Anvil of God

by J. Boyce Gleason

  He waved away her response. “That is a little girl’s name, not the name of someone wearing armor. Armor such as that requires a far grander name.”

  Trudi thought of how Sunni would respond to such a man. She tried to straighten her shoulders. “Hiltrude,” she said, looking directly into his eyes. “Hiltrude, daughter of Charles, son of Pippin of Herstal.”

  For the first time, a glint of emotion touched the man’s eyes. Trudi saw a flash of anger in his gaze along with something else, something eager.

  “A grander name, indeed,” he said.

  In her bravest voice, Trudi said, “You have me at a disadvantage.”

  “Yes. Yes, I do, Hiltrude, daughter of Charles, son of Pippin of Herstal,” he said. “I certainly do have you at a disadvantage.”

  “I meant your name,” she said.

  “Who was with you at the Knight’s Inn?” he asked. “Your father? Was it your religious-fanatic brother, Carloman? Or that son of a bitch, Pippin?”

  “It was Pippin,” she said.

  “And I suppose he has Childebrand with him?”

  “My uncle was there as well, yes.”

  “They’ll follow.”

  “They will,” she said, with more confidence than she felt. It unnerved her that he smiled.

  “Forgive me for being a terrible host,” he said, reaching forward with a knife to cut the bonds holding her wrists. She immediately began rubbing the life back into them. “You must be thirsty.” He poured more wine into his cup and held it out to her. “Tell me, Hiltrude, why do you wear armor? And what were you doing watching the door of the Knight’s Inn? That seems hardly the behavior of a lady.”

  “We were saving six girls from Loivre,” Trudi said. As she spoke, her fears dissipated into anger. “They were being raped at the Knight’s Inn. Men of arms took them by force from their homes and burnt their village to the ground. The men of the village were gathered together under one roof and burned alive. I saw their bodies. I helped bury them.” Trudi looked up into the blank eyes of her captor. “I came to the Knight’s Inn to stop the rape. I came to watch those murderers die.”

  “From the looks of it, you got your wish,” her captor said. “I doubt that anyone staying at the Knight’s Inn last night saw the break of day. When it comes to violence, your brother is a thorough man, Hiltrude, very thorough. Of course, he was stupid to leave you so unprotected.”

  “You are Bradius,” she said.

  He bowed his head.

  “Those are your men.”

  “Those were my men,” he corrected her. “I hired them in Tours. A bad lot.” He shook his head. “I released them from service when I could no longer afford to pay them. They came north. Apparently, to help themselves. When I heard they were in Reims, I came to investigate. As luck would have it, I found you.”

  “You claim no responsibility for Loivre?”

  “Your family absolved me from responsibility well over a year ago.” Bradius spat into the fire. “They murdered my family and took away my home, the home my family has held since the days of the Romans. Your brother gave it to one of his men. He took my hands in his and named me his vassal and rode away thinking all debts were paid.” Bradius look at Trudi with his blank green eyes. “I can assure you, they are not.”

  ***

  Boniface had hoped to keep at least twelve bishops in Paris for the conclave with him and Carloman. Twenty had stayed. Among them, many of the leading voices in the Church. They were seated by rank at a long rectangular table—the more powerful bishops at the center of the table, and the less powerful at its ends. An argument had broken out between Bishop Gairhard of Paris and Bishop Aidolf of Auxerre that threatened to distract enclave from its purpose.

  “Perhaps I’m not the most chaste of bishops,” Bishop Gairhard said from the corner of the room. “But at least I’m no hypocrite. How many young peasants have lost their virginity to your monks, Aidolf? How many are here today in your entourage?”

  Boniface knew that no one else would stand up to Aidolf of Auxerre. The bishop had responsibility for the monasteries of Orleans Troyes, Nevers, Avallon, and Tonnerre. He held warrants on the lands of over a hundred nobles and had fighting men in numbers that rivaled Carloman.

  “Your charges are baseless, Bishop,” Aidolf said in a calm and reasonable voice. “Of course there are monks who stray from their vows. Who among us is not a sinner? I can assure you the monks of Auxerre hold their vows as dearly as do any in this room. Any indiscretions of the sort you describe are merely isolated incidents, unworthy of your attention.”

  “I have seen it with my own eyes!” Gairhard stood, trembling as he addressed the conclave. He was an older man, stiff with obstinacy. “We preach abstinence. We vow chastity. Yet the monks of Auxerre openly flaunt their sexuality. Two of your men visited our monastery in Paris and sodomized our stable hand. I demand atonement.”

  Bishop Wido of St. Wandrille stood. A short man with an ugly mole on the side of his face, Wido was across the table from Bishop Aidolf. Wido had been an ally of Charles, and Boniface was relieved at his intercession. Wido folded his hands in prayer and walked to stand beside Bishop Gairhard. Motioning for the elder bishop to bend, Wido whispered into his ear in a low soothing voice.

  Gairhard’s eyes jumped to Wido’s face in surprise, and the color drained from his face. Wido whispered again, and Gairhard abruptly crossed himself and sat down. Wido next moved to Aidolf. Again, whispering in earnest, he drew a nod from the bishop of Auxerre.

  Wido turned to face the group. “With the permission of Bishop Aidolf, I have promised Bishop Gairhard that I would personally investigate this matter.” Aidolf nodded in assent. “Should there be need of further repentance,” Wido continued, “I will ensure, with Bishop Aidolf’s assistance, that repentance is made.”

  Boniface did not wait for further discussion. With a hearty “Let us pray,” he ushered Bishop Wido to his seat so that the conclave could officially get under way.

  As one, they turned their attention to Carloman. He stood and outlined his plan to return lands taken by his father in exchange for the Church’s spiritual and financial support of the succession. He detailed the number of troops he would need, the amount of treasure and resources, and asked for a public proclamation of their support from their pulpits.

  When he finished, no one spoke. Carloman looked to Boniface for support. Clearing his throat, Boniface thought he could strengthen the case for Carloman’s demands, but Bishop Aidolf interrupted and spoke first.

  “Please recognize, Carloman, that your father had a strained history with the Church.” Aidolf waved away the young man’s protestations. “Yes, yes, we all remember that he stopped the Saracen in Poitiers many years ago and again these past few months in the south. But he also ruthlessly deposed many of our brethren—some sitting at this very table. He took the Church’s lands and its wealth. He bullied our priests. And now that his quest for immortality has failed, you come to our doorstep seeking support.

  “It is ironic that the son brings to us the same lands that his father stole, to ask for our assistance in carrying on his legacy.” With a smug smile curling the corners of his mouth, Aidolf sat back and motioned for others to comment.

  “We’ve had twenty-five years of this!” began a portly bishop from Rouen at the end of the table. And for over an hour, the prelates rose to tell stories of their abuse by Charles. With each telling, the room grew louder. Boniface feared that the meeting was teetering on disaster. When he tried to interrupt, Aidolf overruled him. The bishop was content to let the group inflate the record to oppose any offer Carloman could make.

  As the passion faded from their discussion, Boniface stood to address the group and began to circle the table, touching the shoulders of those seated at the banquet table.

  “Yes,” he began. “Charles Martel was a brutal man, particularly during those early years when his success was in doubt. And yes, he often rewarded service to his family and friends. But shoul
d the sins of the father fall to the son?” Boniface stood behind Carloman. “Here, we have a truly religious knight.” He put his hands on Carloman’s shoulders. “He wears a relic from St. Martin of Tours close to his heart. His knights have dedicated themselves in the service of our Lord.

  “For twenty-five years, we have faulted the father for his treatment of the Church. How can we refuse the son who seeks to make restitution and to beg forgiveness?”

  Many of the bishops around the table were nodding in support. Boniface, sensing he had succeeded in swaying the group, called for a vote of support from the conclave.

  “There are two issues that remain,” Aidolf interjected. “You have asked us to commit to you Church resources, Church wealth, and armed support for your succession. We are inclined to do so. You and your brother Pippin are men of God and were raised as Christians by your mother, Chlotrude.” Aidolf frowned. “We are less supportive of your brother Gripho. His mother was pagan. We are concerned that his ‘middle kingdom,’ as it is being called now in Paris, could be aligned with Alemannia and Bavaria. If he is pagan, it could split the kingdom geographically and religiously.

  “We favor Theudoald as mayor in Gripho’s place. He is Christian. His claim has legitimacy. Although he opposes the very land policy you have offered us, we see him as less of a threat to the kingdom than your half-brother. We will support your succession if you support Theudoald.”

  Boniface saw Carloman’s face redden. The young man placed both hands on the banquet table and rose to his feet. “If I renounce my brother, there will be war. And it won’t be small scrapes in the far corners of the kingdom. It will be civil war on a scale that will touch every part of the kingdom.” Carloman’s punched the table with his fist. “There is no way to avoid it.”

  “Which brings us to our second issue,” Aidolf said. “You must raise a Merovingian to be king. It will quell calls for war and force the factions to petition the new king to resolve grievances. Your family serves as mayor, owing fealty to the king. The current absence of a king begs for war.” Aidolf sat back, his eyes on his hands, which formed a steeple in front of him. “Those are our two conditions.”

  “And if I refuse them?” Carloman asked.

  Aidolf shrugged. “Then we, regrettably, cannot accept your offer.”

  “We will need some time to consider this,” Boniface said.

  “You may have until the day after next,” Aidolf said. “The conclave will end its deliberations then at sundown.”

  ***

  Trudi couldn’t help watching his eyes. So green and so opaque, they were startling to her. But where they had been devoid of feeling earlier, there was now a deep sadness to them that threatened to overwhelm him—a great loss, perhaps. Something else was there as well; resignation, she decided. Bradius grieves.

  He sat with his back against the tree, drinking his wine. On occasion, he kicked the logs in the fire or added new ones to it. When he finished one wineskin, he opened another. She began to think he had forgotten her. She tried not to move, tried not to draw his attention, tried not to breathe. But her legs began to cramp and soon lost their feeling. She leaned to one side to stretch them. The movement caught his eye. And for a long moment, he stared at her legs, as if waiting for his thoughts to catch up with his eyes. His eyes took the rest of her in slowly, savoring her body the way he savored his wine. When at last his eyes met hers, they had lost their melancholia.

  “That’s Saracen armor,” he said with a slight slur to his words.

  “Yes. It is.”

  “I fought with the Saracen.” He looked away. “Against your father at Narbonne. They’re a priggish lot, but they fight well.” He gestured at her armor. “They would be surprised to see a woman wear those plates.”

  Trudi did not respond.

  Again his eyes stared at her body, and again another long moment passed. He got to his feet, came to where she sat, and squatted down before her. He leaned in, close to her face.

  “Take them off,” he whispered. His voice was thick, and his eyes clouded. He reeked of wine.

  “No,” she said with all the courage she could muster

  “I don’t think you understand your situation.” He was definitely slurring. “It is not a request.” He drew a knife from his boot. Looking into her eyes, he placed the tip of his knife at the base of her throat. She tried to pull away.

  “Don’t move,” he commanded, taking hold of her hair with his left hand. “One must be careful around such keen objects.” With the smallest motion, he flicked the blade gently, and Trudi felt her skin part under its sharpness. A trickle of blood rolled down her chest. Her heart quailed.

  “I said, take them off.”

  She pulled the leather strap holding the armor in place, and it released off her shoulder. His eyes never left hers. She felt them penetrating her courage. She drew the strap across her body and reached for the second clasp below her armpit. When this had been freed, she shrugged her shoulders, and the armor fell off her body like a summer gown.

  She trembled, watching him survey her body. His eyes absorbed the outline of her breasts, locked as they were inside her battle leathers. When he looked up into her eyes, she saw the hunger she had seen in Ansel before him. Standing, he used his knife to force her to stand. Stepping away from her, his eyes swept from her feet up to her neckline. Suddenly, a look of confusion crossed his face. His eyes grew wide, focusing on a place just below her neck. Exerting light pressure with his blade, he lifted her chin skyward.

  “What is this?” he demanded. With his left hand, he grabbed hold of the amulet Sunni had given her and ripped it from her neck. “Where did you get this?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?” Trudi said, beginning to cry.

  “This.” Bradius shoved the pendant into her face. Anger poured from him. “Where did you get this?” He was shouting.

  Trudi wept. “It was a gift.”

  “It’s pagan,” he said.

  “I know.” She cringed from him.

  “What are you doing with it?”

  “Sunni was teaching me. I am an initiate.”

  “No!” he cried. “That can’t be. No daughter of Charles would be pagan.”

  “I am conscious,” she said.

  With a guttural cry, he lashed out at her with a backhanded blow. It took her in the face and knocked her from her feet. “This will not deter me,” he growled at her. He stood above her, his body taut, his eyes filled with anger and lust. “It’s a lie.”

  Trudi was frantic. She searched her mind, desperately seeking something that would appease him. “What is here is everywhere,” she said.

  Bradius roared his anger at the heavens. Several men from the nearby campfire scrambled to their feet and rushed to ascend the small hill.

  “This is some sort of trick. You can’t be pagan. Charles would never allow it.”

  “He doesn’t know,” Trudi said. “Sunni guided me in secret.”

  The men rushed into the firelight, circling the pair and searching for what had caused the alarm.

  “Your father drove me from my home because I would not kneel before his cross.” Bradius seethed, his eyes wild. “He took everything from me because I am pagan. And now you dare mock me with this?” He threw the pendant to the ground.

  “Sunni was pagan,” Trudi said, pleading. “Charles accepted her.”

  “She prostrated herself before his god.” Bradius turned on her. “I would not. I rebelled. I took up arms against him. I drove him back. We fought like madmen for days. Good men,” he said, sweeping his arm to indicate those standing near him, “came to my aid. When it was clear to Charles that we had won the day, we sued for peace. We begged for tolerance. And then your brother, Carloman—” his emotions choked off his words.

  “Your brother arrived with his Knights in Christ,” Bradius continued. “They tortured the peasants. They discovered our sacred tree.” His eyes welled. “Did Sunni speak of the tree? Did she teach you that it links this
life to the one that came before us and the one that comes after?” Bradius turned from her to look into the fire. “We learned that Carloman meant to burn it,” he said in a quiet voice. “I split our force in two, leading one half to save the tree. The move exposed us to attack. Your father’s column fell on our rear guard like vultures. By the time we reached the sacred tree, it was already destroyed.”

  Trudi still lay on the ground where she had landed. She sat upright and wiped the blood away from her swollen mouth. Bradius stared into the fire.

  “And the other half?” she asked.

  Bradius did not answer. “Outnumbered three to one,” one of his men offered. “Killed to a man.”

  “They took my son hostage,” Bradius said. “They used him to bring me out of hiding. I came with Auguste.” He glanced at the man who had just spoken. “They told me to kneel before their cross. They told me to place my hands between Carloman’s.” Bradius looked down at his hands. “They bound my son. They beat him. He was so brave.” His face twisted in anguish. “I knelt before their cross. I placed my hands in Carloman’s. I betrayed my faith and humbled myself to save my son.” His voice found an edge. Anger crept back into his face. “And they killed him.”

  “No!” Trudi shouted at him. “Carloman would never kill a child.”

  “The boy was thirteen,” Auguste said. He put a hand on Bradius’s shoulder. “His name was Unum. Roused with youthful anger, he would not suffer his father to shame himself. Though his hands were bound, he cursed your god, spat on Boniface’s cross.” Auguste spoke as if in a trance. “One of the Knights in Christ, a blond man with cold eyes, drew his sword and, in one stroke, beheaded the boy. His body stood for a time as if nothing had happened. Then the knees buckled, and he fell forward. His head rolled to my feet. His blood covered their cross.”

  Bradius wept by the fire. He stared into its blaze while tears ran down his cheeks. “In the night, we were rescued. We rode south to join Maurontus and the Saracen. I never got to bury him.” With a sigh, he turned to face her. He did not bother to wipe his tears. Trudi wept with him.