“That may be,” agreed the other, “but it will hardly gain us God’s blessing.”
“Where better to kill a devil than in the Lord’s own house? What kind of prayers can this monster offer up when he kneels before the altar? Does he ask forgiveness for the hanging of four and a half thousand Saxons in one day at Verden? Does he seek divine approval for the way he betrays his marriage vows? Does he apologize for the wickedness with which he has treated us? No, my friends,” said their leader. “It is not humility that puts him on his knees but exultation. I am closer to him than any of you and I have seen the true Charlemagne. My father, our Christian emperor, our so-called defender of the faith, is no more than a gloating tyrant. He must die.”
There was general agreement. Objections to the venue for the assassination were soon dropped. It only remained to work out the final details. Each man was anxious to wield the fateful dagger. When everything was finally settled, the conspirators were about to depart. Their leader, however, was circumspect.
“First, let us search the church,” he ordered.
“But there is nobody here,” said one of his companions. “The place is empty.”
“That is how it appears, but we must make certain. Dangerous words have been spoken in here tonight. If nobody has overheard us, then my father’s life is forfeit. If, however, somebody is lurking in here,” warned the leader, wagging a finger, “then our own lives are at risk. Search thoroughly, my friends.”
They did as he told them and conducted a careful search of the entire church. Candles were used to illumine the darkest corners. The leader’s caution was wise. From beneath an altar in the Lady Chapel, they plucked the shivering figure of a young cleric. His name was Stracholf the Stammerer and he had never stammered so violently in his entire life. Though they beat him soundly, they could get no comprehensible words out of him. One of the men held a dagger to the young man’s throat.
“Stop!” said the leader. “Do not kill him.”
“It is the only way to ensure his silence,” insisted the other.
“We do not want more blood on our hands than is necessary. To slay a tyrant is one thing; to murder a holy man is quite another. I will not condone it. Besides,” said the leader, “there is a much simpler way to keep that mouth of his shut.”
Stracholf was dragged across to the Bible that lay open on the lectern. The cleric was ordered to place his hand on Holy Writ while an oath was dictated to him. He was ordered to swear that he would reveal nothing of what he had heard. Terrified to resist them, Stracholf could not get out the two words that would appease them.
“I s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s...”
“Swear, man!” yelled the leader.
“I s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s...”
“Swear!”
The dagger was held once more against his throat to cut through his stammer.
“I s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-swear!” gasped Stracholf.
Then he collapsed in a dead faint.
Charlemagne had no sleep that night. Spurning the comfort of a woman, he retired to his bedchamber alone. Seven doors stood between him and the outside world, but that thought did not console him. A hundred doors would not keep out a son bent on killing him. If there really was a plot, he decided, then it had to be the work of his youngest son, Lewis. The King of Aquitaine was, in the considered opinion of Alcuin, the one who would succeed to his father’s throne. Piety was a capacious cloak for ambition. Lewis would certainly envisage himself as a far worthier defender of the faith. He would not be the only ruler to seize power by assassinating a wicked father. Complete exoneration would surely follow. Charlemagne was shocked to realise that he had broken the bond so completely between father and son. Lewis might be guilty but he himself was not free from blame.
He was still writhing on his bed with remorse when he heard the laughter from the adjoining room. The womenfolk sounded as if they were playing some kind of game. Shrieks of mirth and uncontrollable giggling found their way through Charlemagne’s door. He went to investigate. The queen and his daughters occupied the neighboring room, attended by their maids. All of them seemed to be involved in the commotion. When he flung open the door, Charlemagne was confronted by the strangest of sights. Laughing and giggling, the womenfolk were flitting about the room, pulling up their garments to cover their faces, pretending to hide in corners or behind curtains.
The object of their amusement was a pale, thin, frightened young cleric, wearing no more than a linen surplice. He was hardly a threat to the virtue of the ladies present, yet they were behaving as if he had come to take his pleasure at will. Puce with embarrassment, the newcomer stood in the middle of the room and quaked visibly.
“Be quiet!” roared Charlemagne. “Who is this man?”
“He is unable to tell us,” said one of the women, setting off the cachinnation once more. “The poor fellow cannot even s-s-s-s-s-say his own n-n-n-n-n-n-name.”
Stracholf flung himself at the emperor’s feet and looked up at him. Words might befuddle Charlemagne, but he could read despair in a man’s eyes. Only something of great importance could have brought the cleric to him. Rebuking his womenfolk with a stare, he took the hapless visitor into his own chamber and shut the door behind them.
Stracholf stammered incoherently.
“Slowly, my friend,” said Charlemagne, holding up a palm. “Let your tongue catch up with the words before you try to utter them.”
It was sound advice, but Stracholf was in no state to accept it. The emperor’s life was in danger, and that fact robbed him of articulate speech. His oath had been discarded. Imposed by force, it had no real power to bind him, and he had made his way to the palace to raise the alarm. Unfortunately, he got no further than the adjoining room where the women had ridiculed the matching defects of his virginity and his stammer. Stracholf had at last been admitted to Charlemagne’s presence. Tears of gratitude coursed down his cheeks. The emperor wanted an explanation.
“Why have you come?” he asked.
With his tongue in open revolt, Stracholf made a series of vivid gestures.
“You bring a warning?” said Charlemagne.
The cleric nodded. Robbed of speech and seeing the futility of writing down words that could not be read, he went into an elaborate mime. He crossed to the table on which a small crucifix stood and knelt before it in prayer. Then he lay beneath the table as if about to go to sleep. A hand to his ear, he sat up to listen.
Charlemagne was quick to understand. “You were sleeping in church when you heard something?” he said. Stracholf nodded. “Was it to do with me?”
Nodding once more, the cleric got to his feet and pretended to draw a dagger from its sheath. When Charlemagne was threatened with the invisible weapon, he stumbled back a few paces. This mute individual was repeating the warning he had already received from someone else. Conspirators had been plotting inside the church. Tensing himself, Charlemagne asked the question that had dogged him all evening.
“Which of my sons was involved?” he demanded.
Stracholf picked up one of the pillows from the bed and stuffed it up the back of his surplice, bending over until his body threw a grotesque shadow upon the wall. The emperor put a hand to his mouth in horror.
“Pepin the Hunchback!”
Stracholf nodded and tossed the pillow back onto the bed.
“Who else conspired with him?” Stracholf held up four fingers. “Four of them? Could you pick them out for me?” An affirmative nod was given. “Thank you,” said Charlemagne with a mixture of gratitude and sadness. “You have saved your emperor, but deprived him of a son whom he once loved and trusted. My women-folk will be justly chastened when they hear what you have done.” He put a hand on the other’s shoulder. “What is your name, my friend? Can you tell me?”