Boniface frowned. "Conversion is a complicated affair, especially in a world where the forest defines one's existence. There’s a great tendency to embrace the false gods of the land rather than to aspire to an afterlife in the Kingdom of Heaven. It can take decades to convert the pagan to true Christian belief. And, of course, not all the tribal leaders bent their knee when I was last here.”
From their elevated vantage point, Boniface pointed to three great hills rising from the forest floor next to a sliver of blue water. “There lies Fritzlar. With your permission, I’ll ride ahead and pay my respects to Father Sturm and bring word of your arrival. I’m sure that his welcome of your officers will be most generous."
"I'd like to camp there for a few days. Can we expect the good father to extend us his hospitality?"
"I should think so." Boniface paused. "Although pushing on to Fulda might be a better choice. The fortifications of your old fort there will provide a much better defensible position."
Carloman frowned. “I imagine that Theudebald is well south of here.”
Boniface shook his head. “I was referring of the local Hessian chieftains. Although most formally acknowledge their vassalage to you– and to our Lord – some can be as difficult as the Gasçons.”
"How much of a threat are they?"
"They’re too few to affect a direct attack. But they can certainly provide a frustrating level of harassment as we continue east. Like wolves, they prey on strays and attack vulnerable points in the line. In the forest, they can inflict significant damage. You will never see them, but they’ll be there the moment you let your guard down.”
“Then we should root out the rebellious chieftains while we’re here.”
“That’s something your father would have said.” Boniface again shook his head. “It only would rebound against you. We already have won the war. Most of the tribes accept Christianity, even if not embraced wholeheartedly. Those who refused aren’t critical to the cause, but they’re all Hessians. Attacking one will rally the others, pagan and Christian, to their defense.
“The Church has forged a fragile truce. The pagan chieftains leave us alone. A few priests on a mountain top aren’t much to tolerate," Boniface said. "But an army of Christians camping among them for days?" Boniface let the thought hang. “It may bring out the worst in them.”
"Let Father Sturm know that we'll push on to Fulda in the morning," Carloman said, "but before we leave, I'd like to see the stump of your tree."
“Ah!” Boniface grinned. “It wasn’t my tree, it was Thor’s.”
✽✽✽
Carloman’s reference to the tree touched Boniface deeply. Many years had passed, and few remembered his feat, especially in the west. He suspected that with the passing of another generation, no one would recall it at all.
With a bow to acknowledge the compliment, Boniface kicked the flanks of his horse and left the road to skirt the ranks of Carloman's army.
As he overtook the lead units, he said a short prayer of thanks and pressed on towards the three hills in the distance. To his joy, he soon was surrounded by oak and elm on the Forrest Road and gave his mare her head. As he plunged deeper into the forest, massive trees towered over him, filtering out the grey clouds above and leaving the woodland below in a soft orange light.
He thundered through it, delighting in the recognition of the trees and rocks and flowers that spread through the undergrowth. Familiar landmarks leapt out at him and he veered to the right of a boulder nestled at the apex of a fork in the road, and taking a smaller, less-traveled path, he rose high above the main road. His mare slowed as the path grew steep. He urged it forward, digging his heels into her flank. Rocks skittered down the path at his intrusion and soon it was difficult to navigate. In places Boniface had to dismount to continue up the slope.
It was farther than he had remembered, but he was determined to reach the summit. When at last he topped the hill, the forest around him opened onto a plateau of tall grass. Boniface led his horse to the far end of field where the world fell away, offering a view of over a hundred miles. It was his favorite spot in all of Hesse. Two great hilltops stood to the south of him, flanked by a ribbon of water. The furthest was Büraburg where the monastery stood. He could just make out the outlines of the chapel and the monastery’s dormitories. Across the Eder lay Fritzlar to the southeast. As much as any place in the world, this was home to him. His eyes moistened at the sight.
Although Fritzlar was primarily a small farming town, its position adjacent to the Eder made it a waystation for those who traded along the river. Merchants and craftsman from many different tribal clans gave the town the feel of a much larger city. On the rare occasions that tribal leaders from the northern regions gathered, they met at Fritzlar. Boniface suspected that originally this was due to Thor's Oak. He hoped that by now, his monastery had replaced the pagan site as a place of worship.
Boniface led his horse to a small pond at the east end of the field and let her drink. Looking out over the horizon, he pulled from his pack a piece of bread and cheese and sat against a rock that faced the outlook. He had plenty of time to reach the monastery, so he ate and drank slowly, savoring the view. It had been too long since his last visit.
He was far from young when he came to Hesse, but looking back on that time, he had been quite naïve. His years in the Church had been that of a pampered cleric. Having devoted his life to the Rule of St. Benedict, he had studied long and traveled far, but his true calling wasn’t revealed until his tutelage with Willibord whom the Pope called “the Apostle of the Frisians.”
Willibord had taken him out to proselytize among the tribes. The chieftains had accepted them as holy men and listened respectfully to their news about the one true God. Although the Hessian chieftains welcomed the new god, they laughed at the claim that he was the only one - the true God. To Boniface's horror, they merely added the cross to their panoply of idols, vowing to serve Him along with the likes of Freyer and Odin. No amount of assurance would move them to understand that they worshipped falsely.
“We give no offense to your god,” they would say. “Give no offense to ours.”
Several months later, Charles came east with his army to demand an oath of fealty from Radbod of Frisia and the Hessian chieftains. With an army of ten thousand camped across the Eder River, the tribal leaders gathered in blot, an ancient pagan ritual to augur the chances of military victory. The rite was held in a clearing just outside Fritzlar before their sacred tree, an oak dedicated to the pagan god, Thor.
With divine inspiration, Boniface led a procession of priests and acolytes into the clearing and interrupted the rite. Holding the cross aloft before him, Boniface circled the elders and stopped before Thor's oak. There, he produced an ax and shaking his fist at the heavens, challenged Thor to strike him dead with a thunderbolt if the pagan gods were superior to the one true God. Then he cut down the tree.
When the magnificent oak crashed to the earth, a great wind blew across the clearing and Boniface raised his arms as if in holy embrace of his Savior. The tribal leaders fell to their knees and Boniface converted them where they knelt. The next day Charles accepted their hands in fealty and helped Boniface haul the tree across the Eder to a tall hill overlooking the town. There, Boniface ordained that the oak be used to build the Büraburg monastery. Nothing in his life, including his first visit with Pope Gregory, had brought him closer to God.
✽✽✽
Boniface awoke to a hand shaking his shoulder. He tried batting it away, but something hard poked his chest. He opened his eyes to find an iron pike two inches from his heart. Boniface pushed it away and did his best to get to his feet. "Who dares assault a bishop of the one true God?"
A thick hand shoved him backwards and Boniface sat hard on the ground, his robe hiking up to display his legs. Spindly and pale, they spread out before him, making Boniface feel vulnerable and old. He squinted into the sunlight to see his attacker.
"Mistake to come bac
k, tree-killer," a gruff voice said. "Some don't forget."
The voice was familiar. If only he could see the man's face...
"I fear no man," Boniface said.
"Should.” His captor knelt before him. It was clear that the man expected Boniface to recognize him, but Boniface could see only the silhouette of a head with long gray hair framing a balding pate. Two men with pikes stood behind him. It wasn’t until the man's acrid odor assaulted Boniface that he knew who was delaying him.
"Immelt." Boniface filled the name with all the distaste he held for the man. A minor tribal leader who refused to convert, Immelt was a mystic who held to the pagan beliefs honoring Vaettir, the spirits of the rocks, rivers and trees. His sharp odor derived from rituals that burned brimstone to "release the breath" of the Vaettir living in the stone.
"Da, priest!" Immelt smiled and motioned for his men to pull Boniface to his feet. They lifted him by the armpits and bound his wrists together behind his back. "Come to pay for sins?" Immelt asked. "What do cross bearers call it?"
Now that Boniface could see Immelt, he found his captor a ghost of the man he had known twenty years earlier. The man’s eyes were sunken deep in dark sockets that shrank from the light. A thin beard covered the pale skin of his face and yellow stains covered his hands. He was too thin, as if he was wasting away from something that burned within him. Immelt was tall, but Boniface would be surprised if the man weighed ten stone, His captor wore a large animal pelt over his shoulders that made Boniface shudder. It was wargskin, the hide of a great wolf of the forest. According to pagan lore, a warg guarded the Hall of Hel. Its pelt was considered to be magic of the darkest kind.
"It’s called atonement,” Boniface said. “And no, I have nothing to regret. You detain me at your peril, Immelt. I’m not alone."
"Saw army." The tribal leader folded his arms. “One god no longer protects you?"
"Do not mock the power of the Almighty. It is His hand that guides this army. You were witness to the felling of Thor's oak. The time of the pagan gods is drawing to a close. One day soon, you will witness their end."
Immelt moved so fast, Boniface barely saw the knife at his throat. Boniface could feel the man’s breath on his lips. "You destroy our sacred tree and have stones to come back? You’re a fool, priest.”
It wasn’t the first time Boniface had been threatened. He held himself erect, refusing to grovel before the man who held him. "Beware of what you do here, Immelt. There’s a special place in Hell for those who murder priests."
"Save sermon for pigeons," Immelt said. "I don’t fear one god. Fates bring you here. Bring you to our gods. Bring you to me."
Furious to be at the mercy of such a vile man, Boniface briefly strained against his captors. "There are no Fates, Immelt. But there is justice. I was brought here by Carloman, son of Charles, now mayor of the palace and leader of the Franks. You would
do well to remember it."
"Da, priest," Immelt threw his knife into the ground. “I have a message for him."
Boniface didn’t bother to hide his surprise. “You? What could you possibly have to say to Carloman?”
"Do you think of us as children?" Immelt sputtered, his face blotching red. "Charles is dead. War comes. Chieftains gather in blot. Choose allies. Bring son of Charles to Fritzlar on Thor’s day. He will sit on the High Seat.”
Again, Boniface was surprised. Very likely, the tribal chieftains were being recruited as allies by the rebellion and were gathering to decide which side to join. Carloman's sudden appearance might be taken as an omen. Inviting him to sit on the High Seat was both an honor and potentially an offer. To Boniface's relief, it also was a reprieve from Immelt's declared oath of vengeance.
“I’ll take him the message.”
Immelt motioned for the guards to untie his hands. "Next time, tree-killer, you pay for sins. Next time."
Chapter Twenty-two
East of Paris
In the end, they decided to walk. It was Agnès’s idea. “They’re looking for two noble women on horseback. We’ll be three peasant women afoot. We’ll walk right past them.”
Bertrada’s week working the farm helped perfect the look. Her fingernails were cracked and underlined with dirt and her skin had darkened under the noonday sun. Agnès had also insisted on another change; she had dyed Bertrada’s hair black and cut it short.
“I’ll have you looking like a peasant yet,” she said, admiring her work.
Once they had decided on a destination, all three were anxious to be on their way. Patrice would manage the farm while Agnès journeyed with them. They left at first light and headed up the north road into town.
It was a good walk. Bertrada was already tired when they reached the crossroads that served as the area’s center of commerce. It offered an inn, a stable, a store selling sundries, and an open-air market for food from nearby farms. Agnès stopped at the market and bought bread and fruit for their journey. She introduced Hélène to the woman who owned the market as her sister and Bertrada as her niece.
Bertrada marveled at the ease and intimacy of the women’s conversation.
“You tell that Giselle to keep her husband off her,” Agnès was saying. “She’s had six babes already and the last two were trouble. She’ll not live through another.”
“She won’t listen.” The woman waved her hand. “She’s worried he’ll bed down with the shepherd’s daughter.”
“Better that than bear another child.”
“Unless you’re the shepherd’s daughter. Won’t be long before Patrice is ready.”
“Aye, he’s already spilling seed.”
“Whom have you got your eye on?”
“Well, it’s not the shepherd’s daughter!”
The two women laughed.
They carried the food bundled in sacks over their shoulders and walked past the inn. The armed men were there, Bertrada recognized none of them from the attack after the ball. Agnès dropped her eyes and dipped into a half curtsy on their way past and Hélène and Bertrada followed her lead. The men barely looked at them.
“Don’t hurry,” Agnès whispered as she led them out of town. She kept their pace to a slow and steady walk. After a mile Bertrada offered a small cheer of celebration. The two older women laughed.
“We’ve got a long way to go,” Hélène cautioned.
And she was right. The downside of walking is that it takes a long time to get where you’re going. It took an entire day to reach the next village, especially with Bertrada having to stop so frequently. Although, embarrassed to be so weak in the presence of such strong women, there was little she could do about it. She didn’t have the stamina to keep up.
They stayed with the sister of a woman from Agnès’s village and left in the morning at first light. Bertrada groaned at the blisters on her feet and the aches in her legs. Hélène and Agnès ignored these outbursts and marched on at a steady pace. At midday, they stopped at the side of the road for a bite. Three armed men rode by them, the same men from the inn. Again, they paid little attention to the women on the road.
But they were waiting in the next town, sitting in front of the inn, eyeing all those who passed and asking questions of the villagers.
A spike of fear shot down Bertrada’s spine. She wanted to run. “They saw us in the last town and again on the road. They’ll stop us this time.”
Hélène frowned. “Our only way is forward. We should stay at the inn tonight.”
Bertrada had trouble breathing. “Why would we do that?”
Agnès nodded in agreement. “It’s a good plan. If we were fleeing them, we wouldn’t spend the night at their inn.”
“But they’ll question us. They’ll know.”
They were drawing close to the inn. Hélène whispered. “Three women, not two, and none are blond.”
Bertrada repeated this to herself a dozen times.
The king’s men eyed them as they approached.
“What’s your business here?�
� One had a thick mustache. He barred their way with an outstretched arm.
Agnès stepped forward. “I am Agnès. You know us. At least, you saw us in the last village and on the road here. This is my sister and her daughter. We’re travelling to Meaux.”
“And what business do you have there?”
“I’m Meldois. It’s my home. My husband took me from my family. He died last month of the fever. So now I go home.”
“And you?”
Hélène’s face was made of stone. “I came to watch the bastard die.” She spat on the ground.
Surprise took the man’s face. After a moment, he turned to his companions and laughed. “Remind me to be wary of women from Meaux.”
He waved them inside and Agnès took a small room by the stables for the three of them. It was clean but had only one bed for the three of them.
Bertrada frowned. “You could have asked for a bigger room.”
“That’s what a noblewoman would do.” Hélène patted her shoulder. “For the duration of this trip, we’re common folk. Besides, the Meldois are known to be a frugal people.”
“I’m glad I was born in Laon.”
✽✽✽
They took their dinner in the inn’s great room. It held no more than fifteen tables and only half of them had patrons. The evening’s stew was rabbit and Bertrada was glad for anything other than their road staple of cheese and bread. Agnès ordered a pint of ale and the three of them shared it,
The king’s men came in and took a table. Bertrada paid a great deal of attention to her bowl of stew to avoid staring at them.
“You shouldn’t have ordered the ale.” Hélène scolded. “It suggests we’re wanton.”
“Hush,” Agnès laughed. “I’m a widow, celebrating.”
“They’re staring at us.” Hélène whispered. “We should have taken our meal in the room.”
Wheel of the Fates: Book Two of the Carolingian Chronicles Page 22
