Anvil of God

by J. Boyce Gleason

  The soldiers conferred in the middle of the road. One, who appeared to be the leader, seemed to disagree with the other two. The soldier nearest to her pointed to the ground repeatedly. The leader shook his head and pointed north. The argument lasted only a few moments until the leader insisted. The three rode north.

  It took her several moments before she could breathe again normally. She would have to leave the road. She didn’t have a choice. If she headed north, she would be caught. If she backtracked, she would ride right into their patrols. She groaned and held her head in her hands. An image of soldiers beating their shields to force a boar into a gauntlet of spears thrust into her mind. She had to find another route.

  To appease the pounding in her head, she allowed herself a short nap and then regained the road. If she followed the patrol she saw heading north, she would avoid scrutiny for a short time, unless one of them backtracked. She held the horse to a trot. It was not long before the road turned slightly east, and the landscape began to change from woodland to farmland.

  She drew up her horse. Since daylight, the forest had hidden her passage. Out in open landscape, she could be seen from a great distance. She would have nowhere to hide. She scanned the horizon. To her relief, no soldiers were in view. The road to the north stretched over a rolling hillside of farms and vineyards. To the east were more mountains.

  Her horse pranced, wondering why they had stopped. She looked at the mountains curiously. If the north and south were closed to her, that left only east. This time of year, the mountains might be covered with snow. Even where there were roads, it would be difficult to travel. But she was sure there was a route to Wissembourg. From there, she would have to find her way down into the valley of the Rhine. At least I’ll have a chance, she thought.

  Without further hesitation, she turned off the road and headed east. Two days of uphill riding, cold weather, and poor rations brought her to a mountain perch. Looking out over the horizon, she could only see the road to her past, west to Metz, across the Moselle, down the road to Reims, then north to Laon and Quierzy. The road to her future was just beyond her sightline, down into the valley and across the Rhine, through the Black Forest to Canstatt, across the valley and over the mountains into Bavaria. At Donauwörth, she’d head south along the Wormitt River to the Danube. From there, Regensburg was just a long casual stroll downriver.

  I can’t go back, she thought. But do I really want to go forward?

  11

  Trial

  When the attack came, they were ready. Despite his hatred for the Thuringian, Gripho had to admit the man knew how to prepare for this. The trenches and barricades that Heden had ordered built outside the walls proved to be critical to their defense. And the mobility he had drilled into their archers became a central asset.

  Not that Heden would receive any credit for his preparations. That was always given to the captain in the field. And with Heden still in bed, recovering from his injuries, Gripho knew the day’s honor would fall to him. He would finally have a chance to show Carloman what he was worth.

  His half-brother’s soldiers had streamed through their makeshift gate at dawn. They came by the hundreds, heading for the city walls, led by teams of men carrying ladders. Roughly three times the size of a man, the ladders were made of thick sapling trunks lashed together by cord. It took eight men to carry one. Foot soldiers with shields covered their approach to the wall.

  Gripho ordered the archers to launch, and dozens of soldiers fell in the field, but the ladders continued forward. As their carriers reached the defensive impediments, they bunched up, waiting for those before them to clear before climbing down into and over Heden’s earthworks. Again Gripho’s archers took their toll. Down on the field, the soldiers tried to use the ladders to span the trenches and climb the barricades. Some used corpses as human stairs to climb. Neither method was very effective. The steepness of the incline and the awkwardness of the barricades made them an easy target for the archers and, as they drew closer, the rock-throwers.

  Massive slingshots capable of heaving huge stones across the battlefield, the rock throwers were a favorite of Heden. He had drilled the men on targeting the trenches, and the practice was paying off. Boulders hurtled over the wall into the trenches, making them into a killing ground where far fewer soldiers made their way out than had gone in.

  But Carloman had numbers in his favor. Once past the trenches and barricades, his men regrouped and lifted their ladders once more. Gripho waited for them at the rampart.

  “Hold,” he cautioned his men. “Let them climb.”

  At the wall, the Franks lifted their ladders from the back until they stood upright. In a desperate arc, they closed on the wall while hands and feet on the ground secured them. The bravest clawed their way skyward, knives in their mouths, to meet almost-assured death.

  And death Gripho gave them. “Now!” he called. Buckets of burning pitch poured over the wall. Those highest on the ladders caught the worst of it. They fell earthward screaming, their bodies aflame. Many took those on the ladder below with them. Those on the ground dispersed under the threat of the falling pitch. Gripho and his men pushed the ladders off the wall.

  More were raised. More pitch was thrown. This time, however, when Gripho ordered his men forward, a swarm of arrows flew up at them. Carloman had sent archers into the field to harry from below. Gripho redirected his own archers toward those on the ground.

  Hands clamored over the walls, and then a face. Gripho hurled himself forward, using his sword to skewer the man in the eye. The attacker fell away, taking the ladder with him. Gripho searched the catwalk around him. A pike would be more useful than his sword. He spied one in the hands of a corpse and seized it. Holding it aloft, he shouted to those who manned the wall.

  “Keep them off the wall. Keep them off the wall!”

  More hands and more faces found the ramparts. Gripho wielded both ends of the pike, skewering those who made it above the wall with its spear and smashing hands and legs with its butt. More came. And more. Gripho and his men hammered them back.

  Eventually, the Franks found their way onto a section of the rampart. A great roar rose from below. A wedge had formed where they held the wall. Without harassment from above, their ladders had easy access. More Franks streamed onto the rampart behind them. They were pushing Gripho’s men back on both sides of the wall.

  Desperately, Gripho tried to rally his men. He ordered a charge, and several of his men threw themselves down the catwalk at the Franks. They weren’t enough. He screamed for more. Pulling soldiers up onto the catwalk, he shoved them toward the fighting. How did they gain such a foothold? It had happened so fast.

  The numbers in the Frankish wedge were growing. Damn them. Gripho stood on the catwalk screaming to the soldiers below. “To the wall! To the wall!” He watched as several of his men were thrown over the rampart. He realized that he might not win. Panic began to take him.

  A flurry on the opposite wall drew his attention. Heden was there, rallying the men to attack the far side of the Franks. He had set up a short defensive shield wall, much as he had the day before to withstand the Frankish surge. Heden called for archers, and at his command, arrows poured into the Frankish wedge. He ordered one of the smaller rock-throwing catapults turned toward the Franks and used it to hurl buckets of burning pitch into their ranks. The catwalk beneath the Franks caught fire. Soon, many of them were in flames. With the wedge in disarray, Heden ordered a charge. A concentrated force began to push the Franks back on themselves.

  Mirroring his attack, Gripho and his men pushed forward. Forsaking his pike, Gripho drew dagger and sword. He stabbed and poked into the main body of the enemy. The space was narrow, the fighting close. A knife cut him in the arm. Then another. He shoved a man off the rampart but didn’t stop to see him land. He started screaming. Rage took him as he waded into the Franks. He pushed more off the catwalk. He stabbed and slashed and cut and shoved. He was at the ladder. With a violent push, h
e launched it into the air.

  Heden was with him, screaming for pitch. They poured buckets over the wall along with rocks and boards. Heden called for sand to put out the fire on the catwalk. He ordered men to repair those planks too weak to hold weight.

  “They’re coming again.” Heden’s right side was covered in blood.

  “I didn’t need your help,” Gripho said. “You don’t need to rescue me.”

  “Never thought to try. I just like killing Franks.”

  Despite his anger, Gripho smiled at the old man. “You might want to take care of that.” He pointed to Heden’s wound.

  “I will. I just want to see what’s next.”

  The new attack had a dual focus. More ladders streamed through the gates, behind them a battering ram.

  “Take the turrets and the gate!” Heden shouted. “I’ll take the walls.” He turned and sprinted down the catwalk to cluster the archers.

  Gripho ran to the gate.

  A battering ram—as wide as a man and as long as four—rolled toward the gate. Ten soldiers, protected by a roof of sand, bent themselves against poles protruding from its sides. The heavy beast made their progress slow. A line of foot soldiers marched behind them with shields held high.

  To allow the city’s cavalry to sortie, Heden had erected no impediments or barricades in front of the gate, so nothing stood in their way. Gripho’s only advantage was his turrets. He let the ram reach the midpoint between the two turrets and then unleashed his rock-throwers.

  Many of the missiles bounced harmlessly off the roof of sand. Many never cleared the wall. Several, however, slammed into the men pushing the ram, ripping arms from shoulders and legs from hips. Foot soldiers stepped forward to replace their broken brethren, and the beast rolled forward.

  Gripho kept up the barrage. More men felt the sting of arrows and the bite of rocks. More men fell. As the ram neared the gate, Gripho called for archers, and flaming arrows descended but were extinguished in the sand. He called for burning pitch, and finally it began to burn. The men pushing it forward, however, were untouched by the blaze and remained intent on their task. The archers and rock-throwers aimed at their legs but couldn’t stop it from coming.

  The crash resonated through the city walls. Wood and iron on wood and iron, the blow rumbled deep in the stone and made the gates groan under the strain. Gripho felt the blow deep in his stomach. The force of it unnerved him. He fought to keep down his fear as the Franks rolled the ram back and smashed into the gate again.

  More ladders scaled the walls. Heden scurried among them, harassing them with pike and sword. No one had breached the ramparts. Hundreds of arrows fell, overwhelming the wall with dead and wounded. Outside the wall, black acrid smoke rose up off the pitch-covered corpses to darken the walls.

  More ladders came, more men. They fought them off. The ram pounded into the gate, its fire darkening the stout wood. Several times, Gripho and his men harried it to a stop, only to have new hands take up the ram to renew its charge. Cheers, on one side of the field or the other, met every attack and repulse. But through the course of the day, the cheers grew weak. Runners brought more arrows and pitch and rocks to the walls. Again and again, they poured death onto their attackers. Late in the day, a horn sounded from behind Carloman’s wall, and the attack subsided.

  Gripho ordered more rocks thrown at the retreating enemy, but they were of little use. A small cheer rose from the rampart. Gripho was too tired to join in. Up on the far rampart, a lone figure climbed onto the wall and stood fully exposed to the enemy. It was Heden. His body framed against the setting sun, he screamed his battle cry. His mustache and his hair flew back in the wind, and he beat his chest while he raged.

  “Thuringia! Thuringia!”

  A cry arose from the wall to match his. More voices joined in.

  “Thuringia! Thuringia!”

  The battle cry spread until pikes and swords and bows were raised above the wall. Swords banged shields, and hundreds of voices shouted into the dusk. Euphoria spread with the cry. Men rejoiced that they had defeated such a mighty foe, even if only for one day. They rejoiced that they were alive.

  Gripho found himself laughing. He, too, climbed the wall and raged at his enemy. The cry cleansed him from the day. They had beaten Carloman.

  Later, after they had counted their dead and tended to their wounded, Gripho met Heden in the infirmary. “I told you I didn’t need your help,” Gripho said, smiling.

  “It was a good day, wasn’t it?” Heden clapped the boy’s shoulder.

  “We took the best they had and shoved it down their throats.”

  Heden laughed. “We did at the wall, anyway.”

  Perplexed, Gripho waited for the explanation.

  “I’m afraid that was just a diversion,” the older man explained. “While we were fighting, Carloman brought up the remaining trebuchets. I won’t be surprised if tomorrow they begin the bombardment.”

  Gripho was stunned. He wasn’t ready to think about that so soon. “Still, it was a good day, wasn’t it?”

  “A great day.”

  Gripho pointed at the older man’s side and said, “You took a second wound. You should get someone to look at that.”

  Heden smiled as he turned to go. “I’m hoping someone will tend to it back in my room.”

  ***

  Boniface stood by the bedside performing the last rites. He anointed the forehead, the lips, the eyes and ears with chrism, each time making the sign of the cross. The body of the once and would-be mayor of Neustria contorted grotesquely in a prolonged spasm of pain. His back arched, nearly lifting him off the bed. The muscles of his face twisted his jaw profoundly, giving him the appearance of an emaciated ghoul.

  “Aaaaaannnh,” Theudoald gasped, his eyes wild and desperate. “Aaaananaahhn!”

  Boniface continued his prayers in Latin, again making the sign of the cross.

  A servant appeared at the bishop’s elbow, waiting for him to finish. Boniface continued his prayers but raised his eyebrows, inviting the young man to speak.

  “Bishop Aidolf of Auxerre,” the servant whispered.

  Without breaking his cadence or omitting a word, Boniface nodded, and one moment later, the Bishop of Auxerre stood by his side. Without hesitation, Aidolf picked up the Latin prayer and joined in the ceremony with Boniface. As the prayer drew to completion, they made the sign of the cross. “… per Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen,” they intoned.

  “Unnnnhuh!” Theudoald groaned, spittle dribbling from his mouth. Boniface took his handkerchief and wiped the mouth dry.

  “Poison?”

  Boniface nodded.

  “And you have no idea who could have done it.”

  “The obvious choice would be Carloman. But he is away at Laon.”

  “He could have ordered it done. That Johann is enough of a bastard.”

  “He could have,” Boniface agreed. “But Carloman is as devout a man as I have known. Would he forsake the kingdom of heaven so lightly?”

  “He’s Charles’s son.”

  Boniface shook his head. “When it comes to his faith, he is as much my son as he was Charles’s.”

  “Pippin then.”

  “More likely than Carloman. But Pippin left before Charles died.”

  “Was Theudoald able to speak at all?”

  “The convulsions are too strong … it is a violent death.”

  “Did you question the staff?”

  “Of course, but he had many visitors, as you can imagine a potential mayor would have.”

  “Anything else?”

  They paused while Theudoald convulsed, hands lashing out wildly.

  “If you would help me hold him down.” The two struggled against the man’s wild thrashing, and Boniface rolled him to the left, away from them. With some effort, he pulled Theudoald’s nightshirt up to expose two sets of parallel scratch marks running down the sides of his back. They were not quite fresh, nor were they healed.

  “A woman?
”

  “One would assume.” Boniface rolled the man back onto his back. “The servants said he had spent the evening with the Lady Hélène.”

  “Hélène? Are you suggesting she poisoned him?”

  “It’s certainly a possibility. She is close to Carloman’s wife, and there were rumors about Charles.”

  “Carloman is not that subtle,” Aidolf said. “Did you question her?”

  “Yes. Although distraught, she was very cooperative. She readily admitted to sleeping with him and was appropriately embarrassed, especially about the marks on his back, but she didn’t seem to be hiding anything. If she’s lying, she’s very good at it.”

  “Still,” Aidolf mused, “she has a direct connection to Carloman. Someone should keep an eye on her.”

  “I’ve had her followed since yesterday.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing you would not expect from a lady of the court.”

  Aidolf grunted. “It’s not enough to cast doubt on him.”

  Boniface nodded in agreement.

  “Aaannnnth,” Theudoald groaned, his eyes bulging out of their sockets. His back arched, again lifting him off the bed. The two bishops moved to restrain him. “Arrrggg,” he cried out, beginning to convulse once more. His eyes rolled up into his head, and his teeth gnashed down on his tongue, biting through it. Blood flowed from his mouth, staining the sheets on both sides of his head as it whipped back and forth. Again his back arched, and again he cried out.

  His eyes locked on Boniface, begging silently for release. Then something in them shifted. They turned upward, startled, as if he looked upon some other place and time. Suddenly, his tension left him. Groaning with relief, he collapsed back into the folds of his bedding. When his eyes returned to the two bishops, they had a sad but knowing expression. His chest heaved, and in one last great exhale, he expired. In the habit of the newly departed, his bowels released. Its stench filled the room.