Wheel of the Fates: Book Two of the Carolingian Chronicles

by J. Boyce Gleason

  Odilo didn’t answer her.

  “Theudebald is a beast, Odilo. You’re less of a man for allying yourself with him. He holds no interests other than his own and will betray you without a second thought.”

  “It’s a risk I have to take.”

  “It’s a risk you want to take.” Trudi paused, evaluating her husband. “I want Theudebald out of our home. I want him out of Regensburg.”

  “He’s leaving in the morning.”

  “That’s not soon enough.”

  “It will have to suffice. I won’t throw him out.”

  “I will not abide him staying here.”

  “What harm can come from one more night?”

  “Do not do this, Odilo.”

  “It’s already done.”

  The bluntness of his answer shocked Trudi. She could feel her face flush with anger.

  “I will not debate this. He’s my older brother. We carry my father’s legacy to rule and I will uphold that legacy. Gripho had rights to his succession and Carloman took away those rights. I warned Carloman. I told him of the consequences. I spoke to him as if he were my brother. Don’t make this my fault, Trudi. Carloman is seeking to impose his religion and rule over both Alemannia and Bavaria. I cannot let him.”

  “Gripho isn’t worth fighting for,” Trudi said.

  “It’s not just about Gripho. Our child has rights to protect as well. Other than Carloman’s son, Drogo, he is the only grandson of Charles Martel. He has his own rights to succession. Carloman won’t want Drogo to have a rival, especially one that has an army behind him.”

  “Carloman would never harm my child.”

  “Perhaps not, but he’ll do whatever he can to keep our son weak and politically powerless.”

  “Promise me that you’ll parley with Pippin. He isn’t like Carloman. He may be open to reason.”

  “Then, promise me that you’ll let me handle my brother in my own way. I’ll keep him in check as long as he’s under our roof.”

  Trudi shook her head. “I don’t want to see him. He gives me nightmares.”

  Odilo smiled a broad and guileless smile and kissed his wife on the forehead. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll save you from them.”

  ✽✽✽

  The wind shifted, lifting Trudi effortlessly, hoisting her above Regensburg where the air swirled with abandon among the high wisps of white cloud. She yielded to its currents and let herself ride the turbulent updrafts; her body moved in a series of arcs as she moved from one to the next.

  Beneath her, the city’s stone fortress stood black and impenetrable next to the churning blue waters of the Danube. The river rumbled east beneath her as the wind blew her west across the fertile green valley. Small villages marked the shoreline and tiny fishing boats dotted the river. She passed the willow that marked Bradius’s grave and the pier from which she made her escape. In the distance, a tributary flowed into the Danube from the mountains to the south. She had seen it before. It was the River Leche. The winds took her there.

  On the west bank of the river, a battle raged. She saw Odilo’s blue banner, with its charging black boar. His back was against the river. Pippin’s white eagle on a field of green rose from the south and Carloman’s red and white Lion of St. Mark held the North. While she watched, her brothers chopped and hewed their way methodically towards the river. No one could withstand them and nothing but carnage lay in their wake. It was as if Death himself preceded them in battle. If they reached the river, her husband would die.

  “Stop,” she called from the clouds. “Stop!” she screamed.

  But no one could hear her.

  ✽✽✽

  She awoke shivering. The night was brisk and the bed warmers the servants had placed beneath her blankets no longer offered much heat. Trudi drew her knees to her chest, cursing the nightmares that plagued her. She climbed out of bed and padded into the anteroom where the chamber pot sat in the corner. She hoisted her nightdress, squatted over the bucket, and let her urine flow. For the hundredth time that day, she relived the argument that pushed her to attack Theudebald and for the hundredth time, felt that she was in the right. The man had insulted her in her own home.

  She supposed that her husband was still down in the hall drinking with “the beast” as she now called Theudebald. She was sure they would drink all night. She had seen men drink before at her home in Francia, but it was nothing like the practice in the east. Here, they consumed great horns of ale in enormous quantities and held competitions to see how quickly one could down the dark liquid in one draught. As the night wore on, more often than not, they vomited to make room for more ale. Trudi had learned that, once the drinking had started, it wouldn’t end until morning when the revelers fell asleep in their places.

  She braved the cold stone floor to go in search of her husband.

  As expected, Trudi found him in the great hall. What was left of a large fire dwindled in the corner. Odilo and his brother were alone, seated opposite each other, their torsos draped across the table between them. Both were unconscious. Odilo snored.

  Trudi grunted in disgust and began to circle the table to rouse her husband. As she passed Theudebald, she saw a knife. It was like the one she had planted by his head the day before. It stood point down in the table between the two men, sharp and lethal. Trudi stared at the blade. Theudebald lay next to it, his neck exposed and vulnerable. A swift blow would do it. She could put an end to the threat he posed in that moment. Odilo would never know who did it. No one would. She thought about the lives it might save. Her hand reached out for the blade. Her fingers touched its hilt, caressing the smoothness of it.

  But for all her boldness the previous day, she couldn’t do it. She wasn’t that cold hearted. With a sigh, she withdrew her hand and finished circling the table to waken Odilo.

  “You should have done it,” Theudebald’s voice cut through the quiet. Trudi froze in mid-stride. Theudebald sat up, his sightless eye staring at her as he pulled the knife from the table. His good eye followed the edge of the blade as he held it up to the light of the dwindling fire. “Charles would have. Maybe you are not your father’s daughter after all.”

  Trudi glared at her husband’s half-brother. “There’s already been enough bloodshed.”

  “Oh no,” Theudebald’s eye still held the knife, “we've only just begun to shed blood." He stood and walked around the table. Trudi backed away, putting the unconscious Odilo between them. Her heart slammed inside her chest.

  “Your brothers will come from the west.” Theudebald’s voice was distant and cold. “They’ll think I’m weak and unprepared as I was when I was young and faced Charles." He chuckled and turned his gaze to Trudi. “And I’ll let them believe it. I will retreat before them, leading them into the valley near Canstatt. Their arrogance will spur them forward for the kill. They’ll imagine themselves crushing the rebellion just as their father did so many years ago. Only they’ll be wrong. When their line is stretched, all of Hesse and Alemannia will descend on their flank and we will crush them between us.”

  “My brothers wouldn’t be so careless.” Trudi silently prayed for Odilo to waken.

  “Oh, but they will.” Theudebald’s good eye strayed over Trudi’s nightshift. “They will. Especially when they find out what I’ve done to their sister.”

  Trudi shoved Odilo. She shouted his name, but he didn’t move. She hit him with her fists, but he didn’t stir.

  “Oh, he won’t wake. He never could hold his drink.” Theudebald closed the two steps between them. Without room to kick, Trudi punched up at his face – two quick jabs and tried to circle past him. Theudebald’s backhand caught her on the cheek and she instinctively gave way with the blow to lessen its impact. And then Theudebald was on her using his weight to force her back against the table. She clouted his ear trying to back him away, but he grabbed her hair. Furious, she tried to kick his groin, but he blocked the blow with his knee. When she felt the point of his knife at her throat, however
, she went still with fear.

  He lifted the blade, forcing her chin up until she was staring into his good eye. There was nothing there but malice. He pulled her down onto the table next to her husband.

  “Not a sound.” Theudebald drew the point of the knife down her neck to the tie that held her nightdress closed. With a flick of his wrist, he severed the tie and brushed aside the fabric that covered her. His knife descended to the nipple of her breast, blood welling in its wake. Trudi began to cry.

  “Tell the truth, now, whore.” The knife etched a line down her belly. “Whose child lies in your womb?”

  Fear, as she had never known before, surged through Trudi.

  “Is it truly Odilo’s child, you carry?”

  “Yes,” she whimpered.

  “Liar!” He raised the blade high above her and used its hilt to clout the side of her head. She lost consciousness. When she awoke, Theudebald had his breeches open and was attempting to push himself between her parted legs.

  “No!” She twisted away from him. He hit her again and grabbed her hips with both hands to push past her dryness.

  She howled at the ceiling and beat her fists against his face and chest. Ignoring her, Theudebald plunged himself into her with long deliberate strokes as if savoring the humiliation each delivered. As the degradation sank into her, Trudi began to sob. She turned to her husband, his face mere inches from her.

  A sharp pain seized her and her abdomen clenched in reaction. Fear for her baby gripped her and with it came renewed fury. She spat at him and gouged at his good eye with her fingers. He slapped her across the face. She spat again. This time, his hand closed on her throat and he started to squeeze. The light in the room began to fade. His thrusting grew more rapid. Just as the blackness surrounded her, she felt his body heave. His semen poured inside her.

  “Cunt!” he said, and all went dark.

  Chapter Seven

  Tours

  After their armies arrived in Tours, Pippin checked to see that his newfound cargo was still hidden within their supply train. Satisfied that they had carried off recovering the Comptesse’s treasure in secret, Pippin went to look for Carloman. He found his brother where he expected him to be, kneeling before the altar of the local monastery. It was a holy site, one that held the remains of Carloman’s guardian saint, Saint Martin of Tours.

  Carloman was deep in prayer. His right hand clasped a small wooden canister hanging from his neck that held a finger bone of the good saint. Boniface had given it to Carloman on the morning of his elevation to knighthood. Carloman never took it off.

  Pippin’s brother had his left hand extending towards the altar, palm up in supplication. His eyes were crinkled in concentration. Candlelight from the altar flickered before him and wove odd shadows across the damaged side of his face. Boniface stood beside Carloman, hands folded in prayer.

  “Gloria Patri et Filio et Spiritui Sancto.” Boniface’s solemn voice resonated through the chamber followed by Carloman’s as the two worked their way through the ritual responses as priest and server. “Sicut erat in principio et nunc et semper at in saecula saeculorum. Amen.”

  “Kyrie eleison,” Boniface intoned.

  “Kyrie eleison,” Carloman replied.

  “Christe eleison.”

  “Christe eleison.”

  “Christe eleison. Kyrie eleison.”

  “Kyrie eleison.”

  “Kyrie eleison.”

  Boniface raised his arms and looked heavenward.

  “Gloria in excelsis Deo.”

  Pippin found himself responding with Carloman, albeit under his breath, just as he had during every mass he had attended since he was seven years old.

  “Et in terra pax hominibus bonae voluntatis. Laudamus te, benedicimus te, adoramus te, glorificamus te, gratias agimus tibi propter magnam gloriam tuam.”

  The Latin came so readily to his lips that Pippin couldn’t help but wonder at the true power of the church. The mass was so embedded in him that any priest in the land could recall such words from him at will. What did that say about the hold the church had over him and his brother? How deeply could they sway his family’s purpose?

  Carloman’s face flushed with religious fervor and he brought his extended left hand back to join his right, holding the holy relic of St. Martin. His passionate voice filled the monastery.

  “Domine Deus, Rex caelestis, Deus Pater omnipotens. Domine Fili unigenite,” Although Pippin refused to voice the words, they came unbidden to his mind, nonetheless.

  “Jesu Christe; Domine Deus, Agnus Dei, Filius Patris.

  Boniface raised his right hand and drew the sign of the cross in the air. Automatically, both Carloman and Pippin mirrored the sign on their foreheads, chests, and shoulders.

  “In gloria Dei Patris. Amen.”

  Pippin decided to wait for them outside.

  As he left the chapel, Pippin found the Comptesse de Loches outside the monastery giving alms to the poor who had gathered there. As he watched from a distance, it became clear to him that it was no empty gesture. The woman was clearly moved by those who touched her hands for charity. Her children were with her, carrying bread, water, and oils. The Comptesse dispensed these gifts as needed, kneeling to speak to those who could not stand and clasping the hands of those afflicted with disease. From the efficient way the trio moved through the small crowd of beggars, it was clear that this wasn’t their first time.

  When they had finished conferring all they had brought to the poor, the Comptesse gathered her children and turned to enter the monastery. She seemed surprised to find Pippin waiting on the steps. She came to him, a broad and genuine grin adorning her face.

  “Did you find the small token left by my ancestors?”

  “Yes, milady. I hope I didn’t overly disturb their sleep.”

  “All for a good cause, young man.”

  “Would you care to walk with me, Comptesse? I would ask you a few questions.”

  The Comptesse adjusted the light blue shawl that covered her shoulders. “I’m at your service, milord.”

  Pippin led her back through the beggars, who shrank away from his broadsword, and headed towards a park that stood before the monastery. The Comptesse’s children followed at a polite distance, as if used to giving their mother such space.

  When they reached the park, the Comptesse took Pippin’s right arm as one would a close friend. He found the gesture comforting. He rested his hand on hers and together they strolled without speaking. Pippin noticed for the first time that the day was exceptionally beautiful. The sky was blue, the air crisp and the park green and bursting with spring flowers.

  “How did you know my father?” Pippin felt awkward asking the question.

  The Comptesse laughed and tugged at Pippin’s arm. “Some things are best left to the past, Pippin. It’s better to know that I was an ally of sorts, and that I held his trust.”

  “But when was this? Except for my time in Rome, I was at his side and I don’t recall ever hearing your name.”

  “I’m not sure that your father would have told you about me, even if you had been with him at the time.”

  Pippin eyed her. Although her words could suggest an intimate relationship with his father, her tone did not. He wanted to ask her directly, but somehow felt that such a question would offend her, especially with her children so near. He was stymied as to how to proceed.

  As they walked, two Knights in Christ in their distinctive red and white doublets, headed towards them from the other side of the park. Having failed to pay adequate attention to his brother’s knightly religious order, Pippin couldn’t determine the men’s rank. He was about to ask the Comptesse another question when the two knights barred their way.

  “Such public displays of intimacy are forbidden,” one of the knights, said. “They are an affront to the Lord our God.”

  More curious than offended, Pippin kept his tone polite. “Who are you?”

  “I am an acolyte of the Knights in Christ
,” the same knight responded. There was more than a hint of pride in the man’s voice.

  “And who forbids such innocent displays?”

  The knight’s face turned red with anger. He clearly didn’t like being questioned. “By order of the Knights, women are to walk three steps behind their men and their head and shoulders are to be covered.” The knight grabbed for the Comptesse’s shawl to force the issue.

  Pippin caught the man’s wrist with his left hand and moved to usher the Comptesse behind him. She took her children and moved several steps away.

  The second knight advanced, circling to Pippin’s right, his hand moving to the pommel of his sword.

  Pippin let go of the first knight’s arm and backed away one step, shifting as he did so to the balls of his feet.

  “You had best comply or suffer judgment.” The first knight drew his sword.

  Pippin’s hands dropped to his sides near the hilts of his two knives, a calm descended upon him.

  “Pippin, please don’t,” the Comptesse begged.

  The two knights froze in place. A worried look was exchanged between them.

  “He shouldn’t have touched you.” Pippin kept his eyes on the first knight.

  “Pippin, please!”

  A look of panic stole across the second knight’s face. “Pippin,” he whispered. “The son of Charles?”

  Pippin’s voice was cold. “You shouldn’t be touching anyone.”

  “It’s forbidden!” The first knight insisted.

  The second knight began to pray under his breath even as his hand began to pull the sword from his scabbard. “Our Father, who art in heaven…”

  “Oh, this is asinine!” The Comptesse strode between Pippin and the two knights. “Put away your weapon!” she scolded. “Put it away.” She waved at the second knight. The man straightened and slid the blade back to its hilt. The first knight only lowered his blade.

  The Comptesse bent to retrieve her shawl from where it had fallen from the first knight’s grasp. All three men looked at her, astounded. She folded her arms and addressed the two Knights in Christ.