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Publishers Weekly -
Starred Review:
Gleason's gripping
historical novel offers readers a vivid mix of bloody battles, intriguing
characters, and plenty of pagan sex rites.
Historical Novel
Society:
Gleason's utterly
confident novel is nothing short of marvelous. Highly recommended
Kirkus Reviews:
Political intrigue
straight out of George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire series, except that
Gleason's novel is based on stories of real people, and this historical
"game of thrones" is engrossing, with fast-paced, crisp prose and
smart dialogue.
Sample
Chapter
Charles Arrives
Quierzy AD 741
Stepping into the
darkness of the stairwell, Sunni inhaled the musty scent of aging stone and
stretched out her hand as a guide. Although the stairs were steep, she climbed
with ease, having made this journey to watch for Charles every night since her
husband left for Narbonne.
She did this more out
of duty than necessity. When the army's banners were sighted, news of their
arrival would be shouted from the rampart and echoed throughout the town. The
fate of the entire court was tied up in Charles's success, and everyone from
the lowest servant to Bishop Boniface would storm the staircase to see who had
returned from campaign and who had not.
The banners would
appear above the horizon along the eastern road, advancing in successive waves
of color. The ranks of cavalry and foot soldiers would follow. In time, the
sounds of their march would reach the walls, and the court would strain to see
the knights' standards.
Because the absence of
a standard from the ranks foretold a knight's death, those who could see would
call out to those who could not, and a strange dichotomy would take over the assembled
crowd. Cheers would greet the names announced while shouts for those unnamed
were called forward. "Where is Stephen D'Anjou? Can you see Stephen?"
and "What about Wilfred? Oh my God, not Wilfred!"
Sunni had seen
families collapse in grief beside others who danced in celebration. Sobs and
laughter would blend on the rampart in a discordant release until the hands of
the celebrants stretched out to those who mourned, and the court would grieve
its loss.
Arriving at the top of
the stairs, Sunni discovered she would not be alone. A dozen steps away,
Charles's daughter Trudi stared out at the horizon. They watched as the sun
dipped low, casting a reddish glow to the underside of the cloud cover. A cold
blast of wind made the girl shiver. Without thinking, Sunni kissed the locket
she wore around her neck to ward off the night spirits.
"God help
me," Trudi said. There was pain in her lament, but Sunni was reluctant to
intrude. Stepmothers, she knew, are not always welcome. She found her own place
on the rampart to watch the eastern road.
Trudi had her own
reasons to await Charles's return. She was eighteen, old for a maiden. Charles
had declared that, upon his return, he would decide whom the girl would marry.
Although Trudi had never spoken to Sunni of this decision, her distaste was
visible to any that knew her. Her body was coiled tight, her face a stew of
emotions.
Sunni had argued for
the girl, hoping to stop Charles from using his daughter as an instrument of
his diplomacy, but he had insisted. Trudi would wed someone of noble blood.
Charles would send her away to marry a noble on the Roman peninsula, or in
Alemannia or Frisia, wherever there was an alliance to solidify, a political
gain to be made. Her marriage would seal a bargain she knew nothing about.
She would be forced
from the people she loved, away from the life she knew. She would be alone.
Sunni's eyes welled. It was not so many years ago that she had shared a similar
fate. It was, perhaps, the only thing they had in common.
Trudi had her father's
face, which, although a man's face, was still handsome on her. Unfortunately,
it was not the only trait she had inherited from him. She was tall for a woman,
with broad shoulders and uncommon strength. Thank God, the girl had breasts and
hips, Sunni thought, or she might be mistaken for a man. Trudi's hair was by
far her best feature. It cascaded past her shoulders in waves of brown curls
that Sunni envied for their thickness.
To Sunni's
frustration, Trudi rarely did anything to enhance her beauty. Most girls her
age were using the latest creams and powders. Trudi wore none. She refused to
wear a dress, preferring pantaloons and vestments more suited to boys. Sunni
had never seen her flirt. She had never seen her blush. The girl talked to boys
her age the way they talked to each other.
Sunni had, over the
years, tried to involve Trudi with the other girls at court. Such efforts,
however, never kept Trudi's attention.
"They spend their
time spinning thread and mooning over knights," Trudi would say, her eyes
rolling. "They talk about each of the boys as if he was a prized horse.
`Look at his legs,' or `I just love his shoulders.'" Trudi preferred to
find her friends among the boys her age.
Making matters worse,
Charles had indulged the girl's fantasy of becoming a warrior. Against Sunni's
objections, he let Trudi train with the boys who would become his knights.
Trudi strutted about court in armor and dismissed Sunni's advice. Sunni gently
persisted, only to suffer the girl's continued rebuff. The one time Sunni's
advice had been welcomed was when the girl's menses had set in. Even then,
Trudi had declared it nothing more than "a nuisance."
"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 m arriage. 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 Saracen," 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 Saracen
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 cousins 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.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Anvil of God: Book One of the Carolingian
Chronicles" by J. Boyce Gleason. Copyright © 2013 by J. Boyce Gleason.
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be
reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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