepped out from behind the oak. “I’m unharmed. Only Einbeck came searching for me. Like Immelt, he worships the Vaettir and refused to convert. He wished to punish me for cutting down Thor’s tree.”

  “How did you stop him?”

  “I had a torch.” Boniface smiled wickedly. “Pagans who dabble in brimstone should be more careful around fire.”

  Carloman chuckled at that. “How many of the chieftains were slain?”

  Hamar responded. “Four. Immelt, Einbeck, Ucher, and Ragnar.”

  “That leaves Hodar and Rasling,” Boniface said. “By viola
ting the blot, you’ve allied them with Theudebald. They’ll use it to justify breaking their oaths and unite the tribes between them.”

  Carloman returned to the hanging corpses. “Do you notice anything about these bodies?”

  Boniface made the sign of the cross. “They were killed in ritual, just like the bodies in Worms.”

  “None of them are wearing animal skins or pelts. Their clothes are woven.”

  Boniface looked up in surprise. “Franks.”

  “Franks from Worms,” Carloman finished. “That one on the left was a member of the Duc’s court. I met him the last time I was there.”

  “Then the chieftains were already allied with Theudebald.” Hamar frowned and looked at the hanging corpses. “This wasn’t a ritual. It was an ambush.”

  “It was both.” Carloman said. “We were supposed to join those on the tree.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Outside Paris

  Pippin was with Arnot and Gunther when news came about the Banlieu brought by one of Pippin’s own men, Jean-Pierre, a captain in charge of the search south of Paris.

  Pippin feigned surprise. “Did you see her yourself?”

  “No. I heard from an innkeeper that she had rented a room. It’s on the south side of the Banlieu on the road to Gentilly. I searched her room and found this.” It was an earring, a jade stone set in a circlet of gold. Pippin recognized it immediately. Despite his foreknowledge, his heart thudded inside his chest.

  As a trap, it was well set. A trusted aide brings an earring that Pippin himself had given Bertrada as proof of her existence nearby. Its presence shook Pippin. Perhaps they had recovered the piece from the attack on her carriage.

  He took ten soldiers to investigate the sighting. Jean-Pierre led the column; Arnot and Pippin followed at a discreet distance so they could talk privately.

  “If you know it’s a trap, why are we going?” Arnot shifted his weight in his saddle as if he was uncomfortable.

  Pippin had to think for a minute before answering. “At least we know it's a trap. I’d rather confront an enemy I know is there than wait for their attack. I also want to see if we can trust Miette’s information.”

  “Miette?”

  Pippin frowned at the slip. “Lady Ragomfred.”

  “Yes, I know who she is.” Arnot chuckled. “Aren’t we just a little familiar after one encounter with this woman?”

  “Two. She was the hostess for the Ragomfred ball.”

  “Two? Well, that’s an entirely different situation.” Arnot grinned and shook his head. “Watch yourself with that one, Pippin. If she’s not a demon herself, then they are certainly in her employ.”

  “She’s quite arresting. I’ll give you that.”

  “Are you sure that bringing ten men is enough? What if they bring twenty?”

  Pippin smiled. “I’m sure we’ll handle whatever they throw at us.”

  “What if it’s a trap within a trap? What if we’re out chasing ghosts through the Banlieu while Ragomfred makes a play for the bridge at the Palace?”

  “I already have the better part of a battalion with Gunther to guard the palace. If Ragomfred has enough men to take it, we’ve already lost.”

  They had ridden in a two-column march for over an hour before coming to the inn. It was a two-story wooden building facing a small square. Trees lined their approach on both sides of the road, leaving Pippin blind to potential attackers in the square. It was just as he envisioned it.

  Jean-Pierre rode ahead to the inn and waved them forward.

  “This is where it will be.” Pippin frowned. “Ready-up! Right column with me on the right.”

  “Huh-yah!” came their reply.

  “Left column with me on the left.” Arnot received as similar chorus in response. All ten of Pippin’s men loosed scabbards as they entered the square.

  Arnot had underestimated. Pippin counted thirty men in the square.

  They were led by Robeson, Dubois and Petit, three of Pippin’s nobles that Miette claimed had sided with the Merovingian. They were lined up, fifteen men on each side of Pippin’s cohort.

  He reined in. “Gentlemen, so good of you to come help with my search for Bertrada.”

  “Fuck Bertrada.” Robeson looked like he was enjoying the moment. “Fuck you, your brother and all your Austrasian allies. Your time as mayor has ended, Pippin. The king sent us to deliver a message. Your service is no longer required.”

  Pippin grinned. “And you think thirty men will suffice?”

  Jean-Pierre spat on the ground and rode to Robeson’s side. “Thirty-one.”

  It might have been dramatic if Pippin hadn’t known in advance he was a traitor. Pippin whistled a high trilling note.

  Petit pitched off his horse, an arrow through his throat. Robeson’s mare shied from the sudden movement and he struggled to rein her in. He searched frantically for the archer.

  Dubois was next. The man grunted and looked down, finding a bolt through his chest.

  “You should have brought more men.” Pippin said.

  “Attack!” Robeson waved his men forward. Three more of their number went down to arrows before the melée began.

  As Pippin had planned, the archers stationed on the roof of the inn did more than thin the number of attackers; they threw the entire assault into disarray. Two of the three nobles leading the charge already were dead, leaving two thirds of the men without a captain in the field. Only Robeson was able to orchestrate an attack and he jumped to fill in the breach.

  “Attack! Attack!” he shouted. “To me! To me!”

  But many of his men were slow to respond and others were wheeling to avoid the continued barrage from Pippin’s archers. Pippin’s men split to face the enemy, forming two inverted wedges, one behind Pippin and the other behind Arnot to advance their attack.

  Pippin crashed into the enemy line, stabbing and hacking with his sword in a fury. In combat this close, strategy mattered little. There was no room for orchestrated tactics. The fighting was brutal and savage. Pippin cleaved arms and heads from bodies and cut torsos in two. He stabbed horses and men alike and their blood cascaded onto the quaint garden square, soaking the hedges and flowers red.

  When Pippin broke through Robeson’s line, the balance of numbers shifted in his favor. The archers kept up their attack, but more carefully so as not to hit Pippin’s men.

  It was over in minutes. Pippin had lost three men. All thirty of their attackers lay dead or wounded in the square. Pippin went first to find Jean-Pierre. The man was wounded in a flowerbed trying to crawl his way to safety. He stopped when Pippin’s shadow fell upon him.

  Rolling over he lifted a hand to shade his eyes. “Lord Pippin? Oh, God have mercy! They made me. They threatened my family.”

  “And yet, you spat at my feet.”

  “I had to do it.”

  “And I have to do this.” Pippin shoved the blade through the man’s neck and watched the light disappear from his eyes.

  Arnot stood at Pippin’s shoulder. “Robeson’s over here.”

  The man was nearly cut in two. He lay gasping for breath as his blood fled his body. He motioned for Pippin to come closer. Pippin knelt beside him in the man’s blood.

  Robeson lifted his head to speak. “Fuck you.”

  Pippin chuckled. “Well said. A brave man to the last.”

  Robeson’s last breath shook with the death rattle and he was gone.

  Pippin stood. “Search the inn for Bertrada and then, let’s get back to the palace. I want to make sure it isn’t under attack.”

  ✽✽✽

  A week later Pippin and Gunther were bent over a map of the palace.

  “With Carloman and I out on campaign, it’s your job to hold the palace. There’s a chance that Childeric may not wait for Carloman and I to elevate him. He may try to seize the palace and the throne with the nobles Ragomfred has gathered up for him. Under no circumstances is he to succeed. It would give him the appearance of power and force u
s to respond with force. That would only serve to destabilize the kingdom. As mayors, only Carloman and I have the right to elevate a king. So, while we’re away on campaign, you must protect the palace from attack.”

  Pippin drew a quick breath before continuing. “All sorties should be at least ten men to prevent an ambush, but I want no more than four sorties at a time.” Pippin pointed to the barracks on the west side of the isle. “Keep the bulk of the regiment inside the palace.”

  Situated as it was on the Isle de la Cité in the middle of the Seine River, the palace was almost impervious to attack. The river’s depth and swift current limited any attack on the high stone walls that surrounded the island. And the two bridges connecting the island to the right and left banks of the Seine – the only potential access point – were narrow. Any enemy attacking the palace would be forced into a phalanx of no more than six across, greatly prohibiting their ability to force or scale the front gate.

  Pippin pointed to the two bridges. “This is where we’re most vulnerable. Should they breech the front gate, set up a barricade here.” He pointed to a square just inside the main gate. “And make it a kill zone from here and here.” He pointed to two high buildings just inside the gate. “I don’t think they will get that far, but if they do, keep forcing them from one kill zone into another.”

  Gunther chuckled under his breath. “I know all this, Pippin. I taught you most of it when you were fifteen.”

  “They’ll try to draw the main body of our forces out on some pretense to leave the palace thinly guarded. Whatever you do, don’t fall for it. It will likely be an uprising just north of the city or a fire at the monastery at St. Germain des Prés.”

  “Want to show me how to use a sword while you’re at it?”

  “I just don’t want any mistakes when I leave.”

  “And when exactly is that to be?”

  “Soon. I don’t know.”

  Arnot poked his head into the room, interrupting them. “Pippin. You’ve got a guest.”

  Pippin looked up, waiting for the name, but Arnot had a troubled look on his face. “Who is it?”