Pope Joan_ A Novel - Donna Woolfolk Cross [146]
In the three years since the Battle of Fontenoy, Gerold’s relationship with Emperor Lothar had gone from bad to worse. Lothar had gradually become more and more tyrannical, surrounding himself with toadying followers who flattered him at every turn. He had absolutely no tolerance for fideles like Gerold, who continued to voice his opinions honestly—as, for example, when he had advised against this current campaign against Rome.
“Our troops are needed on the Frisian coast,” Gerold argued, “to defend against the Norsemen. Their raids are becoming more and more frequent—and destructive.”
It was true. Last year the Norsemen had attacked St.-Wandrille and Utrecht; the previous spring they had sailed brazenly down the Seine and burned Paris! This had sent a shock wave of fear over the countryside. If so great a city as Paris, in the very heart of the Empire, was not safe from the barbarians, then no place was.
Lothar’s attention, however, was directed toward Rome, which had dared proceed with Pope Sergius’s consecration without first asking for his sovereign approval—an omission which Lothar took as a personal affront.
“Send to Sergius and make your royal displeasure known,” Ger old advised. “Punish the Romans by withholding payment of the Romefeoh. But let us keep our fighting men here, where they are needed.”
Lothar had been enraged at this challenge to his authority. In retaliation, he had assigned Gerold command of the rear division.
They made good progress on the paved road, covering almost forty miles before dusk, but they did not pass a single town or village. Gerold had all but resigned himself to another restless night bedded down by the side of the road when he caught sight of a spiral of smoke circling lazily above the treetops.
Deo gratias! There was a village ahead, or at least a settlement of some kind. Now Gerold and his men were assured of a comfortable night’s sleep. They had not yet crossed the border into papal lands; the Kingdom of Lombardy, through which they now rode, was imperial territory, and hospitality required that travelers be courteously welcomed—if not to beds in the house, then at least to soft berths of hay in a warm, dry stable.
They rounded a curve and saw that the smoke was not coming from a welcoming hearth fire but from the still-smoldering remains of houses burned to the ground. It must have been a thriving settlement; Gerold made out the blackened outlines of some fifteen buildings. The blaze had probably been started by a chance spark from a carelessly tended lamp or hearth fire; such calamities were not uncommon where houses were built of wood and thatch.
Riding past the blackened timbers, Gerold was reminded of Villaris. It had looked much the same on that long-ago day when he returned to find it burned by the Norsemen. He remembered digging through the rubble searching for Joan, seeking, yet afraid to find. Amazing—it had been fifteen years since he had last seen her, yet her image was imprinted on his mind as if it were yesterday: the crop of white-gold hair that curled beguilingly about her forehead, the full, throaty voice, the deep-set gray-green eyes so much wiser than their years.
He forced her image from his mind. Some things were too painful to dwell upon.
A mile beyond the ruined settlement, at the high cross marking the spot where two roads converged, a woman and five ragged children were begging alms. As Gerold and his men rode up, the little family drew back fearfully.
“Be at peace, good mother,” Gerold reassured her. “We mean you no harm.”
“Have you any food to spare, lord?” she asked. “For the children’s sake?”
Four of the children ran to Gerold, holding their hands out in mute appeal, their small faces tight and anxious with hunger. The fifth, a pretty, black-haired girl some thirteen years of age, hung back and clung to her mother.
Gerold withdrew from his saddlebag the square of oiled sheepskin that held his ration of food for the next few days. There remained a good-sized loaf of bread, a block of cheese, and some