Wheel of the Fates: Book Two of the Carolingian Chronicles

by J. Boyce Gleason

  Although the villagers called her “sibyl,” the term was far too short for all that she had become. She was a healer, a truthsayer and a seer. Runes denoting her station and knowledge tattooed her skin, snaking up her arms and shoulders and curling around her breasts. Small bones from her sacrifices to the Sisters of Fate adorned her hair and clacked when she moved, announcing her as a seer and devotee of the lore.

  But it was the gift that defined her. Entranced by sacred herbs, the past and future spread out before her and unspoken truths leapt to her attention. The villagers said she had “visions.” She preferred to call it “sight.”

  At the outskirts of the first village, she smiled. She liked this place. Large farms surrounded the town on all sides. The roads were well kept, and the houses well built. Men already were turning the soil in preparation for spring planting and she could hear laughter and women’s voices calling out to one another as they tended animals, repaired clothes, and watched their children at play.

  The people here would be generous, sharing their tables and giving her a warm, comfortable bed for the night. And there were none of the cross-bearers who called her “witch” or “demon” or worse.

  She and her two acolytes dismounted before entering the town. They took off their cloaks and dropped their shifts to lay bare their God runes. Together, they led the horses in a stately procession, allowing the villagers time to recognize who they were and the nature of their calling.

  It didn’t take long for people to gather alongside the road. Men doffed their hats and knuckled their foreheads and women lowered their eyes. As she passed, children were sent ahead to spread word of her arrival. The adults fell in line behind her. With her head high and her eyes distant, she led them into town. As she approached, villagers began arriving from all directions. She continued at her measured pace and all gave way before her.

  The stones were where she remembered them. They lay in a grid of nine at the heart of the village. The townspeople spread around the square at a respectful distance while her attendants built a small fire next to the center stone.

  She stood in her place on the stone, her head held back, her eyes closed, and her hair with its myriad of bones, dangling around her shoulders. One of her attendants stood beside her, and with open arms, announced her presence.

  “From the day the gods first found the runes and shared them with man, we have had the power to touch the three realms of the world. But the power to behold the pattern that the Three Sisters weave is rare.”

  Her attendant stepped aside and bowed.

  “It is both a gift and a curse to those who see. Prize and ware the knowledge it brings.”

  Her attendants drew dried leaves and herbs from their reticules and spread them over the small fire. The sibyl’s nostrils flared as the first tendrils of smoke drifted up to her and she recognized the unique scents of her burning plants. She inhaled deeply and often. Soon, colors swirled inside her closed eyelids and an inner warmth coursed through her veins. She spread her arms and the crowd hushed to silence.

  Her attendants took off the last of her garments leaving her clothed only in the ephemeral grey-blue veil of smoke. They removed the small towel from between her legs and silence took the square. Her moon’s blood drained down her thighs, past her knees and her ankles. When it reached the stone beneath her feet, her attendants took up their instruments. Their drumbeat filled the silence, and the acolytes began to chant, slowly at first, and then with an insistence that matched the beating of the drums.

  Abruptly, they paused. And when they began again, the villagers joined them, echoing the chant, line for line.

  The sibyl swayed her hips to the punctuated beat of the drums and as the strength of the chant swept over her in irresistible waves, she lifted her arms in supplication, letting herself be carried away by the sound. She flushed with the momentum of the chant and was lost in its current. She opened her eyes.

  It was as if she were in two places at once. She could still feel the blood trickling down her legs and the cold stone beneath her feet, and yet, somehow, she was not inside her body. She was high above the square looking down on the villagers gathered below.

  The scene tilted. She tried to hold it upright in her mind, but the village, and all of its people, toppled over and flattened out into a single vast thin line. It shimmered before her. As she watched, it began to unfold, cascading before her like the folds of an opening fan. She no longer saw one village square filled with people; she saw a thousand village squares filled with people. They moved so fast her mind couldn’t hold onto one. She reeled before the images, trying to clear her head. Her hand reached out to stop it.

  The images froze and she found herself again in the square surrounded by the villagers. But they and the square had changed. It was a smoldering ruin, an endless landscape of ash and blackened tree stumps. The people stood frozen in place as if time itself had stopped. Like a ghost, she floated among them unnoticed and invisible.

  The faces of the women had grown drawn and haggard. The children were thin, and dirty, their eyes sunken and hollow. She tried to reach out and touch their faces, but her hand had no substance.

  Something was wrong, she thought. Something afflicts them. They are aged but no older.

  She turned in every direction and found only women and children. Confused, she moved back to the center of the square. Where were the men?

  She looked down and wished she hadn’t found them. They lay in rows, head to toe and toe to head, in barely covered graves. They stared up at her through sightless eyes, their features contorted and their limbs little more than bone. Leeches, slugs and roaches moved through nostril holes and eye sockets. She wanted to wail but had no voice. So many. She knelt among them and the gravity of the loss overwhelmed her.

  Abruptly, her vision ended, and she was back on the center stone. Her knees buckled beneath her. One of her attendants caught her by the arm and struggled to hold her upright. The drums stopped and the chanting died. The sibyl had to fight to stand. Straightening, she took a deep breath and looked up.

  Their faces were normal. They looked healthy and happy. She nearly wept at the concern she saw on every villager’s face. But the haunting image of the men lingered, and she had to avert her eyes from its memory. Scolding herself for her weakness, she tried to meet their collective gaze and again could not.

  “I need to speak with the women alone.” She focused on the ground. “Only to them.”

  At first, no one moved, and she cursed her impotence. They expected more, but more she could not give. It was all she could do to keep from weeping. Some of the men grumbled and still she refused to look up. With an oath, one of them turned away. Others followed until a growing exodus of men and their children left the square.

  When the last had gone, the sibyl raised her eyes. Her hands and lips trembled. Nothing in her training had prepared her for this. All her well-practiced queenly demeanor had shattered.

  “What is it?” A woman called, clutching her shawl around her chest. Silence and fear held the square.

  The sibyl looked into their expectant faces and mustered all the strength she had within her. “Death comes.”

  Looks of confusion spread among the villagers and the sibyl drew a deep breath. A frightened sob pierced the air. “Death comes,” she said. “For the men.

  “It will take them all as assuredly as I am standing here.” Tears escaped her. She fought them back. “Most of you and the children will be spared.”

  She tried to approach her audience, but they backed away in horror. “You don’t have much time.” She looked again to the ground. “This year, maybe next, but it will be.”

  “What can we do?” a voice called out.

  “We can leave,” another stated.

  The sibyl shook her head. “It cannot be avoided.”

  “Then what can we do?” a woman hissed directly in front of her.

  “Prepare,” the sibyl’s voice was hollow.

  Wit
h an angry cry, one of the women bent and picked up a stone. “Witch!” She threw the stone, hitting the sibyl on the scalp and cutting her. Blood began to ooze from the wound and trickle down over her cheek.

  Strangely, the blow strengthened her. She raised her head with all the majesty that remained within her and faced the woman.

  “The Sisters have spoken. Death comes. Nothing will change what will be. You can only savor what is. Tend to them. Cherish them for the time they have left.”

  The anger began to drain from her. “And prepare. Prepare for life without them.” She turned toward the horses. Her two attendants stood behind her, stunned and pale. At a nod they accompanied her as she walked away.

  The women of the village remained where she had left them. But one young girl, no more than fourteen, followed her to the road. She was pretty, even with tears streaming down her face.

  “My Otto.” Her voice broke. “Surely, not my Otto. He’s so young.”

  The sibyl shook her head. “Death comes.” She touched the girl’s cheek. “Take him to your bed. Have his babe. It will be your memory of him.”

  The sibyl reclaimed her robe, turned away from the town, and rode past the well-built homes and well-kept farms. She rode with her back erect and her head held high until she knew she could no longer be seen in the distance. Only then did she allow the sobs to take her.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Worms

  A crow, perched high in the trees above them, flapped its wings and cawed mockingly at the army passing below. Carloman scowled at the black beast. He didn’t believe in omens – no good Christian did – but he was beginning to worry that in the short two weeks since he left Paris his campaign had been cursed.

  First, Pippin refused to join him on the march, offering only vague, last minute assurances that he would eventually bring his army into the fray. Then, a catching disease had swept through the ranks, devastating the readiness of his men. Those who caught it retched and shat for three days and became so weak they couldn’t march. Although it didn't deplete their numbers, the symptoms slowed their progress to a mule's pace. The smell of puke and excrement hung over the army like a cloud. Those who hadn't yet caught the disease knew it was but a matter of time before they did.

  Last, he had received troubling reports that Theudebald had crossed the Rhine to sack Worms, killing dozens including the Duc and his son. The Alemannian was last seen taking his army east.

  Carloman, who had planned to cross the Rhine at Strasbourg, altered course at Metz to capture the old Roman highway to the northern city of Worms.

  Carloman cursed under his breath. If he hadn’t had to chase down Pippin in Poitiers, the sack of Worms would never have happened.

  As they approached the city, smoke still clung to its skyline. Carloman had his men camp alongside a lake near the city while he, Drogo and Boniface took a small contingent of men in to assess the damage.

  They entered through the Western gate and the sickly-sweet smell of rot assaulted Carloman. The city walls were lined with carts overflowing with bloated corpses, grotesque in decomposition. A third of the city had burned, mostly the buildings along the river. All that remained were charcoaled two-storied skeletons of what had once been the nicest homes in Worms. The air was still thick with soot and ash that clung to building walls and stones in the street.

  People fled at the sight of their warhorses. They reached the city’s center before anyone confronted them. A lone woman stepped forward in the middle of the street. It took Carloman a moment to recognize her.

  “Lady Hilda.” He bowed from his saddle. When he last saw the Duchesse, she was a tall and elegant woman of great wit and grace. Now, she looked stooped and forlorn with a pall clouding her eyes.

  “My greetings, Carloman, although I doubt that you’ll find your visit here welcoming.”

  Carloman dismounted and took her hands in his. “I am sorry for the loss of Duc Robert and your son. I pledge to you that I will see them avenged.”

  Her eyes didn’t seem to register his words. She turned to lead him through the city as if he was on tour. When she spoke, her voice was distant. “We were no match for such numbers. After he took the city, Theudebald gathered what was left of our garrison and sent them into the barracks.” She waved vaguely in the direction of a charred, husk of a building. “He burned them alive. Then they came for the women and children.”

  “Hilda, you don’t need to–”

  “They raped us.” Her words were flat, devoid of emotion. “They made great sport of trapping us and ripping off our clothes. We begged them, pleading for the children. Some of the husbands and fathers tried to stop it. They, too, were bent over barrels in the town square and sodomized, right in front of their wives and children. There was no one to stop it. It never seemed to end.”

  For the first time, the Duchess looked up at Carloman. The emptiness of her gaze unnerved him. “They took our souls.”

  As much as the city’s plight pained Carloman, it didn’t surprise him. Taking the spoils of war was common, even among the Franks. Charles had tried to rein in the practice to stop the endless cycle of retribution it caused. He would say, “A vanquished foe can be an ally. A ravaged foe will always be an enemy.”

  The Duchesse led Carloman to a garden at the center of the city. A large oak tree stood at the northeast corner. From its limbs hung the bodies of Duc Robert and his son Hilfred. Their genitals had been cut off and tied around their necks. Vultures and insects picked at their bloated bodies. “Theudebald said not to cut them down until you arrived. He said it’s an offering to their gods.”

  While Boniface ministered to the Lady Hilda, Carloman himself cut down the bodies of Duc Robert and Hilfred. Drogo oversaw the digging of massive graves for the dead and began the task of rebuilding the barracks and the church. A count of the survivors showed over two hundred had been killed. Although the men comprised the greatest number of those slain, the toll among the women and children was also high. Many had died from wounds suffered during the rape. Others simply had been beaten to death.

  Carloman reluctantly replaced the city’s garrison with two hundred of his men to guard the city. He would need every man to defeat Odilo’s rebellion. Given the circumstances, however, he had little choice. He couldn’t leave the city undefended.

  It took four days to bury the bodies and clear the remnants of the buildings devastated by fire. What crops needed planting were planted. What cattle that needed tending were tended to. The markets were reopened, and Carloman sent word to Metz requesting artisans and laborers to come and help rebuild the city.

  On the Sabbath, Boniface held mass in the courtyard before the edifice being constructed for the new church. While Carloman was happy to see that a large crowd gathered to attend, he was concerned that they still looked stunned as if they had received a collective blow to the head.

  As the mass got underway, the congregation seemed to revive, albeit slowly. They knelt at the appropriate places and gave the correct responses prescribed by the ritual of the mass. It’s a start, Carloman thought.

  When it came time for the homily, Boniface walked down into the courtyard to stand among the survivors. “Brothers and sisters in Christ, we’ve lost many in the past few weeks. Wives. Husbands. Sons. Daughters. We grieve for them. And we grieve for the innocence that’s been taken from us and for the cruelty you all have had to suffer. It’s a harsh world and you have been treated harshly by it. I won’t speak today of forgiveness, for looking into your eyes, I see little room for a concept so noble. And I won’t speak of vengeance because the Lord has said that vengeance is His province alone.”

  Boniface paused for effect.

  “But know this: justice will be served. The army outside these gates will not falter in its pursuit of those who have brought such harm. The wicked shall be brought low as they are an offense to God.”

  Heads nodded and murmurs of assent rippled through the crowd. Good, Carloman thought, noting the signs of life.
But something felt out of place to him. Something was missing.

  “For those we bury today,” Boniface continued, “I take great solace in the knowledge that they now stand before God and the gates of Heaven to receive His judgment. Their journey on this earth has ended. Our journey, however, continues. Your journey continues. You survived. You remain. It is time to bury our dead and turn our eyes to the living. There are mouths to feed. Wounds to heal. Crops to grow. And lives to live.”

  Boniface’s face lit up with his message of hope.

  “We are people of faith. We have faith that life is worth living. We have faith that our lives have purpose. We have faith that love will bloom anew and that children will be born to our families. You survived the attack of the Allemanni. You are living proof that God’s plans for you are not finished. Tomorrow this army will march east to seek justice, peace and security. Your work is here. Rebuild your lives and this city. Only then will your enemies truly be vanquished for they will have failed to crush your spirit.”

  It was then that Carloman realized what was missing. It was Lady Hilda.

  During the Eucharist, when his departure wouldn’t be noticed, Carloman slipped away. Drogo, ever watchful, followed and the two ran to check her residence. They never made it that far. They found her at the northeast corner of the garden at the city’s center. She was hanging from a limb of the large oak tree.

  Chapter Twenty

  Regensburg

  Trudi was welcomed back to court with a tremendous round of applause. According to Tobias, fear for her and her baby had spiked during her confinement, with many speculating that she would lose the child. Her reappearance did much to quell, but not stop, the gossip.