John Schettler - Anvil of Fate

When he first heard the news Charles did not seem overly concerned. The year before, other riders came with news that yet another Saracen fleet had come to land at Narbonne, and that these men now unloaded siege engines and other machines of war. Their outriders had already come up the coast of the Middle Sea to Nimes and Avignon, and raided north up the Rhone valley as well to Lyon, and further, to Chalons. Yet Charles ignored them, being more concerned with potential rivals in Austrasia and Frisia to the north. Not even when the old Roman center of Autun fell would he bestir himself to intervene. Then, having sufficient booty and captives for their harems and slave labor, the Arabs migrated south again for the winter.

Odo bristled over the fact that Charles had dared to cross the Lyon River and attack his lands, using his alliance in marriage with Manuza as a pretext. This while he left the whole of Burgundy and Septimania prostrate before the Muslim raiders! And now, in the year 732, they had returned in force.

The summer was red with fire and blood in all of Gaul while the thick, raiding columns of Abdul Rahman pressed farther north, yet no other army of the Franks came to challenge them. Odo thought to make a stand at Poitiers, thinking to buy time until Charles could come, but with just a few thousand light horsemen, he wisely decided to fall back on Tours and wait.

The summer gave way to the cold winds of autumn while the Moors looted and pillaged all the lands to the south. Odo chafed restlessly at Tours, his bruised eye long in healing, his pride wounded even more so. He could do nothing on his own, and he brooded, until word finally came to him that the Saracens had come at last to Poitiers, burning the great basilica of Saint Hilary, which lay outside its fortified walls. The priests and monks had begged him to fight, but he knew he had not the strength to contest the foe until Charles came.

“I will not waste the last of my horsemen to save your altars,” he raged. “When Charles comes, then we will fight and settle the matter once and for all.”

And that night Charles finally came, leading the strength of his battle hardened heavy men at arms, and many levies he had gathered from the provinces of Austrasia and Neustria. Odo was summoned to the council of war at his camp near Ballan-Miré, and he meant to tell all he knew of this fearsome enemy host and, in so doing, decide the outcome of the battle that would soon be fought. But Charles the Bastard was proud, and would not hear him.

“If the enemy has so many horsemen, as you say, then we cannot hope to array ourselves on the field in open order,” Charles had said. “He will be too fast, and too quick to turn our flanks.”

“But if we can strike them in a narrow place, as I did at Toulouse,” said Odo, “then we may press them back upon their own ranks and trample them beneath our feet! It is only by such guile that we may prevail here, Charles. So we must find a place where our flanks may be well protected. The rivers to the south, not far from here, will serve that purpose well. The ruin of the old Roman mansio is in that area. There is an abandoned amphitheatre, and a tower. Let us make as if to stand there, but give back, as in much dismay. Then, when our enemy advances, ever compressed in the place where the waters meet, I shall strike him from the rear with all our horsemen, as I did at Toulouse!”

It was the only great victory Odo could claim, unsung as it was, and it was all he knew then of the making of war, for standing as he did behind his shieldwall on the River Garonne, had brought him nothing but defeat and dishonor.

“We will find this narrow place,” Charles pointed at him, standing up boldly, his shoulders square, his blue eyes bright with the fire of battle under locks of fair blonde hair. “And yes, Odo, I will stand there. But we will not feign retreat in the manner of the Visigoths. It did them little good in Hispania, eh? My scouts have already selected the place for battle, astride the Old Roman road on a low hill. There I will take the main strength of this army, and we will dig a trench and plant our shields deep. One flank, on our right, we anchor on the river, the other against heavy woodland to the east.”

“They have archers!” Odo argued still. “The will tease and rush in, and unleash volley after volley upon your infantry. And many will die. When you are sufficiently bled, then the main attack will be made, like a mailed fist, for their host will array themselves in five parts. One shall ride in the van, and another to the rear. But the heavy horse he will hold in three parts in the center.”

“Our men are well armored,” said Charles, unconcerned. “Their helms are strong and their tunics are laced with iron and thick leather. We will endure, and if their archers will not cause us to flee, then the enemy must send in his horsemen, in as many parts as he may desire. We will let them come and hew them down behind our shieldwall.”

“They are heavy horse,” said Odo. “You have not seen their like in any of your feuds to the north. They will come with barbed lances, throwing javelins and wielding their cruel curved swords. You cannot endure such a charge with the numbers they bring! I fought in this manner on the River Garonne, and it went ill.”

“We will endure,” said Charles. “Let them come and we will stand. They will break upon the ranks of my chieftains and strong men at arms, and then, when the moment is right, I will sound the horn call to summon your cavalry.”

“You will summon me? Will I not be already embroiled in the fight?”

“You will stand on my left flank, lying in wait by the woods and making certain the enemy footmen do not use it to infiltrate and threaten our rear. Send out scouts and harriers as well, for the enemy is heavily laden with booty. They carry with them all they have pillaged in coming to this place. Their camp must be close at hand.”

“Yes,” said Odo, his face reddening with anger. “They have taken the fat of Aquitaine, horses, livestock, wives and children to be pressed into slavery. They will make a great camp, blotting the land with their tents! There I should strike them, and bring just retribution upon them for the crimes they have committed.”

“You will not ,” shouted Charles. “Harry them, yes, prick at them, nip at their heels, but you will not commit the main body of your horsemen until I give the order.”

Odo shook his head, willful and obstinate, but Charles pointed a thick, gloved finger at him and fixed him with heavy eyes. “You will do this, or you may go, Odo. You have sworn fealty to me and my Palace. Hostages were taken to stiffen your pledge, and I command here, or would you have me lead this army away, and face the enemy yourself? Disobey and those we hold in keeping will all be slain. And then, when I have broken these Saracen heathens, I will turn my men upon your house and burn every living thing to the ground should you betray me now!”

Odo looked at him, squinting in the torchlight, his wounded eye puckered and still swollen, his brow lined and sweaty with the heat of argument. He had but three thousand horsemen, if even that. Charles commanded fifteen thousand heavy infantry, and thousands more in levies he commandeered from every town and hamlet as he marched to this place.

The other lords and chieftains closed ranks about Charles, and they would stand with him, come what may. Odo was alone again, isolated, a wounded old war horse, saddled and bridled, destined to plow the fields at Charles’ whim.

“As you wish,” he said unhappily. There was nothing more he could do, and he turned and left the council, his cheeks hot and the blood high on his neck.

“As you wish,” he said to himself in the cold night airs outside. “But we shall see who stands or falls when the battle is joined, bastard usurper. We shall see.”