Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [112]
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 arrival 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