Wheel of the Fates: Book Two of the Carolingian Chronicles

by J. Boyce Gleason

  Boniface looked over his shoulder at his companions. “I’m here on behalf of the Church.”

  Pippin rocked back in the oversized throne and banged the back of his head against it…not once, but twice. He felt like he had been here before. Boniface was here to corral him like a wild horse, hobble him so that Carloman’s grand plan would succeed. They had drawn him into the fight with Odilo and now they came to draw him into Childeric’s ascendancy.

  All his life, Pippin had been the dutiful soldier, the dutiful son, and brother. He had fallen into line whenever Charles or Carloman had called him to. Time and time again, he had compromised his interests for the greater good.

  But now, Carloman was betraying him. He had been clear with Carloman about Childeric and yet here was Boniface presenting the bastard for elevation. He wouldn’t do this without Carloman’s blessing. The implication was clear. They no longer needed his approval.

  For some reason, Pippin thought of Catherine. If she were here, she would ask him what Charles would do. With sudden clarity, he realized it was the wrong question. Charles wouldn’t have been put in this position because Boniface would never have tried to coerce him. Charles had been his own man from the very beginning.

  “Say what you have to say, Boniface.”

  The Bishop cleared his throat. “Tomorrow, the Holy Catholic Church will announce that Childeric, son of Chilperic will assume the throne. He’ll be anointed with the holy oil at St. Denis with the blessing of Carloman, mayor of the palace. I’m here to ask for your blessing for his elevation.”

  “No.”

  “I beg you to think about this, Pippin. Your father struggled for most of his life to unite the kingdom and yet here you are splitting it apart.”

  “Don’t speak to me of my father! He would have nothing to do with this. It’s Carloman who chooses this path.”

  “The Church agrees with him.”

  “I will not serve this man.”

  Childeric stepped forward, his manner dripping in haughtiness. It was as if he already had been crowned. “In the end, you will. It’s but a matter of time. Most of the Neustrian nobility support me. Your brother and his son Drogo support me. The church supports me. Your opposition is meaningless. You’ll be a voice crying out of the wilderness.”

  “You are no king.”

  “On the contrary. I am the last of the royal blood, a direct descendent of Clovis. And you? Your father was a bastard who had to steal his mother’s treasure to purchase an army. Soldiers may follow you, Pippin, but will a kingdom? I think not. And what of the nobles who support you now? Will they continue their allegiance when I’m crowned their king? Treason is punishable by death. I doubt you’ll have an army six months after I’m crowned.

  “Save us all the blood and treasure and anguish your pride will cost us, Pippin. Kneel now and unite the land under its legitimate king. Pledge your hands to me and we’ll rule together.”

  Pippin held in his mind the image of Miette, broken and bruised by the side of the road and Bertrada hiding in a nunnery to protect her life. Childeric wasn’t a man; he was a monster. And with the divine right of kings, he would become a very powerful monster.

  Rather than reply to Childeric, Pippin addressed Lord Ragomfred. “And your wife, Lord Ragomfred? How does she fare?”

  Ragomfred was so angry he stuttered through his response. “How – How dare you speak of my wife!”

  Boniface stepped forward, holding up a calming hand. “We are also here on her account, Pippin. Lord Ragomfred has accused you of adultery – of lying with his wife. He has asked the Church to excommunicate you.”

  Pippin was incredulous. “Me? You condemn me?”

  “Do you deny it?” Lord Ragomfred charged. “It’s been the talk of the court for months.”

  “Of course, I deny it! As will she. It was an illusion to mislead Childeric.”

  “She’s a fallen woman.” Ragomfred said. “She’s been turned out of my house. Her word means nothing.”

  “She lies within these walls…grievously wounded. If she dies, I will see you hung.”

  Ragomfred was indignant. “There’s your proof, Bishop. She came running to him!”

  “She was left on the side of the road to die.” Pippin assessed Ragomfred. “But you didn’t beat her, did you?” His eyes found Childeric. “You did. She ran to you and you left her to die.”

  Boniface interrupted. “Adultery is a serious charge, Pippin. Unless it’s withdrawn, the church can’t ignore it. You may be excommunicated.”

  “And if I support Childeric?”

  “The charge,” Ragomfred answered, suddenly looking very smug, “will be withdrawn.”

  Pippin stood. The guards with Childeric and Ragomfred stiffened, their hands moving to their swords. Pippin stood directly in front of Boniface.

  “You’ve lost your way, Bishop. That you were once my father’s friend, I have no doubt. But this isn’t what he wanted for Francia. And it isn’t what I want. I didn’t spend my entire life in battle so that you could tell me who will be king.”

  Pippin next turned to Ragomfred. He leaned into the older man’s face so that their noses almost touched. He was so furious that he had to stop himself from killing Ragomfred on the spot. “If Miette dies. I’ll come for you.”

  “Do you plan to kill us all?” Childeric said, haughty as ever.

  Pippin knew he was being baited. He let his anger cool so he could think clearly. Childeric wanted him isolated with his leadership in doubt. A threat on Childeric’s life coupled with a charge of adultery would undermine his legitimacy as mayor and threaten the support of the nobles who served him.

  Pippin caught a look from Boniface. It was a face he had seen throughout his youth when the bishop had taught him the catechism. The older man’s eyebrow was arched like he was waiting for him to figure out an obvious answer. He was telling him silently that there was only one logical way for this saga to play out.

  But Pippin was no longer his pupil and no longer interested in the bishop’s lessons. From this day forward, he would be his own man. He would decide his path and let others adjust theirs. He unfastened a money purse from his belt and pulled out two gold solidi.

  “Here,” he said tossing them to Childeric. “These are for you.”

  “It’s a start.” Childeric smiled and made a show out of biting them to ensure their legitimacy. “Whatever are they for?”

  “To cover the eyes of your corpse.”

  Chapter Forty-one

  St. Denis

  Bishop Boniface waited as the crowd gathered outside the palace at the end of the bridge. With a nod from Carloman, he signaled for the procession to begin.

  Two trumpeters mounted the rampart and lifted their horns in regal fanfare. The palace gates opened, revealing Carloman, sitting tall upon his warhorse and leading two rows of his commanders – all Knights in Christ, wearing their red and white doublets.

  Boniface came next dressed in ceremonial robes holding aloft the cross of Christ. With practiced command, he paused to hold the crowd’s attention before stepping into the street. Behind him marched twenty priests carrying thuribles of burning incense that clinked and clanked as they waved the pungent smoke before the procession.

  As they had planned, cheering crowds lined the streets, throwing dyed flour into the air as infantry soldiers marched from the gate in formation, banging their shields in rhythm with their steps. The court’s nobles and their retinues followed, each flying their family banners. At the end of the procession, twenty young women, dressed in white, waved palm leaves before a primitive, two-wheeled, ox-cart that made its way through the streets. Childeric, dressed in a plain white robe rode within the cart, waving blessings upon the crowd as he made his way on the three-hour journey to St. Denis.

  To Boniface, it looked like the triumphant return of Jesus to Jerusalem, the future king of Francia was headed to claim his crown.

  It was a long march, but the road was crowded save for small gaps between
towns. The three hours passed quickly, although the attention of the twenty young women often seemed to flag.

  As they approached the entrance to St. Denis, Boniface led the priests in a ritual chant, calling upon the saints to pray for the future king. His voice projected far into the crowd. “Kyrie, eleison.”

  The priests chorused. “Kyrie, eleison.”

  “Christe, eleison!

  “Christe, eleison.”

  “Kyrie, eleison!”

  When Carloman entered the square before the cathedral Boniface saw him lift his arm in salute and the crowd bellowed their support.

  “Spiritus Sancte Deus,”

  “Miserere nobis.”

  “Sancte Trinitas, unus Deus,”

  “Miserere nobis.”

  As his priests approached the cathedral, Carloman and his Knights stood aside as Boniface and his priests mounted the stairs.

  “Sancta Virgo Virginum.”

  “Ora pro nobis.”

  “Sancte Michaeli Archangelo,

  “Ora pro nobis.”

  “Sancte Gabriel”

  “Ora pro nobis”

  The cheers grew louder as the end of the procession neared and the crowd surrounding the cathedral spied their future king. Carloman waited for Childeric at the base of the stairs and offered his hand. Childeric took it to descend from the cart. Instead of letting go, the Merovingian raised Carloman’s hand above his head in celebration and the crowd roared its approval. Carloman bowed to the king and Childeric strode regally up the steps to the cathedral.

  Together, they stood at the back of the cathedral bathed in the light of alabaster-laced windows until a fanfare announced them. As one they walked down the aisle.

  Bishops Boniface and Aidolf awaited them on the altar.

  “I’d say this is going well,” Aidolf mused. “No one seems to notice Pippin’s absence.”

  “It’s not the peasants I worry about,” Boniface said. “His absence, and the absence of his army, suggests civil war. He’s taken his army and much of the court to Quierzy.”

  “Carloman seems content. As does Childeric.”

  “Carloman believes that once Childeric is anointed with the holy oil, Pippin will fall in line.”

  “You don’t?”

  Boniface frowned. “Carloman has a habit of underestimating his brother.”

  “Surely you can guide them towards reconciliation.”

  “I don’t know.” Boniface grimaced. “Pippin is resolute and Carloman has changed since the rebellion.”

  “The Church has never had a more devout champion than Carloman.”

  Boniface nodded, but weakly. He had growing reservations about Carloman. The man’s behavior at Tassilo’s baptism had unnerved him. The careful, thoughtful man Carloman once had been was gone. This man was ruthless and arrogant.

  As Carloman and Childeric approached the altar, Aidolf bowed and ushered Childeric to his seat facing the congregation. The Merovingian sat on it like it was already his throne. Carloman stood behind him like a proud parent. Boniface returned to the altar to begin the mass.

  The Latin came easily to his lips. He had led the service so often than he could do it from memory. As his body went through the introductory rites, the liturgies and communion, his thoughts chased down the reasons for his growing unease.

  He had been so sure that raising the Merovingian had been the best course of action that he had never once questioned his own judgment. Now, he wasn’t so sure. He had believed both brothers would fall into line before elevating the king. Carloman’s decision to preempt Pippin was a mistake. It only had hardened his brother’s position.

  And why was Pippin so adamant that Childeric not be crowned? What had he seen that was worth risking a civil war? Pippin’s objections didn’t seem to be based on coveting the throne. Just the opposite, he simply didn’t want Childeric to have it.

  And what about Lady Ragomfred? He had never known Pippin to lie. For some reason Boniface felt like the fate of the kingdom hung in the balance of such questions.

  He had just put away the Eucharist and was reveling in the quiet that surrounded his routine of cleaning the chalice when Bishop Aidolf interrupted.

  “Bishop?”

  Boniface was embarrassed to find that he had lost his place in the ceremony. Aidolf had stepped in with the holy oil for anointing the Merovingian.

  “Yes, of course.” Boniface whispered. Whatever his misgivings were, they were too late now. The course of events had moved too quickly. Boniface dipped his thumb into the oil and turned to make the sign of the cross on Childeric’s forehead. The congregation of nobles rose as Boniface extended his hand.

  “As the holy dove brought the oil to christen Clovis on the day he became king, so we baptize thee as king.”

  The moment his thumb pressed against the man’s skin, a dove behind the altar was released and flew up into the rafters above the nave. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost…”

  Aidolf next offered the crown to Boniface. Boniface lifted it, saying, “As Legate of the Holy See, I crown thee King Childeric III.”

  As Boniface lowered the crown, a wave of foreboding passed through him that was so strong, his hands shook. The crown slipped and would have fallen save for Carloman steadying the circlet with his two hands. Together, they set the crown on Childeric’s head.

  The applause from the congregants was deafening. All Boniface felt was dread.

  Epilogue

  Quierzy

  After a month at Quierzy, Bertrada began to feel like herself again. It reminded her of the years she had spent there as Pippin’s consort. A day’s ride from Paris, the massive hunting estate had been one of Charles’s favorite residences. To her it was like a second home.

  The weather cooled as winter settled in at the country estate. Bertrada ordered the villa to be decorated with greenery for the holidays. With Sunnichild gone, the servants had turned to her for direction and she had fallen into the role of running the household.

  Pippin’s court had taken up residence at the estate and there was much to do. She had doled out rooms for each of the nobles, laid in food stores for the winter, and had enough trees cut down to ensure the Quierzy villa would stay warm for the winter.

  In truth, she found great joy in the role. It gave her purpose and allowed her to forget about the future implications of bearing Pippin’s child. None of the nobles at court seemed to question her role. In fact, it seemed like they expected this behavior from her.

  She had grown large with child. Although she had continued to train each morning with Hélène, rising early to avoid the eyes of Pippin’s court, her belly had grown to the point of discomfort. Her skin was so tight it felt like the head of a drum. And the babe had a habit of kicking her late at night, impeding her ability to sleep. Her only solace was that the nausea no longer plagued her.

  Pippin, too, seemed to enjoy Quierzy. Once he had decided that his army would camp there until the Spring Assembly, he and the nobles began to enjoy themselves hunting and drinking their way through the winter months. She had taken to walking with him around the grounds during the early afternoon so that she could update him on the household needs of the palace.

  He was always polite on these walks, asking after her health and her comfort. He was always deferential, referring to her as Sister. But as the weeks flew by, and their familiarity returned, so did his mischievous side. He teased her like the old days to make her laugh and she was glad to have this time with him.

  She had taken charge of Miette’s recovery, ensuring that her wounds were clean and that her bandages were replaced on a daily basis. Early on, she even had fed her rival with a spoon as Miette’s jaw was too swollen to eat solid food. As the bruising healed, Miette’s face began to take on its former beauty, but the woman’s eyes remained haunted, giving her a ghost-like quality.

  Bertrada kept up most of the conversation during their time together. This was by necessity in the early days, as Miet
te could barely speak. But as time moved on, the pattern continued. Bertrada was willing to share a greater burden of the discussion and, for the most part, Miette seemed content to listen.

  “Why are you helping me?” Miette asked one morning.

  “Because you need help.”

  “But why you? Why are you the mistress here?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps you should ask Pippin.”

  “Perhaps I will.” Miette smiled, wickedly. “Maybe I’ll apply for the role.”

  It was a silly statement, meant in humor, but the thought pained Bertrada. Despite their familiarity, there was still a wide gulf between her and Pippin. And she wasn’t sure she wanted it bridged. She liked things the way they were. But the thought of Miette sleeping in his bed appalled her.

  As Miette’s wounds continued to heal, she became more mobile and began to explore the town of Quierzy. On several occasions, Bertrada saw Miette and Pippin together in the town. He had given her an allowance to use for replacing the wardrobe and personal items she had lost when Lord Ragomfred had turned her out.

  Their playfulness set Bertrada on edge. She pictured Miette touching his arm, laughing at his jokes. And Pippin was so vulnerable to her wiles! He would tease Miette just as he’d teased her and then one day they would kiss and Bertrada was sure it would be a short hop into Miette’s bed.

  She began to resent Miette’s beauty. How could she compete with that? She wanted to feel pretty again. She wanted to see the light in Pippin’s eyes when he smiled at her. She wanted to make him eager to take her in his arms. But she argued with herself: did she really want that? She wasn’t sure, but as her time neared, she grew more and more anxious about him.

  She rose one morning and walked to the kitchen to ensure the morning meal was on schedule. A frost covered the ground, and the air was thick and cold, and it smelled like snow. She made a mental note to check the wood supply when a pain lanced across her belly, doubling her over. After a minute it subsided, and she returned to her chores. A second pain lashed out at her and this time, she had to sit. The third time it hit, she knew.