Excerpt – Anvil of God by J. Boyce Gleason
Synopsis
It is 741. Only one thing stands between Charles Martel and the throne – he’s dying. He cobbles together a plan to divide the kingdom among his three sons, betroth his daughter to a Lombard prince, and keep the Church unified behind them through his friend Bishop Boniface. Despite his best efforts, the only thing to reign after Charles’s death is chaos. His daughter has no intention of marrying anyone, let alone a Lombard prince. His two eldest sons question the rights of their younger pagan stepbrother, and the Church demands a steep price for their support. Son battles son, Christianity battles paganism, and Charles’s daughter flees his court for an enemy’s love. Based on a true story, Anvil of God is a whirlwind of love, honor, sacrifice, and betrayal that follows a bereaved family’s relentless quest for power and destiny.
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Excerpt
Prologue
Maurontus
Outside Narbonne
AD 740
“God’s will be done,” Carloman whispered as the forward line closed on the enemy. One hundred and fifty men across, they moved in a syncopated march—left foot first to support their four-foot shields, the right behind for power and balance. With each forward step, the Frankish line shouted, “Hyuh!” while the rebels relied on drums to keep their men in formation.
“Stay close,” one of his captains called. “Meet them as one. Meet them with force.” Left foot forward, right foot behind, the shield walls slammed into each other, the men grunting as their shoulders strained under the impact. The second lines closed behind the first, pressing their shields against the backs of their comrades to add their weight to the wall. The third, in its turn, supported the second.
“Engage!” the captain shouted, and the second line stabbed their short swords above and below the forward shields, attempting to catch an eye or a foot to weaken the enemy wall. Shouts and curses echoed across both lines as the blades found flesh and the wounded were pinned between the shields. No one, not even the dead, could leave a shield wall.
Carloman’s father, the great Charles the Hammer, had brought his army south to quell a disorganized pagan uprising and instead found a well-organized enemy. The rebel Maurontus had plundered a wide swath through the rich lands of the south, recruiting hundreds to his banner. Making matters worse, the rebel had enlisted the support of the Saracen holding Narbonne and augmented his troops with regulars. The Franks fought men well-seasoned by battle.
Initially, Maurontus attacked in skirmishes, targeting Charles’s rear guard and supply lines to weaken them as they marched south. But after two months of sporadic fighting, Charles had lured Maurontus into a frontal assault by pretending to split his army for an attack on Narbonne. Maurontus took the bait, attacking with the full weight of his army. To Charles and Carloman’s surprise, even with their army reunited, the two sides were closely matched. They were now in danger of falling victim to their own trap.
As the sun rose across the sky, Carloman began to worry that the heat would be a factor. Coming from the north, the Franks wore leathers and animal skin beneath their armor; they would tire more quickly than their southern counterparts. He looked to the far side of the field for his men of horse. Twice as large as the enemy’s cavalry, it was the one significant advantage they had over Maurontus. To be a factor, however, the shields needed to force a break in the line.
“There!” Charles pointed to the near side of the enemy line where several shields had fallen. “Can’t you see it, Carloman? Strike, God damn it. Strike!”
Carloman made the sign of the cross for his father’s blasphemy and then waved for the signalman to order a cavalry charge. He couldn’t help but smile at his father’s exuberance. During the past twenty years, Charles had brought to heel every army from the Pyrenees to the Danube, and the man still thrilled at the turn of a battle.
Maurontus, however, reacted to the threat, storming across the field to push his reserves into line. The Frankish cavalry would be too late. Then Pippin was there, crashing his warhorse into the gap. Carloman’s younger brother trampled a spearman, wheeled his horse behind the enemy shield wall, and hacked down on the unprotected backs of the men on foot. More of the wall crumpled under his assault, and the Frankish shields pushed forward.
“He is a madman,” Carloman said.
“He’ll be surrounded. Cavalry’s too far away.” Charles spurred his warhorse, racing to the line. Carloman followed, veering toward their cavalry. It would take more than two knights to save his brother.
Maurontus called up his own cavalry, and Pippin was forced to turn his back to the shields to face the oncoming threat. The rebels closed on him from three sides. Carloman groaned. Pippin had no shield. He carried only a broadsword into the melee.
Pippin’s warhorse reared at the rider in front of him while Pippin swung at the knight to his left. His blade caught the Saracen at the base of his shoulder and clipped off his left arm. Blood splashed over Pippin as he tried to turn to his right, but his warhorse came down heavily on its fore legs, throwing Pippin off balance.
The Saracen knight to Pippin’s right lifted his blade for a double-handed blow. At the last second, Pippin raised his broadsword in an attempt to protect his right side. The move saved his life. He caught the knight’s blow near the pommel, and their hands froze above his head. Had the Saracen held a heavier blade, Pippin wouldn’t have had a chance.
Pippin struggled to turn his mount as the Saracen drew back his sword. He won’t make it, thought Carloman. Although large enough to stop the blow from the lighter Saracen blade, Pippin’s broadsword would be too long and heavy for him to recover in time for the next. The other knight’s curved blade descended. Pippin’s blade circled behind his head.
“No!” Charles’s voice raged over the battlefield.
Pippin slammed the pommel of his sword into his opponent’s faceplate. The metal crumpled inward, and the knight reeled in his saddle. The man’s intended blow veered right, and Pippin’s horse stepped left to restore its balance.
Charles crashed into the frenzy and took off the rebel’s head. The man’s torso momentarily sat erect in its saddle and then fell backward. Sidling his horse next to Pippin’s, Charles fell into a rhythm of attack with his son that held the enemy at bay.
Carloman led the cavalry through the gap in the line and struck the enemy’s men of horse like a cudgel. Swords fell in every direction, but in the end, the size of the Frankish cavalry won out. The enemy broke into disarray, and Carloman’s men fell on them like butchers. Those who lived fled early. Carloman ordered his men to give chase.
Charles and Pippin had run out of horsed knights to fight and were busy chopping away at what was left of the rebel shields. Aided by the break in the line, the Frankish infantry surged past them, and then there was no one left to fight. Maurontus’s army was in rout.
Charles, Carloman, and Pippin screamed war cries at their retreating foes. And then they laughed—a great, rich laugh of men who knew they were safe for a moment on a field where death came easily. They clasped forearms, and Pippin raced off to rejoin the butchery.
Carloman stayed with Charles. “He’s reckless.”
Charles nodded. “But he has a talent for battle. He saw that opening before we did. He knew it could turn the day. And he trusted his men to follow.”
“But, he—” Carloman froze. Charles was hunched over in his saddle, holding his left arm.
“Father?”
Charles’s face was deathly pale. He groaned and struggled for breath. “A bolt.”
Carloman moved his horse closer and used both hands to search his father’s body. “There’s no arrow, Father.”
“A rock then. Something struck me. I can barely lift my arm.”
Carloman looked to the back of their line. His son Drogo was there, as was his half brother Gripho. He waved for them to come.
“Accompany Father back to the tent. A rock-thrower must have clipped him.”
“I’m fine.” Charles straightened in his saddle, flexing his left hand.
“Gripho, go with your brother. Make sure we find Maurontus’s treasure. And Carloman, bring me that bastard’s head.”
Carloman nodded. Charles’s word was law. He and Gripho turned away to give chase, circling the body-strewn battlefield to speed their pace. A sudden pang of doubt struck Carloman, and he reined in his horse to look back across the field. Charles had his hand on Drogo’s shoulder as the two trotted their horses back to camp. Carloman could not tell if the gesture was out of affection or his father’s need for support.
About the Author
After a 25-year career working as a press secretary on Capitol Hill, writing a weekly column for a daily newspaper, and managing crisis and public affairs for many of the largest American corporations and institutions, J. Boyce Gleason began writing historical fiction to satisfy his passion for storytelling.
His first novel ANVIL OF GOD, Book One of the Carolingian Chronicles received a starred review from Publishers Weekly, was named Historical Fiction Book of the Year by the Independent Publishers Awards and Mainstream/Literary e-Book of the Year by Writers Digest Magazine. The sequels (Wheel of the Fates & Crown of a King) both received 4.5 ratings or better on Amazon.
With an AB in history from Dartmouth College, Gleason brings a strong understanding of the events that shaped history. He says he writes historical fiction to discover “why.” He and his wife live in Virginia.
