Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [114]
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 fingers.
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,