Brother Samuel and the others crossed themselves.
“I thought I heard him speak before he died,” Brother Samuel said. “What did he say?”
“He … he called upon Mary, mother of Christ.”
Brother Samuel nodded sagely. “A holy man.” To the others he said, “Carry him to the church. We will prepare his body with all due ceremony.”
“TERRA es, terram ibis,” Abbot Raban intoned. With the rest of the brethren, Joan stooped to scoop up a handful of earth, then tossed it into the grave, watching the dark, wet lumps smear unevenly across the smooth wood of her father’s coffin.
He had always hated her. Even when she was little, before the lines of battle between them had been drawn, she had never elicited anything more from him than a sour, grudging tolerance. To him, she had always been only a stupid, worthless girl. Still, she was shocked to learn how willingly he would have exposed her, how unhesitatingly he would have consigned her to unspeakable death.
Nevertheless, as the last of the heavy earth was mounded on her father’s grave, Joan felt an odd, unexpected melancholy. She could not remember a time when she had not resented her father, feared him, even hated him. Yet she felt a peculiar sense of loss. Matthew, John, Mama—all were gone. Her father had been her last link with home, with the girl she once had been. There was no Joan of Ingelheim anymore; there was only John Anglicus, priest and monk of the Benedictine house of Fulda.
17
Fontenoy | 841
THE meadow shimmered in the dim, gray light of early dawn, threaded through the middle with the sweetly curving lines of a silver creek. An unlikely scene for a battle, Gerold thought grimly.
Emperor Louis had been dead less than a year, but the smoldering rivalry among his three sons had already flared into full-fledged civil war. The eldest, Lothar, had inherited the title of Emperor, but the lands of the Empire were divided between Lothar and his two younger brothers, Charles and Ludwig—an unwise and dangerous arrangement that left all three sons dissatisfied. Even so, war might have been avoided had Lothar been more skilled in diplomacy. Peremptory and despotic by nature, Lothar treated his younger brothers with an arrogance that goaded them to league together in open rebellion against him. So the three royal brothers were finally come here to Fontenoy, determined to settle the differences between them with blood.
After considerable soul-searching, Gerold had cast his lot with Lothar. He knew Lothar’s flaws of character well, but as the anointed Emperor, Lothar was the only hope for a united Frankland. The divisions that had racked the country over the past year had exacted a terrible toll: the Norsemen, taking advantage of the distraction the political upheaval afforded, had intensified their raids against the Frankish coast, wreaking great destruction. If Lothar could win a decisive victory here, his brothers would have no choice but to support him. A country ruled by a tyrant was better than no country at all.
The beating of the boards began, mustering the men. Lothar had arranged for an early mass to hearten his troops before the coming battle. Gerold left his solitary meditations and returned to the camp.
Robed in cloth of gold, the Bishop of Auxerre stood high upon a supply cart so all could see him. “Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna,” he chanted in a ringing baritone as dozens of acolytes passed among the men, distributing the consecrated Host. Many of the soldiers were coloni and peasants with no previous experience at arms, men who would normally have been exempt from the imperial bannum requiring military service. But these were not normal times. Many had been torn from their homes without so much as an hour’s leave to arrange their affairs or bid farewell to their loved ones. These last received the Host distractedly, being in no condition to prepare for death. Their minds were still firmly fixed upon the things of this world from which they had been so roughly severed: their fields, livelihoods, debts, their wives and children. Bewildered and frightened, they could not yet comprehend the enormity of their predicament, could not believe they were expected to fight and die on this unfamiliar ground for an Emperor whose name had, until a few days ago, been only a distant echo in their lives. How many of these innocents, Gerold wondered, will live to see the sun set on this day?
“O Lord of Hosts,” the bishop prayed at the conclusion of the mass, “Champion against the enemy, Achiever of victories, grant us the shield of Thy aid, and the sword of Thy glory, for the destruction of our enemies. Amen.”
“Amen.” The air reverberated with the sound of thousands of voices. A moment later, the first narrow sliver of sun crested the horizon, spilling its light over the field, setting the tips of their spears and arrows gleaming like precious gems. A loud cheer went up from the men.
The bishop removed the pallium and handed it to an attending acolyte. Loosing his chasuble, he let it fall to the ground and stood revealed in a soldier’s mail: brunia, the thick leather jacket soaked in heated wax and sewn with scales of iron, and bauga, metal leg guards.
He means to fight then, Gerold thought.
Strictly speaking, the bishop’s holy office forbade him to spill another man’s blood, but in practice this pious ideal was often ignored; bishops and priests fought alongside their kings like any other royal vassals.
One of the acolytes handed the bishop a sword engraved with the sign of the cross. The bishop swung the sword aloft so its golden cross glittered in the sun. “Praise Jesus Christ!” he shouted. “Forward, good Christians, to the kill!”
GEROLD was in command of the left flank, positioned on the rise of a hill bordering the southern end of the field. On an opposite hill, Lothar’s nephew Pippin commanded the right flank, a large, well-armed contingent of Aquitanians. The vanguard, commanded by Lothar himself, was drawn up just beyond the trees fronting the eastern end of the field, directly facing the enemy.
Gerold’s bay stallion tossed its head and whinnied impatiently. Leaning over, Gerold ran a hand over its russet neck, gentling it. Best to reserve all that coiled energy for the charge, when it should come. “Soon enough, boy,” he murmured steadyingly, “soon enough.”
He checked the sky. It was rising six, the first hour of the morning. The sun, still low on the horizon, shone directly into the eyes of the enemy. Good, Gerold thought. It’s an advantage we can use. He watched Lothar for the signal to advance. A quarter of an hour passed, and no signal came. The rival armies stood at opposite ends of the field, eyeing each other warily across the green expanse. Another quarter of an hour passed. Then another. And another.
Gerold broke rank and rode down the hill to the front line of the vanguard, where Lothar sat mounted under a flurry of banners.
“Majesty, why do we delay? The men are impatient to advance.”
Lothar looked down his long nose irritably. “I am the Emperor; it is not meet that I should go to my enemies.” He had no liking for Gerold, who had entirely too independent a mind for his taste—the result, no doubt, of the years he had spent among the pagans and barbarians in the northern march of the Empire.
“But, Sire, see the sun! Now the advantage is ours, but within the hour it will be gone!”
“Trust in God, Count Gerold,” Lothar replied loftily. “I am Heaven’s anointed king; He will not fail to grant us victory.”
From the finality of Lothar’s tone, Gerold understood that there was no point in further argument. He bowed stiffly, wheeled his horse, and rode back to his position.
Perhaps Lothar was right, and God did mean to award them victory. But might He not also expect a little help from men?
IT WAS rising ten; the sun was nearing midpoint. Damn, Gerold swore under his breath. What on earth is Lothar thinking? They had been waiting now almost four hours. The sun beat down on their iron mail, heating it until the men squirmed with discomfort. Those who had to relieve themselves were required to do so where they stood, for they could not break formation; the rank smell rose and hung about them in the breezeless air.
In these difficult circumstances, Gerold was glad to witness the arriva
l of a small corps of serving men, porting barrels of wine. The men were hot and thirsty; a strong cup of wine was just what was needed to revive their sagging spirits. A lusty cheer went up as the serving men began to circulate, ladling out cupfuls of thick red Frankish wine. Gerold took one himself and felt much the better for it. He did not, however, allow himself or his men more than this one drink. Where a little wine could bolster a man’s courage, too much made him foolhardy and wild, a danger to himself and to his fellows.
Lothar showed no such concern. Benignly, he encouraged the drinking to continue. Shouting and chaffing, boasting of their skill at arms, the men of his vanguard jockeyed roughly for position, tripping over one another to win the honor of standing in the foremost rank, pushing and shoving like wayward boys—which indeed they were; except for a handful of experienced veterans, the greater part were no older than eighteen.
“They are coming! They are coming!”
The shout went up throughout the ranks. The opposing army was advancing, slowly as yet, so the unmounted men-at-arms and archers could keep in close proximity to the mounted cavalry which rode before them. The effect was solemn, majestic, more like a religious procession than the onset of a battle.
In Lothar’s vanguard, there was a disorderly flurry as men scrambled to retrieve scattered helmets, lances, and shields. They had just managed to mount when the enemy cavalry spurred into a full forward charge, bearing down upon them with terrifying speed, causing the earth to reverberate with a deafening roar like that of a thousand thunderbolts.
The banners in the imperial vanguard dropped and rose, signaling the answering charge. The cavalry leapt forward, the horses’ hooves tearing the smooth green turf as they drove ahead with straining necks.
Gerold’s bay sprang in response; Gerold reined him in. “Not yet, boy.” Gerold and his men must hold back; the left flank was to be last onto the field, after Lothar and Pippin.
Like two great waves, the opposing armies swept toward each other forty thousand strong, the pride of the Frankish nobility riding knee to knee in solid lines a half mile wide and equally deep.
With a wild shout, a group from the imperial vanguard burst out of formation, spurring their horses into a disorderly run, racing against one another for the glory of being the first to engage the enemy before the eyes of their Emperor.
Gerold watched with chagrin. If they kept going as they were, they would reach the brook too soon and be caught laboring through the water while the enemy fought them from the solid ground of the far bank.
Reckless with wine and youth, they rode straight into the creek and collided with the enemy with an ear-splitting crack like two gigantic bones breaking. They fought with fierce courage at great disadvantage, for they had to strike from below at the enemy on the bank, their aim thrown off as their horses stumbled for footing on the slippery rocks. Those who were cut down fell into the water, where, mired in mud and struggling to rise against the weight of their mail, they were trampled by their own panicked, plunging horses.
The men in the rows behind saw what lay ahead but were coming on at such speed they could not check themselves without being violently overridden by those following. They, too, were forced to plunge down the muddied slope into the water, now churning alternately white and red with blood, driving the survivors of the first charge forward willy-nilly onto the spears of the enemy.
Only the rear of the cavalry, which now included Lothar, was able to check in time; they wheeled their horses and rode back across the field at a wild, undisciplined gallop that brought them crashing straight into the ranks of unmounted men-at-arms marching up behind. These were thrown into frenzied disarray as they cast aside their weapons and hurled themselves sideways to avoid the headlong rush.
It was a rout. The only hope now lay with the flanks, led by Pippin and Gerold. Positioned as they were, they could sweep down onto the field beyond the brook and strike directly at King Ludwig in the center. Looking to the opposite slope, Gerold saw that Pippin and his Aquitanians were turned, fighting with their backs to the field. King Charles must have circled round and come at them from behind.
No help to be had there.
Gerold looked back toward the field. The greater part of Ludwig’s men had crossed the brook in pursuit of the retreating Lothar, and thus unwittingly thinned their ranks, leaving the king momentarily exposed. It was a chance in a thousand, but a desperate chance was better than none.
Gerold stood in his stirrups, raising his lance. “Forward!” he shouted, “in the Emperor’s name!”
“The Emperor!” The cry went up like a great baying of hounds and was left shuddering in the air behind them as they streamed headlong down the slope, a great flying wedge aimed directly toward the spot where Ludwig’s standard floated scarlet and blue in the summer sunlight.
The small band of men who had remained with the king scrambled to close ranks before him. Gerold and his men bore down upon them, shearing a path through their ranks.
Gerold took his first man with the lance, running him cleanly through the chest, the shaft of the lance splintering from the force of the blow. The man somersaulted out of the saddle, taking the shattered lance with him. Armed only with his sword, Gerold hurled himself forward with savage determination, striking left and right in great, powerful sweeps, hewing his way doggedly through the press toward the fluttering standard. His men drove in to the sides and behind, widening his path.
Yard by yard, inch by inch, Ludwig’s guard gave way before the on slaught. Then, abruptly, the way ahead stood clear. Directly before Gerold rose the royal standard, a red griffin emblazoned on a field of blue. Before it, mounted on a white charger, was King Ludwig himself.
“Yield,” Gerold shouted at full pitch to carry over the din. “Yield and you shall live!”
For answer, Ludwig brought his sword crashing down against Gerold’s. Grimly, they fought man to man, an equal match of strength and skill, until a nearby horse pitched violently sidelong, felled by an arrow, causing Gerold’s bay to rear and flinch away violently. Ludwig pressed this momentary advantage with a well-timed blow at Gerold’s neck. Gerold ducked and thrust to the inside beneath the king’s raised sword arm, driving his own blade in between the ribs.
Ludwig coughed, a froth of blood rising at his mouth; slowly his body twisted and slipped sideways from the saddle, thumping to the trampled ground.
“The king is dead!” Gerold’s men shouted exultantly. “Ludwig is slain!” The cry was flung back echoing through the ranks.
Ludwig’s body hung from the saddle, one foot caught in the trappings. His horse reared, pawing the air and dragging the king’s body across the torn earth. The conical helmet with its protective nose plate loosened and dislodged, revealing a flat, broad-nosed, completely unfamiliar face.
Gerold swore. It was a coward’s trick, unworthy of a king. This was not Ludwig but his counterfeit, decked out like the king to deceive them.
There was no time to lament, for they were immediately surrounded by Ludwig’s troops. Guarding one another’s flanks, Gerold and his men strove to extricate themselves from the enemy’s noose, fighting with fierce determination toward the outer perimeter of the circle.
A brief flash of green and a breath of fresh, sweet-scented air sent Gerold’s heart soaring. Another few yards and they would be free, with open field and a clear run before them.
A man flung himself in Gerold’s path, planting himself as solidly as a tree. Quickly Gerold took his measure—a big man, fleshy, large stomached, powerful in the arms, wielding a mace, a weapon of strength, not skill. Gerold feinted with his sword to the left; when the man turned to answer it, Gerold drew back quickly to deliver a biting cut on the other arm. The man swore and quickly switched the mace to his left hand.
From behind came a humming sound like a beating of birds’ wings. Gerold felt a sudden, numbing pain in his back as an arrow drove through his right shoulder. Helplessly he watched his sword slip from his suddenly nerveless fi
ngers.
The big man raised the heavy mace and swung. Even as Gerold moved to evade it, he knew that he was too late.
Something seemed to explode inside his head as the crushing blow landed, spinning him into obliterating darkness.
THE stars shone down in imperturbable beauty upon the darkened field, strewn with the bodies of the fallen. Twenty thousand men who had wakened that morning lay dead or dying in that dark night— nobles, vassals, farmers, craftsmen, fathers, sons, brothers—the past greatness of an empire.
Gerold stirred and opened his eyes. For a moment he lay looking up at the stars, unable to remember where he was or what had happened. A strong odor rose to his nostrils, unpleasant and sickeningly familiar.
Blood.
Gerold sat up. The sudden movement caused an explosion of pain inside his head, and pain brought back memory. He touched his right shoulder; the arrow that had struck him was still lodged there, cut clean through the flesh just under his arm from back to front. It must come out, or the wound would fester. Clamping his arm against his side, he snapped off the iron tip, then reached back his left hand and, with one swift motion, drew out the feathered shaft.
He gasped and swore against the white-hot pain, fighting to remain conscious. After a while the pain began to ease and he was able to take account of his surroundings. All around him the ground was strewn with flung swords, broken shields, severed limbs, tattered standards, stiffening corpses—the ghastly debris of battle.
From the hill where Charles and Ludwig were encamped, the sounds of a victory celebration spilled down, bibulous jests and raucous laughter that floated eerily over the deep silence below. The light of the victors’ torches shone down flickeringly, illuminating the field with a ghostly pallor. From the Emperor’s camp on the opposite hill, not a single sound came, nor fire burned; the hill was silent, dark and still.
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