“Your newest acquaintance.” Arnot’s voice trailed off.
“Oh.” Pippin blushed. “Thanks Gunther. I know the palace is in good hands. I’ll send word when I’m ready to leave.”
Gunther hesitated and Pippin knew the man was surprised at being kept in the dark about his “guest.” It made Pippin feel guilty. He was, after all, leaving the palace in Gunther’s hands. Why wouldn’t he trust him? He told himself that Miette’s visits must be kept a secret to avoid scandal, but in his heart, Pippin knew the truth: he was embarrassed by his fascination with the woman.
Pippin had met with Miette twice since she had first presented herself at his door. Each time she had come in secret. If she had been seen it would have been a scandal to rival his sister Trudi’s marriage to the rebel Odilo. Miette was, after all, a beautiful woman and the wife of a rival and he was unattached. He’d likely suspect himself too.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t help himself. The woman was unlike any he had ever met. Intelligent, brazen, compelling, and amusing, she had a way of keeping him off guard. He had ignored or rebuffed every advance she had made; yet she seemed so certain of his desire for her. And, he had to admit, she was right. She had successfully painted a picture of her in his mind and in it she was always naked.
Pippin knew he was being manipulated. Yet she had given him valuable information about his allies. She had let him know that the Merovingian had not yet found Bertrada. She had warned him about Robeson’s trap in the banlieu and she was keeping tabs on the Merovingian in a way no one else could. From a short-term political point of view, she was invaluable. But he was not naïve. He knew that one day there would be a reckoning.
Arnot let Miette into Pippin’s salon. With a smirk and a bow, he closed the doors. Pippin crossed the room to greet her. “Miette.”
She was wearing a white dress, pinned to accentuate her figure and a green wrap that she had kept over her head to disguise her face. She kissed him on both cheeks as one would a friend, but her body lingered against his for just a moment too long. It sent a thrill through his body. He stepped back. “Would you like some wine?”
She nodded and he crossed the room to fetch them each a goblet.
“You’ve cleaned up your apartment. I’m flattered.”
Pippin hated that he was so transparent. When he brought the wine, she was standing near a window overlooking the Seine. He noticed a bruise on her cheek that she had tried to disguise with powder and wondered about its origin.
“Forgive me, but I was unaware that you were coming to visit.”
“You must start paying attention, Pippin. Childeric is expecting me to carry on an affair with you. How am I supposed to do that if we never see each other?”
“We saw each other two days ago.”
Her eyes gleamed with inner amusement. “Now you’re insulting me. What kind of affair tolerates such infrequency?”
He laughed and changed the subject. “I want to thank you again for the warning of Robeson’s betrayal. It saved me some valuable men. But may I ask why you told me? If it had worked, Childeric would have removed a political rival. And by telling me, he’s lost three allies.”
“Traitors are traitors, and never as valuable as they think. And I doubt you would have been so easily duped. By defeating Robeson, the king has become more cautious of you and more adamant that I exploit our affair.”
“As long as you know we aren’t having one.”
She smiled. “That is just a matter of perspective. From the king’s perspective, we are already lovers. I’ve even told him how rough you’ve been with me.”
“Rough?”
She looked out the window and nodded. “I like it rough. Not violent, but rough.”
The words startled Pippin. She said them as if she were talking about the color of a gown. “I like it in red.” He imagined taking her by the window and for a moment he was at a loss for words.
She looked up, her eyes finding his and Pippin realized she wasn’t bantering with him - she was telling the truth to gauge his reaction. It was almost a challenge. She stepped closer and despite his defiance, Pippin’s body worked against him. His breath grew short and his heart slammed inside his chest.
She had turned her face up to his and whispered. “You can do anything you want.”
Pippin prayed that his growing erection wasn’t obvious.
Her hand reached up and her fingers traced the line of his jaw. “In the future, you must send for me, so I can show the king I’ve seduced you. As my lover, you’d want me day and night. There would be no end to our love-making.”
Pippin reached for the bottle of wine to refill his glass even though he had barely taken a sip. “You’re talking about the king’s perspective,” he asserted, keeping his
back to her.
“Yes, of course. The king’s perspective.” But she wrapped her arms around him from behind and pressed her body into his. He felt her warmth invade him and allowed himself a moment to enjoy her embrace.
“Miette, it would be madness.”
“Ah, but it is too late for such protests.” Her hand found his erection and she gently held it, taking her possession of him. “You’ve have been alone too long.” She let him go. He took a moment to compose himself. When he turned, she was back at the window.
“If you leave Paris, Pippin, you’ll lose it to Childeric and my husband.”
“Gunther can handle anything Ragomfred’s men throw at him.”
She sipped her wine. “Gunther may hold the palace, but you will lose your hold on the court. After the war, your armies will be weak, your treasury weaker. The church will openly advocate for Childeric and your brother will acquiesce to the elevation. You will stand alone in your opposition.”
“And what if I do?”
Her eyes were cold. “Childeric will be crowned without you. In time, your armies will align with Carloman and you’ll find yourself alone one night, drinking with men you think are your friends and one will stab you from behind. Your blood will slip away just like your power.”
She paused to see what impact she had.
“It doesn’t have to be that way.” She came to him and kissed him on the mouth. “Whether you stay or go, one day you’ll need me. And I will be your salvation.”
✽✽✽
Pippin couldn’t find Bertrada. He searched every room of the palace and still couldn’t find her. He tore through the kitchens and servants’ quarters, the great hall and the back gardens. He even searched the dungeons. She was nowhere. Only one room remained, the throne room. He hesitated before its huge, gilded, double-doors but they swung open of their own volition, beckoning him to enter. A trumpet fanfare played, and a long red carpet led him across the floor. Nobles of every family at court lined his path. He stumbled forward trying to remember why he was there as the crowd cheered him forward. Soldiers shouted his name and beat their swords against their shields in a rhythmic chant. “Pip-pin! Pip-pin! Pip-pin!”
At the far end of the room, he could see Childeric seated on the throne. Miette was draped across the steps in front of him, her head tilted back to her right and one leg cocked casually to her left. She was waiting for him. Her eyes held him with seductive intensity. It was as if she had expected him. She was dressed in a sheer robe that clung to the slight curves of her body. He could see the outline of her nipples against its fabric and the dark shadow of her sex.
As he approached, she moved languidly to sit upright like a royal waiting in judgment. “You may approach,” she purred.
The nobles took up the soldiers’ chant. “Pip-pin! Pip-pin! Pip-pin!”
The closer he came to her, the wider she spread her legs. Her sex was open to him, glistening beneath the triangle of her pubic hair. Hands propelled him forward. Voices cheered him onward. He came to the steps before the throne and she shrugged her robe aside. He knelt before her.
“Now was that so difficult?” She wrapped her legs around his shoulders.
The crowd
roared its approval.
Pippin awoke. He was alone, lying on his bed, his erection pointing stupidly up at him, a pool of semen covering his belly. He lay back in bed exasperated. I have got to get out of here.
He went in search of a towel.
Chapter Twenty-five
Hesse
While the wound to Carloman’s shoulder wasn’t grievous, it was painful. His doctor applied a poultice and wrapped the injury to ensure that his arm movement would be minimal. This was particularly frustrating because the scratch on his right arm, made by Hodar’s bicep ring, had begun to itch furiously and the bind limited his ability to reach it. And when he did succeed in reaching it, the wound in his shoulder broke open.
As much as he wanted to give chase to the Hessians, he delayed breaking camp for three days in order to resupply the army’s food and water. One thing he had learned from his years of campaigning with Charles was that armies don’t last long without food and water. He also hoped that the extra days would allow his shoulder to heal.
He sent out scouts to track the Hessians, wanting to finish them before turning south to face Theudebald. Unfortunately, the Hessians appeared to have different plans.
“All the scouting reports are the same.” Hamar reported. “After the blot, Hodar united the Hessians under his command and they fled south. All of them. Rather than face us separately, it looks like they plan to throw in their lot with Theudebald.
Although surprised by the speed with which Hodar had moved, Carloman couldn’t fault the chieftain’s logic. It was what he would have done if faced with the same circumstances.
“We’ll see Hodar again.” Carloman tried to lift his left arm and winced. “And we’ll see him kneel.”
✽✽✽
On the fourth day, Carloman ordered the army to decamp. It took most of the morning to stow their tents, supplies, and arms in carts for the march south. He led his troops alongside the Eder until the road turned south into the Forest of Bochonia. As before, the path was narrow, and it forced the men to march five across. This doubled the length of their line and left them vulnerable to ambush. Hamar repeated his caution about entering the forest and Carloman reminded him there was no easy way around it.
Carloman again ordered scouting parties to advance to the south, east and west to prevent ambush as they entered the wood.
Despite the narrowness of their path, the army made good time. Unlike their journey to Fritzlar, the trees in this part of the forest were mostly oak, rather than pine and fir. Tall and straight, the trunks of the oaks allowed more sunlight into the wood, giving them greater depth of vision. After the second day in the forest’s embrace, the men began to relax.
Carloman, however, had trouble sleeping. At first, he attributed this to the discomfort from his shoulder, but soon he became feverish and, on two successive nights, sweat through his clothes. The itching on his bicep had increased and little streaks of red lanced down his arm from where he had been scratched.
The doctor examined the wound to Carloman’s shoulder and appeared perplexed. “The shoulder is healing well.”
“Can you stop the itching?”
“A basil and honey poultice should help. I’ll grind some and wrap that scratch to see if gives you some relief. I can also give you something to help you sleep. It’s often the best cure.”
Carloman nodded but was frustrated to be the one delaying to their progress. They already had lost too much time due to Pippin, the catching disease, and the pagan blot. The army could no longer afford such a slow pace.
When the doctor returned that evening, he applied a new poultice to the scratch on Carloman’s arm and offered him a steaming cup of liquid that smelled terrible. But Carloman drank every drop.
✽✽✽
“I’ll kill you.” Trudi twirled the wooden sword about her like a practiced knight. “Expect no quarter.” She was still years before womanhood and wearing that preposterous armor that Charles had made for her.
“None expected,” he replied.
“I’m serious, Carloman. Stay away from us.” She thrust her sword for emphasis.
“Us?”
“Odilo and my baby.”
It was dark. He stood outside the great wooden doors to the church at St. Germain des Prés. One stood ajar and he could see a small sliver of light coming from the inside. He shouldered his way through and made his way up the aisle. Hundreds of candles surrounded the altar, bathing it in a golden light. Standing before the tabernacle was a woman dressed in armor. It was Lady Hélène. A child lay in swaddle behind her on the altar.
“The Church or the throne.” Lady Hélène leveled her spear at Carloman. “The Church or the throne.”
Charles was ranting, just as he always ranted. Three men with long beards stood behind him. “These Hessians are idiots. They can’t comprehend having only one god.”
Although still a boy, Carloman spoke up to be noticed. “I went to a blot.”
Charles turned to focus on him. “Did you sit on the High Seat?”
Carloman nodded.
“Good boy.” Charles patted him on the top of the head.
The three men behind Charles attacked. Carloman drew his toy sword, spun to his right. “Michaeli Archangelo!”
Hamar was in his tent, shaking him awake. “Milord, we’re under attack.”
His champion seemed so far away that Carloman wasn’t sure whom he was addressing. He tried to sit up but his body felt like it weighed a hundred stone. He shook his head, forcing himself to wake and tried to ignore the pounding in his head.
“Who?”
“The Hessians.”
✽✽✽
Over the next three days there was an attack each day, each one was more virulent than the last. Never frontal assaults, they were designed to harass and weaken Carloman’s army rather than to confront it. They all had the same profile: employ the protective cover of the forest to target an isolated part of the line, strike quickly, and retreat back into the woods to lure defenders into a second ambush away from the protection of their comrades. The latest target was the army’s supply train.Carloman went to inspect the damage.
Dozens of soldiers and cattle lay slaughtered in the mud and the smell of burned salt pork permeated the air. Carloman groaned. Nearly half of the food wagons had been overturned or were burning. Sacks of grain lay open on the ground amidst an ever-growing pool of blood. Cooks and soldiers were scouring the detritus in search of salvageable food.
We’re going to need it, Carloman thought. Despite the afternoon heat, he shivered and cursed the fever that left him so weak.
The captain of the supply train stepped forward to report. Carloman noted that the captain wasn’t one of his Knights in Christ.
"The extra pickets I ordered?"
"They were posted," the captain said.
Carloman waited for an explanation.
"They blackened their skin to avoid discovery. Flaming arrows gave torch to the forward food wagons. When we dispatched men to protect them and put out the fire, our rear guard was attacked in a pincer movement." The captain pointed to a copse of trees on their left and then to a nearby slope on the right. "Those hiding in the trees went after the cattle. When we brought up the rear guard, the second attack came from the slope behind us.”
“Did you expect them to form a line and invite you to dance?" He turned to Hamar. "Find me a new captain to guard the supply line." He signaled by hand that it should be a Knight in Christ. "Redouble the pickets and send scouting parties to find the marauders. I want them routed before nightfall."
Hamar hesitated before responding.
“What is it?”
“We won’t find them. Not in this forest. This is their home. Even if we could locate them, they’d pick us apart like boiled chicken.”
“Are you telling me that an army of six thousand Franks can’t defeat a thousand untrained Hessians?”
“Not in these woods. Our cavalry is of little use here. We can’t form a
shield wall. We can’t even see them until they attack.”
“We can’t just ignore them. They’re winnowing our numbers, trying to weaken us before we reach Theudebald and, to date, they're succeeding.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I don’t have any idea.” Carloman’s eyes came to rest on the captain he had just replaced. “But in the meantime, provide this man with a decoy supply train. Keep it free of stores and put thirty archers out of sight on his western flank. If the raiders attack again, I want enough men to finish them."
Carloman turned to the captain, who was still at attention beside him. "Detail a unit to butcher the slain cattle for their meat and find a priest to help, while you bury the men."
The captain ran to obey. Carloman dismounted and stood in the mud for a moment surveying the damage.
To his right, a young soldier stared up from the muck with sightless eyes, his face contorted in a death grimace. He wore the white cross of the Knights in Christ on his tunic. Carloman knelt beside him, closed the soldier's eyes and said a prayer to Saint Michael, asking the Archangel to guide the young man to his side.
Too many of his plans had gone awry. And now the army would be on half-rations. A crow cawed in the distance. Carloman stiffened and turned his head to find the animal. Was it the same one? Boniface once had cautioned him not to underestimate those who serve Satan. A trickle of sweat ran down his back. He certainly felt cursed.
Nearby, men began to butcher the oxen and cattle lying in the road. They ignored the dead soldiers who lay among them. Again, the crow cawed. This time it landed on the body of a dead cook. Carloman threw a rock at it.
✽✽✽
That night, the night sweats assaulted Carloman until his blanket was soaked. The next the day he struggled to mount his horse and at times grew so lightheaded that he didn’t know where he was. Despite the spring’s heat, he wore a great cloak to ward off the chill that had settled deep in his bones. His head seared with pain and his arm became so inflamed that it nearly doubled in size. It no longer itched but throbbed.
Wheel of the Fates: Book Two of the Carolingian Chronicles Page 25