Tag Archives: Anvil of God

Interview with Flashlight Commentary

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The following interview with me originally appeared January 21, 2014 on Flashlight Commentary (http://flashlightcommentary.blogspot.com).  Head shot 3

Welcome to Flashlight Commentary. To start things off, please tell us a bit about Anvil of God.

It is a story about what happens to the family of Charles the Hammer when he dies.  The power behind the Merovingian kings (recently made famous by Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code) Charles wants to take the throne for his children.  Only one thing stands in his way.  He is dying.  He tries to bequeath the kingdom to his three sons and marry his daughter off to a Lombardy prince (to secure his southern border), but the only thing to reign after he dies is chaos.  Son battles son, Christianity battles paganism and his daughter must choose between love and her family’s ambition.

What inspired you to write this story?

I had studied Charlemagne in college and read the Song of Roland, an epic poem about one of Charlemagne’s greatest knights.  I remember thinking that it would the basis for a great novel. I always thought that if I were to write a novel, I would start there.  Years later when I finally decided to write it, I had to decide whether to follow the true history of Charlemagne and Roland or follow the legend. When I did the research, I fell in love with the history.

What research went into Anvil of God and did you discover anything particularly surprising while investigating the background material for you book?

Researching that period of history is a bit of a challenge.  There are very few sources that bring all the pieces together into one place.  I had to research Bavarian history, Alleman (German) history, Thuringian (Flemish) history, French history, Italian history, Church history.  Then, after I had put the timeline together, I struggled with where to start.  I couldn’t seem to find a good place. I kept moving back in time to discover something compelling that would capture my (and the reader’s) interest. I found that the story kept getting more interesting, the further back in time I moved.  I ended up so far back in time, that the Anvil doesn’t even mention Charlemagne – it is the story of his parents and the conflicts that led to the family’s rise to power.

What drew you to this particular period and why use it as the backdrop of your story?

One story in particular captured my interest.  Charles the Hammer’s daughter fled his court to find love amongst his enemies.  It was, according to some historians, the biggest scandal of the Eighth century.  How could that have come to pass?  How did they meet?  When did they fall in love? How did she get away?  How did she cross the continent on her own?  She must have been quite a character.  When I read her story, I knew I had found a place to start.

Another question from my research begged an answer.  I knew that Christianity had become the dominant religion on the continent (the Merovingian kings converted two centuries earlier), but so much of the Church history of that time period had to do with converting the pagans (and/or suppressing the pagans).  How could that be?  St. Boniface, who is a main character in the story, made his mark doing missionary work in what is now Germany and Bavaria.  If Christianity was so dominant, why was all that missionary work necessary?

That led me to make the conflict of religions (and the power associated with it) a key factor of the story.

The historic record for this period is sketchy at best. How did you approach composing a novel from a story with so many unknown elements? 

Actually, by writing the novel, I got to fill in the gaps.  I knew what happened, but I didn’t know why.  And you can’t understand why unless you figure out what motivates the people who shaped the history.  So, when you get down to it. Anvil is a story about a family. And by telling their story – what motivates them, and the choices they make – the history falls into place.  I didn’t try to write the history, I tried to tell the story of a family in crisis. Only this family’s choices affect an entire continent.

You probably have many, but is there one scene that you particularly enjoyed writing?

I enjoyed bringing to life a religion about which we know very little.  Having been raised in the Catholic Church, I was very familiar with the rites and prayers that surround that faith.  What rites and prayers would bring the pagan faith to life?  There is a scene about mid-way through the book with a sibyl that seemed to come out of nowhere for me.  It was so otherworldly, that I took great delight in writing it.

What scene posed the greatest challenge for you as an author?

The sex scenes were difficult, at first.  So much has been written about sex – and so much of it poorly – that I struggled with finding the right tone.  I didn’t want to have the characters kiss and then fade to black.  I felt like it was dishonest for me as an author to shutter such a big window into their characters.

But the language for sex has been so overdone, I agonized over the first scenes I wrote.  A writing professor eventually helped me out.  She said sex between two people is so intimate that people create their own language for it; they establish their own rituals. So, if you are writing about sex, it must be intimate to that character.  It must use language that that character would use.  Writing about sex should provide a unique insight into the character.  If you are writing to titillate you reader (or yourself for that matter) you are doing it for the wrong reasons.  After I understood that, it became easy.

Sometimes fiction takes on a life of its own and forces the author to make sacrifices for the sake of the overall story. Is there a character or concept you wish you could have spent more time with or expanded on? 

There were a lot of scenes that never made the final cut.  My problem, as an author, (or so my editors tell me) is that I like to tell ALL the story.  I take out the mystery.  You see the story from every perspective.  What they’ve taught me, is that sometimes it is better for the reader to wander around in the dark – just like the characters – to build some suspense for the resolution.

Fortunately, I have some good editors.  Unfortunately, some of my favorite scenes had to be cut.

If you could sit down and talk with one of your characters, maybe meet and discuss things over drinks, who would you choose and why?

I would love to meet Charles.  The man was a force of nature.  He literally conquered a continent and saved Christianity in Europe.  Bradius would be my second choice because his character is so complex. I’d love to see the world from his perspective – as painful as it is.   I’d also love to meet Sunni, but I doubt she would take time to bother with me.  She too was a force of nature and didn’t suffer fools lightly.

What do you hope readers come away with after reading your work?

I hope they put down the book and say “Wow!  What a great story.”  Then, I hope they say, “I can’t wait for Book II.”

Finally, what is next for you? Any new projects waiting in the wings?

I’m about halfway through Anvil’s sequel “Wheel of the Fates” which picks up the story two months after Anvil’s conclusion.  I’m also working on a novel that is somewhat closer to our timeframe and perhaps more familiar to readers.  It’s called “Sin of Omission.” It’s the not-so-pretty story of Ben Franklin as a young man.

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If Relatives of Literary Greats Could Tweet

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I’ve been learning to tweet.  Which is a very bizarre phenomenon.  It’s like stepping into a scene from The Bald Soprano by French playwright Eugene Ionesco.  In the Bald Soprano, everyone talks – but no one listens.  “It’s not that way!  It’s over here!”

This is particularly true if your followers and followees (?) are writers, bloggers and the media.  Everyone is hyping their own work, a small few are entertaining, but is anyone really listening?  Hard to tell.

Maybe it’s just me.  Maybe I don’t have enough “followers” yet.  Maybe I just don’t quite get it yet.  For my part, I’ve been trying a mix of promoting Anvil (whenever I get a good review or hit a new milestone) and being “entertaining.” (Mostly to amuse myself, since I’m not sure anyone is listening).

At least I hope I’m entertaining.  My first attempt relates to a blog post I wrote earlier called, “What do we tell the children?” about how awkward it was for me when friends and neighbors read the sex scenes from my novel – which I’ll admit are pretty graphic – It was even more awkward with people are related to me.

That led me to wonder what it would have been like to be the relative of a literary great, back in the day.  It must have been doubly difficult.  (For those of a certain age, think Billy Carter, Jimmy Carter’s brother).

What if they could communicate today?  What if they could tweet?

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#IfRelativesOfLiteraryGreatsCouldTweet

“That, ‘to be or not to be’ line?  Yeah, that was mine.” – Bobby Shakespeare

“’Plain English!’ I told him.  ‘No one will understand you.’” – Bobby Shakespeare

“Yeah, Bacon did write a few of them.” – Bobby Shakespeare

 “Midsummer’s Night Dream?  Now, that is some strange shit.” – Bobby Shakespeare

 “He starts using iambic pentameter, and I say, ‘now you’re just showing off.” – Bobby Shakespeare

“I’ll give it to him on diversity. Othello was way ahead of its time.” – Bobby Shakespeare

“I wish he had told me that all the female parts were played by men.” – Bobby Shakespeare

Next:  Nabokov’s son Nick

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Men in Space

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“What did you guys talk about?”

“Nothing.  We were playing cards.”

“You were there for five hours, somebody must have said something.”

“No…not really.  I mean we bet, raised, folded, you know – card stuff.”

“Are you telling me that seven guys got together for five hours and didn’t talk about anything?

“Pretty much.”

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Men don’t need to talk.  In fact, sometimes I think men communicate better with other men when we don’t.  We are content to simply be in each other’s space, to share an experience together. If you think about our pastimes – sports, watching sports, playing cards, fishing, golf, hiking, boating, video games – there’s not a lot of talking going on.  Silence is a virtue we share in such moments.

That doesn’t mean we never talk to each other, but if we do, it is usually to tell a story, or exchange banter.  Both communicate volumes about what we think is important and how we relate to each other.  If I don’t like you, I won’t bother to chump you down.  If I did, it would just be mean. Men don’t need to talk.  In fact, sometimes I think men communicate better with other men when we don’t.  We are content to simply be in each other’s space, to share an experience together. If you think about our pastimes – sports, watching sports, playing cards, fishing, golf, hiking, boating, video games – there’s not a lot of talking going on.  Silence is a virtue we share in such moments.

That being said, I think men are less verbally challenged than we used to be.  Perhaps it is because our culture allows for more expression – and a broader range of expression – than we used to.  Men are no longer stuck in the rigid macho box we used to live in.  I freely admit to being a romantic slob who gets sentimental (read “cries”) at the movies and at just about every family gathering.  And as I get older, I find myself comparing health and family issues with friends in a way that would have been unthinkable in my parent’s generation.

But, there is something about silence that still speaks to me.  The quiet of an early morning golf game as the mist lifts off the fairway; the hush that surrounds a raise when the table is full of chips, the brief flutter of a sail in a spring wind as it stretches tight against the boom and the boat surges forward.  To share those moments, maybe that’s enough.

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At the Shrine of St. Lambert

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Shrine of St. Lambert, imagesMaastricht, Liege

 Anno Domini 714 

Grimoald took off his helmet as he crossed the threshold of the candle-lit shrine of St. Lambert.  The young knight’s long, dark hair was matted and the dust of a hard ride covered his face.  He crossed himself, his movements constricted by the armored plates strapped to his arms, legs and chest and made his way to the altar.  There, he knelt, placed his helmet on the floor and drew his sword.  He held it aloft, kissed its blade and laid it before the altar with reverence, matching its placement to the arms of the cross.  Next, he prostrated himself before the altar, spreading his armored limbs so that they too matched the arms of the cross.  He began to pray.

“Veni Creator Spiritus, Mentes tuorum visita.”  Grimoald had ridden all night in hopes of receiving his father’s last blessing, only to find that he had arrived too late.  Pippin II had succumbed to dropsy just hours before Grimoald’s arrival.  Distraught, Grimoald had chosen to find solace in the chapel of his mentor, the murdered Saint Lambert, where he would pray for the soul of his father.

“Imple superna grati quae tu creasti pectora. Amen.”  It had been three years since the good saint had given Grimoald the gift of the Holy Ghost on the day he became a knight.  Following three days and nights of fasting and prayer, Lambert had touched Grimoald’s forehead with the palm of his hand and opened him to the light of God. From that day forward, his sword belonged to the Almighty.  He lay prostrate before Him now, in complete subjugation. He intended to remain prostrate all day.

He first dedicated his vigil to honor his mentor, the saint.  His prayers begged St. Lambert to intercede on behalf of his father.  But he also asked the saint to seek the Lord’s blessing and guidance for himself, because he, Grimoald, was about to become the most powerful man on the continent.

Dukes of every region swore allegiance to the king, but ultimately served his “mayors of the palace.”   These were the King’s premier military and government leaders.  As mayor of Austrasia, Grimoald’s father, Pippin of Herstal, had become the most powerful mayor of all time.  He had subdued neighboring Neustria and lorded over the two largest regions of the kingdom. A powerful warrior and statesmen, Pippin had laid the foundation for combining the commerce of the Neustrians with the grain and landed wealth of the Austrasians.  He next aligned their military might into one fighting force.  Together, they were now financially and militarily the strongest force on the continent.

As the eldest of Pippin’s sons, Grimoald was next in line.  “…in saeculorum saecula. Amen.” 

News of his father’s death was something that Grimoald had feared all his life. But his father had schooled him against grief.  Becoming Mayor was a moment for which one had best be prepared.  And Grimoald was. He had known for many years what he wished to do as Mayor.  He would become a warrior priest.  He would dispel paganism and bring glory to God and the Merovingian Kings.   And the Church, he believed, was the key to success.

The Roman Empire had failed because it had no higher calling.  The rule of law had been based solely on the might of those enforcing it.  And when the empire no longer had the might to enforce its rule from Rome, power had shifted to the landed estates and the empire cracked like ice covering the Seine. The vestiges of the empire remained in the houses ruling Gaul, but those who ruled were nothing more than warlords.  Each served his individual interests under the king.  Each served for the sake of power and succession alone.  This doomed them all to constant war and bloodshed.

“I will be different,” Grimoald thought, unintentionally interrupting his prayer.  “It will all be different.”

Grimoald regretted not having seen his father before he passed from this world.  He had loved and feared the man. Yet, his father had also been weak in many ways.  Grimoald had detested that Pippin consorted with a woman out of wedlock and fathered a bastard, an arrogant ruffian named Charles.  There was even talk that the woman’s family had murdered Saint Lambert when the holy man had criticized his father’s affair as “an affront to God.”

A priest and his acolyte genuflected near the altar. From his prone position, Grimoald could only see the hems of their robes as they straightened to approach the altar.  He heard the priest place the chalice on the altar and begin to pray aloud.

“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spirtus Sancti. Amen,” the priest said.  “Introibo ad altare Dei.”

Grimoald and the acolyte answered, taking up the familiar response.  “Ad Deum qui laetificat iuventutem meam.” Grimoald felt his body relax.  He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the cool stone of the floor.

He did not hear the knife being drawn from its scabbard.  Grimoald only heard his voice joining that of the priest praying in the language of God’s holy mass.  “Qui fecit caelum et terram.”

Likewise, he did not hear, but rather felt the impact of the dagger as it was thrust under his ribs.  An explosion of air escaped his lungs through the newfound rent in his body.  Before he could move, the attacker knelt on his back and the knife struck again.  This time it sliced across the soft tissue at his throat, ensuring that Grimoald would remain prostrate throughout the day.

Grimoald’s murder sparked the civil war that marks the rise of the Carolingian Kings.  His mother, Plectrude, imprisoned the bastard Charles and named her eight-year old grandson Theudoald as Mayor.  Theudoald lasted a year.  Charles escaped, seized his father’s treasure and declared himself, mayor.  He spent the next ten years battling his father’s wife, allies and enemies, until the Neustrian opposition was broken.  

The ensuing 17 years were no less violent as Charles brought to heel every region of the Frankish Kingdom.  He shed the blood of the Alemans, the Burgunidans, the Saxons, the Sweves, the Bavarians and the Gascons of Aquitaine.  Charles is most famous for stopping the “Saracen” invasion at Poitiers in 732.  Since the Saracen were followers of Muhammad, historians have credited Charles with saving Christianity in the Western world from the Islamic expansion that had swept much of the Mediterranean and the African continent. It was at Poitiers that Charles earned his nickname “Martel” or “the Hammer.”  

Although an additional three Merovingian Kings were elevated during the reign of Charles Martel, only one held any real power.  The rest were considered “rois féants,”or “puppet kings.”  When the last of these, Theudoald IV, died in 737, Charles did not bother to elevate another.  At Charles’s death in 741, he ruled alone as mayor of the palace.  For four years, the Merovingian Kings had been relegated to being little more than a memory.  Charles lay claim to the allegiance of all the noble families from the Rhine to the Pyrenees and planned to leave the kingdom in the hands of his three sons, Carloman, Pippin III (the Younger) and Gripho.

 

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