Anvil of God

by J. Boyce Gleason

  Now he could not wait for the enclave to meet. The land would be back on the table in exchange for a commitment of gold and soldiers. He would concede to naming a Merovingian but draw the line on Theudoald. That ass would never be mayor. If the bishops didn’t agree, he would walk away. No Merovingian, no land, no Theudoald. Carloman felt very good about his prospects. He accepted another goblet of Bordeaux.

  Greta had deserted him early in the evening. She seemed to be very taken with Lady Hélène. A clique of sorts had developed among the women of the court after Charles’s death. They seemed to be sorting through the social implications of the succession. Carloman didn’t bother to follow any of it. He had plenty to do all by himself. He watched his wife chatting with a cluster of women. She had worn her hair back in an elaborate braid that made her look tall and elegant in her blue dress. She was very beautiful.

  “She’s very beautiful,” a voice said. Theudoald stood next to him holding a goblet of wine. “Your wife, of course. A beautiful woman. You are a very lucky man, Carloman.”

  Carloman noticed that Theudoald again wore the lace collar and cuffs. He had nothing to say to the man.

  “Don’t you think this is excellent wine?” Theudoald ventured.

  Carloman could feel the rest of the room watching them.

  “This Bordeaux. It is very good, don’t you think?”

  “No matter how many people see us together, Theudoald, I will not consent to you becoming mayor. If you plan to contest the succession with arms, you had better get ready.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary,” the tall man responded. “I have some information.”

  “I doubt you have anything I’m interested in hearing.”

  “I’m sure that the enclave will be. It involves your youngest brother and a priest.”

  Carloman turned toward Theudoald.

  “Oh, so you are interested? Good. It seems there is this priest in Laon. Sounds like the start of a good joke, doesn’t it?” Getting no reaction out of Carloman, he frowned and continued. “The priest was minding his own business, tending to his flock in old Laon, when Sunni arrived with a whole host of renegade nobles, Thuringians, and of course, your half-brother Gripho.” He had said the word Thuringian as if it were a curse. “You do at least know that she is in Laon?” Carloman nodded. “Good. Well, it seems that your dear half-brother harassed this priest by conscripting soldiers during holy mass—took his horse right into the church—then attacked him for complaining to the good Compte de Laon. There was one more thing … what was it? Ah, yes, he burned the church.”

  Carloman could feel the blood drain from his face. “I’m sure you are mistaken. It is certainly a rumor. Gripho would never do such a thing.”

  “In this particular case, I’m afraid you are wrong.” Theudoald was enjoying himself. “The priest was burnt horribly but survived to flee with the women and children. He made his way to Paris with the aid of his monsignor, and they already have had a preliminary meeting with the enclave. I heard they’ve told their story from Laon to Paris. By tomorrow afternoon, it should be the talk of the court. I’m surprised you haven’t heard this before, Carloman.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “He is very convincing, very convincing, I’m afraid. I’m sure that when you hear their eyewitness account, it will change your mind. I’ve heard the enclave is meeting early tomorrow to review his testimony. Isn’t that the same day you are to meet with them? I wonder what kind of impact that might have on your proposals.”

  Carloman’s stomach began to churn.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but it is simply unfair to have the two best-looking men in the room talking to each other.” Lady Hélène appeared between them and grabbed each of them by an arm and steered them toward the circle of women nearby. “The ladies are already complaining. If you keep it up much longer, people will talk. You both know my house rules. No politics, no religion, no money lending. All other vices, of course, are welcome.” She positioned Theudoald in the circle of women and said, “Theudoald, Eileen asked about your idea to build another bridge across the Seine. Why don’t you tell her about it?”

  Theudoald chuckled and turned to the woman to expound upon his bridge idea. Hélène recaptured Carloman’s arm and led him away from the milling crowd.

  “Thank you,” Carloman said.

  “You are entirely welcome. He must have told you about the burned priest. He’s told everyone in the room since he got here.”

  “Yes, he did. Is it true?”

  “Apparently.”

  “He is such a shit.” Frowning at his indiscretion, he immediately apologized to Hélène.

  “Oh, don’t worry. I quite agree. The man’s a shit.” She laughed, and he felt the tension easing a bit. He began to laugh with her.

  “Other than him, you’ve thrown a very nice party, Hélène.”

  “Thank you. I try to please.”

  “Why did you invite him?”

  “I wanted to see how you would react to him.”

  “You are a strange lady, Hélène. You’ve always been a mystery to me.”

  “Tell me, Carloman. Will you be king?”

  “Such talk could be taken for treason, my lady.”

  She leaned closer and spoke in a more conspiratorial whisper. “Will you be king?”

  “From the look of it, that path now appears to be blocked. I know my father had wanted his sons to be kings. He just didn’t live long enough.”

  “No he didn’t,” Hélène said. Carloman saw emotion fill her eyes and was unexpectedly moved.

  “Perhaps this is an indiscreet question, my lady, but I’ve always been curious about your relationship with my father.”

  Hélène shook her head and tried to recover her earlier playful mood. She smiled, the coquette once again. “I was his assassin.”

  “Oh you were, were you?” Carloman chuckled.

  “Yes, Charles found me quite helpful at times.” Her smile was now radiant.

  Enjoying the banter, Carloman played along. “And just how did you dispose of your victims?”

  “Oh, an assassin never reveals trade secrets. But you would be surprised how easy it is for a woman to move about freely during the night.” She chuckled. “Everyone always seems to want to look the other way.”

  “Well, if you could take care of that one for me,” Carloman said lightly, pointing to Theudoald, “I’d consider it an enormous favor.”

  “Consider it done.” Hélène smiled. She leaned close to him, her voice taking on a seductive quality. “Would you like it to be slow or fast?”

  Surprisingly, Carloman found himself attracted to this woman with the short hair and the blue eyes. “Slow,” he said. “He deserves it to be slow.”

  “Very well then,” she beamed. “Slow it is.”

  Carloman performed a mock bow to seal their agreement, and they both laughed.

  Greta joined them, smiling as if she had been part of the joke. “I’m so glad to see you two having a good time,” she said, grabbing each by the arm.

  “Greta,” Carloman said. “I’d like to introduce you to my new a—”

  Hélène placed her hand lightly over his mouth. “No, Carloman. You mustn’t spoil the game.” She turned to Greta and said, “Carloman has asked me to be his messenger of sorts.”

  “Really,” Greta said. “What kind of messenger?”

  “One who only delivers bad news.” She laughed.

  Carloman found himself laughing right along with her.

  ***

  Led by a dozen of his Knights in Christ, Carloman and Boniface made the trip to St. Denis on horseback. As they approached, pedestrians massing in the narrow streets began to impede their progress. Frowning, Carloman hand-signaled Johann to quicken their pace, and they cantered into the square outside the church. It was filled with people, and the crowd there was already unruly. In the distance, a drum beat with military precision.

  Carloman and Boniface starte
d for the church doors when a new procession arrived. Led by the drummers they had heard, it promised to overwhelm the already packed square. At their front, a tall, bearded priest dressed in white carried a cross. Unlike many of the crosses present in the square, however, this cross was too large to be carried aloft like a banner. A large wooden monstrosity, the cross was life-sized and overwhelmed the priest. He shouldered his burden and dragged it as Christ had dragged the implement of his death to Calvary. Carloman looked to Boniface for an explanation.

  “It is has two related meanings. It reminds each of us of how great a burden Christ carried on our behalf and reminds us how great is the weight of our responsibility to the Church.”

  “Death to pagans!” the procession chanted to the rhythm of the drums. “Death to pagans!”

  “Let Gripho burn!” someone shouted in return.

  Several fistfights broke out around them. The crowd seethed like turbulent water. Waves of people shoved and pushed, trying to find space. Some had fallen to the ground and struggled to avoid being trampled. The drums and the chanting never stopped.

  “We better get inside,” Carloman said.

  Led by Johann and the Knights in Christ, Carloman and Boniface waded through the crowd toward the church door. Curses and shouts greeted them as they drove a wedge into the crowd. Carloman was shoved several times, forcing the Knights in Christ to surround him. As they climbed to the church, Carloman saw a burnt effigy of Gripho lying on the steps. He made it to the top before he was recognized.

  “It’s the brother! It’s Carloman!”

  “What will you do, Carloman?”

  Several voices booed. The crowd surged toward them but was restrained by the Knights in Christ. Before Carloman and Boniface could gain the church doors, the crowd parted to Carloman’s left, and the priest with the large cross carried his burden up to the church. Standing in front of Carloman, he stopped. The drums fell silent, and the crowd hushed.

  Carloman met the priest’s eyes and realized the man was exhausted. Sweat streamed down his face, and his lungs heaved inside his chest. The priest tried to take another step forward and faltered. Carloman watched the huge cross lose its center of balance. Tilting to one side, the cross threatened to fall off the man’s shoulder into the mud of the square. The priest tried to compensate but was too late. The cross began to fall.

  Instinctively, Carloman stepped to the man’s side and threw his shoulder under the cross. Its weight was enormous. He staggered beneath it, trying to counter its momentum. Straining, he straightened his legs and took the full weight onto his right shoulder, accepting the whole burden from the priest. Looking for a place to set the cross down, Carloman decided to lean it against the church beside the two large wooden doors. He started to drag the behemoth up the steps. Hands reached out to steady him. As he gained the top of the steps, he struggled to push the cross erect, and several of his Knights in Christ lifted the burden with him. The base of the cross found solid stone, and the crucifix stood of its own accord to the left of the church doors.

  Unburdened, Carloman straightened his clothes, which had cinched under his arm, and turned back to the crowd. An eerie silence had taken the square. A polite circle of space enveloped him where the crowd had retreated. He stood alone on the steps of the church next to the cross, his head high above the crowd. No one in the square uttered a word. All eyes were on him. The priest in white advanced to the step below Carloman.

  “Like Simon of Cyrene,” the priest exclaimed, “you are willing to risk yourself to shoulder Christ’s burden. Are you willing to shoulder his burden in Laon? Are you a true man of God, Carloman, son of Charles?” He knelt before Carloman and bowed his head. “If you are willing to bring those to justice who have desecrated God’s church, I offer you my service in this hour of need.”

  Like ripples from a stone striking water, the gesture spread behind him in an ever-widening circle. In moments, the entire square was kneeling. Carloman pulled the priest to his feet. Standing next to him, Carloman looked out over the crowd. They would expect something from him now, he thought to himself. He had to address them, say something.

  “I am Carloman, son of Charles, son of Pippin of Herstal,” he said in a voice that carried over the crowd. “I have come to the church enclave today to raise an army. My intent is to keep the peace and keep our land from civil war. I do not know what has happened yet in Laon.” Some grumbling surfaced to his right. He raised his voice. “But I promise you this, I will right this wrong. I will see justice done. This deed will not go unpunished.”

  The crowd surged to its feet with a roar.

  “Death to pagans!” A voice shouted. The chant swept through the square, the crowd leaping to their feet. “Death to pagans! Death to pagans!” The drums picked up the beat.

  Carloman raised his hands to quiet the crowd. It wasn’t what he had meant. He wanted to correct them, explain that death was not the only answer. But they wouldn’t quiet. They were caught up in their own euphoria. Boniface appeared next to him. He had thrown off his cloak to reveal his cassock and had donned his stole. He held his right hand aloft, and in moments his gesture had its desired effect. “Let us pray,” he intoned. The crowd quieted. Heads bowed. Hands folded, and knees bent.

  “Oh, Holy Father, who has given his only begotten son for our sins, bless these good people for their piety. Bless them for their holy rage against the desecration of your church. And bless your servant Carloman, who takes up this burden in your name …”

  There was more, but Carloman wasn’t listening. He had bowed his head with the others, but his mind reeled with implications. He needed some space to think. He was desperate to go inside, but as long as Boniface prayed, he would have to remain.

  After what felt like an eternity, Boniface ended with the blessing, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”

  “Amen,” the crowd said in unison.

  The priest in white lifted Carloman’s hand aloft. “To Carloman!” he cried.

  The crowd roared its approval. Carloman nodded and raised his other hand to wave. The crowd cheered louder. Thinking of how to exit, Carloman clasped the shoulder of the priest, turned to the crowd, and bowed. Although he didn’t think it possible, the cheering doubled, again. Pulling himself erect, Carloman executed a military turn and made for the door of the church. Boniface and the Knights in Christ followed. As if by magic, the door opened at their approach. A pair of monks had stood at the ready inside the door, waiting for the appropriate moment to push it open.

  Four of the knights preceded him into the church. Boniface and the rest followed while Johann and two others kept back to hold off the crowd. As the huge door closed behind them, shutting out the early afternoon light, Carloman was stunned by the sudden shift to the calm, quiet darkness of the church.

  Boniface clasped Carloman on the shoulder with one of his blacksmith hands. “This is an enormous opportunity. The people are whipped into a furor. Lead them! Strike a blow against the pagans. This was God’s house. Show them that even a mayor cannot burn God’s holy church. As a man of God, you cannot abide that.

  “You must renounce Gripho, Carloman. Demand that the enclave give you the money and men you need to war on your pagan brother. Deal with Theudoald later. Unite us all in this cause and become God’s lightning bolt of fury.”

  “You condemn me to a lifetime of war, Boniface.”

  “Your brother has condemned you. So must you condemn him.”

  “What if it isn’t true?”

  Boniface sighed. “This priest’s story has become the truth. His burns are visible whereas Gripho is not. No one will believe your brother’s story, even if he has one.”

  A bell in the church tower tolled the hour, and a messenger arrived to take them to the enclave. They followed the messenger to a large meeting room located adjacent to the sacristy. Inside, more than a dozen bishops faced them at a table meant for twenty. On the right side of the room near the table sat a portly monsi
gnor and the burnt priest.

  The priest was bandaged across most of his upper body. Both hands and arms were completely covered, as was his torso, save one shoulder, and much of his face. His lower body seemed to have suffered less from his tragedy.

  Carloman searched the faces before him until he found that of the Bishop Auxerre. “Your Eminence,” he said, nodding to Aidolf. Before anyone could speak, Carloman strode to the bandaged priest. The man stood at his approach. Carloman reached out to touch the bandages covering the man’s face. He hesitated, awaiting the man’s permission. With a nod from the priest, he began to unwrap the white linens. When the last wrap fell, the priest stared at Carloman defiantly. His face was an oozing pinkish version of flesh. Gaping sores bled openly. The damage was hideous.

  Carloman reached for the bandages on his arms and then his torso. With each layer, Carloman’s hesitation dissipated. At times, the linen lifted what was left of the skin with it. The priest struggled against the pain to remain erect. At last the man stood naked to the waist. A ghoulish figure, disfigured for life.

  “Who did this to you, Father?” Carloman asked in a whispered voice.

  “It was your brother Gripho.” The tortured figure spat out his words.

  “If I may—” began the rotund monsignor beside him. Carloman cut the man off with a gesture of his hand.

  “How did this happen?” Carloman asked the priest.

  “He attacked me and burned the church. I was inside.”

  “How was he provoked?”

  “Your brother?” The priest winced in pain at the effort to talk. “He threatened me. I complained. He dragged me to the altar and threatened to kill me. He wasn’t provoked.”

  Carloman peered into the man’s eyes. “Did you see him burn the church?”

  “Sir, I must protest—” interrupted the monsignor again.

  “Silence!” Carloman wheeled on the man. Turning back to the priest, he said, “Did you see him burn the church?”

  “Yes. He set fire to the altar.”

  “Why did you not leave?”

  “I tried to save the Eucharist.”