Wheel of the Fates
Book II of the Carolingian Chronicles
J. Boyce Gleason
Yet a Little While Publishing
Copyright © 2021 J. Boyce Gleason
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system without the express written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and articles
Certain characters in this novel are historical figures and many events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names and events as well as incidents and dialogue are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
ISBN: 978-0-578-88078-5 (sc)
ISBN: 978-0-578-88079-2 (e)
To my mom, Janet Gleason who has been an inspiration and a force for good in my life. Her love and devotion to our family runs deep and the older I get, the more impressed I am with her intellect, her drive, her compassion and work ethic. She has been an enormous influence on all her children's lives - every bit as powerful as my dad, who was the greatest role model a human being could have. To my sons, Brendan, Brian, and Brady, who make me proud every day of their lives and have kept my life interesting (to say the least). To their wives, Rachael, Ali, and Colleen, all brilliant women, who keep their homes and mine full of love and laughter; and to each of my granddaughters who fill my life with great joy.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Books In This Series
Acknowledgements
Many people helped make this book possible: the editors at Writer’s Ally who helped me organize Wheel’s chapters into a coherent structure; my two dozen beta readers who (sometimes brutally) let me know what they thought of my novel; and the scores of readers who have queried me wondering when “Book II” would be published. None of this would be possible without the endless patience and support of my wife Mary Margaret. My debt to her is unfathomable.
People of the Realm
Royalty
Childeric (heir to the throne, son of King Chilperic III)
The Church
Pope Zachary (His Holiness the Pope)
Bishop Boniface (counselor to Charles Martel, Legate to the Holy See)
Bishop Sergius (Legate to the Holy See)
Bishop Aidolf of Auxerres
Regional Nobility
Alemannia Theudebald (son of Godefred)
Scales (a commoner)
Austrasia Charles Martel, mayor of the palace (dec.741)
Childebrand (stepbrother to Charles Martel)
Carloman, mayor of the palace (son of Charles Martel & Chlotrude)
Pippin III (Pippin the Short), mayor of the palace (son of Charles Martel & Chlotrude)
Hiltrude (daughter of Charles Martel & Chlotrude)
Gripho (son of Charles Martel & Sunnichild-imprisoned 741)
Theodoald, mayor of the palace (deceased 741, murdered son of Pippin II)
Hamar (a knight loyal to Carloman)
Gunther (a knight loyal to Pippin)
Arnot (a knight loyal to Pippin)
Aquitaine
Duc Hunoald
Waifar (son of Hunoald)
Compte de Loches
Comptesse de Loches (Catherine)
Compte de Vieux-Poitiers
Bavaria
Duc Odilo (son of Godefred)
Sunnichild (second wife of Charles Martel – sent to Abby at Chelles 741)
Kovrat (an Avar General, allied with Odilo)
Hans (son of Eta)
Eta (a commoner)
Hesse
Hodar (a local chieftain)
Rasling (a local chieftain)
Ucher (a local chieftain)
Einbeck (a local chieftain)
Immelt (a local chieftain)
Neustria
Bertrada (daughter of the Compte de Laon)
Aude (daughter of the Compte de Laon)
Compte de Laon (Charibert)
Lord Ragomfred the Younger
Lady Ragomfred (Miette)
Lady Hervet
Lady Dricot
Lady Trinon
Duc & Duchesse de Tricot
Lady Hélène
Agnès (a commoner)
Salau (a knight loyal to Childeric)
Lombardy
King Liutbrand
Prince Aistulf (King Liutbrand’s son)
* * *
Chapter One
Laon, 742 A.D.
Pippin stood at the rampart, broadsword across his back, scowling at the sun as it fell toward the horizon. Although not a tall man, he was an imposing figure with the shoulders of a blacksmith and the casual grace of a swordsman. Those passing gave him a wide berth and some even chose a different path. The people of Laon had had enough of warriors. And from the looks Pippin received, they blamed him as much as Carloman for their plight.
Although Pippin's brother had never taken the city, Carloman had breached the walls and killed nearly a third of its defenders to arrest their half-brother, Gripho. The hectare-sized burial mound on the south plain was a stark testament to the cost of the siege.
Inside the city the devastation was no less evident. Scores of newly widowed women filled the main plaza, selling their household goods in a vain attempt to sustain what was left of their families. From the din of their pleading, their need was palpable.
He should have left weeks earlier but had refused to go without Bertrada. She had broken their courtship over the siege, stating she wanted nothing further to do with the brutality of his family. She had hidden in her father’s house and refused all of Pippin’s entreaties. And while Pippin had made it clear that he wouldn’t leave without her, he was running out of time. His knights were assembling for the spring campaign. He would have to leave for Paris in the morning.
The standoff was taking a heavy toll on him. He had taken to drink and couldn’t remember the last time he had slept through the night or eaten a decent meal.
Tonight, would change everything, Pippin pr
omised himself. He even had bathed and donned fresh clothes. When he looked down over the rampart at the burial mound below, however, his confidence faltered. Why did you have to hang that boy, Carloman?
Something caught the corner of his eye, triggering his senses to high alert. His eyes searched the entryways on the street and checked the windows, the rooftops and alleyways. Keeping his stride casual, he changed vantage points and searched again, but failed to identify the source of the movement.
His nostrils flared and his skin prickled in the cold wind. His hand moved to the dagger at his belt. Where was the threat? His sense of jeopardy stabbed at him like sunlight off an enemy’s shield.
You’re stalling, he scolded himself. The day was ending; it was time. With a grim determination he began his trek through the city while a familiar litany gnawed at the corners of his mind. He tried to ignore it, tried to keep it buried and hidden from sight, but it rose, nonetheless, to assert itself. What if I am not worthy?
As he drew near Bertrada’s home, his pace began to slow. And then, he stopped moving altogether. He had known knights in battle like this, too wounded to continue fighting and yet too proud to retreat. They turned to face their opponents as if the sheer force of their will could sustain them. It never did.
He turned into the forecourt of the Bertrada’s villa and whispered a short prayer that this night would be different.
The Compte’s servant, a portly old man, ushered Pippin into the courtyard before the villa’s main door. Pippin tried to appear confident while he waited. His back was to the door when it opened. His stomach clenched at the sound. Slowly, he straightened, took a deep breath, and turned.
Bertrada stood in the courtyard, the last rays of sunlight illuminating her face and blond hair. She was dressed in a simple white robe and clutching a blue shawl to ward off the cold.
“Pippin–”
Relief surged in him as he took her in his arms, wrapping himself around her, clinging to her like a drowning man. “Oh God, Bertie. I thought I’d never see you again. I’ve been so lost–”
It took him a moment to realize that Bertrada stood with her arms at her sides, as if waiting for him to finish. Despair flooded through him, and he let her go.
“Bertie, I–”
“Shhh.” She held her fingertips to his lips. “Please let me speak.”
Bertrada bowed her head forward until it rested against his chest. She was so close he could feel the warmth of her body through his clothes.
“I will always love you, Pippin. From the day I met you I have never looked back. Do you remember the first time I kissed you?”
She looked up at him. He nodded, too afraid to speak.
“You were so surprised! A son of the great Charles Martel, you had fought dozens of battles and led armies to conquer the kingdom, but you could barely bring yourself to look me in the eye. You didn’t have even the courage to take my hand.”
She gave him a wry smile. “I kissed you, because if I hadn’t you would have taken another month to formally court me.”
Even in his anguish, Pippin smiled at the memory. It had been the best day of his life. He had been so surprised by her boldness. He still remembered marveling at the softness of her lips and the thrill that suffused his entire being.
Bertrada’s hand traced the line of his jaw. “God knows I love you, Pippin. But I cannot stay with you.”
Pippin tried to speak but the look she gave him brooked no interruption.
“When Carloman hung that boy, it – it changed me.” She shuddered. “I finally understood how much blood was on your family’s hands. Your father didn’t just rule all the tribes for the Merovingian kings; he conquered them. He butchered thousands and you were right there with him.”
“That boy was no innocent.” Pippin objected.
“How old was he? Ten? Twelve? He was playing soldier. Had he been anyone else he would have lived. But Petr was the son of the opposing general. Carloman killed the son to break the father.”
“I didn’t hang him, Bertrada. I tried to stop the siege!”
“That doesn’t absolve you of your sins. I’ve heard the soldiers boast of you. I’ve listened to the stories. They say on a battlefield you’re a better warrior than Charles, better than Carloman. They say you’re violence incarnate.”
“Ah, Bertie!” Pippin threw up his hands, his frustration getting the better of him. “The nobles have been at war for hundreds of years! I didn’t start this. But, Charles, Carloman and I have brought an end to most of it. We brought order and rule to a world in chaos since the time of Clovis. The Merovingian Kings didn’t do that. We did it, in their name. I won’t apologize for being good at what needs to be done.”
Pippin’s voice sounded loutish even to him, but it was the fury in her eyes that silenced him.
Bertrada’s voice dropped to a whisper, each sentence a death knell. “Justify it however you want. I can’t be part of that. I can’t live my life like that. I won’t marry you Pippin. I won’t have your children. I won’t live with the potential of seeing them hung by one of your rivals. I want a simpler life. Now that Charles is dead, you and Carloman can be mayors and carve up the kingdom, but I won’t be there to wash your wounds when you get home.”
Her voice caught in her throat; she was crying, “Good-bye, Pippin. Please know that I do love you.” She kissed him on the cheek and turned away.
Before she reached the door, it opened, and her father stood in the doorway. He watched Bertrada escape inside before turning back to Pippin.
“I’m sorry, son.”
Pippin opened his mouth to speak but his face began to falter as the full weight of her words fell upon him. He tried to compose himself, but there was nothing more to say. She was gone. He nodded his acceptance and gave himself to the darkness rising within him.
“She’s just so shaken,” the Compte began, but Pippin’s hand rose to halt the explanation. Unable to speak he bowed to excuse himself. As he walked away, he heard the door close behind him.
✽✽✽
Pippin found himself sitting on an overturned barrel, the kind used to store arrows and rocks during battle. His back was to the rampart and his sword across his lap. He wasn’t sure how long he had been there, only that his will to live was draining from him like blood from an open wound.
He had expected to feel something more - sadness or pain, rage or sorrow - something equal to the loss of a love so great. Instead, all he felt was shame.
In the space of a month, everything he loved had been taken from him and there was nothing he could have done to stop it.
First, Charles had died. While his death had shocked the kingdom, it had ruined Pippin. His father had been the lodestone of his life. And now he was gone. Making matters worse, Charles had snubbed him at the end, making Pippin the mayor of the smallest share of the kingdom – even smaller than Gripho’s. Pippin could have borne the humiliation, but his anguish stemmed from the knowledge that Charles died believing him unworthy.
As if that wasn’t enough, Carloman had destroyed what was left of their family by imprisoning Charles’s widow and their half-brother, Gripho. Pippin had tried to stop it but had arrived too late. There too, he had failed.
Even Trudi was gone. One of the few constants in his life, his sister had fled court to avoid the marriage Charles had chosen for her. She had crossed the kingdom for the love of the Duc de Bavaria.
All he had left was Bertrada. And now she too was gone. He felt the last tether to his life fall away.
He didn’t know how long he sat there. People moved around him. They whispered. They pointed. Mothers ushered their children away from him. It mattered little. Time passed. It started to rain. Pippin didn’t care.
“Ye’r scaring the children, Pippin.”
Somehow, Gunther, his short, stout lieutenant, had taken up a seat next to him. Pippin didn’t have the strength to acknowledge him.
“Lovely weather,” Gunther said. “Was just thinkin' how n
ice it'd be to sit by the rampart 'n watch a cold rain wash the streets. Yes, my Lord Mayor, a grand idea! Glad to see it with you.”
Pippin said nothing. Gunther waved at a woman desperately holding her cloak over her children as she passed them. “Evening, Madam, lovely night, isn’t it?”
The sky opened and the rain became a deluge. Gunther shook his head as the water cascaded down his face. In the distance, a dark shape climbed the road, gaining substance as it neared. Slowly, it transformed itself into a giant of a man wearing an eye-patch and a brown woolen cloak.
“Childebrand!” Gunther called. “Join us.”
“How long has he been like this?” Pippin’s uncle asked.
“Ah, tis just a little rest,” Gunther said. “We’ve been takin' in the scenery.”
Childebrand peered into Pippin’s eyes. “Christ. It’s the blackness.” He grabbed Pippin by the front of his tunic and hoisted him over his right shoulder. “Get his sword.”
Pippin did nothing to react. All his attention turned back towards the abyss. It was there that he at last discovered the peril he had sensed earlier in the day. Too late, he remembered that some dangers arise from within.
✽✽✽
Wheel of the Fates: Book Two of the Carolingian Chronicles Page 1
