Wheel of the Fates: Book Two of the Carolingian Chronicles

by J. Boyce Gleason

  Supper was hard bread and cheese. Miette knew enough not to complain. It was something she could live with for a day or two.

  Sunnichild sat with her for the meal. “Attendance is required for every mass,” she said. “Meals on the other hand are optional. Unlike other abbeys, Chelles offers two meals each day, but neither offers any meat. We eat what we grow.”

  Miette did her best to look interested but spent much of her time trying to look for Hélène and Bertrada among the faces in attendance. It was hard to distinguish one nun from another given that most were covered with habits and cowls. She studied the faces, dismissing the older and younger nuns and tried to pick distinguishing features on the rest. Unfortunately, Sunnichild made the task more difficult by continuing to make small talk, which forced Miette to pull her eyes away from the search.

  Miette decided to turn the table on her. “I have a question for you.”

  Sunnichild put down her bread and waited.

  “I’ve been having a difficult time believing what happened to Bertrada and her sister. They were in the company of Tedbalt of Soissons at a ball I hosted for the future king. They were offered a ride home by Lady Hélène and on their way, highwaymen attacked the carriage. Afterwards, the driver was found dead as were several of the highwaymen. All four of the nobles escaped.”

  Sunnichild nodded. “That matches the description that Pippin gave me.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “How did two women and one nobleman, defeat three highwaymen?”

  “I don’t know.” Sunnichild shrugged.

  “By all accounts, Tedbalt was unarmed when he left.”

  “Perhaps there were arms in the carriage.”

  Miette scoffed. “It seems unlikely that he could be so proficient as to best all three – even if he had a sword, especially caught as they were unawares.”

  “Yet the facts remain.”

  Whatever else she was, Sunnichild seemed unflappable. Miette took another tack. “How well do you know Lady Hélène?”

  “Well enough.”

  “Some say she was Charles’s assassin.”

  Sunnichild chuckled. “Hélène was one of Charles’s lovers. She used the rumor to hide their trysts and to frighten those who liked to gossip.”

  “You didn’t object?”

  Sunnichild raised an eyebrow. “Do you object to the young men your husband keeps?”

  Miette was taken aback. She hadn’t known her husband’s secret was known at court.

  Sunnichild patted her hand. “We have none of those concerns inside these walls. Here, such things remain in the past. All the passion, the violence, the deceit – it doesn’t touch us here.”

  Miette didn’t know about “passion” and “violence,” but she was pretty sure “deceit” was no stranger to the Abbey at Chelles.

  ✽✽✽

  Miette was already awake due to hunger pangs when the bells sounded for Matins. She couldn’t imagine how these women survived on so little food. She put on her robe and made use of the chamber pot, pouring its contents out the window when she was finished. Sunnichild found her and they made their way to the chapel for Matins.

  Miette tried to stifle a yawn. “It’s so dark. Why do they hold Matins at three in the morning?”

  “You get used to it after a few weeks.”

  “Where’s Agnès?”

  “She’ll meet us at the chapel.”

  Miette tried to keep her voice sounding casual. “Tell me about her.”

  “There’s not much to tell.”

  “Why is she here?”

  “Part of taking the vows is that we leave our former lives behind. I know little of her history, only that she needed someone to act as a mentor inside these walls.”

  “She’s a peasant,” Miette said. “You can hear it in her voice. How did she come to be accepted by such a place as Chelles?”

  Sunnichild walked a few paces before responding. “Charity is a cornerstone of the church. Not all our sisters are of nobility.”

  It was a lie. And Miette became all the more interested in Agnès because of it. The peasant would lead her to Hélène and Bertrada. She was sure of it.

  After Matins, the abbess put Miette to work in a garden, planting seeds for the bean crop. While she knelt in the dirt, she searched the faces of the sisters she could see for Bertrada and Hélène. As before, there were too many nuns and their faces too similar. She had spied Agnès early. The peasant woman spent most of the morning fetching water from the well. She brought bucket after bucket into the abbey for those who scrubbed the chapel floors. To Miette’s surprise, the woman never tired or broke a sweat, despite the warmth of the day.

  After her chores were complete, Miette hurried to stand by the meal hall where the nuns gathered after their daily tasks. Again, she played the supplicant, curtsying for the more aged sisters and greeting the others. It was the closest she had come to many of them and she quickly screened those who filed in for the afternoon meal.

  After it became clear that all who were going to dine were in the hall, Miette abandoned her search and took her meal with Sunnichild. They were hiding Bertrada. She could feel it in her heart. Sunnichild was too cautious and Agnès too mysterious. Bertrada was at the Abbey. The question was: where?

  After the meal was finished, Miette returned to the dormitory and gathered her things. Unless they allowed her to search the Abbey, there was little more she could do. She left her room and made for the abbey gate. She ran outside, hoping to find Salau waiting, but he wasn’t there. She accosted the first person she saw.

  “Where’s the nearest inn?”

  The man pointed down the street. Miette sprinted until she saw a sign with a bed on it. She ran inside and found Salau and the two soldiers sitting at a table with clay mugs of ale before them. She sat down and took a drink from his mug.

  Salau didn’t look pleased. “Do you have anything to report?”

  “I haven’t seen her, but I know Bertrada is there. Sunnichild is definitely hiding something and there’s a postulate…a peasant postulate in the Abbey at Chelles!

  “We need to send word to Childeric. To find her, we’ll need to search the Abbey.”

  Salau and the two soldiers stood and left the table.

  “Wait! Where are you going?” Miette followed them out into the street. They were running for the Abbey gate. She tried to catch up with them but they quickly outpaced her. She walked and ran as best as she could back to the abbey. The gate she had left open was ajar and she made her way back to the meal hall.

  Salau was outside, holding a nun by the neck against the wall. “Where did they go? I know they’re here.”

  The nun whimpered. “I don’t know.”

  The hand held a blade that seemed to breeze by the nun as if nothing had touched her. But then her neck opened like a melon and blood poured down her robe. She fumbled for a moment, trying to hold the rift at her throat together, but fell forward to her knees and then toppled sideways to the ground. Salau had already moved into the meal hall.

  Miette stared at the horror. Salau wasn’t there to escort her. He was there to kill Hélène and Bertrada. This was her fault; her words led directly to this attack. These nuns were dying at her instigation. Guilt and sorrow assaulted her, followed by a fear that she had soiled herself for eternity. There was screaming coming from the meal hall. Miette stumbled to the door.

  Inside the hall, the bodies of two more nuns lay on the floor, their eyes open in vacant shock, their blood pooling around them. Salau held another nun, his knife before her face. “Where did they go?”

  “Here.” Hélène and Agnès appeared across the meal hall. They had taken off their postulate robes and stood in what looked like men’s breeches. They each carried a long staff. Sunnichild and Bertrada – her belly already swollen with child – came in behind them.

  Salau grinned and turned to face Hélène and Agnès. His two soldiers spread out
behind him, moving to flank their quarry as they drew swords.

  Hélène moved forward so fast that Miette couldn’t believe it. Like a dancer, she twisted and twirled her staff moving in and out between the three men turning aside their blades and attacking their arms and legs. Agnès followed her into the fray and if anything, she was faster. They leapt in and out of harm’s way challenging the swords before them. Neither side had landed a blow as sword challenged staff and staff challenged sword.

  And then, with an audible crack, Agnès caught one of the soldiers on the side of his leg and he fell to the knee. Although Hélène was fighting Salau, her staff swung across her body and slammed into the side of the man’s face. He fell forward like a rag doll. Now there were two soldiers left to fight.

  Salau attacked with a fury, but he couldn’t draw close to the women. They spun and twisted away in their macabre dance. The second soldier went down with a blow to the head and then it was Salau fighting alone. He shifted his stance, holding his sword before him in a defensive posture. He moved carefully, always keeping the two women in front of him. Their staffs swirled before him. Miette couldn’t tell what was feint, and what was attack, until the staffs landed.

  But Salau was quick and parried most of the blows. The women slowed their attack, as if they recognized more care was needed with him. They kept up the assault, forcing Salau to parry one and then the other. As time passed, he visibly began to tire and his arms dropped lower.

  Miette saw no signal, but as one the two women split apart to attack from opposite sides. Salau blocked the blow from Agnès. Hélène’s caught him the ribs. He grunted and hunched over that side. He lowered his sword and Agnès went in for the kill. Just as her long staff arced down for his head, Salau’s sword tipped up and he drove it through her stomach until it punched out her back. He grinned at the surprised look on her face.

  Hélène screamed and reached for Agnès. Salau punched her with his fist and she went down.

  “No, no. no. no. no.” Miette looked frantically about her for some way to stop him. She saw a knife next to one of the soldiers and grabbed it. She couldn’t let him kill her. She couldn’t let him win.

  Hélène was on the ground trying desperately to fend off Salau. He kept up the attack, so she didn’t have time to get back to her feet. He circled left, turning his back to Miette. She hesitated and then with a shout took the knife in both hands and stabbed down at Salau’s back. She caught him just above the waist and felt the knife push into his flesh. He arched his back against the pain, and she stabbed again. And again.

  Salau straightened awkwardly and turned to find his assailant. He looked at Miette, first with surprise, and then with fury. He backhanded her across the face and she collapsed to the ground. Turning to face her, he raised his sword high above her head. “You, bitch.”

  Miette knew she was going to die but couldn’t seem to move her arms and legs.

  Then, from behind, Hélène's long staff came down on his head. With a sickening crunch, the left side of his skull caved in under the blow. Bone and brain matter spewed all over Miette. Salau fell to his knees, the long staff still in his head. Hélène had to kick his head away to free it.

  Throwing the staff aside in disgust, Hélène knelt beside Agnès. She pulled the peasant woman into her arms. “No, my love. Not this way. Don’t die. Don’t leave me.”

  Agnès lifted her hand to cup Hélène’s face. “Ssshhh. I was stupid. It was an old trick. I should have known better.”

  Blood was everywhere.

  Hélène was kissing Agnès on the lips. “Please. Please, don’t go.”

  The color drained from Agnès’s face. “I love you,” she said and then, “Take care of Patrice.” It seemed more of a question than a statement.

  Hélène nodded. “Of course, my love.” And then Agnès was gone. Hélène held her, rocking the woman back and forth like a child, a growl of rage coming from someplace deep inside her.

  Sunnichild stepped forward and put her hand on Hélène’s shoulder. The gesture seemed to quiet Hélène. With one final kiss, Hélène lowered Agnès to the ground and closed the woman’s eyes.

  When she stood up, Hélène turned towards Miette. “You did this. You brought them here.”

  Still on the floor, Miette backed away until she hit a wall. Hélène’s words were a death sentence. Miette could hear it in her voice. “I was just supposed to find her. I didn’t know.” Miette whimpered. It was a lie, of course. In her heart, she did know, had known. What other end could she have expected? She had just chosen not to think about it. All she had cared about was serving Childeric. “I didn’t know,” she repeated.

  Hélène picked up her long staff but Sunnichild stood in her way. “There’s been enough death.”

  “Just one more,” Hélène said.

  “It won’t be one. Her death will start a civil war with the Neustrians. Let her go.”

  Hélène didn't move. Bertrada stepped forward from the back of the room. She put her hand on Hélène’s shoulder. “She stopped him in the end. She saved your life.”

  “After she betrayed us.”

  Bertrada leaned close and whispered. “The path of justice is hard.”

  It took a moment, but Hélène nodded.

  Bertrada took the long staff out of her hands. “You and Agnès saved my life. I’ll be forever in your debt. But now we have to go. They’ve found us.”

  Hélène stared at Miette long and hard before turning to leave. Miette shuddered; Hélène’s eyes were empty, as dead as Salau’s.

  ✽✽✽

  Miette started for the gate only to find two nuns closing it. “Soldiers! Soldiers are coming!” They shut the gate and ran inside. Miette didn’t know what to do. Had Salau sent word to the king? She could hear the commotion outside as riders approached. There had to be dozens of them. One of them banged on the gate.

  “Open this gate or we’ll break it down!”

  The abbess and Sunnichild along with half a dozen elderly nuns entered the courtyard. Many clutched each other in distress.

  “They’re Pippin’s men.” Sunnichild said to the abbess. “I sent Gunther a message when Lady Ragomfred asked to stay at the Abbey. I’m only sorry that they arrived too late.”

  The abbess was red in the face. She clearly didn’t know what to do.

  “Open the gate, Abbess. They will knock it down.”

  After an agonizing moment, the abbess nodded and two of the nuns opened the gate. Twenty men on horse pushed through it. Pippin’s man Gunther was in their lead. For some reason, Miette found it reassuring to see him.

  Several of the nuns started screaming, “Murder! Murder!”

  “Silence!” Gunther shouted. He looked to the abbess and Sunnichild. “What goes on here?”

  Sunnichild stepped forward. “Thank you for coming Gunther.”

  “Milady – Sister” he corrected himself. “Your message said Bertrada was here. Is she alive?”

  “Yes. Thankfully. But the king’s men were here.” Sunnichild pointed to Miette. “She brought them. Once she confirmed Bertrada was here, they came to kill her. Three nuns – and one postulate – are dead. As are the king’s men.”

  “I didn’t know.” Miette’s voice sounded pathetic, even to her own ears.

  Gunther ignored her and focused on Sunnichild. “How did you stop them?”

  “It was Hélène.”

  If Gunther was surprised by her answer, he hid it well. Pippin’s man merely stroked his chin and nodded. “Bertrada and Lady Hélène! Get your things. We’re going back to the palace.”

  The abbess tried to protest, but Gunther cut her off. “I don’t have time to argue, Abbess. I took enough of a risk leaving the palace for this long. I’ll let Pippin sort this out when he returns. Lady Ragomfred, you will be accompanying us as well.”

  All Miette could manage was a nod. Nothing mattered anymore. Her life was finished.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  The River Lech

/>   Carloman’s shields had stood against Odilo’s four columns for over eight hours before the imbalance in their numbers began to show. His right flank was falling back, slowly giving way before the larger Bavarian army. As he had throughout the day, he rotated new men in to replace the wounded and used his cavalry to harass the Bavarians, but it wasn’t enough to hold the line.

  Carloman diverted men from his left flank to support them, but Odilo quickly took advantage and his left columns were forced to retreat. He was giving up far too much ground. The knowledge was disorienting. He had been in too many battles not to read the signs. He was losing. He had never considered the possibility. If he didn’t do something soon, his army would be routed.

  Fury and humiliation coursed through him. “Goddamn it!” he shouted. As a holy warrior, he served as the right hand of God. He could not fail. Yet the specter of failure was all around him. Everything he had fought for and everything his father had fought for would fail. How could he face Greta and Drogo? How could he face Pippin? Carloman searched for Drogo across the battlefield. The boy had such faith in him.

  He would be a pariah, a jest in history. The Church would be weakened. Paganism would flourish. Drogo’s succession would be challenged; the kingdom split.

  Carloman howled in frustration. The sound grew in him, a vehicle for his rage until it became a full-throated battle cry. He could not allow it. He would not allow it.

  His horse was moving before the middle of his right flank began to give way. Bavarians and Slavs pushed through the line in a fury trying to break it in two. Carloman kicked his warhorse, driving it into the breach. Those on foot, who had broken through, paid for their audacity. Carloman hacked them into pieces. The cavalry followed him into the fray and the line stiffened, but he knew it wouldn’t last. His men were exhausted. He searched the field in desperation. He needed more men. He shouted to Drogo to take his place and turned to the rear. He raced behind the infantry to where the tents held his wounded and rode his horse among them.