Anvil of God Page 2

  “How do you stand it?” Trudi demanded, without turning to look at her. Sunni jumped in surprise. She hadn’t thought the girl was aware of her.

  “Your pardon?”

  “How do you stand being married to someone you don’t love?”

  “I do love your father.”

  Trudi turned to confront her. “It wasn’t even an arranged marriage. He just took you.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Of course, it’s true.” Trudi turned back again to the horizon, reciting the history. “When Charles stormed Bavaria, he deposed the crazed pagan Duc—”

  “Grimoald isn’t crazed.”

  “Grimoald married his own brother’s widow, flogged a priest, and performed pagan rituals over his own son.”

  “His son was dying. The doctors couldn’t save him,” Sunni said.

  “So Charles got rid of Grimoald, put your uncle Odilo in his place, and married you, a Bavarian princess, to bear his third son. Am I missing anything?”

  Sunni’s face flushed. She looked down at her hands.

  “So how do you stand it?” Trudi repeated.

  How dare the girl? Of course, Sunni knew the stories. She had helped spread most of them. She was the “price” for making young Odilo Duc de Bavaria in place of Grimoald. She had been “tamed” by Charles, who subdued her pagan upbringing through his iron will and firm hand.

  The truth was that Sunni had seduced Charles from the start. She had seen the reality of their situation. The Bavarian royal family was in disarray, and Charles’s army was too large to resist. Poor Grimoald would never be acceptable to Charles or his alter ego, Bishop Boniface. And an alliance between her family and the Franks offered not only a solution, but a tremendous advantage to both families.

  The day she met Charles, Sunni knew she would have him. Tall, strong, fearless, Charles had been forty-two and a widower for a year when he came to Bavaria. He had a light in his eyes that made everyone else’s seem dull. He was magnificent.

  And he looked at her in that way that a man does when he needs to bury himself between the legs of a woman. In less than a week, she had bound him to her. He was bound to her still.

  Now at thirty-two, she played the part of the “tamed” Sunnichild for Boniface and the court. She said all the Christian words, performed their rites so that she could have Charles. But she was no Christian. She still had her cache of herbs. She still prayed to the morning sun and the phasing moon. She still communed in secret with her brethren. She even shared some of their rites with Charles. Wedding Charles Martel had been her choice. She hadn’t lied to Trudi. She did love the man.

  “Hiltrude,” she said, “mostly I find that men’s stories tend to be about men. I do love your father. And if truth be told, I chose him. Women are not powerless, despite what you think. I wasn’t powerless when I met your father any more than you are powerless now.”

  “What do you mean?” Trudi turned abruptly.

  “Rarely do men tell you anything about the role that women play in their stories.”

  “No. Why do you say that I’m not powerless?”

  “Because you are not.”

  “You of all people should know my plight,” the girl said.

  “Women are never powerless,” Sunni said. “Perhaps when you are better prepared to listen and less prepared to judge, I will tell you about it.”

  Sunni started for the stairs. She could feel Trudi’s stare follow her.

  “If anyone is interested,” Trudi called down after her, “the army has arrived.”

  Back on the rampart, Sunni saw Boniface raise a green and red signal flag to let Charles know there was urgent business to discuss. She groaned inwardly. To Charles, matters of state always took precedence over his family. She and Trudi would have to wait until Boniface had his say.

  She turned her attention to the approaching army and saw Carloman’s bold red banner with the white cross and the lion of St. Mark. Charles’s eldest, at least, was safe. Although, she had never been close to Carloman, Sunni liked the serious, young man he had become. Her only reservation was Carloman’s rabid devotion to the Church. Boniface had been named godfather to both Charles’s older boys, and the bishop had taken the role to heart. He had taught them the catechism and imbued in them a strong foundation of faith. Of the two, he was closest to Carloman. The young man willingly accepted the bishop’s counsel and shared the man’s passion in Christ. At twenty-seven, Carloman had grown into a formidable warrior and a clever politician, but it was Boniface who pulled his strings. And that made Sunni nervous.

  Charles’s second son, Pippin, was another matter. In many ways, the young man was a mystery. He had spent six years being educated on the Roman peninsula in the court of King Liutbrand and become so close to the Lombards that Liutbrand had formally adopted him as a son.

  Sunni took solace in the fact that Pippin was very much like his father. Pippin looked like him, swaggered like him, commanded troops like him. And much like Charles, there was a sullenness that clung to Pippin that oft times made him combative and cruel. Sunni enjoyed a closer relationship with Pippin, but she had to admit that the young man could exhaust her. One Charles in her life was more than enough.

  Pippin’s green banner with the white eagle flew alongside the blue hawk of Charles’s stepbrother, Childebrand. Carloman’s son, Drogo, flew his banner next to Charles, as did Gripho, her son by Charles. Sunni at last let herself smile. Gripho was safe. All the heirs were safe.

  Sunni descended to the main hall, but, as she suspected, Charles chose to meet with Boniface to discuss the priest’s urgent news. The two disappeared with Carloman into Charles’s private chambers off the main hall. Never one to be left out, Sunni went up to her quarters and stole down the back stairs into the servants’ quarters. She snuck through the kitchen, stopping to taste the evening’s stew, and stepped into a closet that bordered the room where Charles and Boniface met. Years ago, she had bored a small spy hole into the wall.

  Through it, she could see Boniface to her right with Charles and Carloman facing her. The bishop appeared to have just finished relating his news. Silently, Sunni cursed her tardiness.

  She heard Charles reply, however. “Tell him, no.”

  “It is a tremendous opportunity, worthy of a great deal of consideration and debate,” Boniface said.

  Charles dismissed this with a wave of hand. “We’re not going to Rome.”

  Sunni’s mind raced. Rome?

  “It’s a perfect opportunity,” Boniface pleaded. “By aligning your house with the pope, you elevate it above all other families. It grants you stature with churches in every region. The pope is in a desperate place. The Lombards threaten him from the south. The emperor in Constantinople won’t help. His ancient ally, Eudo of Aquitaine is dead. You are the only power who can come to his aid. He’s offering you the protectorate of Rome.”

  “No.”

  “We may not get this opportunity again,” Carloman said.

  “We’re not going, Carloman. We just returned from war in Provence, and there’s trouble in Burgundy.”

  “We crushed Maurontus and the Saracens,” Carloman said. “We plundered half of Provence. And it will only take a small force to handle Burgundy. We could do it with half our troops.”

  “If the Saracens are committed to campaigning on this side of the Pyrenees as they did with Maurontus,” Charles said, “we will need the Lombards’ help ourselves. Or are you so anxious to become a follower of Muhammad?”

  Carloman looked insulted. “We could split our armies. Leave Pippin at home, and I’ll ride with you to Rome.”

  “I think you underestimate the threat, Carloman. The Lombards are formidable.”

  Sunni couldn’t agree more. Liutbrand was a strong and clever ally, but if Charles marched on Rome, the king would become a strong and clever enemy. Charles spent years cultivating relations with him.

  “If we turn up in Rome,” Charles continued, “Liutbrand will unite his co
usins against us as a common foe. No, they won’t be so easily mastered. It will take more than a title like ‘protectorate of Rome’ for me to turn on them.”

  “How about ‘king’?” Boniface asked. Sunni held her breath.

  Charles squinted. “Did Pope Gregory say that?”

  “Without a Merovingian on the throne, and with you controlling all realms of the kingdom, it’s the next logical step.”

  “Did he say that?” Charles insisted.

  “The subject can be raised.”

  “Then there will be too many strings attached.”

  “Father, this isn’t like you!”

  “We’re not going, Carloman.”

  Sunni turned to go. She had known Charles long enough to know this conversation was over.

  ***

  Trudi ducked under the sword and spun right, away from her attacker. The thrust had been clumsy. She positioned herself to his right, where he could do the least damage. Ansel, she knew, was better with his right arm. She would have better luck defending against a backhanded blow.

  He came again. This time she parried, feinted right, and spun left, going for the back of his right knee. He dropped his shield to take the blow and chopped downward with his sword toward her shoulder. Again, he was too slow.

  Trudi had been training with the warriors since the age of eight. She had started a year later than most of the boys because it had taken her a year to convince her father to give his permission. Ultimately, Charles had relented and given her a sword made by the Saracen. It had a curved blade that was lighter and more flexible than the broadswords the boys used, though it had only one edge and tended to break against the larger blades.

  Her armor, too, was different. She didn’t wear the heavy chain mail the older boys draped over their torsos. She favored the Saracen leathers protected by small armor plates strapped to her chest, shoulders, legs, and arms. She could move more quickly than they could and had developed a number of spinning moves that gave her an advantage over them. The boys liked to challenge her because she presented a different kind of swordplay. It required more than brute strength to beat her.

  She and Ansel often sparred at the end of the day on the practice grounds, choosing to compete again after the others had finished. Today, the air was so thick and hot that her armor felt like it weighed three stone, and her leathers stuck to her skin like tar. Waving for a rematch, Ansel stripped to his waist and grabbed a lighter practice sword. Trudi almost wept with relief and doffed her small plates of armor to fight in her leathers. At nineteen, Ansel was massive, his muscles shining with sweat in the heat of the day. Trudi noticed that he was smiling—not at her, but to himself. Clearly, he was doing more than staying cool; he was trying to limit her advantage.

  Ansel picked up a small shield. Trudi picked up a second but shorter practice sword. A shield would help her little against Ansel. He was so strong that he’d break her arm if she tried to withstand one of his blows. Speed was her only ally.

  They circled inside the practice ground wall, each looking for an opening. After several feints, Ansel rushed her, hoping that the force of his larger body would unbalance her. She spun to her left. As he lumbered past, she tried but failed to trip him. They circled once more.

  Trudi feinted and kicked to make Ansel overreact. The slightest opening could be exploited when fighting with two swords. Ansel blocked each legitimate threat and refrained from reacting to her feints. Trudi swore under her breath. He knew too many of her moves. They circled again.

  She looked to Ansel’s eyes to anticipate his next move. But what she saw didn’t make sense. She stepped back. She was certain that he had been looking at her breasts. He noticed her look and backed away, averting his eyes. And in the breadth of that moment, everything changed.

  Her breasts, straining against her leathers, suddenly felt out of place. And she was terribly aware of his naked chest and shoulders. Again he looked at her, this time openly. Her heart raced, and she took another step back. Her stomach clenched. Blood rushed down her torso and coursed back up to her face. Ansel saw her reaction and smiled.

  Furious, she took three steps forward, swung her short sword in a feint across his body, and used its momentum to throw her upper torso toward the ground. Pivoting on her left foot, Trudi swung her right leg in an arc high over her body so that her foot caught Ansel on the side of his head. The blow nearly toppled him. He stumbled. She hurled herself at him, spinning and hurling blow after blow with her two swords, pressing her advantage. Ansel backed and twisted to meet the attack, suffering the onslaught off balance. She went for a killing blow to end the contest, but he blocked it and slammed her square in the chest with his shield.

  Stunned, Trudi backed up to regain her footing. Ansel, with an anger she had never seen before, drove at her with a series of blows that she barely checked. He advanced. She retreated. She tried to spin. He blocked her. She found herself backed up against the wall of the practice grounds. Ansel barely hesitated before he chopped his practice sword down in a finishing blow. She crossed both her swords over her head to catch his blade. Had it reached her, her head would have been crushed. They stood motionless against the wall, straining against each other.

  Trudi looked up into Ansel’s face and spat out the words, “I yield.” When that produced no reaction, she shoved his arms away and let down her swords. He still didn’t move. They stood against each other, breathing heavily. She saw his face change from rage to something else, something hungry. She looked away. Her face grew flushed. Short of breath, she dropped her sword and put her hand against him. He didn’t move.

  “Ansel,” she said, looking back into his eyes. She had to get clear. She pushed against his chest until he gave way. Without a word, she left the training ground. She didn’t look back at him. When he called after her, it took everything she had not to run.

  In the following days, Trudi refrained from warrior training, which brought a serious rebuke from the warrior master. She avoided church, because Ansel was one of Carloman’s “Knights in Christ,” who attended mass every day. That brought a rebuke from Boniface. She ate in her room and went out only in the company of women—if she went out at all. When Ansel passed her on the villa grounds and called to her, Trudi ignored him. When he saw her on the street, she turned away.

  She knew Ansel couldn’t very well call on her in her rooms. He couldn’t send her a note; neither of them could read or write. At best, he could send an intermediary. But there was little chance of that. The court was too small, and she was too central to it for any chance of secrecy.

  Try as she might, however, Trudi could not stop thinking about him. How long had he been looking at her like that? Why had she reacted the way she did? She had never felt this way before. She had always thought of her breasts as something that got in her way.

  Alone in her room, Trudi sat on her bed and thought of Ansel looking down at her breasts. A ripple of heat descended into her. She closed her eyes and imagined him pushing against her. Her stomach fluttered, and her skin flushed. Lying back, she pictured their last combat and imagined Ansel pressing her against the wall. She felt him pin her hands above her head while his mouth descended to her neck. His arm circled her waist to draw her to him, and he pressed into her with the length of his torso. Looking up into his eyes, she saw that raw look of hunger take over his face.

  She imagined that her hands were Ansel’s hands and that they followed the heat down the length of her body to the wetness she found there. “Oh, Ansel!” she gasped, her body convulsing as a flash of white blanketed her vision. Again it happened, this time stronger, and she collapsed into her pillows.

  Shame filled her. Then anger. She covered herself with her sheets and lay still for a long time. She wanted Ansel. She wanted to feel his hands on her body. She finally understood the desire to be desired. She rolled onto her stomach and buried her head in her pillows. She had no idea what to do. She had no one to turn to. Most of her friends were the boys who train
ed with her. They would be of no help. The girls at court were not like her, and she was afraid that they would gossip. Her father, if he knew, would kill Ansel and marry her off to some faraway ancient noble, or worse, send her to a nunnery. She never felt more powerless.

  Then she thought of Sunni. Sunni had said that women were never powerless. She would know what to do. She would help her have Ansel. For the first time since she had fought Ansel, Trudi smiled. In a moment, her fingers again were buried deep inside her.

  ***

  “Good Lord, man. Have you lost your senses?” Boniface folded his hands in prayer and brought them to his lips, struggling to contain his outrage. If Charles or any of his sons had heard the confession he had just received, they would have killed the knight kneeling before him.

  “She felt something, too. I’m sure of—”

  “Enough!” Boniface held up his hand and prayed to Michael the Archangel for strength. Boniface shuddered. This was dangerous ground. He rose to ensure that they were alone in the sacristy and closed the door to keep away any acolytes that might happen by. Charles would take Ansel’s head if so much as a rumor of this reached his ears. And he would not respect the fact that Boniface was bound by the confessional to tell no one of the boy’s sin. Thank the Blessed Mother that the boy had come to him before anything more serious had happened.

  He had to think. Ansel had confessed to lusting openly for Charles’s daughter and to pinning her body against the practice field wall with his own. The two had had no further contact, but the panic in the young knight’s eyes suggested that this was still a very volatile situation. The pain on his face was palpable. Ansel did not trust himself. Lust had the better of him. Boniface sat back down and put his hand on Ansel’s shoulder.

  “You do recognize, my son, that you cannot marry Hiltrude.”

  “Yes, Father.” The boy looked miserable. “But I have this … this need for her. I can’t stop it. I tried to pray it away. I tried exhausting myself on the training ground. I even touched myself to rid my body of this demon seed.”