Anvil of God

by J. Boyce Gleason

  “Huh-yah,” Pippin said.

  “It’s the village of Loivre,” Arnot said. “The town’s been looted and burned. No fighting men in sight. Gunther is searching for survivors. Way’s clear.”

  Pippin ordered them to ride at a gallop. As they drew near the village, the sky grew dark with smoke. Twenty homes or more were aflame, and some already had burned to the ground. The sweet pungent smell hung heavy in the air. Bertrada put a handkerchief to her nose. She was crying.

  Gunther and his men were helping the local peasants gather valuables and livestock into a field some distance away from the fires. Some had been dispatched to prevent the house fires from spreading into the fields. Pippin shook his head. None of the houses would survive. But if the fields could be saved, the town would rebuild.

  Pippin again sent Gunther and Arnot forward with a scouting party, this time to track the marauders. All others were assigned tasks helping the surviving peasants douse fires, gather wood for temporary shelter, find lost horses, and bury the dead. Bertrada sent her handmaidens to shred her packed undergarments for bandages. She saw to the wounded.

  Pippin approached Childebrand. “Report?”

  “From what I can get from the survivors, and there aren’t too many of them, they were attacked for their women. The marauders arrived at midmorning, rounded up the residents, and lined them up along the main street.” He waved at the path between the houses. “They put all the women in one row, the men in another. Children, they ran off into the forest. They ushered the men into one of the houses and then lit it on fire. Twelve bodies were found. They took the women with them.”

  “How many?”

  “Six.”

  “How many marauders?”

  “They say twenty on horse.”

  “Does anyone know who they are?”

  “It was Bradius, Pippin.”

  A fierce and brutal warrior, Bradius had been a lieutenant of Maurontus. Carloman had captured him once in Burgundy, but Bradius managed to escape to fight again in Provence. He had been one of the last to be defeated at Narbonne, long after Maurontus had been captured. On the battlefield, he was a monster. It took the sheer force of far superior numbers to defeat him. Even then, it was at great cost. He had laid his hands between Carloman’s and swore fealty on the day they left for Quierzy. He and his men had obviously moved north.

  “We’ll give chase in the morning,” Pippin ordered.

  Pippin’s small army camped near the village and broke bread with its residents. Peasants from nearby farms found their way into town to offer solace and support. Families grieved far into the evening. Campfires burned late.

  An hour past midnight, Arnot returned to camp and made his way to Pippin’s tent where Pippin and Childebrand were out front talking quietly and watching the stars.

  “They’re in Reims,” the scout said.

  “How many?”

  “Thirty. Sixteen on horse.”

  “Are the women alive?”

  “Yes. They’re all at the Knight’s Inn.”

  “Are the men drinking?”

  “More than their fair share.”

  Pippin looked at Childebrand. “Break camp,” he said.

  Pippin asked Bertrada and her handmaidens to stay behind with a couple of soldiers to help the village recover. Trudi insisted on going with him to Reims. They were there before dawn.

  Situated between Paris and Luxembourg, Reims was a traveler’s city. At this hour, however, it was dark and quiet. The gate stood at the north end of the city. Built by the Romans centuries earlier, its towering arches rose thirty feet in the air. Pippin woke the guards to open the gate, and his men passed through without disturbance.

  Moving through Reims as quietly as seventeen armed men on horse could move, they found inns on every corner and eateries on every street. They passed through open markets where empty stalls awaited the morning’s merchants. One could find everything in Reims, from perfume and spices to the mysteries of the holy land.

  Arnot led them on a meandering path through the merchant’s district to streets that were somewhat dirtier and the buildings in greater need of repair. At a broad intersection of two thoroughfares, Arnot brought them to a halt. A figure stepped out of the darkness.

  “Huh-yah, Pippin,” came a whisper.

  “Which is it, Gunther?”

  “Across the street on the right. They have the top two floors. Three are still in the common room, passed out from drink. The women are upstairs.”

  “How many men are there?”

  “Fifteen, I counted.”

  “Arnot said thirty.”

  “I counted but fifteen.”

  “Where are the others?”

  “We tracked them all to the gate, then lost ’em. These here, we found by searching the taverns.”

  Arnot and Gunther quickly described the layout of the inn. Three stories tall, it had two entrances, the front door and a servant’s entry through the stable in the back. Two stairways, one near each door, led to the rooms above.

  “Three bedrooms on each floor,” Arnot concluded. “Two men, one woman, each bedroom.”

  Pippin counted out three teams of five and mapped out the attack strategy. “Knives only,” Pippin hissed. Turning to Trudi, he pointed to two of his men. “You stay here with them. No one, save us and the women, leaves the inn alive.” Trudi nodded, and they melted into the night.

  Pippin led his team in through the stable. One of the horses stirred but then quieted when Arnot produced an apple. The party moved to the rear of the main house and came to the kitchen door. It was locked. Pippin tried the window. It, too, was locked. They peered around the corner—no windows or doors. Arnot signaled for Pippin to wait by the door and disappeared around the corner. After several minutes, they heard the latch pull back from the inside. The door swung open to reveal a ghostlike figure standing just inside. It was Arnot. He was covered from head to foot in ashes. Pippin shook his head. Arnot had squeezed through the chimney’s cinder chute.

  They moved quietly through the kitchen into the common room. Three inert forms sat by the small fire, their upper bodies splayed across the eating tables. Two still clasped near-empty mugs of ale. At Pippin’s signal, three of his men moved into position behind them. In near unison, they grabbed handfuls of hair, lifted heads off the table, and drew blades across their throats. Arnot stepped to the front door to let the others inside. Pippin and his men crept up the back stairs.

  “Who’s there?” a loud voice demanded. Everyone froze. A stout man in muttonchops and a nightshirt stood at the top of the front stairs with a lit candle in one hand and a nightstick in the other.

  “Ah, good sir,” Arnot said as if he had been looking for the innkeeper all along. “Sorry to disturb your rest.” Pippin heard Arnot climbing the stairs and signaled his men to wait while he moved down the corridor. He counted three doors. “I know it is late,” Arnot was saying, “but these gentlemen and I wish to inquire about rooms for the night.” He was nearly at the top stair. “Are you, by chance, the innkeeper?”

  “We’ve no rooms.” The man lifted his candle to better observe his unexpected guests. His eyes grew wide upon seeing the ash covering Arnot’s hair and face, and he lifted his cudgel in alarm. He stopped when he realized that the point of a knife was pricking the soft underside of his chin. Arnot put his hand on the innkeeper’s lips. Pippin edged closer. They would have to improvise.

  “Perhaps the stable then?” Arnot continued in a normal voice. Pippin signaled to Childebrand and the others. They began to climb the stairs. “Surely you have room in the stables?”

  Gunther moved behind Arnot up the front stairs. The door nearest Arnot opened a small crack. One eye peered into the hallway, and the door closed quickly. Without hesitation, Arnot slammed his forearm into the face of the innkeeper, who crumpled under the blow.

  “Go!” Arnot hissed and threw his shoulder to the door. Before it struck, the door swung wide and Arnot fell into the room. Pippin
heard swords being pulled from scabbards and threw himself into the chamber. Slamming his left shoulder into the one nearest the door, he drove his right hand, blade first, deep into the man’s midsection. The bandit collapsed around the blade. Pippin used his momentum to spin on his right foot, almost in pirouette, and slashed backward with the blade in his left hand. The blow caught the second man in the throat, just as he was raising his sword. The three froze for a moment while Pippin watched the recognition of death creep into their eyes. They fell where they stood. Shouts were coming from upstairs and from other rooms.

  “Thanks,” Arnot said and ran back into the hallway.

  A naked woman of middle age lay tied, spread-eagle on the bed. She had been beaten brutally. Pippin wanted to go to her aid, but he knew he didn’t have time. He followed Arnot into the hall.

  The passage was narrow and crowded with combatants. Pippin was blocked from the fighting by the backs of his own men. Stepping back, he saw that the marauders were trying to push their way through the attack by the weight of their numbers. One of Pippin’s men went down and then another. Knives slashed faces. Fingers gouged eyes. The narrowness of the hallway prevented either side from avoiding blows. Using knives, Pippin and his men had an advantage over the marauders who had grabbed swords. The narrow corridor gave no room for more than one thrust of a sword. Once the blade hit home, the man wielding it became vulnerable.

  Childebrand had the other end of the corridor blocked, and men on both sides were going down, their bodies making the hallway impassable. Arnot fell, and Pippin threw himself into the battle. He was the last between the marauders and escape. He fought with two blades, blocking and slashing, his left hand held high, and his right low.

  Pippin rolled right, moving away from a sword thrust, and jabbed upward with his knife under the arm of his assailant. As the man fell, Pippin slashed down with his left, catching another near the neck, high on the back of his shoulder. Looking up, Pippin saw Childebrand, bloodied and smiling, stabbing the last in the hallway through the throat.

  In the end, Pippin and his men had the advantage of surprise and numbers. Too many of the marauders had been killed in the first attack to rally effectively. Pippin, Gunther, and Childebrand cleared the hallways and searched the rooms. There were thirteen dead in all, including the drunks in the common room.

  To Pippin’s chagrin, there was no one to question. All the marauders had been killed. He and Childebrand went to free the women hostages. Most were found tied to the bedposts in each chamber. Face up or face down, they had been raped repeatedly, their bodies welted and bruised, the beds covered with blood and semen. When the women were untied, those conscious became frantic, clawing at any who approached. Childebrand tried to ensure that their bodies were covered but could get nowhere near them. Pippin sent one of his men into town to find a doctor.

  Gunther reported that four of Pippin’s men had been killed in the struggle. Two, including Arnot, had been wounded. Childebrand applied field dressings and announced all were capable of riding.

  “Where’s Trudi?” Pippin asked.

  Seeing nothing but blank looks, Pippin rushed outside and found the two men they had left with Trudi unconscious in the street. There was no sign of her. Pippin stood over the bodies, death filling his eyes.

  “Close the gates,” he ordered. “Wake the town.” He threw his knives deep into the earth.

  ***

  The smell of incense was overpowering. Ten priests, wearing the finest ecclesiastical robes that Sunni had ever seen, circled the altar at Saint Denis with smoking thuribles. They chink-chinked their way around Charles’s surviving family, each pausing before Carloman in their small parade. One by one, they swung the smoking vessels back and forth on golden chains over his head until a small cloud of incense hovered over the entire enclave. There were, Sunni noted, more priests on the altar than mourners.

  Heaps of flowers had been arranged around the casket to blunt the smell of decay. Charles’s face had lost some of its flesh. Only the skin remained to cover the bones. A pale milky color, it, too, was decaying. The corpse’s lips had frayed and pulled partially back to reveal gray-brownish teeth.

  The lid had been left open to allow the priests to bless Charles’s forehead with holy oil. One by one, each of the ten priests ceremoniously approached the altar, bowed, and moved next to the casket. Whispering Latin prayers, they dipped their thumbs in the holy font, reached into the open space of the casket, and traced the sign of the cross on Charles’s forehead. Boniface, his golden robe sparkling in the candlelight, was to be last.

  From her vantage point on the altar, Sunni was the first to see the doors at the back of the cathedral swing open, fast and wide, spilling sunlight into the darkened nave. Two armed men stood silhouetted in the brilliance of the arched doorway. They stepped into the cathedral and strode toward the altar, swords and body armor clanking above the murmur that followed them down the aisle. One step from the altar, Hunoald and Waifar stopped. Holding his head high, Hunoald turned to face the congregation. He stilled the room in an instant.

  Carloman rose from his prie-dieu at the altar. Hunoald turned to face him.

  “I renounce my vassalage,” Hunoald said in a loud, clear voice. He thrust the stump of his right arm in Carloman’s direction. “I renounce you as mayor. I denounce your succession as a sham. I owe my fealty to a king,” he said, slamming his stump against his chest. “And you are no Merovingian.”

  Sunni was just two steps behind Carloman. She could see her stepson shift his stance to balance his weight and saw his hands drift to where his sword would have been, had he not been attending his father’s funeral.

  Hunoald stood before Carloman, his eyes angry and malevolent. Long moments passed, and no one moved. A small movement caught Sunni’s eye, and she recognized the real threat. Waifar. The man stood behind his father like an angry bear leashed to a tree. His face was flushed, and his eyes rolled with a glare that she had seen only in fanatical priests.

  Without warning, Waifar stepped up to the altar and strode directly toward her. It took Sunni a moment to realize that she wasn’t the object of his ire. Waifar crossed to the casket and spit. His sputum hit the corpse on the forehead and ran down into its eyes.

  Sunni hadn’t seen Carloman move, but he was suddenly behind Waifar, one step to his side, still facing forward to watch Hunoald. With his back to Waifar, Carloman placed his left foot midway between the brute’s feet and grabbed him by the collar of his armor and pulled forward. Waifar’s left knee buckled on Carloman’s leg, and the giant toppled backward to the floor.

  Hitting the floor, Waifar rolled to his right and attempted to regain his feet. Carloman kicked him in the face before the Knights in Christ descended on them. They seized Hunoald and wrestled with Waifar, trying to pin him to the floor. Johann pulled Carloman clear. With a roar, Waifar found his feet and threw off his attackers. But the effort also threw him off balance. With his back to Charles’s casket, he stumbled sideways and fell to the floor. Johann closed on Waifar, his sword in hand.

  “Stop!” Boniface ordered.

  Johann continued to advance. Boniface broke into the circle and threw himself on the fallen knight, covering Waifar’s body with his own. His golden cope billowed over them. The Knight in Christ froze.

  “This is the house of God!” Boniface shouted. “You are men of God! Put away your swords.” Johann backed away and lowered his weapon, but he did not return it to his scabbard.

  Boniface rose to his feet and turned on Waifar. “We blessed this corpse with holy ointment. Who are you to defile it? Who are you to defile the holy ground of the church? You are a disgrace to your faith. Take your anger outside to the streets. And you, Johann.” He turned on the Knight in Christ. “You dare draw your sword in this place?”

  Johann bowed his head but left his sword in hand, his eyes never leaving Waifar. Boniface suddenly looked exhausted. His shoulders slumped. He drew from his sleeve a handkerchief and began wiping th
e face and eyes of Charles’s corpse. “I should excommunicate you all.”

  Hunoald shook himself free from the knights who held him, and with a nod to Waifar, he turned and strode down the aisle. Waifar followed, scowling, his eyes never lifting to meet any others in the congregation.

  Boniface dipped his thumb into the font of holy oil and retraced the cross on Charles’s forehead. He then bent, kissed the spot, and whispered, “Good-bye, my old friend.” Straightening, he motioned to the other priests, and together they hefted the casket’s lid into place.

  5

  Après Charles

  “Open the gates,” a voice echoed from above.

  Bertrada waited for the wooden doors to open. As unusual as it was for the gates of Reims to be closed at midday, it had required little more than mentioning Pippin’s name for the guards to let her pass. Not so for the crowd of forty-odd travelers also waiting to get into the city. From what she could gather, they had been waiting all morning.

  The walled defenses of Reims were minor compared to those of most cities its size. Since it was a trading center, the city elders had made the decision long ago to acquiesce to strength rather than to fight it. Invaders came and went. The merchants cared little, as long as their shops and stalls were left intact and they could continue to trade their wares. Bertrada was sure that closure of the gates was not a good sign.

  The gates opened enough for Bertrada and her two companions to move forward. They nudged their horses under the arched gateway and rode into the broad courtyard beyond. Once inside the city, Bertrada felt her heart began to race. The news brought by Carloman’s courier was dire, and she feared for Pippin. He would be devastated by Charles’s loss.

  The gates closed behind them, and a roar of outrage arose from those left outside. Oddly enough, the first thing Bertrada saw upon entering the gate was another crowd on the inside, waiting to get out.