Wheel of the Fates: Book Two of the Carolingian Chronicles

by J. Boyce Gleason

  “Get up! Get back to the line!” he shouted. “Get back to the line!”

  His men looked at him as if he were daft. They were holding bandages to open wounds and severed limbs. Many lay on the ground.

  Carloman drew his sword and rode down the nearest man. With a broad sweep of his blade, he cleaved the soldier’s head from his body. “Get back to the line! I’ll kill every last one of you. Get back to the line!”

  Those who could move scrambled to avoid him. He screamed like a demon swinging his sword at anyone who lagged behind. His fury herded nearly a hundred and fifty men back into the battle behind the third and fourth column. Their added weight strengthened the shields and the line reformed. Carloman rode the length of his army screaming every oath he could remember. If his men were to fear anyone, he wanted it to be him.

  An hour passed. Then another. And still the line held. As dusk fell into darkness, the Bavarian horns called for retreat and Carloman let himself believe that they had survived. He knelt on the battlefield and prayed to Saint Michael to intercede for another day’s grace. Every soldier left on the field knelt with him.

  Hamar met him in his tent. “Five hundred men lost.”

  Carloman nodded.

  “We can’t defeat him this way, Carloman. Odilo will win by attrition. Sooner or later, their numbers will overwhelm us.”

  “What would you have me do? Retreat?”

  Hamar’s face was cut from stone. “Let’s find better ground. We can harass their advance, stretch their supply lines, and use surprise to sap their strength. If we line up in four columns tomorrow, we’ll lose.”

  His words cut deeply into Carloman’s pride. He would never run before Odilo’s army. He would never look weak and afraid. A leader’s weakness fueled his enemy’s fire. He had to fight. He had to win. It was his only choice.

  “Only a third of Odilo’s army is comprised of hardened Bavarian troops. That’s what we fought today. The rest are Slavs. They’re nothing but savages. With each passing day Odilo will lose his best men. In a day or two, we’ll be fighting peasants with sticks. We just have to hold on till then. Our cavalry will keep us whole until Pippin arrives.”

  Hamar seemed less than convinced. “And if Pippin doesn’t?”

  Carloman ignored him and went to bed. His night was restless with specters of doubt and failure. He ran over his battle plan again and again, looking for any possible advantage. Sleep came and went of its own in accord, further undermining his sense of reality. For a time, he walked among the battlefield’s dead with his father. Charles kept asking, “What have you done?”

  ✽✽✽

  Carloman rose well before dawn and walked among the tents housing his army. The feeling of dread he had experienced on the battlefield bloomed again inside him. All his life he had fought by his father’s side. He had never once doubted the outcome of a battle. The success and failure always had rested with Charles alone. And Charles never lost. Now that the responsibility fell to him, Carloman understood the weight of it. He alone would be given credit for a successful outcome, just as he alone would bear the blame of defeat.

  He went to rouse Hamar. His champion was awake in an instant.

  “Walk with me.” They went out into the feeble light of the morning and with the use of a nearby stick, Carloman drew battle lines in the dirt outside his champion’s tent. “Odilo will push hard on our right flank to exploit the weakness he found there yesterday.”

  Hamar nodded. “I can divert men from the left to shore up our strength.”

  “Make sure we don’t offer Odilo too thin of a line. He needs to see an army full of regulars. Put all the wounded who can fight behind our left flank.”

  “Huh-yah.”

  “And then I’ve got one more strategy I’d like to employ.”

  ✽✽✽

  Odilo watched the sun creep over the horizon much as it had on the first day of battle, casting long shadows of his men. They shifted uneasily in their lines, waiting for the combat to begin. The sounds of their apprehension – metal shields and armor clanging in their restlessness – only fueled their disquiet.

  This time, there would be no call for champions. At Odilo’s signal, the horns blew and the Bavarian columns flowed across the field.

  Carloman, too, signaled for his men to advance and the distance between the two armies disappeared under the relentless march of infantrymen.

  At twenty paces, he raised a signal flag and the first lines of his army’s right flank fell to the ground as if they had been slain. Odilo stood up in his saddle to get a better view of what was occurring. It had to be some kind of trick.

  Behind the fallen shields stood archers, crossbows cocked at the ready.

  “Shields!” Odilo screamed. “Shields!”

  The first row of archers triggered their bows and a wave of arrows slammed into Odilo’s left column. Scores fell before the onslaught, arrows protruding from their eye sockets and necks. A second volley took a similar toll. His men were screaming and cowering behind their shields. A third volley flew. His line was disintegrating.

  Again, and again, they fired, wreaking devastation with each volley.

  “Charge!” Odilo put heels to his warhorse. “Charge! Take out the archers!”

  His cavalry swept outside the decimated shield wall to run down the archers, buying some much-needed time for his line to reform.

  At a command from Carloman, the Franks’ archers dropped back, and his shield line reformed as if nothing had happened. They raised pikes against Odilo’s cavalry, and the warhorses veered away in panic. The Franks’ infantry turned to face Odilo’s men. They raised their shields and closed, pushing with such force that Odilo’s men fell back, struggling to hold a coherent line. Odilo ordered the cavalry to harass the Franks’ progress along the edges, but his entire left flank was giving way under the onslaught.

  The fight within the shield wall grew desperate. Odilo took the cavalry to harass Carloman’s right flank, hoping to use his presence as a rallying point. Men cheered him as he crashed into Franks’ infantry, but their voices were muted. They were too focused, fighting for their lives. Odilo brought forward the first of his reserves. If he couldn’t tactically beat Carloman, he would overwhelm him.

  ✽✽✽

  Carloman fell back alongside Drogo to see the shape of the battle. While his strategy had worked, it had only succeeded in giving him more time. There were simply too many Bavarians. Odilo had more men to throw into the battle and it took away any advantage he temporarily might have.

  An hour passed. Two. Carloman’s line was weakening and he had no more reserves to draw upon. His eyes searched the horizon. He wasn’t sure they would last until nightfall. The specter of defeat hung over him like a dark cloud. God help us, he prayed.

  To shore up his line, he ordered his men to fall back in a structured retreat. It was his only choice. As the Bavarians advanced over the battlefield, they stabbed the bodies of the wounded Franks lying in their wake. Helpless to stop it, Carloman offered a prayer for their souls.

  The only thing keeping them in the fight was the superiority of his cavalry, but even that couldn’t stop the Bavarian advance. Across the field, his line was in retreat. It was only a matter of time before defeat was inevitable.

  Carloman pictured the surrender in his mind and knew he couldn’t abide it. He wouldn’t concede as had Rasling. He would not kneel before Odilo. He would not bow before a pagan god and renounce his faith. He roared his frustration like a wounded animal.

  An idea pricked at the corner of his thoughts, its implications so dire that he almost dismissed it out of hand. But as the concept took shape in his mind, he seized hold of it with all his might. In an instant, the din of the battle quieted and the pace of it slowed. His infantry still strained inside the shield wall and his cavalry still pranced on the edges of the fray, but Carloman stood outside the battle.

  How little he had accomplished! He was never the man Charles had been and now he
would never get the chance. The fate of Francia would be left to Pippin.

  The thought of his brother redoubled his fears. Pippin didn’t have his faith, his political acumen, or his vision. And he was hardly a match for the Merovingian. Carloman’s eyes welled at the thought. He had failed. He had failed everyone he loved.

  The sounds of the battle roared back to him and Carloman blinked to clear his eyes. Making the sign of the cross, he called for Hamar.

  “We’re going to mount a cavalry charge between the third and fourth columns to break their line.”

  “That’s suicide. Their pikes will turn the horses and we’ll get cut down.”

  “Not if we force a break. If we can cut through, and make a run at Odilo, we have a chance to turn the battle.”

  “Not a good chance. We’re better off holding the line until nightfall.”

  “We won’t make it. It’s the charge or nothing.”

  Hamar was no fool. He understood what such a charge meant. “Then I will lead it.”

  “No, old friend. This is my war. My doing. Its fate rides with me.”

  Hamar nodded. “As do I.”

  Carloman put his hand on Hamar’s shoulder, an act of intimacy he rarely displayed. “Thank you, my friend.”

  He then sent for Drogo. It took only a minute for his son to arrive.

  “Hamar and I are going to lead a cavalry charge to break their line. You have command of the battle, son.”

  Tears sprang in Drogo’s eyes. He knew it was lunacy. “Is there no other way?”

  Carloman shook his head. “The fighting is desperate. The men won’t last much longer. Should we fail, organize an orderly retreat. Show Odilo enough spear and he won’t follow you tonight. Fall back until you can join Pippin.”

  Color blossomed in Drogo’s cheeks. “You’re the arm of God, Father. You will not fail.”

  Carloman smiled. “You’re a good son, Drogo. Always stand in the light of our Lord.” He made the sign of the cross over Drogo’s forehead. “I give you the blessing my father gave me.”

  “Father, no – ” Emotion choked off Drogo’s voice.

  “Our line is sworn to preserve the might of Francia and to champion the will of God. I leave this solemn task in your hands and in the hands of your children and your children's children. Be fearless in the face of our enemies and humble in the hands of the Father. Be true, my son. And may the blessing of God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost come upon you and remain with you forever.”

  Although Drogo sat straight in his saddle, tears streamed down his face. Carloman and Hamar turned as one. At a signal from Hamar, the cavalry fell in behind them.

  Carloman led them in a long arc behind the line until the cavalry was at full gallop. He drove them straight up through the center of the battle, between the second and third columns, banking on surprise to catch the Bavarian shields before their pikes could be raised. It was a risky move. If they failed, the lead horses would be gored and the charge halted abruptly, leaving the cavalry vulnerable. Even if they were successful, there was a chance that the lead horses could be cut off before the bulk of the cavalry was through the line.

  They burst through the opening between the two columns before the pikes were raised and Carloman plowed into the left side of the Bavarian infantry. His horse became a battering ram and Carloman chopped his sword down on any and all that were near him. Hamar rode beside him and together they pushed deep inside the enemy. It took a minute before Carloman realized he was screaming in rage as they drove a wedge into the enemy’s forces.

  Deeper and deeper, they plunged, spreading death in a wake behind them. Carloman didn’t look back to see if the cavalry had broken through behind them. It no longer mattered. He was a dead man either way. Those first through such a breach never survived.

  Somehow, this knowledge lifted him, elevating his mind and body in the last moments of life. The battle again slowed around him. His mind seemed three steps ahead of his sword, and all who came before it were swept away.

  A blade grazed his shield arm, but Carloman didn’t feel it; he was impervious. “I am the arm of God,” he screamed as the bodies piled up around him. The power he wielded was euphoric; surely, God’s touch was upon him.

  A pike gored his horse and Carloman jumped free to avoid being pinned. He wheeled to cut off the arm of the man responsible and laid waste to those around him. He was surrounded and alone on foot. A part of him recognized that those he fought wore only a patchwork of armor and wielded wooden staffs, peasants who had taken up arms. Carloman took their souls as well.

  In the distance, horns blared, but the weight of the war no longer held Carloman. All that mattered was happening now in this moment. His sword wove a pattern of blood around him as he wheeled and spun to meet his attackers. He no longer could see Hamar but didn’t have time to look for him. He pushed further into the sea of soldiers and they fell before him as he became death incarnate.

  He saw the rock before it hit him. He snapped his head away, hoping to soften the blow, but the shock of it jolted through him. He stumbled under its impact but caught his balance before falling. The entire left side of his face grew numb and his sense of grace and euphoria dissipated. The touch of God lifted from him and the battle rushed back to its normal pace.

  He found himself alone atop a small hill, blood running into his eyes and without his shield. He held his sword before him with both hands, trying to see the threat before him. He was encircled, but no one was close enough to strike.

  Another rock struck him on the arm. A third hit him in the back.

  Carloman staggered under the blow. “Fight, goddamn you!” But they stayed away from his sword. “Cowards!” he shouted, and then realized they were peasants. Of course, they wouldn’t fight.

  Another rock hit him and another. He blinked, trying to clear his eyes. He sensed movement to his left and swung blindly, hoping to capture one more death in his struggle, but his blade found nothing, and he stumbled off balance.

  “Hamar!” He called for his champion. If he was to die, he wanted Hamar to be with him. “HAMAR!” A wooden staff caught him across the back and Carloman went down to a knee. He struggled, trying to get back to his feet.

  “HAMAR!!”

  Another glancing blow hit his head and Carloman went down. They descended upon him then, beating him and kicking him from all sides. He tried to cover his head with his arms, but it wasn’t sufficient. Blow after blow pushed him further and further from consciousness. As the darkness took him, he tried to remember the prayer for extreme unction, but his memory failed him. Instead, he held out his hand in supplication as he had a thousand times to St. Michael.

  But his guardian angel didn’t answer.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Regensburg

  By the time Trudi heard about Theudebald’s return to Regensburg, the Alemannian had already taken control of the fort’s garrison and closed the gates to the city.

  According to Hans, after Theudebald lost the battle to Carloman, he rallied together what was left of the Hessians and Alemannians by promising to restore their arms and their dignity. Once the men had reassembled, he had led them directly back to the gates of Regensburg which opened to him as an allied combatant. Theudebald immediately ordered his men to raid the armory and seize the city.

  Trudi fought to keep her panic from overwhelming her. It was her worst fear come to call. With Odilo away, she and the city would be at Theudebald’s mercy. She had to get away. She had to run.

  She didn’t even make it to the corridor before the realization hit her. She couldn’t run. Not in her condition. “Christ!” Trudi tried to quell her panic.

  “Milady?” Hans stood looking at her expectantly.

  Trudi returned to her room. "You must secure the palace.” She tried to keep her voice calm. “Send to the nobles left in the city for reinforcement and get me a messenger. I need to send word to Odilo.”

  “Of course, milady.” Hans bowed to take hi
s leave, but Trudi grabbed his arm.

  “Theudebald must not take the palace. Promise me!”

  Hans stood to attention. “You have my word, milady.”

  The relief she found in his promise, however, was short-lived. A stabbing pain lanced across her stomach, forcing her to grab the back of a chair for support. It took several moments to subside.

  “Not now. Not now!” Trudi mumbled under her breath as she made her way to her balcony. From there she had an unimpeded view of the square outside the palace and the road leading up to its gate. The road had an “S” shape to it, as if the Romans who built it were inebriated. She watched as Hans mobilized her guard to reinforce the door and stepped aside as archers raced up the palace stairs to take their places in the highest of the palace windows.

  It didn't take long before Theudebald’s men arrived.

  There were only five of them, a brutish bunch that bullied their way through the square, shoving aside all they encountered. The leader, a broad-chested Alemannian newly dressed in Bavarian armor, waved aside her guard as he approached the gate. He seemed genuinely surprised when they refused.

  His tone was imperious. “I have orders to take control of the palace and to place the Lady Hiltrude under guard for her protection.”

  Hans, to his credit, was calm and professional. “The Lady Hiltrude is already protected and under guard.”

  “Then fetch her. I’m to take her to Lord Theudebald.”

  Hans said nothing.

  The Alemannian moved to push past him, but stopped when the tips of two spears held by her guards appeared at his throat. He held up his arms and backed away. A crowd began to form in the market.

  “Don’t be foolish, my friend. I’m here with an army of men under Lord Theudebald’s direction. Either let me in or I’ll be back with them in minutes to take your palace. And I promise you, if I have to do that, your head will be mounted above that fucking door.”