The Abbatial Crosier; or, Bonaik and Septimine. A Tale of a Medieval Abbess

by Eugène Sue

  CHAPTER II.

  CHARLES MARTEL.

  Charles the Hammer, or Martel, had arrived at the convent of St.Saturnine escorted by only about a hundred armed men. He was on the wayto join a detachment of his army that lay encamped at a little distancefrom the abbey. The steward of the palace and one of the officers of thesquad that accompanied him were installed in a room that served as therefectory of Father Clement, while the latter went for the littleprince.

  At this period in the full vigor of his age, Charles Martel exaggeratedin his language and costume the rudeness of his Germanic stock. Hisbeard and hair, which were of a reddish blonde, were kept untrimmed andshaggy, and framed in a face of high color, that bore the imprint ofrare energy coupled with a good nature that was at times both jovial andsly. His keen eyes revealed an intelligence of superior order. Like thelowest of his soldiers, he wore a coat of goat-skin over his tarnishedarmor. His boots, made of heavy leather, were armed with rusty ironspurs. From his leather baldric hung a long sword of Bordeaux, a townrenowned for its manufacture of arms.

  The officer who accompanied Charles Martel seemed to be twenty-fiveyears of age--tall, slender, powerfully built. He wore his brilliantsteel armor with military ease, half-hidden under a long white cloakwith black tufts, after the Arabian fashion. His magnificent scimitar,with both handle and scabbard of solid gold and ornamented witharabesques of coral and diamonds, likewise was of Arabian origin. Theyoung man's face was of rare manly beauty. He had placed his casque upona table. His wavy black hair, divided in the middle of his head, fell inringlets on both sides of his forehead, which was furrowed by a deepscar, and shaded his manly face that bore a slight brown beard. His eyesof the blue of the sea, usually mild and proud, seemed however to reveala secret sorrow or remorse. At times a nervous twitch brought hiseyebrows together, and his features would for a while become somber.Soon, however, thanks to the mobility of his impressions, the ardor ofhis blood, and the impetuosity of his character, his face would againresume its normal expression.

  Charles, who for a while had been silently contemplating his youngcompanion with a kind and sly satisfaction, at last broke the silence,saying in his hoarse voice:

  "Berthoald, how do you like this abbey and the fields that we have justtraversed?"

  "The abbey seems to me large, the fields fertile. Why do you ask?"

  "Because I would like to make you a present to your taste, my lad."

  The young man looked at the Frankish chief with profound astonishment.

  Charles Martel proceeded: "In 732, it is now nearly six years ago, atthe time that those heathens from Arabia, who had settled in Gaul,pushed forward as far as Tours and Blois, I marched against them. Oneday I saw arrive at my camp a young chief followed by fifty daringdevils. It was you, the son, as you told me, of a Frankish seigneur, whowas dead and had been dispossessed of his benefice, like so many others.I cared nothing about your birth. When the blade is well tempered I carelittle about the name of the armorer," Charles explained as he noticed aslight quiver in the eyelashes of Berthoald whose forehead swiftlymantled with a blush and whose eyes dropped in involuntary confusion."You searched your fortune in war and had assembled a band of determinedmen. You came to offer me your sword and your services. The next day, onthe plains of Poitiers, you and your men fought so bravely against theArabs that you lost three-fourths of your little troop. With your ownhands you killed Abd-el-Rhaman, the general of those heathens, and youreceived two wounds in disengaging me from a group of horsemen who wereabout to kill me, and would thereby have ended the war to the lastinginjury of the Franks."

  "It was my duty as a soldier to defend my chief. I deserve no praise forthat."

  "And it is now my duty as your chief to reward your soldierly courage. Ishall never forget that I owe my life to your valor. Neither will mychildren. They will read in some notes I have left on my campaign: 'Atthe battle of Poitiers, Charles owed his life to Berthoald; let mychildren remember it every time they see the scar that the brave warriorcarries on his forehead.'"

  "Charles, your praises embarrass me."

  "I love you sincerely. Since the battle of Poitiers I have looked uponyou as one of my best companions in arms, although at times you are asstubborn as a mule and quite odd in your tastes. If the matter in handis a war in the east or the north against the Frisians or the Saxons, orin the south against the Arabs, there is no more rageful hammerer on theenemies' heads than yourself; but when we had to suppress some revoltsof the Gauls you fought gingerly, almost against your will.... You nolonger were the same daring champion.... Your sword did not leave itsscabbard."

  "Charles, tastes differ," answered Berthoald laughing with so obvious aneffort that it betrayed some poignant recollection. "In matters ofbattle it is as in matters of women, tastes differ. Some like blondes,others brunettes; they are all fire for the one, and all ice for theother. And so my preference is for war against the Frisians, Saxons andArabs."

  "I have no such predilections. As true as I have been surnamed Martel,so long as I can strike and crush what stands in my way, all enemies areequally to my taste.... I believed that those Arabian dogs who had beenso roughly hammered would recross the Pyrenees in a hurry after theirrout at Poitiers. I was mistaken. They still hold their ground firmly inLanguedoc. Despite the success of our last battle we have not been ableto seize Narbonne, the place of refuge of those heathens. I am nowcalled back to the north of Gaul to resist the Saxons who are returningwith more threatening forces. I regret to have to leave Narbonne in thehands of the Saracens. But we have at least ravaged the neighborhood ofthat large town, made an immense booty, carried away a large number ofslaves, and devastated in our retreat the countries of Nimes, ofToulouse and of Beziers. It will be a good lesson for the populationswho took the side of the Arabs. They will long remember what is to begained by leaving the Gospels for the Koran, or rather, because, afterall, I care as little for the Pope as I do for Mahomet, what is to begained by an alliance with the Arabs against the Franks. For the rest,although they remain masters of Narbonne, these pagans worry me little.Travelers from Spain have informed me that civil war has broken outbetween the Caliphs of Granada and of Cordova. Busy with their owninternal strifes, they will not send fresh troops into Gaul, and theaccursed Saracens will not dare to advance beyond Languedoc, whence Ishall drive them away later. At rest about the south, I now returnnorth. But before doing so I wish to provide, to their own taste andmine, for a large number of soldiers, who, like yourself, have servedme valiantly, and turn them into fat abbots, rich bishops or other largebeneficiaries."

  "Charles, would you make out of me an abbot or a bishop? You are surelyjoking."

  "Why not? It is the abbey and the bishopric that make the abbot and thebishop, whoever be the incumbent."

  "Please explain yourself more clearly."

  "I have been able to sustain my great wars in the north and south onlyby constantly recruiting my forces from the German tribes on the otherside of the Rhine. The descendants of the seigneurs who were thebeneficiaries of Clovis and his sons have degenerated. They have becomedo-nothings like their kings. They seek to escape their obligations ofleading their columns to war, under the pretext that they need hands tocultivate the soil. Apart from a few fighting bishops, old men with thedevil in them, who changed the casque for the mitre, and who, redonningtheir cuirasses brought their men to my camp, the Church has not wishedand does not wish to contribute to the expenses of the war. Now, uponthe word of Martel, that will not do! My brave warriors, fresh fromGermany, the chiefs of the bands that have served me faithfully, have aright to a share of the lands of Gaul. They have more right thereto thanthe rapacious bishops and the debauched abbots who keep harems like theCaliphs of the Arabs. I want to restore order in the matter; to rewardthe brave and to punish the cowards and do-nothings. I propose todistribute a part of the goods of the Church among my men who haverecently arrived from Germany. I shall in that manner provide for mychiefs and their men, and instead of leaving so muc
h land and so manyslaves in the hands of the tonsured brothers, I shall form a strongreserve army of veterans, ever ready to take the field at the firstsignal. And to begin, I present this abbey to you, its lands, buildings,slaves, with no other charge upon you than to contribute a certain suminto my treasury and to turn out with your men at my first call."

  "I a count of this country! I the possessor of such broad estates!" theyoung chief cried with joy, hardly believing so magnificent a giftpossible. "But the goods of this abbey are immense! Its lands andforests extend more than two leagues in a circle!"

  "So much the better, my lad! You and your men will settle down here.Handsome female slaves are sure to abound on the place. You will raise agood breed of soldiers. Moreover this abbey is bound, due to itssituation, to become an important military post. I shall grant to theabbot of this convent some more land ... if any is left. And that is notall, Berthoald; I entertain as much affection for [you] as I placeconfidence in you. I make the gift to you out of affection; now, as tomy confidence. I shall give you a strong proof of it by establishing youhere and charging you with so important a duty ... that, in the end, itwill be I who remain your debtor...."

  "Why do you halt, Charles?" asked Berthoald noticing the chief of theFranks reflect instead of continuing.

  After a few seconds of silence, Charles resumed: "During the century anda half and more that we have reigned in fact, we the stewards of thepalace ... of what earthly use have the kings been, the descendants ofClovis?"

  "Have I not heard you say a hundred times that those do-nothings spendtheir time drinking, eating, playing, hunting, sleeping in the arms oftheir concubines, going to church and building churches in atonement forsome crime committed in the fury of their drunkenness?"

  "Such has been the life of those 'do-nothing' kings--well named such. Wethe stewards of the palace govern in fact. At every assembly of theField of May, we pulled one of our royal mannikins out of his residenceof Compiegne, of Kersey-on-the-Oise, or of Braine. We had him set up ina gilded chariot drawn by four oxen according to the old Germaniccustom, and, with a crown upon his head, a scepter in his hand, purpleon his back, his face ornamented with a long artificial beard, if he hadno beard, so as to impart to him a certain degree of majesty, the imagewas promenaded around the Field of May, and received the pledge ofhomage from the dukes, counts and bishops, gathered at the assembly fromall parts of Gaul.... The comedy over, the idol was thrust back into itsbox until the next year. But what useful purpose can these mummeriesserve? He only should be king who governs and fights. Consequently, as Ihave no taste for what is superfluous, I have suppressed the royalty....I confiscated the King."

  "You deserve to be praised for that, Charles; the Frankish kingsdescended from Clovis, have inspired me with hatred and contempt--"

  "But whence the hate?"

  Berthoald blushed and puckered up his brows: "I have always hatedidleness and cruelty."

  "The last one of these kings, Thierry IV, dead now eighteen months, lefta son behind ... a child of about nine years.... I had him deported tothis abbey--"

  "What do you purpose to do with him?"

  "To keep him.... We Franks are fickle folks. For a century and a half wefell into the habit of despising the kings that one time weworshipped.... Accordingly, when the first Field of May took placewithout the royal mummery, not one of the dukes and bishops missed theidol that was absent from the feast. This year, however, some did askwhere was the king; and others answered: 'What is the use of the king?'It may, nevertheless, happen that one of these days they may demand tosee the royal mannikin make the tour of the Field of May according tothe old custom.... I do not care, provided I reign. Accordingly, I keepin reserve for them the child that is here. With the aid of a falsebeard on his chin and a crown on his head, the little monkey will playhis role in the chariot neither better nor worse than so many otherkings of twelve or fifteen years who preceded him. In case of need, nextyear he will be Childeric III, if I think it advisable."

  "Kings of twelve!... How low can royalty fall!... How low thedegradation of the people!"

  "The stewardship of the palace, a post that became hereditary, came verynear dropping to the same level.... Did I not have a brother of elevenwho was the steward of the palace to a king of ten?"

  "You joke, Charles!"

  "No, indeed, I do not, because those days were far from pleasant forme.... My step-mother, Plectrude, had me cast into prison after thedeath of my father Pepin of Heristal.... According to the dame, I wasonly a bastard, good either for the gibbet or the priest's frock, whilemy father left to my brother Theobald the post of steward of the palace;hereditary in our family.... And so it happened that my brother, thenonly eleven, became the steward of the palace of the then king, who wasonly ten, and who became the grandfather of this little Childeric, whois a prisoner in this convent. That king and steward could exercise norivalry over each other except at tops or huckle-bones. Thus the gooddame Plectrude expected to rule in the place of the two urchins, whilethey would be at play. Such audacity and folly aroused the Frankishseigneurs. At the end of a few years Plectrude was driven away with herson, while I, Charles, for whom she had only bad names, came out ofprison, and now became steward of the palace of Dagobert III. Since thenI have made so much noise in the world, hammering here and yonder uponthe heads of Saxons, Frisians and Saracens, that the name of Martel hasstuck to me. Dagobert III left a son, Thierry IV, who died eighteenmonths ago, and he was the father of little Childeric, the prisoner ofthis place. While having to cross the region, I wished to pay a visit tothe royal brat and learn how he stood his captivity. I said I had atoken of confidence to give.... I confide to you the keeping of thatchild, the last scion of the stock of Clovis, of the Merovingianconquerors of Gaul."

  "I shall keep this last scion of Clovis?" cried Berthoald, at firststupefied, but immediately thrilled with savage joy. "I shall keep him?The boy who has among his ancestors a Clotaire, the murderer ofchildren! a Chilperic, the Nero of the Gauls! a Fredegonde, a secondMessalina! a Clotaire II, the executioner of Brunhild, and so many othercrowned monsters! Shall I be the jailor of their last issue?... The fateof man is often strange.... I to be the guardian of the last descendantof that conqueror of Gaul so much abhorred by my fathers!... Oh, thegods are just!"

  "Berthoald, are you going crazy? What is there so astonishing in yourbecoming the watcher of this child?"

  "Excuse me, Charles," answered Berthoald recollecting and fearing tobetray himself. "I was greatly struck with the thought that I, anobscure soldier, should watch and hold as a prisoner the last scion ofso many kings! Is it not a strange fate?"

  "Indeed this stock of Clovis, once so valiant, ends miserably!... Buthow else could it be! These kinglets--fathers before fifteen, decayed atthirty, brutified by wine, dulled by idleness, unnerved by youthfuldebauchery, emaciated, stunted, and stupid--could not choose but endthis-wise.... The stewards of the palace, on the contrary--rough men,always on the march from north to south, from east to west, and backagain, always on horseback, always fighting, always governing--they runout into a Charles, and he is not frail, he is not stunted! Not he! Hisbeard is not artificial; he will be able to raise a breed of truekings.... Upon the word of Martel, this second breed of kings will notallow themselves to be exhibited in carts neither before nor after theassemblies of the Field of May by any stewards of palaces!"

  "Who can tell, Charles! It may happen that if you raise a breed ofkings, their stock will run down just as that of Clovis has done, whoselast scion you wish to put under my charge."

  "By the devil! By the navel of the Pope! Do you see any sign of decay inus, the sons of Pepin of Old, who have been the hereditary stewards ofthe palace since the reign of Queen Brunhild?"

  "You were not kings, Charles; and royalty carries with it a poison thatin the long run enervates and kills the most virile stock--"

  At this moment Father Clement came tumbling into the room in greatexcitement, and broke the thread of the conversation bet
ween CharlesMartel and Berthoald.