“Wild but accurate.”
Alcuin shrugged his shoulders. “Place no reliance on me, David.”
“I place every reliance on you,” said Charlemagne. “Look what you have achieved here. Your learning is beyond compare, your counsel always sage. So tell me, Albinus,” he pressed, taking a step closer, “who will succeed me?”
“Do you really wish to know?”
“I insist.”
“Then I will give you my prediction,” said Alciun. “It is Lewis.”
Charlemagne gaped at him. “Lewis?”
“The youngest of your sons.”
“Not Charles or even Pepin?”
“No,” said Alcuin.
“But Lewis is so pious.”
“Piety is not out of place on an imperial throne.”
“Only soldiers can build and hold together an empire.”
“Nevertheless,” said Alcuin with quiet conviction, “Lewis will be your successor.”
The prophecy troubled Charlemagne. Though he was soon preoccupied with affairs of state, he never forgot the gentle confidence with which Alcuin had spoken. Could his friend be mistaken for once, or did Charlemagne have to accept that two of his beloved sons would die before he did? It was unsettling. Charlemagne was no ordinary father. Determined to give his children a proper training in the liberal arts, he insisted that his daughters should be educated alongside his three sons. While their brothers were taught to ride in the Frankish fashion, to bear arms, and to hunt, the girls learned to spin, weave, and acquire every womanly accomplishment so that they would not fritter away their time in idleness.
Though his sons were encouraged to marry, Charlemagne kept his daughters within his own household, arguing that he could not live without them. For such beautiful and spirited girls, this was bound to lead to extreme frustration and they relieved it by clandestine romances within the Court. Unlike his youngest son, none of his daughters could be accused of excessive piety.
The prediction about his successor haunted the family man. It was in Ratisbon that it took on a frightening immediacy. Charlemagne was returning from his war against the Slavs. Situated on the River Danube, Ratisbon was a pleasant town near the eastern rim of his empire. Its palace was a secure fortress where Charlemagne could refresh and restore himself in the wake of another triumph. But he was not allowed to relax for long. When he had been there only a few days, he had an unexpected visitor.
“I must speak with you, Father.”
“My ears are always open to you, my son.”
“That is why I came.”
“You have a request to make?”
“No, Father.”
“Then how may I help you, Pepin?”
“By heeding my warning.”
“Warning?” echoed Charlemagne.
“They mean to kill you.”
Pepin the Hunchback was one of Charlemagne’s many illegitimate children. His mother was called Himiltrude and she was a favored occupant of the royal bed. Whether it was out of love or pity, I do not know, but when Himiltrude brought the misshapen child of his lust into the world, Charlemagne felt constrained to bless it with the name of his own celebrated father, Pepin the Short, the first Carolingian King of the Franks.
Pepin the Hunchback was also short, twisted by Nature into a complicated knot that no midwife could even begin to untie. Despite his physical defects, however, the boy grew up to be able, intelligent, and proud of his birthright. During his childhood, he enjoyed the routine mockery of his playmates with surprising equanimity. Hunchbacks are stammerers made manifest. It is as if their bodies are permanently locked in hesitation between the womb and the world, not knowing whether to remain curled up in perpetuity or to straighten their backs into manhood.
Charlemagne had a sneaking fondness for Pepin the Hunchback. His handsome face resembled that of his mother so closely that it took Charlemagne’s breath away. Was that cruel hump a judgment on the two lovers? The notion always caused a pang. If his bastard brought a warning, Charlemagne was ready to listen to it but it was important to display no fear.
“So they mean to kill me, do they?” he said with a grin. “This is old news, Pepin. They have been trying to murder me from the day I came to the throne.”
“I am talking of a new plot, Father,” said the hunchback.
“Who is it this time — Saxons or Danes?”
“Neither.”
“Slavs, then?”
“No, Father.”
“Then who?”
“Frankish conspirators.”
“Never!” exclaimed Charlemagne.
“I would not speak out without evidence.”
“My own people would not betray me.”
“They have tried to do so in the past,” said Pepin.
It was a painful reminder. Charlemagne bit back a reply. Plots had been hatched against him throughout his reign but they were usually inspired by agents of foreign powers. Intrigue at Court had brought treachery nearer home, and it had been a sobering experience for Charlemagne. When the conspirators were exposed, he had ordered their execution, but he could never feel entirely safe again in Aachen. Doubling his bodyguard, he took more precautions than ever. As he considered the last plot against him, he recalled that Pepin the Hunchback had been instrumental in revealing that as well. His bastard was perhaps the best bodyguard of them all.
“Who are these men?” demanded Charlemagne.
“One moment, Father,” said the hunchback solemnly. “Before I speak, I must exact a promise from you. What I am about to say may cause you distress. It will certainly be met with disbelief. Promise me that you will hear me out.”
“Of course.”
“No matter how angry you may feel?”
“Why should I be angry?”
“Any father would be in your position.”
Charlemagne bridled. “What do you mean?”
“You see?” asked Pepin ruefully. “Your eye is aflame. You are roused already. How can I tell my tale when I know that you will rage and interrupt? Father,” he said, kneeling down in front of him, “I am an unwilling messenger. I hate the tidings that I bring. Only concern for your safety makes me pass them on.”
“Well?”
Pepin glanced over his shoulder. They were alone in a private room at the palace but he feared that someone might be listening outside the door. He lowered his voice to a whisper. Charlemagne did his best to rein in his temper.
“There was a man called Werinbert,” began Pepin, hand on his father’s arm. “He was a creature of mine, an unlovely fellow but a cunning intelligencer. It was he who first caught wind of the plot, but he was discovered by the conspirators when he eavesdropped on them. They attacked him without mercy. Werinbert was left for dead. Fortunately, I got to him while there was still a specter of life in him.”
“What did he tell you?”
“Everything that he had overheard.”
“Go on.”
“You are to be killed here in Ratisbon.”
“By whom?”
“A group of Frankish nobles.”
“Give me names, Pepin,” ordered Charlemagne. “Unmask the villains.”
“I wish that I could, but Werinbert, alas, was not able to identify any of those he overheard. He had no time,” explained Pepin. “What he did do, however, was to get a clear idea who is behind the conspiracy.”
“Speak his name. He will be arrested at once.”
The hunchback sighed. “It is not as simple as that, Father.”
“Why not?”
“This is where you must hold back your anger. When you learn what Werinbert told me, you will be furious. You will refuse to believe that it is even possible and I will be tainted for having brought you such disturbing news. Believe me,” said Pepin with tears in his eyes, “the revelation hurt me deeply as well. It hurt me and disgusted me. After all, I, too, have blood ties with him.”