His perception faltered and he was unsure if what he was seeing was real. After a brief encounter with his dead father, Carloman realized he was becoming delirious. Drogo was talking, but he couldn’t focus his thoughts on his son’s words.
“- then send for more supplies.”
Carloman tilted his head up. “Drogo, we need to stop. I can go no further.”
Drogo looked down at him. “We halted the army two days ago. You’ve been bedridden since then.”
“Get me a doctor.”
“You already have been seen by the doctors.”
Carloman felt like a mace had struck his head but he forced himself to sit upright. “Then, get me a local one, a pagan with herb lore. Sunni made poultices and potions that cured fevers like this. I need someone like her.”
Drogo hesitated. “I won’t let them practice the dark arts on you, father. It’s heresy.”
“For now, it’s a necessity.” A wave of nausea hit him. “This illness was caused by a pagan. It must be cured by a pagan. If we don’t do something soon, I may lose my arm, if not more.”
Hamar sent scouts to the nearest village to find a pagan healer. It was a small hamlet at the base of a mountain. Large farms had tamed the surrounding landscape and a cluster of buildings near the town’s center suggested it was a trade route of sorts.
The healer was an old man with decaying teeth and a bald circle on his head. He was dressed in animal skins with bags of herbs and potions hanging from a belt at his waist. Clearly nervous to be in such company, he knuckled his forehead and bowed repeatedly until Carloman held up his hand.
“No harm will come to you. I’m ill with a fever. I think it comes from my arm.”
The old man stepped forward cautiously, taking Carloman’s arm in his hands. His face adopted a look of concentration as he examined the wound. He bent forward to sniff the wound and pulled away quickly.
He felt Carloman’s forehead and inspected his eyes. Frowning, he muttered what sounded like curses and stalked around the room until he found a bowl.
“Piss.” The healer offered Carloman the bowl.
Drogo knocked it from the man’s hand. “This is the mayor of the palace, not some horse.”
Carloman put a calming hand on his son’s shoulder. “It’s alright. Sunni used to require that as well.” He picked up the bowl, opened his robe, and pissed into the
container. He handed it back to the healer.
The man raised it to his face, sniffed the steam as it rose from the liquid and then tilted the bowl to take a taste.
“Sorcery!” Drogo made the sign of the cross.
The healer spat out Carloman’s urine. Frowning, he pulled several of the sacks from his belt. “Your wound is corrupt. It must be cleansed.” He pulled out a thin rod about the length of a finger. “It’s not a pleasant process. Are you prepared?”
Carloman nodded. The healer pressed the rod against the wound on Carloman’s bicep. The pain was immediate. Carloman flinched, but the healer held his arm firmly and pushed the rod through the scab into the swollen flesh. Pus spewed down the length of the rod from the wound. The healer squeezed Carloman’s arm, forcing his flesh to give up its putrescence until there was none. From his bag he drew a sack which moved beneath his hand.
“What is that?”
“Maggots.” He placed them on Carloman’s wound, letting them burrow into the injury. He then mixed a poultice from herbs and a potion that smelled like manure mixed with rosemary and spread it over a cloth that he used to bind the wound. “Let them feed for three days to cleanse the wound and then remove them and wash it thoroughly. It should reduce the swelling. The taint is also in your blood. I will make you a tea of ginger and turmeric to help you fight the sickness. You must take it every few hours.”
Carloman nodded.
Within two days, Carloman’s fever had passed, but he remained weak and discomfited by the burrowing maggots beneath his dressing. With considerable effort he regained his horse and ordered his army southward. As if on cue, the Hessians renewed their attacks.
Although limited in scope, the sporadic battles took their toll on Carloman’s men. Their eyes grew haunted and many began to panic at the slightest sound from the forest. By the time they reached the Monastery at Würzburg, his army was limping.
Located on the crest of a large hill overlooking the Main River, the ancient walled city of Würzburg, provided more than adequate defense positions for the army. Carloman set pickets and fortified the wall with his men but doubted the Hessians would pursue their attack against such a strong defensive position. For a few days, at least, they could rest. And from the looks of his men, they needed it. The relentless forest attacks had sapped the men’s vitality, exhausting them through lack of sleep and the sheer dread of waiting for an attack by an unseen foe.
Here, they could rest on the banks of the Main, treat their wounded, and make good use of the city’s stores to restock their supply train. Like his men, Carloman was buoyed by the respite. His color was returning to normal and the swelling on his arm was down.
As in Fritzlar, the resident monks and clergy treated Boniface as if he was royalty. Carloman gratefully tolerated being treated as a lesser dignitary in exchange for a clean bed and a well-cooked meal.
The only thing that tempered his relief was the towering presence of the Reichswald Forest to the south of the city. Nearly as large as the western Black Forest, the Reichswald took up much of the horizon even when viewed from the elevated vantage point of the monastery. Although no one discussed the threat, everyone knew that entering the woods would bring about the resumption of the Hessian ambushes.
Carloman heard rumblings from the men, who were grousing about his detour to Fritzlar and Fulda for Boniface. Carloman couldn’t blame them. Had they stayed in the west, they could have used the Roman Road that followed the Rhine for much of the journey rather than march through the forests in the east.
On the third day, Carloman ordered his men to break camp. With a collective groan, they headed back into the forest. As before the half-light of the wood canopy reduced visual perception. And, as before, the Hessians attacked.
✽✽✽
It came on their second night under the Reichswald’s canopy. The Franks had made camp for the evening, cutting back some of the forest undergrowth and setting pickets along the perimeter.
Like all their other assaults, the Hessians attack was well planned. They struck just as the Franks were settling in for their evening meal, concentrating on the eastern picket, in an attempt to overwhelm the perimeter with greater numbers.
Hundreds of Hessians poured over the picket, quickly overwhelming the two-dozen men stationed there and drove deep into the Frankish camp where the cook’s fires burned. An alert Frankish captain was able to sound a horn of alarm before a spear punched through his abdomen. The Franks scrambled for their weapons and tried to form a line, but the Hessians were too deep in their midst and the fighting degenerated into a melée.
Carloman followed Hamar from his tent when the alarm was sounded, grabbing his broadsword as he ran. Sending messengers to the north and south along the line he called for reinforcement but was careful to strengthen the forward and rear lines against further attack.
The fighting became fierce as the sun set on the forest. As Frankish reinforcements arrived, Hessian bowmen slowed their progress from the trees. A new horn sounded from the north and Carloman mounted his horse, shouting for Hamar to protect the supply train in the south. He kicked his heels to his warhorse’s flanks and galloped toward the forward line, ordering men forward as he passed. “I’ll hang the last man to the fight.”
Arriving at the forward line, Carloman knew at once that it was the main thrust of the Hessian assault. He crossed himself, thanking God that he had called to reinforce it. A shield wall there had held against the initial assault and with every passing moment Carloman’s ranks continued to grow. He called bowmen forward to shoot into the trees to roust any H
essian bowmen and reinforced the line by forming three parts of a box to ensure they couldn’t be outflanked.
With their line strengthening and the sunlight fading with every passing moment, Carloman expected the Hessians to break off soon. Their ploy had failed. Why waste men on a failed strategy?
The center of his shield wall suddenly bowed outward into the enemy line. Carloman took his mount forward, trying to see past the front line. The Hessian line was collapsing.
“With me!” he shouted, sending his warhorse into the fray. A hundred men followed, and they burst into the field, splitting the enemy in two. Carloman hacked down on the Hessian foot soldiers without mercy, letting his anger and frustration rule.
The Hessians, however, were not finished. A new column crashed into the melee from the east, catching Carloman unaware.
“Form a line! Form a line!” He pulled back to make room, directing men to fill in the gaps in the shield wall.
A stab of pain pierced his right leg. Looking down, he found that a bolt had grazed him, but struck his horse. The animal stumbled sideways, began to right itself but then its two hind legs collapsed.
Carloman had no choice but to dismount. Furious over the loss of his mount, he turned to re-engage, but a Hessian horn sounded, and their forward line melted into the darkened woods.
Hamar appeared at his shoulder. “Shall we pursue, my lord?”
Carloman shook his head, too angry to speak.
“We can’t stay here. They’ll only attack again.”
Carloman nodded. “We have to change our strategy. I’m finished playing mouse to their cat.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“We take away their advantage.”
✽✽✽
For two days Carloman pushed the men hard, looking for the opening to mount his strategy. He found it in a broad clearing bordered by a shallow river, flowing west to east. He ordered his men to prepare to camp on the northern shore. Trees and brush were cut back, pickets ordered, and tents raised.
He then sent crews to the southern side of the river and cut trees and brush fifty yards into the forest to build a huge wall of wooden debris across the face of the forest. Pickets and guard units were deployed to protect the soldiers though Carloman doubted they would be attacked. To have his army dig in here served the Hessians’ interests. The longer he took to reach Bavaria, the weaker the army would become. He was counting on creating the impression that they were building a temporary compound to withstand the relentless attacks by the Hessians.
It took the better part of a week, but when the wall was finished, it stood six feet high and ran nearly a a hundred meters in length. Shaped like the head of an arrow, the wall pushed back the forest, leaving an open battleground on the Franks’ side of the wall.
Carloman had his men soak the wall in tar and then retreat to the northern side of the river. There, he waited, letting the men replenish their stores and tend to the wounds they had taken during the recent attacks. He too, was relieved for the rest.
On the fourth day after the wall’s completion, the Hessians attacked. Carloman was ready.
He ordered the bowman to harass the enemy surmounting the wall. Scattered as they were, the Hessian soldiers died in droves. But Carloman knew the incursion for what it was, a feint. The real attack would come from the east or west where the Hessians would circumvent the wall. He could wait.
A flaming signal arrow signaled from the west. Two minutes later, a second flew from the east. Carloman let them come. The enemy charged along the south side of the river, clearly surprised to find no counterattack. When they met on the shore opposite Carloman’s camp, Hodar quickly ordered ladders placed on the wall to speed his reinforcements and then turned to lead a charge across the shallow river.
Carloman gave a signal and a shield wall, carefully hidden by brush and rocks leapt into existence on the northern shore. The Hessians slammed into it, but their own line was ragged from crossing the stream. Lances and swords stabbed through the wall and Hessian foot soldiers began to die. Carloman reinforced his line and the shield wall began to push the Hessians back into the river.
Behind the Hessian line reinforcements continued to pour over the wall and they joined in the effort to stop the Franks’ shield wall.
Carloman waited until the southern shore was filled with Hessians before putting his plan into action. He ordered flaming arrows launched over the stream into the tar at the base of the wooden wall. Runnels of flame lanced along the entire length of it, curling upward to devour the fresh wood. Within minutes the wall became a towering blaze. Dozens of Hessian soldiers still on ladders leapt to the ground, screaming as the flames engulfed them. Panic seized the back of the Hessian line as men moved away from the flames.
As the Franks’ shield wall pushed the Hessians to the southern shore of the river. Horses stationed near the shoreline lunged forward, dragging long wooden raft-like structures across the stream to the far side. Soldiers streamed across the newly formed bridge to slam stakes in the ground on each side to hold them in place. Reinforcements poured over the bridge forcing the Hessians backward towards the flaming wall.
In desperation, the Hessians hurled themselves at the shields, trying to forge an avenue of escape. It wasn’t enough. The shield wall mirrored the arrow shape of the outer wall and pushed forward using a syncopated step to push the Hessians back towards the growing conflagration behind them.
Carloman sent his cavalry over the bridges to contain the enemy, allowing no one to escape using the river. Panic seized the rear of the Hessian army as they were pushed ever closer to the wall. They rushed forward, trying to add their weight to the attack, but instead they destabilized the Hessian line. The Franks waded into their fallen enemies, hacking them to death.
The battle was over in less than an hour. Five hundred Hessians lay dead on the south side of the stream. But the primary purpose for the wall had just begun to bear fruit. Carloman ordered his men to stand down and watched the forest burn. Whatever refuge it once had offered the Hessians would vanish in the conflagration. For the first time in weeks, Carloman smiled.
Chapter Twenty-six
Paris
Gunther brought Pippin a message that had arrived late during the night.
My dearest Lord Pippin:
In my dreams, I often relive my joyful days with you and your father. All that I have now is the quiet solitude of these desolate walls. God only knows what will become of our family without Charles to guide us. I beseech both you and Carloman to find it in your hearts to free Gripho so he may serve the greater glory of the kingdom. If you must seek guidance, I pray it is from your heart, as Boniface has already hardened his against it.
My Blessings,
Sunnichild.
Pippin set the message aside. “It’s from Sunni,” he told Gunther. “She wants me to free Gripho.”
“Doesn’t she know that you have a war to manage?”
Pippin nodded. “And I best be off to manage it. I’ve stayed too long searching for Bertrada. It’s time I join up with Carloman. I’ll take Arnot and thirty knights with me for the journey. The rest of the battalion will stay here with you in Paris.”
“Will you write to Sunnichild before you leave?”
“The road east takes us near the Abbey at Chelles. I’ll make time for a short detour. I haven’t visited Sunni since Carloman imprisoned her after the siege at Laon. If I can’t grant her request, the very least I can do is to ensure her comfort.”
He made it clear that Gunther should continue the search for Bertrada until she was found.
Pippin also left a note for Miette, should she inquire, saying, “War beckons. I will consider your offer.” He left that afternoon.
✽✽✽
The Abbey itself was a fortress. Great walls surrounded an enormous compound along the River Marne that included a church, a monastery, an abbey, a cloister, a dormitory, an orchard, a tannery, a smith, a barn full of sheep, pigs, chickens an
d goats, a mill powered by the river, and an enormous garden that provided food for the sisters and the staff that maintained them.
A royal cloister since the time of Clovis, the Abbey at Chelles had housed some of the most notable women in Francian history - some by choice, some by force, and some for their own protection. Sunnichild was merely the latest guest. Although Sunnichild had willingly taken the orders, she was given little choice in the matter. As long as Carloman was mayor, she would be a resident of the abbey.
Pippin arrived that night at Vespers and had to wait outside until the evening’s prayers were complete. Afterwards, he was admitted into an office where he awaited a meeting with the Abbess Clemencia.
She was a huge woman, with Germanic features, no eyebrows and a prominent nose. While she clearly knew who Pippin was, she also clearly wished he were somewhere else.
“This is a place for women.” Her right fist stamped downward for emphasis. Her accent was severe making “women” sound like “vimen.”
“They are holy women! And these men,” she almost spat the word, “these armed men, are a violation of their sanctuary. I will not allow it.”
“Forgive me, Abbess, but this is an affair of state. I will see her.”
The abbess was clearly someone who was used to having her way. She shook her head. “I refuse.”
Pippin scowled at her. “Abbess, I will either go with your permission or go by force.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“Abbess, don’t mistake me for my brother, Carloman. He’s a much more devout man. He wouldn’t dare. I assure you that I have no such hesitation.” He stood. “Which will it be?”
She stood as if to block his way, but her eyes showed doubt. After a moment she nodded. “Wait here.”
She came back after a few minutes and led him to the inside of a chapel. A lone nun prayed at the altar. The abbess waved him forward and took her leave. Pippin sat in a pew to wait and pulled out Sunni’s letter.
Wheel of the Fates: Book Two of the Carolingian Chronicles Page 26