Wheel of the Fates: Book Two of the Carolingian Chronicles

by J. Boyce Gleason

  Eta was much older than the other midwives and had a jaw that had been set by decades of responsibility. Her hair had lost most of its color and was tied tightly into a bun at the base of her neck. The skin on her face was so bloodless and thin that she appeared almost translucent. It reminded Trudi of the way Charles had looked just before he died. Grayness clung to her like a shroud.

  Eta’s eyes, however, sparkled with strength. They exuded knowledge and a fierce resolve that Trudi found intimidating. She wanted to look away, but the older woman’s gaze held her with an urgency that Trudi couldn’t resist. She abandoned herself within Eta’s eyes and discovered an empathy that touched her deeply.

  “Did your husband do this?” Eta asked.

  Trudi shook her head. She couldn’t seem to bring herself to speak.

  “Do you know who did?”

  Trudi nodded, the memory of his face blotting out her sight. Anger and humiliation coursed through her. Tears stung her face again. “Theudebald,” she whispered.

  A hissing sound emanated from Eta’s lips as she spat a curse and drew runes furiously in the air. “I should have strangled that boy in his crib. Does the Duc know?”

  Panic seized Trudi. “No!” Then in a quieter voice she said, “Odilo must never know.”

  As the older woman weighed the choices before her, Trudi saw the hardness return to Eta’ eyes. They flashed with possibilities. When she came to a decision, however, Eta’s eyes returned to their previous warmth.

  “We won’t speak of it,” Eta’s voice was soft but firm. “None of us. You have my word.”

  Trudi believed her. She fell back onto the bed, exhausted.

  “It’s unjust that you bear this, alone.” The older woman’s voice carried a wave of weariness. She stroked Trudi’s hair. “But I will honor your desire for privacy. I had hoped that you would be the harbinger of a new day in Regensburg with your new customs from the west. Instead, it’s you who have fallen victim to the darkness of ours.”

  Eta paused for a moment.

  “We are an ancient people. Such violence is deep in our race. What happened to you has happened countless times before to countless women within these walls. Oh, I’ve have seen the faces of women…” Her voice seemed to drift off into nothingness. Eta laid a hand gently on Trudi’s stomach. “I regret that now you too, know of our sorrow.”

  Trudi grabbed Eta’s hand before she could leave. “I can’t live with this.”

  Eta’s eyes returned to her, resolute and angry. Trudi saw the conflict buried deep within them. Eta understood her suffering. She understood the humiliation. She had faced such demons herself and withstood them.

  “Yes, you can,” Eta said. “You will." But she didn’t offer how. "You and I will see your little Duc born right here on this very bed. And we will rejoice in his coming.” The passion in Eta’s eyes accepted no dissent. She grabbed Trudi by her arms and lifted her. Her face drew close to Trudi’s and her voice lowered to a whisper. Her words came hard and urgent.

  “I have known such men,” Eta’s eyes were dangerous. Trudi felt small before them. “They revel in your pain and humiliation. You will defy him. You will not weaken! You will not fail.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I won’t let you.” Eta held her then. She rocked Trudi in her arms like a baby. Trudi lost her sense of time and didn’t remember falling to sleep. When she awoke, she was still tucked within two crisp white sheets. The door to her chamber had been repaired and one of the midwives sat by her bed.

  Every six hours, the midwives came and went in shifts of three. Their voices had a lilting quality to them. They fed her, bathed her, and combed her hair as if she were a child. It gave Trudi a measure of serenity. She noticed too, that guards had been posted outside her door. That too was comforting. She refused all visitors.

  After three days, the color on the bruised side of her face had softened to a darkish purple and yellow and one of her back teeth had jarred loose. More importantly, however, the bleeding had stopped. For that, she was grateful.

  Still, Trudi refused to get out of bed, save to relieve herself. She wasn’t sure that she could explain why. She told Odilo that she was afraid for the baby. But the truth was embedded in a fear far deeper than she could explore. She couldn’t imagine leaving the safety of her room with her bevy of midwives. Just the thought of it made her weak.

  After another six days, Eta returned to her bedside.

  “Your body is healing,” the gray midwife said.

  Trudi nodded.

  “The bleeding has stopped.”

  Again, Trudi nodded. The woman’s erect posture was a tower of strength and she found herself shrinking from it.

  “Yet, you stay in bed.”

  “I…I’m afraid for the baby.”

  Eta’s eyes bore into her. “And your husband?” Eta’s voice was unrelenting. “You recoil from his hand?”

  Trudi’s face bloomed with embarrassment. How could she know that? Trudi indeed had withdrawn from Odilo. The thought of his touch only made her nauseous.

  “I can’t,” she said. “It sickens me.”

  To Trudi’s surprise, Eta nodded knowingly. “The stain of it remains with you,” she said. “It isn’t easily washed cleaned. “

  Trudi shook her head resignedly.

  “And you blame your husband?”

  Trudi was awash in humiliation. She couldn’t speak the words. She nodded her head.

  “You must forgive him – for the sake of the child.” She laid her hand on Trudi’s shoulder compassionately. “And you cannot remain in bed.” Eta swept aside Trudi’s sheets. “Out with you!”

  “I can’t,” Trudi stammered in surprise.

  Eta waved away her protests and leaned close to Trudi’s face. The hardness in the woman’s eyes was back. She would accept no compromise. “It’s time to get up.”

  Unconsciously, Trudi moved to obey. The instinct to survive compelled her forward. But, as her feet moved, panic gripped her. She looked helplessly up into Eta's face, begging for mercy.

  She found none.

  Eta stood over her like a sentinel, refusing anything but complete obedience.

  Trudi's will seemed to collapse in on itself and she sank back into the safety of her pillows. She turned away from Eta, ashamed of her weakness. She wept quietly until the midwife left her room.

  Chapter Eleven

  Paris

  Miette swirled into the great hall, her dress flowing behind her in a great circle of fabric. She had her arms up, dancing in her mind with her lover, much to the obvious amusement of her servants. They were busy putting the finishing touches on the ball room, pushing tables and chairs into place and hanging wide purple banners from the ceiling to create a more festive air. Purple had been her idea. It was the color of kings and she wanted her guests to know that there was no disputing the vaunted stature of her guest.

  The past six weeks at court had been good for Miette. She had become a force with which to contend. As hostess to the future king, she was one of the most sought-after guests in Paris. Commoner indeed! Never again would the noble ladies snub her as they had when she was newly married. Invitations swamped her doorstep in wave after wave of affirmation for her newfound popularity. She took great delight in deciding whose home she would grace and whose invitation she would refuse. It’s like a dance, she thought. One had to be seen, yet appear unattainable, and then when the music started only an elite few would be granted a step onto the floor.

  Her presence at a Paris salon immediately caused a stir. At first, there would be hushed stares and discreet whispering. Then as guests became accustomed to her, the gathering would become more boisterous; the host would serve better wine; the musicians would become livelier, and the dancing would start in earnest. It was almost as if the king himself had arrived. Lesser nobles invited her, knowing that if she accepted, their status at court would improve. And if she snubbed the house of a great lord, rumors would follow to sp
eculate about the cause. It was delicious!

  Her dance among the salons of Paris, however, had a greater purpose than satisfying her vanity. For the most part, she accepted invitations where it might serve Childeric’s purpose. It was surprising how much one could learn at a dinner party and how much more at a ladies’ tea. She had become quite adept at flattery and the art of pretending to know more than she did. She found it would entice others to speak more freely. After a while, she didn’t have to pretend much at all.

  She also used her appearances as vehicles to dispense information. She was amazed at how damning a well-placed word could be. Each evening upon returning home, she carefully catalogued each new item of gossip for her husband and together, they sifted through what they thought was useful and true and what was not.

  In an odd way, her role as hostess to the Merovingian had brought about a form of truce with her husband. While Lord Ragomfred raised money and private arms for the future king, she sowed distrust for the mayors and hope for the king’s ascendancy. While Ragomfred counseled Childeric on building financial and military support for his elevation, Miette acted as their eyes and ears at court. Ragomfred even had asked her advice before contacting a noble to gauge his best approach and then expressed respect for her counsel. As well he should, she thought. It was good advice.

  Ragomfred no longer avoided her presence at home and even had accompanied her out to an occasional evening function. Once, to her great surprise, he had deigned to dance with her in public.

  Not that he ever visited her bed at night. No, thank God. That would never change. After Childeric, she was happy that her husband avoided her chambers. She would never like the man but was tired of being angry with him.

  As if summoned by her thoughts, her husband strode into the hall. Miette leapt into his arms and twirled him onto the dance floor. As usual, Lord Ragomfred didn’t share her buoyant mood.

  “I have news.” He took Miette’s hands from his shoulders. With a nod of his head, he dismissed the servants. When they were alone, he said, “Pippin is coming.” His face was creased with lines of distress. “He’s coming to the ball!”

  For the life of her Miette couldn’t understand his anxiety. “That is wonderful. Just as you planned it! Pippin will be forced to pay homage to Childeric and if he doesn’t, you will have more evidence to turn the remaining nobles against him.”

  Her answer didn’t seem to satisfy him. “What is it?”

  Ragomfred began to pace.

  “Husband?”

  “I expected Carloman,” Ragomfred sputtered.

  “I don’t see what difference it makes, which brother comes. They’re both mayors.”

  “Pippin is unpredictable.” Ragomfred was clearly nervous. “The man is a beast. Who knows what he’ll do? At his Assembly, he personally beat Lord Ganelon of Mayence until the man’s face was unrecognizable.”

  “I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”

  “I saw the man. His face was crushed.”

  “Pippin wouldn’t dare do something like that here.”

  Ragomfred grunted.

  “Are you afraid of him, husband?” Miette couldn’t help letting some of her scorn seep into her voice.

  “Of course, I am! Only a fool would fail to take a son of Charles seriously.”

  “I’ve heard he’s weak,” Miette sniffed. “Half of Paris thinks he will fail. He's taken to drink and has no treasure. Most of the alliances we’ve made for Childeric have been with nobles who lack confidence in Pippin. I think you overestimate him.”

  “Well, perhaps that is because Pippin doesn’t count you among his enemies.”

  Miette was taken aback by the rebuke. She never imagined that Ragomfred was such a coward. She watched her husband pace across the room. Look at the fear in him! The disdain she harbored for him grew by the minute. He delights in plotting behind the scenes but can’t stand to be center stage. She thought about Pippin’s potential to disrupt the ball and shrugged. “We’ll double the guards. I’m sure Childeric will handle him.”

  “Childeric has never lifted a sword in his life.”

  Miette’s reaction to the slight was immediate. Anger flooded through her veins and her face flushed with it. She turned on her husband.

  “At least he’s a man!” She spat. “He wouldn’t quiver in his boots like a boy on his wedding night.”

  Blood drained from Ragomfred’s face and Miette instantly regretted the jibe. The sword fell too close to the man’s heart.

  “How dare you say that to me.” Ragomfred’s voice was cold and lethal. “You were nothing before I wed you. You were a commoner.”

  Miette’s body shook with frustration. “That didn’t stop you from taking my father’s dowry.”

  “Had I known what a witch he raised I would have doubled the price.”

  Rage flashed through her. With a crude phallic gesture used by commoners, she cocked her forearm before his face. Then, with her eyebrows arching, she dramatically let it wilt.

  “Remind you of anything, husband?”

  Ragomfred slapped her.

  The shock of it made her think of Childeric. “Would that you were such a man.”

  “I will see you destitute.”

  “You arrogant fool! You’re not the only man in my life.”

  Ragomfred spun back to her, his face contorted with rage. He seized Miette by the arm and drew her to him.

  “Oh yes,” she plunged on. “You’ve been cuckolded! I found a man who can fill the void you left between my legs.”

  Ragomfred hit her again. “Who?” His voice choked with rage.

  She relished his fury. It gave her power over him. She couldn’t wait to tell him and see the shock on his face.

  “Childeric,” she gloated. “Your king.” Ragomfred lowered his hand, stunned. “And I can assure you that he has no problem lifting his sword.”

  Her husband’s eyes turned away as if to search the room for understanding. When they returned to her, they were alight with irony.

  The look confused Miette. She wanted him wounded. “He took me right here. In this room, on your father’s chair.”

  Ragomfred’s eyes, however, didn’t change.

  “I’ve been his lover,” Miette crowed, “ever since he entered this house.”

  Ragomfred let go of her arm and laughed. “As have I,” he said. “As have I.”

  ✽✽✽

  While Pippin dressed for the Ragomfred ball, Carloman was ducking into a cave deep within the forest of Boulogne. He was dressed in a dark robe with the mask of a demon covering his face. Hamar stood beside him. He too, was dressed in black, but wore the mask of a rodent.

  Before them, two members of the Knights in Christ First Order led a line of aspirants deep into the cave. To a man, the initiates were naked, blindfolded, and exhausted.

  Since the days of Rome, secretive pagan religious orders were common to military men of the ranks. Often made up of slaves or impressed soldiers from conquered lands with different languages, religions and customs, soldiers found cohesion and trust through arcane religious cabals and brotherhood. The initiation rites typically were grueling, exhaustive affairs with gruesome displays of butchery to prepare the initiates for the gore they would witness on the battlefield.

  Most Frankish nobles who knew of these practices refused to acknowledge their existence, preferring to turn a blind eye to them rather than challenge the deep roots of their custom.

  Until Carloman. The son of Charles Martel had usurped the pagan practice to form a religious brotherhood based on Christian values of faith, loyalty and service. Called the Knights in Christ, it was intended to produce a cadre of zealous holy warriors devoted to the Christian faith. The men joined voluntarily, each being tested and initiated regardless of rank or station. Those initiated would be placed in the Seventh Order to advance through the next six degrees of piety based on their deeds and loyalty.

  The resulting religious order had succeeded far beyond Carloman’s expect
ations. The brotherhood had by-passed the traditional oaths of fealty by commission and provided him with a command of his army that was absolute. It also provided influence over every noble family in Francia.

  Carloman and Hamar took positions before the entrance to a large chamber within the cavern. At Carloman's signal, the chanting began. It was an ominous sound, the low-throated growl of fifty men.

  "Ware, knight, ware! Walk this path and walk as one. May god show mercy, for we have none!"

  Carloman led the first aspirant into the chamber. It was his son Drogo. Carloman had ensured that the young man would join his Knights in Christ. Together they would lead the Knights across the kingdom from one generation to the next.

  Until now, Carloman had shielded Drogo in battle, keeping him well outside the deadliest fray. This year would be different. Carloman planned to give Drogo great visibility putting down the rebellion. His son would be one of his lieutenants and would lead a division of cavalry. Eventually, Carloman would raise Drogo to the rank of mayor. He had yet to decide where and when his son would rule and, more importantly, how to convince Pippin that the time was right for such a move.

  It was a delicate subject. Pippin had no children and so couldn’t hand down his post through succession. With Drogo being the sole male heir, he ultimately would inherit the whole kingdom. The only threats to this plan were Gripho, whom Carloman had imprisoned, and Trudi’s expected offspring. If she gave Odilo a son, he too would have a claim. By crushing the rebellion, Carloman hoped to remove that possibility from the table as well.

  As Drogo was led across the threshold, Hamar clouted him on the head with the butt of his sword and removed the boy’s blindfold. Drogo stumbled into the center of the hall, squinting in a futile effort to see through the flaming torches that surrounded him.

  The fifty knights of the First Order sat on rows of benches on all four sides of the room.