Rule!

About the Author

Author Carolyn M. Osborne lives in central Virginia, on a little mountainside. She enjoys reading and writing about history, especially personalizing historic times and events through stories.

She shares her life in a 200+ year old house with her very tolerant husband and their dog, cat and birds. Outdoors, she walks a lot and tends her chickens and ponds of orfes, water lilies and lotus. Indoors, she writes, reads a lot, and cleans house very little. It’s a good life.

Rule!

True stories of real people living in the great European empires of the 800s through the 1800s

By

Carolyn Melander Osborne

Copyright 2017 Carolyn Melander Osborne All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical—without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. If you have obtained a copy of this from someone else, you are strongly encouraged to purchase a copy for yourself.

Formatting by Anessa Books

ISBN-13: 

ISBN-10

Dedication: Helena’s Stories

On a sunny July afternoon in 1998, we were driving from my sister’s house in Greensboro, North Carolina, to our home near Charlottesville, Virginia. In the back seat, my husband was snoring softly. I was driving and my mother was ‘riding shotgun.’ The road stretched endless ahead of us, and the sun and the miles traveled were making us sleepy.

Probably to help me stay alert, Mom started talking about our old family stories. Some of them were familiar, but many were not. Not respecting any order of time or place, she told me tales set in North Carolina before 1800, France and England in the Twelfth Century, India in Victorian times, the remote island of St. Helena in the early 1800s, California’s Sierra Nevada Mountains in the 1870s, and England in the 1780s. She talked about wars and shipwrecks; massacres and weddings; preachers and bandits; heroes and ordinary folk; despots of the benevolent and not-so-benevolent kind; wagon trains, horses, and rattlesnakes. And, she said, these are only some of the family stories. It was part of the family history many of our relatives had been developing and preserving.

I asked her who was related to whom, and she tried to explain ten centuries of a documented but not quite articulated family tree. I finally had to ask, Mom, where is all this written down?

Oh, said she, rather breezily, I have several boxes and many bags and some drawers of mixed clippings, copies of stories and family trees, letters…. all of them work done by your Aunt Grace, my Uncle Rob, my cousin Erina, myself…. The list went on, naming family members I knew, and some I didn’t.

What these dedicated family researchers had not had, but we now did, was the great benefit of being able to do research in the Age of Information. The following December, my husband and I drove from Virginia to Mom’s house in Texas to celebrate Christmas. We drove home, our car loaded with the results of years of work by many people. There was a big project ahead.

I organized and entered all the data I could, used the Internet and hard-copy books as a resource and after about two years ended up with a comprehensive, 2000+ member family tree, of which one line covered about 40 generations, back to Charlemagne.

The tree was a project I was glad to assemble, but it didn’t really tell the stories, which I especially wanted. Whether they are true, fantastical or somewhere in between, our stories are part of our family identity and culture. With Mother’s input, I used the information in the tree, adding in brief summaries of the stories plus interesting items which had come up in research, and created a Family Book.

I still find these stories exciting. Some are inherently dramatic, but many of them were just occurrences in the lives of ordinary people that gained drama and interest in historical context.

When we printed our Family Book in 2002, I promised Mom I would someday write at least some of the stories in it from the personal perspective of the people involved. Doing this involves some guesswork, lots of research and often only sort-of justified assumptions. On the other hand, the more historical research I do, the more I am aware how much of history is fleshed out in exactly that way. I am happy to call these stories historical fiction, but each story contains a kernel (or more) of reality from another time.

Mom died in 2004, but she survives in the hearts of her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, and in her furtherance of the stories of her ancestors. It is to my mother, Helena, that I dedicate Helena’s Stories. She was a remarkable woman.

Acknowledgements

Writing a book is a very big project, and I have been wonderfully supported in the process by so many people that I worry I’ll miss mentioning someone.

I especially want to thank Marianne Shepherd, who will not let me drop the ball; Susan Collins, who immediately sees the patterns I struggle to find; to Nancy and Don Montagna and to Dorothy Wright and Marilyn Tyson for endless patience and understanding as I obsess over details; to my cousins, today’s Atkinson and Davies family historians, for information, photos and their belief in this project. Thanks also, for informed perspectives, to Carole Melander regarding trauma-related stress and to Merry and Arup Banerji for helping me navigate the tricky course between British and Indian views of the Raj.

I also thank my wonderful Pen-to-Paper Writers’ Group (of the Windmore Foundation, Culpeper, Virginia) for support, encouragement, and inspiration: especially to Fran Cecere, Bette Hileman and Caryn Moya Block (author of Moonkissed Romance books) for encouragement and helping keep writing fresh. Thanks as well to Pennie Patterson and Jen Bierhausen for outstanding beta reading and great ideas.

And, special thanks to my children and grandchildren for being such loving and enthusiastic cheerleaders and to my wonderful husband for patience, support, very useful sanity checks, and for liking sandwiches for supper.

About Rule!

These are true accounts of vivid people – ancestors of the Davies and Atkinson family lines – told from their point of view, or that of someone involved with them. Some were famous, and others weren’t, but each was in some way tied to the rise, fall, or continuation of an empire. The stories all are historically accurate (as far as I’m able to tell) and some are deeply dramatic.

Because the stories personalize historical circumstances, a section follows each with information about its background and historical setting, and each story is end-noted with annotations and references. My goal in writing this book is to offer perspectives that are involving and also historically valid. I hope you’ll enjoy these family tales, just as I have enjoyed researching and writing them.

It’s well accepted now that notable historical characters of the middle ages such as Charlemagne, Eleanor of Aquitaine, or King John of England are the common ancestors of most of us who have some western European family origins. Even if you have no ties to the Davies or Atkinson families, when reading about them you may very well be reading about your ancestors. Either way, I hope that you’ll enjoy meeting them and their descendants.

Carolyn M. Osborne

Rule! is the second book of the series, Helena’s Stories. It follows A Perfect Plan, which romanticized the love and marriage of Catherine Nelson and George Matcham during the 1780s. Rule! will be followed by Promise, which continues personal histories with American family stories of the Atkinson, Davies, Still, and Yeargin families, from colonial times into the twentieth century.

The Decision

Charles I, King of the Franks

(born 742, died January 28, 814)

Crowned First Holy Roman Emperor

December 25, 799

Called Charlemagne

(Charles the Great)

Davies Family Ancestor

The Decision

Aachen,¹ Germania:

Autumn, 784

The King

Charles I, the King of the Franks, was not in a good mood when he awoke, well before daylight. Damn that priest! He felt sure that Father Alcuin’s² discussion with him had triggered his terrible dreams about the Saxons—about Verden.

Grumbling into his graying beard and pulling his fur cloak tighter around him, Charles stumbled into the small chapel that adjoined his bedchamber, his breath a mist in the frigid air. His servants maintained a cautious distance behind him, but Charles waved them away from the chapel. It is too cold in my chamber; warm it before I come back. But first, close this door! Finally alone, he knelt on the chilly stone floor before the cross.

"My God, I humble myself before thee. I have followed thy directive, through blessèd Boniface, in the best way I know, to spread the true Church in these benighted lands.³ I hope that my choices are pleasing to thee, Oh Lord, and that I remain in thy grace…"

His prayer finished, he remained on his knees, too distressed to rise. Unbidden, Charles’s mind returned to his dream. It had been horrible. In it he was not a Frank—he was a pagan. A Saxon.⁴

The forest was very old: dense and huge. Strong, ancient trees blocked out sunlight, giving everything a twilight look, even at midday. The ground and even the rocks were soft with moss.

He was wandering anguished, trying to find Donar’s Oak, the sacred symbol of the great World Tree.⁵ But he could not find it anywhere, and he feared that the stories were true: that it had been cut down by that interfering Christian, Boniface.⁶ He knew that the Ése, his gods, were angry and grieving and wanted him to find the giant oak, so he continued to look. To his sorrow, he was having no success.

The day stretched long. He came across a spring and, as was proper, blessed it before drinking. Our gods are good to us: giving us sweet water! He drank the cool water and washed the tears from his face.

When he stood, the scene had changed. He was no longer in the forest, but standing on damp soil on a wide, open riverside. He was one of a crowd of Saxons that stretched as far as he could see. There were thousands of believers there who had held on to their old gods: mighty Woden, stormy Donar, and the abundant mother goddess Frija.

To placate the Frankish lords who had invaded Saxon lands, many warriors had accepted the strange god from the treeless lands of the south, who was named Jesus. Most understood among themselves that he could be only one of their gods, though. They would never abandon their faith of the woodlands, nor replace their sacred trees and rivers with temples of stone as the Franks wanted. They could not worship sincerely in the strange Christian chapels of stone or wood.

Led by Widukind, they had arisen against their Frankish conquerors at the bloody Battle of Süntel,⁷ but Fenris, the Wolf of Chaos, must again have broken his chains,⁸ for they fought well, but lost the battle. Widukind had to flee, to find safety among the Norsemen. His warriors stood, defeated and surrendered to the Franks by their own, falsely Christian, neighbors. They were weaponless captives on this muddy river plain called Verden.

The ground was starkly different from the forest moss he had been walking on. He now stood on coarse, sparse, grass that had been trodden into the gray clay beneath his feet. Though it was autumn, the sun was hot on the treeless plain. The Saxon warriors were constrained, forced close together, moving around as much as they could, wondering what was going to happen. The still, moist air stank of unwashed bodies, sweat, and fear. He wished he was back in the place of the Ése, of his gods, in the deep forest by the clear spring.

Without warning, large companies of Frankish soldiers marched in among the Saxons, forcing them aside like the prow of a boat cutting through water. Systematically, the soldiers began slaughtering them—killing warriors. They died, weaponless, like sick cattle instead of the battle-tested heroes they were. Dying without fighting, in the next life they would find no warriors’ hall waiting to celebrate their valor. Instead, they were condemned to an afterlife of eternal gray half-existence.

There was no recourse; there was no room to move; there was no means to resist. There was only a massive slaughter of brave men. Through the shouts and screams and the cries of the dying, he thought he heard a wolf howling.

The horror lasted nearly half the day. Bodies piled up as blood drenched the clay soil, making it even more slippery and fouling the air. Appalled, Charles was unable to move. Finally, he turned, only to see a soldier’s sword aimed at his neck. It was moving in fast, just as he awakened from his dream.

Lying on the little chapel’s frigid gray stone floor, his face covered with anxious sweat, Charles implored God and Jesus to allow him peace: to assure him that he was ruling in the right way. Perhaps Father Alcuin is right. Killing the rebels may have been the wrong way to tame these stubborn Saxons. But, how can I be the King, the Christian King, if I tolerate disobedience and heresy?

Neither answers nor comfort came to him in the chapel that morning. Deeply shaken and despairing, Charles returned to his room. His breakfast was warm, a rich stew of beef and turnips. It awaited him on a table set near the hot brazier, but he was not hungry. His head was filled with the coppery stink of blood and the cries of dying warriors.

Aachen, the Same Day

The Priest

Father Alcuin was especially pleased with his classes at the Palatine School that morning. Gisela, the King’s twenty-six-year-old sister,⁹ had again excelled in mathematical problems of the Quadrivium, pushing her older nephews and nieces to do the same. What a wise woman she is! Chelles Abbey is fortunate to have her, but it is good for us all that she is still able to come to Aachen to study, and to visit with the King. She is especially good for him.

The young students of the school that day ranged in age from the six-year-old twin princes, Louis and Lothair,¹⁰ to seventeen-year-old Pepin,¹¹ a bright lad in a bent body. Smart, sunny, little Rotrude, already the King’s favorite daughter at only eight years of age, was studying with two of her older sisters. And there were the adults: the King’s sisters Gisela and Chrothais were working hard at their studies, and this morning, several other members of the court had moved in and out of the discussions. On some days, the King himself would join in. But not today.

But, not today. The priest sighed. While the students worked on a mathematical problem under the tutelage of his assistants, Alcuin was supposed to be developing a new challenge for his Propositiones ad Acuendos Juvenes,¹² but he could not focus on that challenge. He could not stop thinking about the King.

I try to live in Christ, and I hope to die in Christ. I don’t fear Charles, though I speak out so plainly that perhaps I should. I believe he is a good man and he certainly is reverent and thoughtful. Even so, Alcuin worried that he might have too harshly condemned the King’s treatment of the Saxon rebels when they spoke the prior night. I know that a good king walks a fine line between permissiveness and cruelty, and I know that Charles deeply wants to be a great king to his people, and to be a champion of the Holy Word.¹³ Is it possible to be both? …I sometimes wonder.

The King with the Priest

Despite his state of mind, seeing his sisters and his children at their studies made Charles smile. What a fine job this priest is doing developing my school. I am grateful to him for that.

The smile vanished. But he is wrong to have burdened me in this way. Father Alcuin, I would speak with you.

Certainly, your Highness. The short, lean priest turned away from his writing and followed the King out of the classroom, into the center of the villa. At Charles’ gesture, he sat beside him on a carved wooden bench.

Charles started, Father Alcuin, I believe you know I greatly respect your wisdom. You are a man of integrity, and I honor that about you. But, I cannot be reconciled to the idea that you have set forward; I cannot have been wrong about the Saxons… about Verden.

But, Your Highness, this regards your eternal soul.

The King nearly radiated frustration. "Nearly ten years ago, at the Council at Paderborn,¹⁴ I stated outright that I would offer two choices to pagans: accept baptism and observe the true faith, or pay the penalty. All who attended, the Saxon leaders and the Christian churchmen, agreed that it was just. These renegade Saxons who were killed by my order at Verden knew my intentions, but they chose to rebel, denying our Lord, and denying the baptism they had falsely accepted."

Baptism they were forced to accept, I believe you mean. Alcuin pressed his lips together to keep from saying too much. Stating it so baldly will not influence him, and will further drive the wedge between us. He tried to form a soothing answer that would encourage continuing the discussion. Sire, the policy of forced baptism is often debated. I understand how that debate must make your task of ruling such a great kingdom even more difficult. But, in good conscience, I cannot like it. It is...

Abruptly, the King stood, and the priest hurriedly followed suit. Charles raised his voice, heatedly jabbing his finger toward Alcuin. Remember that in the Book of Samuel, jab, Samuel tells Saul that the Lord has commanded him jab, "to slay all the Amalekites: men, women, children, even their beasts.¹⁵ I may not read well, priest, but I remember very well what I have heard." Another jab, accompanied by a fierce glare from beneath the King’s bushy eyebrows.

Oh, dear—the Amalekite argument again. It is so difficult to answer. My Lord, how can we interpret the minds of the great patriarchs and what God, our good Father, asked of them in those early times? You know that the blessèd Boniface struggled greatly with this question and, finally, came to believe clemency is more helpful to the Church, to Christ, than threats are.

Ignoring Alcuin’s comments, gathering momentum, Charles let his anger spill over. "But, you, Father Alcuin, you tell me I have sinned against God, and against man, by emulating the great King David and his father, King Saul. That cannot be."

Charles was nearly shouting, but then it seemed he reined himself in, and he stood quietly for a moment. A look of great sorrow crossed his face. "Remember, priest, Saul spared one, one Amalekite, a worthy king. He thought that was right to do, but Saul lost his kingdom because he had failed to honor the Lord’s directive. Well, I did not fail! I carried out my oath. He held his head in both hands as if it was aching. His shoulders drooped. His next words came out in a sigh. I did not fail but I lost my dear wife, my Hildegarde, and I lost my mother as well, within two seasons of Verden.¹⁶ Is this how God rewards those who carry out His will?"

He turned his face away. It seemed he was trying to collect himself. Alcuin’s heart clenched at the depth of the King’s sorrow.

Straightening again, Charles stared coldly at him. Convert them this way, convert them that way—be strong against the heretics—or let them alone. I hear one argument, priest… then I hear another. It always is just talk, and then more talk. Talk is talk, priest. It is not action. He shook his head in annoyance as if he was trying to drive a fly from his hair. Priests—you priests—you all talk too much.

Alcuin clenched his hands until the knuckles turned white. I must always be aware of who he is, of his power, and what he can do when he chooses to use it. His words carry such great weight.

Charles continued his complaint. "While these priestly arguments, your arguments, are going on, while you of the Church fail to balance your hunger for new converts with your desire to placate heathens… we, we fighting men, are carrying out your directive to Christianize these lands."

He thumped his chest with his knuckles, over his heart. "I, priest, I must daily order my men to fight and to die, when it is needed, not in some, he disdainfully waved one hand up into the air, …some future time. These decisions cannot wait until the question of how to do this ‘right’ is finally made clear by you priests. In this time, now, my men are dying in battles, and after what you have said lately, I cannot even tell them honestly that they are dying for a righteous cause, because I do not know any longer! I wish to all the gods of every land that you had left this question alone!"

Again, Charles was nearly shouting. His face had darkened, and the whites of his eyes stood out in bright contrast. Alcuin, who had been at Charles’s court for less than a year, had never seen him this angry.

The priest pulled his bony form up to his full height and drew a deep breath. My Lord, I am sorry to have burdened you in this way. But, I feel that I must… that, as a priest, it is my duty to counsel you in this difficult matter. It is at least as much my duty as is running the palace school.

Charles breathed deeply. His shoulders drooped and then he straightened up again. He spoke calmly but forcefully. Father Alcuin, I am having terrible dreams. It is I, I… who ordered the killing at Verden. He rubbed his temples with both hands. So many pagans—but they were people, just as we are—so many were killed, slaughtered like animals, at my word.

He extended his hands toward Alcuin, saying, almost pleading, This type of power, this responsibility, weighs on me. It is what I feel I should be doing, to bring the heathen to the Light of Christ, but I fear that I am losing my soul by doing it. The King’s face closed again, and he drew himself up very straight, looking down at Alcuin. And you, priest—you were not there to counsel me then, and now you are making it worse!

Abruptly, Charles turned on his heel and left, leaving the priest standing, his jaw dropped open.

The King

Fastrada was in her chamber with two of her ladies in attendance.¹⁷ When the King appeared without notice all three seemed startled, but Charles could see his new wife quickly regain her composure. She certainly is able to act in a regal manner.

The Queen stood, dismissed her ladies, and bowed. My King, good morrow. How can I be of service to you? Straightening up, she looked directly at him and lifted one shapely brow in her somewhat challenging, seductive way.

As she always did, Fastrada looked poised and elegant. In the muted light of a late autumn morning, against the chilly gray stones of the villa, her bright red under robe and blue coat were as vivid as if they had been enameled. The veil that covered her head and back and extended almost to the floor was white and very fine. It was embellished with intricate embroidery in blue and gold and set off her slender face and figure, and her large, dark eyes.

She is a lovely creature; much more so than Hildegarde was. But, oh, my sweet girl, my precious wife.¹⁸

It had been little more than a year since Charles’ wife Hildegarde had died after giving birth to their ninth child. Hildegarde had been thirteen when they married: a trusting, loving and companionable wife to her much older husband. Traveling with him on his many journeys and expeditions, always comforting him and always warm natured, she was very easy to talk with, and she possessed a great deal of common sense. She had been his refuge, a quiet center in the strife of building his kingdom. My Hildegarde was not elegant in the way Fastrada is, but I believe she had a finer spirit.

Suppressing a sigh, Charles smiled. No, it is nothing, my dear. I just wanted to look at you. You are lovely today. Fastrada looked puzzled but pleased. She was cool hearted, where Hildegarde was warm, but she was beautiful and rather skillful in bed. Charles felt a stirring of passion for his new wife. Are you past your childbirth time? Perchance, I may come to visit you this evening.

The Queen bowed. I will be honored, My Lord. And yes, I am recovered. It is two months since our daughter’s birth.

Charles cleared his throat. Well, then, I will take my leave, for now. He nodded to her and left the room.

I cannot confide my pain to her. She is not Hildegarde; it is not in her nature to help or to heal me. She will be a distraction, however, and sufficient to bear me more children. Yes, I will seek her out tonight. First, though, I must clear my thoughts and set my direction about this Saxon business. I can have no rest until I know what I should do henceforth.

The Nun and Her Brother

Gisela, I would speak with you.

His sister looked up from her studies and stood. Her eyes, which were the exact color of Chelles Abbey’s dark gray habit, brightened when she saw Charles, but then darkened as she looked more closely. Certainly, My Lord, she said properly, but then drew closer to him and asked, What is it? You seem troubled.

I am. I wish to discuss something with you—something I demand you keep to yourself. I seek your understanding and counsel on an important matter. Can we be undisturbed here?

‘Demand you keep to yourself.’ How could he even think I wouldn’t respect his privacy? Gisela could feel herself getting angry, and immediately quelled that reaction. I must not become offended so easily: sometimes Charles gets overwrought. I imagine I would, too, in his role. I must be supportive, even if he speaks to me that way. Gisela looked around the anteroom and gestured to her left. Let us move to that smaller chamber, and I’m sure that one of your men can take care that we are not disturbed.

Well, I am just going to say it. She turned toward him. And, Charles, there is no question that I will maintain your privacy. You are not only my King; you also are my brother. I owe that consideration to all of your concerns.

The King looked at his sister for a while, and she looked back at him levelly, directly. He finally had the good grace to seem abashed. Gisela, I am sorry. I am in a foul mood and not being as considerate as I should. That was unmerited. You are the most trustworthy person I know.

The little side room they entered held happy memories for Gisela. She smiled. "I had almost forgotten that we used to spend time in this room. Do you remember it, Charles? This is where you taught me how to play that wonderful pagan tafl game—we called it ‘The King and the Saxons.’¹⁹ I was, perhaps, ten then. You said I should learn logical games and how to win them. I will never forget that. You taught me well."

They sat on stools at the table in the small room, facing each other. Gisela folded her hands on the table and leaned slightly toward her older brother. She could see strain in the lines around his eyes. Tell me, Charles—what is wrong?

I am trying to understand a problem, a very serious problem, and I need your insight. It is not easy for me to explain. Please be patient with me.

Tell me, she repeated. I will carefully consider everything you say.

Charles described his confusion about how he should treat the pagans he conquered.²⁰ She noticed that he described the Church’s contradictory messages in a carefully neutral way. He then told her about his decision to enforce the choice between baptism or death, the rebellion of the Saxons and his subsequent order to slaughter the captives at Verden.

"I am hag-ridden by the memory of that slaughter, but I must be a strong king. I cannot countenance such rebellion. At the Battle of Süntel, I lost fine men to the rebels: four counts and twenty other noblemen, two of the three earls leading my armies, and many good soldiers.²¹ I grieve for my good, brave men, all of them, who died fighting those damned Saxon rebels. And now that priest, that Alcuin, tells me I was wrong to order the killing. Then, what did my men die for at Süntel?"

Gisela saw her brother’s face redden. I believe that he thinks he may have been wrong too, but cannot admit it. But, how could he? To admit that is to accept guilt for thousands of lives cut short. I must tread very gently, or he will resist what I say, just as he resists Alcuin. My poor brother—I would not like to carry his burdens.

Gisela chose her words carefully. My Lord, she looked sympathetically at him and continued. Charles, you are in a difficult position. I have heard discussion at the Abbey of these problems. There is, indeed, disagreement among the Church fathers about forced conversion, and how to act on it. They worry greatly and, I believe, very sincerely. They ponder, and they discuss, but cannot reach a decision. However, they are not, like you, required to take action at any one moment. I do understand, Charles: you are the King—a man of military power who must act in response to each challenge. You also are a good king, and a Christian king; you constantly weigh the costs both to your soldiers and to your people. Yours is a difficult job and a great responsibility. I see how it weighs on you.

Her eyes softened and filled. You also have had a difficult year since then. We both have, with losing sweet Hildegarde, who was as a sister to me, and then Mother dying, just three months later.

Despite her earlier resolve to be cautious, Gisela went straight to the point, as was her way. She loved logic and with her brother’s encouragement, she had carefully trained her mind, both as a child and as an adult.

"Let us lay out our pieces as if this were a tafl game, just like we used to play. She tapped a corner of the table. Holy St. Augustine struggled with and developed the question of what constitutes a just war. In Father’s time, and ours, the Saxons have represented a threat to Christians, as well as an impediment to expansion and conversion. I believe the Saxon Wars can be argued to be just wars by Augustine’s standards."

She tapped another corner. Good Boniface struggled with the question of requiring conversion, as an outcome of Father’s conquests. He worked hard to implement conversion in whatever way he could, especially in Aquitaine. We know he was conflicted about forced conversion, yet he endorsed it.

She tapped the third corner. Now, his protégé, Lullus, advises you to be as harsh as need be to force the Saxons to convert and submit both to Christian rule and religion as if they were the same thing.²²

As she touched the fourth corner, she said, However, Father Alcuin, whom we both admire, and who is here now in this struggle, counsels a more sympathetic position.

She sat back. Here are four opinions that are identical in intent: spreading the True Faith. But they are very different regarding the degree of force that is right to use.

Then, she tapped the center of the table. "And here, here is the King. Charles, remember how Father was, and Grandfather before him.²³ They were strong leaders and great warriors. Father was a mighty king. You, I believe, are already a greater one. Father laid upon you the task of continuing to expand his kingdom through might—of creating a powerful dynasty, and that is what you are doing.²⁴ Gisela looked intently at Charles and brushed away a lock of red hair that had crept out from under her veil. Father did not worry about conversion. He left all of—of that—to the Church, to Boniface.²⁵ But, you have no Boniface to whom you can entrust this problem. You have shouldered the almost impossible task of aligning conversion with managing your growing kingdom. I would not wish to be in such a position."

Nor do I, but it is what has befallen me. Charles’s face flushed with frustration. The gravity of the decisions I make is sometimes too much, Gisela. He put both his hands, open, on the table top. "What if it was wrong of me to order the killing of all those Saxons? Am I now damned? She could see fear and anguish in his eyes. I have caused many to die in battle, and that is sad, but… that is necessary. It is Verden that haunts me. What am I to do?"

The nun reached across the little table and placed her hand on her brother’s. She saw Charles relax