—Franz Kafka ON THE FRANCIA/SAXONY BORDER, 730 Karl, Pepin’s son, was a vigorous man in his early forties: for him the prime of his life. In these rough and perilous times, lesser men—if they survived—were old and wizened. Only Karl’s hair, shot through with streaks of gray, gave any suggestion of his age. The major domus shunned court dress, favoring plain linen breeches and tunic, and a simple fur jerkin beneath his cape. Only his jewel-encrusted belt and scabbard hinted at wealth and power. The famous ring of Arnulf glittered on one hand; the other bore his own seal ring. The Frankish leader projected an aura, a presence, the like of which Harry had never known. Karl’s gaze was intense, focused, penetrating. Right now, that stare was aimed straight at Harry, and he found it most unsettling. Karl had listened intently to news of the permanent Saracen base in Aquitania. Then, the strangers’ information absorbed, he seemed ready to set it aside.
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