Wheel of the Fates: Book Two of the Carolingian Chronicles Read online

  “So, what do we do with him?” Gunther asked.

  He and Childebrand stood inside Pippin’s command tent on a field just outside Paris. Anger and frustration laced their voices as they debated how to manage the assembly of nobles without him.

  Pippin could hear them; he was seated on a cot merely steps away. But the urgency of their argument failed to touch him. He hadn’t spoken once in the two days since they had carried him out of Laon. They had cajoled, badgered, and threatened him in an attempt to elicit a response. But where he was, no one could touch him. Nothing mattered. The blackness had him and the howling in the corners of his mind remained at bay.

  Nobles had arrived the previous evening, expecting a private audience with him, but Gunther and Childebrand turned each away with a gruff, “Not tonight, maybe tomorrow.”

  Now it was that tomorrow. Thousands of hooves thudded outside the tent, with the sounds of the morning assembly gathering in the field. Armor clanked; shouts for order and discipline fought to lift above the clamor; and occasionally, an odd horn blared. Soon the time would come, and Pippin would be expected to leave the confines of his tent, mount his horse, and address the nobles who had answered his call.

  But he couldn’t do it. The way forward was too far.

  “I’ll address the Assembly,” Childebrand offered. “I’m Charles’ brother. That should suffice.”

  Gunther grunted. “I doubt it. This is Pippin’s first Assembly since being named mayor. Half of that lot outside has done little but complain about the succession since Charles named his sons mayor. The rest probably wish they had been pledged to Carloman. Gunther waved his hand in Pippin’s direction, “He has to show he can lead them, or he won’t have an army by the end of the day. Even that may not be enough.”

  “Christ,” Childebrand said.

  Pippin felt nothing.

  “And that’s just half the loaf. Gunther continued. “Ganelon of Mayence is stirring up the nobles. He thinks that Carloman and Pippin are incapable of avoiding civil war. He’s calling for a Merovingian to be raised to the throne.”

  The howling inside Pippin’s mind grew louder, but the darkness held.

  “And Ganelon’s got support. He says that without a king, there can be no peace. He even thinks Hunoald and Waifar of Aquitaine had the right to publicly renounce their oath of fealty."

  At the mention of Hunoald and Waifar, Pippin’s mind shifted, and he imagined himself at the side of his father’s casket. He pictured Waifar desecrating the corpse and the howling became a scream in his mind.

  Fury raged in Pippin’s throat. “Did Ganelon say that Waifar had a right to spit in the face of my father’s corpse?” Pippin stood and seized his sword.

  “Pippin!” Gunther nearly tripped trying to stand.

  But Pippin was already outside his tent, striding for his horse.

  He rode before the Assembly, his fury propelling him across the front of their formation. There were no more than five hundred nobles, less than half of what Pippin had anticipated. They quieted at his arrival. He searched among the knights for the object of his anger. When he completed his impromptu review, he cantered back to the center to join Childebrand and Gunther, who had taken their places before the Assembly.

  “Ganelon of Mayence!” Pippin shouted.

  The assembled knights exchanged confused glances with those around them.

  “Ganelon!”

  “Here, milord.”

  Heads turned within the assembly. From the rear a warhorse pushed forward, forcing the knights arrayed before it to move to one side. A large knight, his armor dark and dented, rode with grace and confidence. His standard bearer followed behind him, a youngish boy, clearly nervous at the sudden turn of events.

  The knight placed himself before Pippin and leaned forward in his saddle. Silence took the field.

  Pippin addressed him in a voice that could be heard by the rest of the Assembly.

  “I’ve heard that you support Hunoald’s right to renounce his oath.”

  Ganelon paled at the accusation, but he held himself tall and unbowed. “My lord,” he began in a quiet voice.

  “You speak before the Assembly!” Pippin shouted. Spittle sprayed from his lips with the outburst.

  "Oh, Jesus!” Gunther whispered to Childebrand. “We have to stop him.”

  Pippin held up a hand to still them.

  “My lord,” Ganelon began again, raising his voice to the level of Pippin’s. “Unlike Duke Hunoald, I am here at your service.”

  “Yet you support his treason!”

  “I suggest that we owe fealty first to the King.”

  “Fealty is fealty!” Pippin roared, his face contorting. His horse pranced at the outburst. Pippin reined him in. “You placed your hands between mine and pledged fealty to me! Hunoald renounced his oath and named himself my enemy. His son Waifar spat in the face of my father’s corpse. Do you still believe Hunoald has a right to renounce his oath?”

  “I’m here in your service, milord” the knight replied. “Yet, I suggest that there is a higher-”

  Pippin spat in the knight’s face. Sputum ran down Ganelon’s forehead and into his eyes. Rage took his face, but with an effort, he suppressed it. He quietly removed his gauntlet and found a cloth to wipe away the mucus.

  “I am no enemy, my Lord.” He replaced his gauntlet.

  Pippin spurred forward and backhanded Ganelon across the face.

  A deep guttural roar erupted from the knight’s throat and the sound of blades being drawn sliced through the air.

  Ganelon struck first with an overhand blow. Pippin parried with his sword and Ganelon struck again.

  “Christ!” Gunther spurred his horse to intervene. “Pippin, you have no shield or armor.”

  “Get back!” Pippin never took his eyes off Ganelon.

  It was clear that Ganelon also recognized his advantage. As the two knights converged, he stood in his stirrups and rained down blow after blow, forcing Pippin to parry with his sword high above his head. Ganelon punched forward with his shield and nearly knocked Pippin out of his saddle.

  Again, Ganelon pressed the attack and again Pippin fell back, parrying ineffectively with his blade. As his arms grew tired, Pippin realized his vulnerability and fear pricked the hide of his anger. Ganelon pressed again. Pippin pulled hard on his reins, forcing his warhorse to rear and slash at Ganelon’s mount with its hooves. The knight from Mayence pulled back.

  “You, impudent whelp!” Ganelon shouted. “You aren’t worthy enough to be a son of Charles.”

  Pippin’s head snapped up at the mention of his father’s name and a subtle change came over him. He pushed aside his anger. His movements quieted; his back straightened and his shoulders dropped. Then he charged. Ganelon countered and the two knights raised their blades in unison. As the distance closed between them, Ganelon’s sword arced high overhead, hacking down in a killing blow meant for Pippin’s skull.

  Checking his mount, Pippin pulled to the side and ducked Ganelon’s blade. The knight’s momentum carried him far over his horse’s head and left him exposed and off-balance. Pippin struck him in the ear with the pommel of his sword. Ganelon sat back in his saddle stunned. Pippin grabbed the collar of the man’s armor and spurred his own horse forward, dragging Ganelon backward off his mount.

  Pippin scissored his legs over his saddle to dismount and sprinted to the fallen knight. Encumbered by his armor, Ganelon struggled to regain his feet. He was still struggling when Pippin kicked him in the head. The knight of Mayence crumpled. Pippin planted his broadsword in the ground, grabbed Ganelon by the hair and pulled him into a kneeling position.

  Raising his fist high above Ganelon’s head, Pippin let his fury have its way. He struck Ganelon on the jaw and the knight went down. Pippin pulled him to his knees and began to pummel his face. Ineffectively, Ganelon tried to ward off his attacker. Blow followed blow until Ganelon’s cheek split apart and then Pippin’s fist produced gouts of blood with each clout. Sti
ll Pippin’s rage howled as Ganelon’s blood splashed over his face, chest and arms until the structure of knight’s cheek shattered and the left side of his face seemed to liquefy.

  Only then did the demon leave Pippin. He looked down at the barely conscious knight and let him go.

  Pippin turned to find his horse and pulled a water skin from his saddle. Returning, he emptied the entire contents over the fallen knight’s head. Ganelon sputtered through misshapen lips. Pippin dragged him again into a kneeling position, this time before the sword he had planted in the ground. He took Ganelon’s hands between his and placed them on the pommel.

  “I demand fealty!”

  Ganelon nodded.

  “You will honor my commands and prohibitions,” Pippin’s voice lifted to the entire assembly.

  “I will honor them.” Blood and saliva sprayed from Ganelon’s lips.

  “You acknowledge my right to punish the transgression of my commands and prohibitions.”

  Ganelon nodded.

  “You commit yourself and your vassals to my military service.”

  Again, he nodded.

  “You pledge tribute.”

  “I pledge.”

  “You pledge fidelity…”

  “Yes…”

  “You will not place my life in peril.

  Ganelon shook his head.

  “You will do nothing to endanger me.”

  Again, Ganelon shook his head

  “On your life, you pledge.”

  Ganelon nodded.

  “Say it!” Pippin barked.

  “I pledge.”

  “So, help you, God.”

  “So, help me, God.”

  “Rise, vassal and retake your place.”

  Ganelon attempted to rise, and then collapsed at Pippin’s feet.

  Pippin turned to face the assembled knights.

  “Commendation – the placing of one's hands between those of his lord – is an ancient rite, the symbol of knighthood, and the ultimate gesture of submission and honor. Without it, there would be no law. Without it there would be no government, no trade, no wealth, and no honor. Without it, there would be no peace. Fealty binds us together. It is our bond, our trust, and our conviction. I will accept nothing less from each of you. “

  Pippin stared at the knights in full control of himself.

  “In two days, we march south to reclaim Hunoald’s oath and Waifar’s head. Those who support Hunoald’s treason, name themselves my enemy. Who among you supports his treason?”

  Silence greeted him.

  Pippin raised his sword and his voice. “Who are with me?”

  “Hu-yah!” shouted a voice from the ranks.

  “Hu-Yahh!” echoed the Assembly.

  Pippin turned to Childebrand. “Give them their orders.”

  Without another word he left the field.

  Chapter Two

  South of the Loire

  Three weeks later, twenty armed men ran towards Castle Loches as quietly as twenty armed men with a ladder and a grappling hook could move, their breath billowing into ragged wisps of white in the cool night air.

  They stopped behind a short hedgerow to rest. It was the last of their cover. A fresh set of hands took the ladder while Pippin stole a look at the terrain ahead. The moon cast a ghostly-blue light over the landscape, draining it of color. It made the vast empty fields before them glow ominously and the castle loom black against the horizon.

  They were still three hundred paces from the wall. Pippin waited for their breathing to slow.

  He was doing the only thing he knew how to do: fight. It was his only way forward. When the men were ready, Pippin gave a nod and again they ran.

  A hundred paces farther he stopped them again, this time huddled out in the open. Breathing deeply, he listened for the alarm. Where was the diversion?

  Pippin had arrayed Gunther and Childebrand on the other side of the castle with the bulk of the army deployed in two large phalanxes. All day they had made a great show of moving the men and rock throwers into position. Pippin had waited until his full army was aligned before signaling to the castle for parley. He had made the Compte de Loches ride out to meet him surrounded by the full might of his assembled army.

  The Compte was a small, aging man who had shown no concern for Pippin’s battalions. He carried himself with great confidence and surety. After the briefest of salutations, Pippin had had the feeling that he, not the Compte, was the more vulnerable of the two.

  “You didn’t answer my call to arms,” Pippin said. “You didn’t pay your taxes. Have you renounced your vows?”

  “My vow is to Lord Hunoald of Aquitaine.”

  “Lord Hunoald also pledged fealty.”

  “He renounced it on Charles’s death.”

  “You are either loyal to your oath or you are not.”

  “Don’t lecture me, boy. Your brother violated the succession himself by imprisoning your half-brother Gripho.” The Compte spat on the ground at Pippin’s feet. “My family pledges its loyalty to kings, and the mayors who serve them. So far, I don’t see a king for you to serve.”

  Although rage lanced white within him, Pippin nodded coolly in response. It was a common refrain. At the end of his life, Charles had become so powerful that when the last Merovingian king had died, he refused to raise another to the throne. He had intended to seize it for himself. Only one thing stopped him. He had died.

  None of the nobles dared rebuke Charles when he was alive. But now? Raising a Merovingian to the throne was on every rebel’s lips. Even some of their allies were calling for it.

  After the Compte de Loches returned to the city, Pippin gave Gunther and Childebrand his orders. “We attack tonight.”

  What good was all that pageantry, Pippin thought, if we get caught out here in open country? Pippin’s hair was damp with sweat. A great shout suddenly erupted from the castle. Flaming arrows lofted high into the night above the wall, and the dull thud of rocks impacting stone rumbled through the ground beneath their feet.

  “They’re late.” Pippin said to Arnot. The thin, disheveled scout smiled in response, his teeth flashing white in the moonlight. With the diversion underway Pippin and his men ran until they were at the wall.

  It was so dark near the castle that Pippin could barely see. His men bent over the ladder and lifted the wooden behemoth over their heads. With a muffled groan they pushed it upright to lean against the wall. Once he was convinced that it was secure, Pippin nodded to Arnot and the man raced up the ladder and out of sight. Within moments he was back.

  “Too short.”

  One of his men stepped forward with the grappling hook attached to a coil of rope. Taking it, Arnot again disappeared into the darkness above.

  They heard a grunt, and then the clank of metal against stone, and then a scrape.

  No one moved, waiting for the cry of alarm. Pippin looked up. Arnot was already pulling up the hook for another throw. Again, he grunted. Again, they heard the clank and scrape. Arnot scrambled back down the ladder and signaled for the men to follow. Pippin was first behind him.

  When he reached the top of the wall, Pippin heard a shout. He climbed over the rampart to find Arnot kneeling above an inert body, wiping the blood off his knife onto the man’s tunic.

  “Must have heard the hook.” Arnot’s eyes searched the rampart for any further sign of alarm. Pippin motioned for the next man over the wall to guard their left flank. Pippin took the right. From his vantage point, he could see the bulk of the castle defenders running for the rampart on the far side of the fortress. They were shooting arrows and throwing debris down over it to fend off the main attack. Pippin frowned. The longer he took, the more men would die.

  When all twenty knights were on the wall, Pippin signaled for the men to use knives and led them along the rampart towards the side gate to find stairs leading downward. Twice, they encountered guards. Each time, blades flashed in the moonlight and the guards drowned in their own blood. Pippin found a narro
w stairway leading down and they descended.

  The tower itself was well lit and protected by a huge oak door. Two guards stood out front, spears in hand. Huddled in the shadows, Pippin signaled to Arnot. The tall, lanky scout nodded, adjusted his clothing and walked out of the darkness. With a shortened gait and his hand clutching his buttocks Arnot ambled into the light with a pained look on his face. His path took him close to the tower door. The guards stiffened at his approach.

  “One hell of a time to shit!” Arnot shook his head. His voice carried the thick nasal twang of the region. One of the men smiled in amusement. Arnot shuffled closer. “God, I’m in pain!”

  With a speed that made Pippin blink, Arnot pulled a knife from his pantaloons and slashed it across the throat of the guard to his left. With his other hand, he pinned the second guard to the door and brought the point of his newly bloodied knife beneath the man’s eye.

  “Not a sound,” Arnot hissed, all traces of his accent gone. He waited until Pippin and the men had moved into place, and then whispered in the guard’s ear. “Get them to open the door.” The knife point touched the man’s eye.

  “Etienne, Jean-Paul!” the guard screeched, banging his glove on the door. They heard sounds from behind the door and waited for the latch to pull and the door to swing inward.

  Pippin was inside first, shouldering the door and planting his knife into the neck of the first man to appear. He shoved him back through the doorway.

  The guards inside scrambled to meet the attack. Pippin spun right, towards his blind side, slashing with his knife. His blade sank into the chest of a large burly guard wielding a knife of his own. Without breaking stride, Pippin sprinted past him into the swarm of soldiers drawing swords. Knowing that he would soon be at a disadvantage, Pippin lowered his right shoulder and charged. He caught the nearest guard square in the chest. Together, they crashed into the two men behind him and all four went down on the floor.

  Pippin tried to get up, but one of the guards had pinned his head to the floor with an elbow. Pippin jabbed his blade into the man’s abdomen repeatedly, until the force behind the arm went limp. Blood oozed over Pippin’s body. Someone began kicking his head. Pippin tried to roll to his left but was trapped by the legs of the other guards who fought above him. He stabbed upwards at their groins blindly.