Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [111]
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