Magnus looked to his left and frowned. Cavalry were galloping towards Heinrich’s army. “A group of our troops is advancing?”
Dieter rose up in the stirrups to get a better view. “Archbishop Frederick has instructed Duke Henry of Lorraine to rush against their flank in an effort to throw the enemy off balance.”
Magnus struggled to control his skittish horse. “They’ll be slaughtered.”
“Not if they retreat in time.”
A cloud of dust soon gathered on the near horizon. “Gut! Duke Henry is retreating, and the enemy is following. His actions will have unnerved them somewhat. Now, for our part. Theodoric and Henry of Kessel will attack at the same time as us.”
Amid a frightful din of trumpets, the opposing armies came together in a bone chilling clash of horses and weapons. For hours, the struggle remained undecided. Screams and moans rent the air as heads rolled, severed body parts thudded to the ground and horses stumbled in the gory mud. Men grunted, sweated and bled. Cries of momentary victory were smothered by the onslaught of the next wave of aggressors.
The muscles of Dieter’s sword arm were on fire. He was covered in mud and blood, none of it his own, Gott sei Dank. Somehow he and Magnus had managed to stay mounted and close to each other. In a brief pause, he shouted breathlessly to his comrade. “The Archbishop must send in the special force soon, or the day is lost.”
Even as he spoke, a band of young men from Köln, chosen for their unique fighting skills, joined the fray, launching a slashing offensive in a berserker rage. Their wild war-cry sent chills skittering up and down Dieter’s spine.
Magnus too shuddered, but breathed a sigh of relief. “They’ll either prevail or die trying.”
As they hoped, the enemy fell back under the crazed onslaught.
Dieter realized the critical importance of their next move. He rallied his men. “We must join Count Theodoric in a direct attack on the disordered enemy forces.”
Loud cheering followed him as he galloped into the melee. They subjugated the dispirited enemy in a short time, though it seemed like hours. Many of the imperial knights were killed or taken prisoner. None of the leaders on the side of Köln were killed or captured except Count Henry of Kessel, a friend of Dieter’s, who fell under a horse’s hooves and perished.
In the aftermath of the battle, Dieter’s heroic leadership was credited with tipping the precarious final balance in favor of Köln’s forces. Heinrich had failed to capture the city. He abandoned the siege to return to Mainz.
* * *
Blythe wandered the halls and chambers of Dieter’s home, the three dogs her ever-present companions. “You miss him too, don’t you?” she said to Vormund, rubbing his ear. Löwe and Schnell nuzzled for her attention.
She considered attempting an escape while he was gone. But where would she go? Was it possible to get to Tuitium? What would she find if she did make it there? She had no love for the emperor, nor for Matilda, whereas Count Dieter von Wolfenberg—did she want to escape?
The dogs wouldn’t let me go.
The servants were polite, but they also waited nervously for their master’s return. She no longer thought of them as her guards, but doubted they would let her leave. She worried about her family. Aidan especially would be bereft. If only England wasn’t so far away. A woman alone would never survive the journey.
Perhaps if she disguised herself as a nun? But where to procure such a garb? She had heard stories of women who had taken holy orders being raped and murdered. She was a descendant of Vikings, a people not blameless in that regard.
Her appetite fled. Even the garden failed to delight. It seemed there was no recourse but to wait for Dieter’s return. But what if he didn’t come back? What if he was killed? The thought sent her scurrying to her chamber where she collapsed on the bed, sobbing. The handsome knight of her dreams had come into her life, but he didn’t love her, and might never return from Andernach.