Aude took Tedbalt’s arm, but Bertrada held his eyes. She released him and then turned to kiss her sister.
“Thank you so much for understanding.” Aude was hurrying her through the goodbyes.
“Not at all,” Bertrada said. As Aude turned to go, Tedbalt’s eyes continued to follow her and Bertrada liked the fact that they did. “I’ll do the shopping. Don’t worry, sister, I’ll make sure you have the perfect gown.”
Aude looked back over her shoulder suspiciously as the door shut behind them.
✽✽✽
Miette watched Childeric from her position beside his makeshift throne. She had to will herself to do this discreetly, as it would be unseemly for her to stare. Yet everything in her body begged her to keep her eyes to him. Every once in a while, he turned to look at her and she trembled within his deep black eyes. She ached to have his hands on her body. I am enamored of him, she thought. She bowed her head slightly, worried that an observant noble might notice the redness of her cheeks or the shortness of her breath.
Her future king was meeting with the last group of subjects to visit that day. If he wanted to have her, it would be after they were dismissed. She prayed that he wouldn’t send her away, again. She couldn’t stand to wait until tomorrow. Why did he torture her so?
It had been just weeks since her first intimacy with Childeric and yet in that short time her life had been made anew. She could almost laugh at the naïve, virginal girl she had been if that girl hadn’t been so pathetic. She had been a dull, dry husk of a girl. Now her body knew and craved the delicious sensuality of Childeric’s touch. How had she lived without such passion? The need for it fermented inside her. It took over her whole being, haunting her days and nights until she again could be with him. She shuddered with both the pleasure and the humiliation of it.
And it was humiliating. From the time she was a little girl, Miette had always been in control of the men in her life, but she was powerless before Childeric. She had tried to assert herself. She had tried to take control. But every effort was rebuffed. He commanded her and she rushed to obey.
It was nothing like she had envisioned. Childeric never kissed her or showed her the slightest tenderness. She was forbidden to approach him or touch him, unless, of course, he instructed her to do so. When he wanted her, he took her and for the most part, he used her body callously. God help her, it only seemed to add to her desire for him. Childeric had but to raise a bejeweled fingernail and she grew wet with anticipation.
She had progressed from satisfying him with her mouth to lifting her skirts for him. Of late, he had taken to bending her over the arm of his makeshift throne to enter her from behind. It was an awkward position, with her face pushed down into the rough wooden seat and her abdomen pressed hard against the arm of the chair. Yet she quivered with pleasure and matched his passion with her own. She was overwhelmed by her need for him.
At last! Childeric signaled for her to dismiss his subjects. She excused them from his presence and escorted them to the door. Childeric’s subjects whispered their appreciation for her hospitality and she bade them a pleasant good-bye. After they left, she held the door ajar and turned to face Childeric. If he wanted her, he would signal it now. She held her breath in anticipation. It took all her self-control not to beg him.
With the smallest of gestures, Childeric waved her back into the room. Miette nearly fainted with relief. A tiny tremor descended her body as she closed the door to the great hall and re-crossed the room. She nearly skipped to his throne. When she drew within six paces of him, however, Childeric held up his hand for her to stop.
“Lift your skirts.”
Miette’s face flushed. He had done this before. He knew she hated Salau and enjoyed seeing her embarrassed in front of him.
But she wasn’t such an easy mark. With only the slightest glance at Childeric’s champion, Miette bent to pinch the fabric of her dress just above the knee and lifted it to her chest. With a look of defiance on her face, she turned to afford Childeric - and Salau - a better view. She wore nothing beneath her skirts.
The boldness of her act had its desired effect. Both Childeric and Salau’s eyes were locked onto her nakedness and the thick triangular patch of hair between her legs.
Childeric recovered first. Chuckling at her ingenuity, he upped his price by waving vaguely at her sex. “Now, touch yourself.”
With a frank look in her eyes, again Miette complied. She parted her legs and probed herself while the two men looked on. She understood the sexual power behind this game. Her youthful appearance and innocent features belied the brazen behavior and made it all the more provocative. Their eyes followed her fingers and she thrilled with the knowledge that she could affect them so. A vein throbbed in Salau’s forehead and Childeric had already parted his robe. Miette closed her eyes and moaned.
“Ah.” Childeric’s voice thickened. “Show them to me.”
She extended her hand as if waiting for a gentleman’s kiss. It glistened with the wetness of her sex. Childeric rose to take it. I have him, she thought.
Stepping towards her, he hesitated. “No. Taste them yourself.”
She raised her fingers to her lips and she sucked on them, one at a time, her eyes radiant with the spell she had woven over him.
Childeric slapped her. She reeled beneath the blow. The shock of it coursed through her body. He slapped her again. She fell to the floor.
“You think you have power over me?” There was menace in his voice. Fear flooded through her. She struggled to her feet. He was on her then, bending her over double and lifting the back of her skirt. As he pushed himself into her, she convulsed around him. She was drunk with him, unsure if it was from her passion or from the pain of his blows. She only knew that he, once again, had mastered her.
Her head snapped up in pain as Childeric pulled her upright by her hair. Salau stood directly before her in his place next to the throne. She tried to look away, but her head was held by Childeric’s hand. She couldn’t hide from Salau the passion that was coursing through her as Childeric thrust himself into her from behind.
“How should I punish you for your arrogance?” he whispered.
She whimpered in response.
“Undo your blouse,” he commanded. “Show Salau your breasts.”
She did as he asked, untying the fasteners that held up her blouse. Within moments her breasts lay bare for Salau and his hateful eyes to take her in.
“Touch her,” Childeric commanded and his champion stepped forward. The triumph in Salau’s eyes was unmistakable; he grabbed her nipples hard between each thumb and forefinger and Miette recoiled at his touch. His rough pull, however, reverberated through her, forcing her to arch her back. The pain of it echoed the pleasure of Childeric’s thrusts. She grew weak with its intensity.
“You will deny me nothing,” Childeric said.
“No,” she whimpered.
“Say it!”
“I will deny you nothing.” The pain in her nipples was excruciating.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Anything,” she pleaded.
“Take him in your mouth,” Childeric commanded. Miette realized that Childeric would always be like this, bending her will to do his bidding. With trembling hands Miette bent to untie Salau’s pantaloons and pulled aside his undergarments.
“Yes,” Childeric whispered and Miette nearly wept at his praise.
When she left them, Miette checked to be sure that her outer appearance was restored to a demeanor more appropriate of the Lady Ragomfred. Her blouse was re-fastened and her skirts were aligned. She nodded politely to those she passed in the hallway, but secretly she reveled in the semen still smeared on her thighs and the memory of its taste on her lips.
Chapter Nine
Paris
“Do you think his claim legitimate?” Carloman asked Boniface as they stood upon a hill near Gentilly where the combined armies had encamped. Carloman had delayed their march east upon receiving re
ports that a Merovingian “heir” had appeared in Paris and taken up residence at the home of Ragomfred the Younger. Carloman had always known that raising a Merovingian might become a necessity, but he had also assumed that he could do it on his own terms and according to his schedule.
The appearance of this “heir” just as he was marching east was suspicious and the fact that he was residing with a noble who had a long history of opposing his family was alarming.
He raced through the potential objectives Ragomfred might have for making such a move and found none of them good. He swore under his breath. A trickle of mucous escaped from his nose on the damaged side of his face and he searched for a handkerchief to staunch it. The liquid made it halfway down his chin before he could arrest its progress.
“My sources say the legitimacy of his claim is well documented,” Boniface said. “I’ve asked Bishop Aidolf of Auxerres to review evidence of his lineage, but from the reports I’ve received, Childeric is next in line for the throne. I think it’s time we consider the potential benefits of elevating him as king.”
Carloman grunted in response.
Below them on an open expanse of grass, roughly twenty knights participated in a mêlée tournament. Carloman had organized the contest as a means of keeping the men occupied during their unexpected encampment.
The ultimate measure of a soldier’s fighting skill, the mêlée pit every man against all others. Much as in real combat, attacks came from all sides suddenly and lethally. A fighter’s ability to move quickly and effectively and to anticipate attacks was sorely tested. Mêlée tournaments were bloody affairs. The only way off the field was to win, yield, or die. And many a knight’s pride prevented the second choice from being made in a timely manner.
A large crowd of soldiers surrounded the combat, cheering and hooting as knights were either dragged or humbled off the field. To add some spice to the encounter, Carloman had promised a large purse to the victor. And when the cheers had subsided, he offered to double it if one of Pippin’s knights emerged victorious. The idea prompted a wave of betting that was rumored to include half the men in the combined armies…with most betting on Carloman’s champion, Hamar.
An elegant swordsman, Hamar appeared to be making good on their bets. He advanced through the field like a dancer, leaving a trail of knights either ashamed or wounded in his wake. He carried two weapons; a stout Frankish sword and the short, flat blade made famous by the Roman legions. The two blades flowed from one blow to the next in a horrid choreography of pierced shoulders and arms. His speed made opponents look clumsy by comparison. Wiser knights yielded before his mastery to the hoots of the watching throng. Foolish knights paid for their arrogance by being carried from the field.
“Raising a Merovingian to the throne won’t stop the civil war,” Carloman said.
“No.” Boniface nodded. “But it will quell the growing opposition to your waging it. You need the nobles’ support in this. Without a king, you’ll be constantly defending your claim to rule as mayor.”
“That’s why Ragomfred is such a danger. With a king’s support he could raise a formidable army to do just that. While I’m in the east, he could cause quite a bit of trouble back here in Paris.”
Below them, the field of knights thinned rapidly as nobles yielded rather than being gutted or sliced in two. Carloman’s knights now far outnumbered Pippin’s men. Carloman knew his extra purse was safe. With Hamar moving mercilessly through those who remained, it would be short work for him to finish the contest. Knights in Pippin’s camp were already groaning as the outcome had become obvious.
Suddenly, a commotion stirred from Pippin’s side of the field as a short stout knight entered the fray, banging his sword against his chest plate and bellowing, “AUSTRASIA!”
Carloman groaned. It was Gunther. Known far and wide for his temper, Pippin’s commander was clearly furious that the fight would be lost. He had joined the fray in a pitiable display of loyalty. Although Gunther had been a courageous fighter in his day, his victories were mostly behind him. And Carloman knew that, even in Gunther’s prime, Hamar would have humiliated him.
“I’ve heard that Lord Ragomfred is hosting a ball at his residence,” Boniface said. “He’s fêting the arrival of the Merovingian as heir to the throne.”
Another trickle of mucous escaped Carloman’s nostril; this time, his handkerchief was at the ready. “Trying to force my hand. He’s pushing me to acknowledge his legitimacy.” Carloman looked up. “I’m not ready to do that yet.”
“It’s hard to unmake the fact that an heir is here. Sooner or later you’ll have to acknowledge him. The longer you wait, the more time Lord Ragomfred will have to exploit him. If you elevate him to king, Childeric will owe his allegiance to you, not Ragomfred.”
“We don’t have time enough for a coronation,” Carloman said. “This business with Pippin in Aquitaine has allowed Odilo and Theudebald time to mobilize. My spies tell me that Theudebald is planning to attack a city on this side the Rhine. The longer I delay here, the greater their threat will be.”
“It’s only one night. You needn’t stay long.”
“I won’t give Childeric any hint at legitimacy until I’m ready. If I go, the entire room will wait to see if I kiss his ring. If I do, his elevation will be as good as done. If I don’t, Ragomfred will have more fuel to spread his fire.” Carloman searched for another handkerchief. “Going to that ball is the last thing I should do.”
Shouts below them stole away their attention. Gunther had organized the few remaining knights Pippin had in the field and created a wedge of sorts that pressed into the center of the makeshift arena. As Carloman and Boniface watched, one side of the wedge pushed forward in a coordinated movement, like a door on a hinge, and slammed into the knights on Hamar’s left flank.
“Clever,” Carloman said. Gunther was using battlefield tactics to organize Pippin’s men. Although the mêlée hadn’t been structured as a contest of sides, Carloman couldn’t fault Gunther’s instinct to bend the rules. He himself had opened the door to such tactics when he offered to double the prize for one of Pippin’s knights. Carloman had always thought of Gunther as a bit of a buffoon. Now he was reevaluating his opinion.
From where they stood on the hill, it was clear that Hamar saw the hinge movement and understood Gunther’s strategy. He began issuing orders to Carloman’s knights and a counterattack leapt to oppose Gunther’s closing door.
“What about Pippin?” Boniface asked. “Will he accept the Merovingian?
“I don’t think it will matter.” Carloman enjoyed seeing the surprise on Boniface’s face. “Pippin has half an army and no treasure. He suffers from the blackness. Worse, he combats it with drink. You saw him in Poitiers, he was banging his head against the wall.”
“I think you underestimate him,” Boniface said. “He is more like Charles than you think.”
“He will fail. He only has a small following of knights who are truly loyal to him and no mind for political strategy. That’s why I wanted him in the east with me. I need to be there to pick up the pieces. It would be a disaster if Hunoald and Waifar defeated him. I’ll let Pippin oversee Neustria or Burgundy or Bretagne, but in the end there will be only one mayor. And it will be me.”
Below them, Hamar had successfully countered Gunther’s strategy and once again the weight of numbers appeared to doom Pippin’s men. Hamar pressed forward, slicing through his opposition until he confronted Gunther directly. Within seconds, it was clear that the older man’s speed was no match for Carloman’s champion. After a flurry of blows Gunther lost his shield. After another, his left shoulder had been cut. After a third, Gunther was bleeding from his left side. Hamar stepped back to allow the shorter knight time to yield
“AUSTRASIA!” Gunther raised his sword high over his head. “AUSTRASIA!!”
He launched an attack with such fury that Hamar had to retreat to parry effectively.
As the two combatants circled, Gunther’s cry was ec
hoed among Pippin’s ranks. “AUSTRASIA! AUSTRASIA!!”
Hamar looked up for a sign from Carloman and Carloman nodded his permission. Hamar’s blades flashed in the afternoon sun and Gunther fell to one knee under the weight of his blows. Silence took the field at the sudden turn of events. Hamar again fell back to let the older knight yield.
Carloman knew that Gunther wouldn’t yield. He said a silent prayer for the man’s soul.
A new knight joined the mêlée and for the second time that day, Carloman groaned. This time it was Pippin. Carloman’s brother had borrowed a sword and shield and hadn't even bothered to put on armor. His crowd erupted. “AUSTRASIA! AUSTRASIA!!”
“There!” Carloman said to Boniface, shaking his head. “He dooms himself. He lowers himself to their level. How can you lead men if you act like one of them? And when Hamar defeats him, as he most assuredly will, Pippin will lose all credibility.”
“I think you underestimate him,” Boniface said. “He’s more comfortable in that mêlée than you are at court.”
Gunther had seized the diversion to retreat to the opposite side of the field and was shouting instructions to Pippin’s knights to press Hamar’s right flank anew. Pippin slammed into the line nearest him like a battering ram. His speed matched that of Hamar, but Pippin’s strength lent an ominous brutality to his fighting that few could withstand. He waded into the knights on Hamar’s left flank, using his shield as a weapon as effectively as his sword. Many of those left in his wake were either knocked unconscious or embarrassed at how quickly they were forced to yield.
To meet the threat posed by Gunther's flanking maneuver, Hamar quickly shouted instructions for his knights to protect him while he turned to face the onslaught from Pippin.
“NO!” Carloman shouted. From his vantage point on the hill, Carloman could see Hamar’s mistake before his champion made it. Gunther’s move was a feint designed to leave Hamar vulnerable to Pippin. The few men remaining on Hamar’s left flank were no matches for his brother. Pippin would reach Hamar in minutes.
Wheel of the Fates: Book Two of the Carolingian Chronicles Page 11
