Anvil of God

by J. Boyce Gleason

She went to kiss Pippin. And even before he hugged her, she started to cry. As he began to pull away, she clutched him to her and buried her face in his chest.

  “I never thanked you,” she said.

  “There’s no need.”

  “There is,” she said, looking up at him. “I always imagined that Odilo would find me. I believed that his love,” Trudi rolled her brimming eyes at the word, “would bring him to me, that he would save me. But it was you. You found me. You saved me. It wasn’t his love that stopped Bradius.” She was crying openly. “It was yours.”

  Pippin hugged her again. Several of the men turned away to provide them some privacy. The Bavarian captain’s horse nickered and stepped out of line until the man yanked in his reins to regain his position.

  “Take care of our family,” she said, trying to compose herself. “Save Sunni and Gripho.” With her one free hand, she tried to wipe away her tears. “Stop Carloman, and when you are done, come visit us in Bavaria.” She laughed. “I’ve heard they make good beer.”

  He laughed at her and used his thumbs to wipe away her tears. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked.

  Trudi nodded. To avoid further discussion, she kissed him and turned to mount her horse. Pippin lifted her so she wouldn’t strain her shoulder. She put her left foot in the stirrup and swung her right over the horse’s back. The four Bavarians spurred their mounts forward, and Trudi followed them out onto the southern road. Before they had gone ten paces, Trudi turned to wave to Pippin. But he and his unit were in their saddles heading north. At the last moment before she lost them to a bend in the road, Bertrada turned and blew her a kiss.

  Trudi heard a final “Huh-yah,” and they were gone.

  9

  Laon

  Sunni knew he would come. She was on the wall when he arrived. And while she had seen armies from many different ramparts throughout her life, this was the first army that had come for her. No amount of anticipation could have prepared her for the visceral threat of Carloman’s army. A chill took her when his red banner first appeared on the horizon. It seeped through her skin, descended her spine, and found a home in her extremities. She drew her cloak around her. Carloman had come.

  She sent for Heden. The two of them watched the vast army’s inexorable march across the horizon. It was a parade of manpower, malevolence, and might. Drums led them into the valley. At the front were knights, vassals to Carloman and his commanders, who grouped themselves according to their liege lords. Next came their men of horse, who rode with shields draped over their backs and lances anchored to their right stirrup. Each unit carried its own banner so that across the field men could identify their regiment. Red, green, blue, and gold splashed against the reflecting light of their armor.

  “How beautiful,” Sunni said.

  Legions of men on foot followed those on horse. Organized into perfect squares, ten deep and ten across, the columns funneled onto the plain in pairs, moving across Sunni’s vista from left to right. When she had counted twenty such pairs, the columns halted. As one, they turned to face her. As one, they advanced. One hundred paces later, they came to an abrupt halt, and two new columns of men in perfect squares entered the field behind them. When these had mirrored their predecessors across the plain, they too turned as one. Together, the combined columns advanced another hundred paces. Again they halted, and more squares joined the field. And more. Next to her, Heden groaned.

  “Six thousand,” she said when the full contingent was in the field.

  “Enough,” he said.

  It was noon before they saw the machines.

  “Trebuchets,” Heden said. “I count six.”

  Dragged by teams of mules, the massive one-armed slings towered over the soldiers on foot. Carts carrying rock-throwers—smaller versions of the catapults—and massive stone missiles trailed behind.

  “How will they get them close enough to do any damage?”

  “That’s their challenge,” he said. “If we weren’t so high on this ridge, such machines would reduce our walls to rubble within a week. Drawing them up such a steep incline, however, leaves them vulnerable. They have to get close enough to do us harm.”

  Behind the war machines, a less disciplined procession followed Carloman’s army. Wagonloads of supplies as well as shepherds guiding cows, sheep, pigs, and goats made their way onto the field.

  “Carloman came prepared,” Heden said.

  At the rear straggled what appeared to be an army of civilians. These wandered onto the plain throughout the afternoon and evening, haggard and desperate in their appearance. Several carried crosses. Few were dressed for the journey.

  “Who are they?” Sunni asked.

  Heden shrugged. “It is not unusual for civilians to follow an army, particularly one preparing for siege. Wives, lovers, prostitutes, children, and merchants all follow armies for their own reasons. But this is different. There are too many. There is almost a small city traveling with Carloman.” Heden shook his head. “I don’t understand it.”

  Gripho joined them. Thankfully, thought Sunni, the boy had been more subdued since the burning of the church.

  “That must be the entire army,” Gripho said. He scanned the banners slowly, looking for something in particular. “Where’s Pippin?” he asked.

  “Our reports still have him south of Reims trying to find Trudi,” Heden said. “This is just Carloman.”

  “Maybe Pippin doesn’t support him.”

  “Maybe,” Sunni said. “But that’s not the same as opposing him.” She looked at Heden. “How long has it been since Odilo left?”

  “Only a few days. He’s still a long way from Bavaria.”

  The army filled the plain below them, marching toward the base of the ridge. Sunni shuddered. It was not the sight that chilled her. It was the sound of six thousand boots pounding the ground at the same instant. It was the sound of drums and horses and armor banging and prancing and clanking in unison, marking the army’s progress toward them. It rolled up off the plain to their vantage point high on the ridge. Sunni drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders.

  “Our only hope,” she said, putting her hand on her Gripho’s shoulder, “is to hold out here and wait for the rest of Francia to rebel. If Carloman splits his army, we’ll have an opportunity to defend our claim.”

  Her son shrugged off her hand. “My claim,” he said. Gripho looked first at his mother and then at Heden. “We’ll have the opportunity to defend my claim.”

  Heden scowled and took a step toward the boy. Without taking her eyes from her son, Sunni reached out a hand to soothe her former lover.

  “Of course,” she said, “it’s your claim.”

  Although Heden had halted at the touch of her hand, his weight shifted from foot to foot, and his hand tugged on the ends of his great mustache.

  Far below them, six thousand troops, several hundred mounted cavalry, and all Carloman’s knights on horseback stopped moving at the same instant. The drums stopped. The horses stopped. The clanking of armor stopped. Everything stopped. The plain fell silent. It was an impressive display of discipline. Sunni could not breathe.

  Very near to Carloman’s banner, a new flag was unfurled and placed on a standard. A single knight rode forward carrying it in his stirrup. At an unseen signal, he stood in his saddle and raised the flag above his head. He waved it three times.

  Gripho looked to Heden.

  “Parley,” the Thuringian said. “They want to talk.”

  “I’ll go,” Gripho said.

  Heden grunted.

  “We’ll all go,” Sunni said. “But first there is something I need to do.”

  She strode from the ramparts and took the steps down from the wall. By the time she reached the courtyard, her pace had hurried. In the privacy of her villa, she broke into a sprint. Running up the stairs and through her rooms, she burst onto her private balcony and lifted the pigeon cage marked with blue. Opening its latch, she pulled one bird after another from their tem
porary home and released them into the afternoon sun.

  ***

  Standing in his saddle, Drogo waved the banner again high over his head in a broad sweeping motion.

  “That’s enough, son,” Carloman said behind him, his voice almost conversational, as if they were at home playing in the courtyard.

  Drogo sat down and anchored the banner pole in his right stirrup. He turned his horse back to the line and took his place by his father’s side. “Who do you think will come?” he asked.

  “I think they both will,” Carloman said. “Sunni to negotiate, and Gripho because he, like you,” he smiled at his son, “will be curious.”

  “Do you think they’ll fight us?”

  “Hopefully not. But from the looks of it, they are prepared to.”

  “How do you know?”

  His father pointed to the trenches and defensive fortifications outside the walls. “You wouldn’t put up obstacles like that if you didn’t plan to defend.”

  “Maybe they’ll listen to you.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Or maybe we could just grab them when they come out?”

  Carloman laughed. “That sounds like my father.”

  “Why couldn’t we? Then no one would get killed.”

  “They will come with enough men to conduct an organized retreat,” Carloman said. “It would also be bad form. The parley should never be violated lightly, especially among countrymen.” After a moment’s thought, he added, “And family. You never know when you might need the courtesy yourself.”

  A flag was waving high on the rampart. They both strained to see it over the steep angle made by the ridge.

  “They’re coming,” Drogo said.

  His father nodded.

  Drogo couldn’t help but be excited. He had been waiting so long for his father to treat him as a knight. He couldn’t count as legitimate the battles with Charles at Avignon and Narbonne. He had stayed behind the lines for most of the campaign and had been allowed to fight only when the battle had been decided.

  This time would be different. This time, he was in his father’s retinue. And everyone knew Carloman’s banner was always in the thick of the battle. Drogo shifted in his saddle. He couldn’t get comfortable. His armor didn’t fit quite right. He had grown since the summer, and the plated girdle he wore was too tight. When he shifted his weight, the leather squeaked, and the metal scraped. He caught some of the amused looks from his father’s men. His face flushed red. He’d show them when it counted. His horse shied a step or two. Damn.

  “You might as well get used to waiting, Drogo,” Johann said, sitting protectively close by. “This is a siege. Waiting is part of the strategy.” A few of the men chuckled. Drogo was furious with himself.

  A cavalry contingent made its way down the ridge. For the most part, it followed the winding road down the incline. The horsemen, however, often deviated from the path to descend more rapidly, as if they all knew a secret way down the ridge. Drogo saw Gripho’s purple banner with its hawk next to one he did not recognize.

  “Heden,” his father said, answering the unasked question, “the Thuringian.”

  When the Laon contingent arrived at the base of the hill, they formed a cavalry line one hundred paces from his father’s. Carloman nodded to Drogo, and the two of them rode forward with Johann. Mirroring their movement, three riders separated from the opposing cavalry and closed the distance. Sunni and Gripho accompanied an older man with a long mustache. They stopped just paces from Carloman and Drogo.

  “Hello, Carloman,” Sunni greeted them. Drogo smiled in response. “Welcome to Laon,” she said. “I would invite you up, but,” she looked out at his vast army, “I didn’t anticipate that you’d bring so many extra guests.”

  “Sunni. Gripho.” From Carloman’s tone, the three of them could have been strangers. Carloman looked to the Thuringian. “Heden.” The older man inclined his head in acknowledgment. “A curious time to be in Laon, don’t you think?”

  “I have always been a hopeless romantic,” the Thuringian said.

  “Hopeless is an appropriate word.”

  “Why are you here?” Sunni asked.

  “A priest arrived in Paris. He was horribly disfigured by fire. He claims that Gripho set fire to him and his church. His monsignor backs up the story.”

  “And?” Sunni asked.

  “I’m here to investigate and address this heinous act.”

  “You have no authority here,” Sunni said. “Gripho is mayor, and I am his regent. If there is to be an investigation, it is mine to hold. Not yours.”

  “This was a house of God,” Carloman said, his voice growing louder. “Given your upbringing and the fact that Gripho is your son, I doubt you could grant this matter the gravity it deserves.”

  “You could have sent a messenger,” Sunni said. “Or you could have come alone. You didn’t need to bring an army to get my attention. Why are you really here, Carloman? Why do you need six thousand knights camping outside my door? Certainly they’re not here to ‘investigate.’” Sunni’s voice rose in anger. “This has nothing to do with that pitiful priest. The fire was an accident. This,” she said leaning in, “is about the succession. This is about the division of the kingdom. This is about you and Gripho.”

  “I come on behalf of the Church,” Carloman retorted.

  “You’ve come on behalf of yourself.”

  “He,” Carloman pointed at Gripho, “desecrated the house of God.”

  “He desecrated nothing.”

  “This is about justice,” Carloman shouted.

  “This is about power,” Sunni said.

  “I suggest you get your things together and come with me willingly,” he said.

  “What about Pippin?”

  Carloman stared at her in silence.

  “Does he support you in this? Or are you taking advantage of his absence?”

  “If you don’t come with me peacefully,” Carloman said, “you’ll come by force of arms.” Carloman pulled on his reins and began to turn away. Johann turned with him.

  “Carloman!” Sunni’s shout made him pause. He turned his head. “You are not your father,” she said, holding his stare. Carloman turned his back on his family and rode to rejoin his army.

  Confused, Drogo looked from Gripho and Sunni back to his father.

  “That’s it?” he whispered to Sunni.

  “That’s it, Drogo,” Sunni said. “You should go now with your father.”

  He looked to Gripho. His uncle nodded in agreement.

  Drogo took his banner of truce and turned away from them, joining Johann, who had stayed behind for him. He followed his father toward their cavalry line. A sinking feeling took him, and Drogo wondered whether he would ever see Sunni and Gripho again. He turned in his saddle and looked over his shoulder. Only Sunni remained. Gripho and Heden had started back up the ridge. She sat stoically, her body erect and rigid. But when her eyes caught his, they softened. Sadness filled them until she shook her head as if to banish an unwelcome thought. When she next looked at him, she smiled. It was a loving smile, the one he had known all his life. And she waved to him. It was a small gesture, but in that moment, it was all he could see.

  With a shiver of guilt, Drogo smiled and waved back. He turned and joined his father in line.

  ***

  The next day, Gripho watched from the rampart as a lone archer worked his way up the hill outside the city walls. The man was a fair distance from the gate. Behind him, a long line of soldiers snaked its way up the winding road from the plain below. The archer notched an arrow and let it fly at the wall of the city. It fell short of its mark. He advanced, and the line of soldiers advanced with him. Fifty paces up the hill, he stopped, and the line stopped with him. Again he notched an arrow, again he let it fly, and again it fell short. They continued to advance.

  At last the archer seemed satisfied that his position was as close as he could get to the rampart without being within arrow range. Burying an a
rrow in the side of the hill, he waved at the men behind him and pointed to the arrow as his marker.

  The soldiers advanced to the arrow and split into two lines, one moving east, one moving west, and both moving parallel to the walls. Within little more than an hour, they had encircled the city. They began to dig. Using the steepness of the slope to their advantage, they cut into the side of the hill to form a wall. The dirt was shoveled onto the high side of the bunker, toward the city, and packed into mounds several feet thick.

  Gripho was surprised to find Heden standing next to him. He had been so engrossed in the earthworks that he failed to hear the gray-haired bastard approach.

  “What are they doing?” Gripho asked.

  “Carloman’s building a wall around the city,” Heden said. “The battle ground will lie between. With that wall, he can keep anyone from coming or going.”

  Gripho came back to the wall every day after that, and always Heden was there, watching the earthen wall rise around Laon. Carloman’s army carried planks of wood up the steep hillside to hold the wall into position and to lay stable flooring for the trench that lay behind it. Opposite each of the city’s three gates, Carloman erected a makeshift wooden gate. He built the walls there higher to face the city’s ramparts. Scaffolding had been built up around these, and soldiers were stationed there to stand watch.

  “He can defend his troops from our sorties using those ramparts,” Heden said, pointing to scaffolding being built near the gates. “They will set up rock throwers there to disrupt any attack coming out of our gates. And anyone entering the field between the walls is within range of their archers. Given enough preparation, they could destroy any force we might send outside our walls before we could get into position.”

  Gripho was impressed by how thoroughly his brother Carloman prepared. “What can we do to stop him?” he asked.

  “Attack before they’re ready.” Heden pointed out several platforms being built behind the dirt wall on the far side of the gate. “He will have a hard time getting his catapults close to the walls. That’s why he’s building the ramparts. If we can prevent his catapults from getting too close, Carloman will be in for a long and difficult winter.”