Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [113]
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