Chapter 44: Advancing Toward Luka

"Petro, you beast, why won't you open the city gates for me!"

Behind Big-Bearded Geoffrey, a large group of soldiers stood in the fields, staring at the walls of Parma. Atop those walls stood Honorius, his face dark and troubled.

"Address me by my holy name, Honorius!"

"To hell with your holy name! You're no longer the Pope, so how dare you keep calling yourself that?" Big-Bearded Geoffrey shouted.

Honorius gripped the parapet so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

"I am the rightful ruler of Tuscany, you stubborn old bastard. If you don't open the gates, I'll throw you into the Po River and drown you like the beast you are!"

Big-Bearded Geoffrey refused to back down, his arrogance plain for all to see. His wife, Beatrice—Matilda's mother—stood silently by his side.

"And what right have you to accuse me, Geoffrey!" Honorius retorted, his own anger flaring. "You betrayed me once, remember? You broke your oath. And now, suddenly, you remember what loyalty means? Scum like you are unworthy of the word!"

"All right, all right, I'm unworthy!" Geoffrey was clearly infuriated, brandishing his whip in the air.

Noticing the whip in Geoffrey's hand, Honorius felt a flicker of unease. True, he was the local power in Parma, but even he couldn't be certain his soldiers and townsfolk could withstand Geoffrey's force.

In truth, Honorius had only one thought: he could not let Geoffrey into the city.

Watching Geoffrey turn and stride away, Honorius knew a bitter conflict was inevitable.

What he did not know, however, was that Geoffrey himself was uncertain.

He lacked the manpower.

Since the Christmas proclamation of the southern campaign, many of the Lotharingian nobles had found excuses to refuse, unwilling to join this "defense of the faith." All told, he had little more than five hundred knights under his command, and about fifteen hundred heavy infantrymen of mixed quality.

He had hoped to raise more troops in Tuscany, counting on his position as Matilda’s stepfather and self-proclaimed governor of the duchy. But seeing the current situation...

"Theodoric, if we march straight into Tuscany, will the soldiers object?" Geoffrey asked his bishop. "Staying in Parma is a waste of time. We might as well cross the Apennines quickly and head for Florence or Lucca."

Theodoric was silent for a moment, then spoke slowly.

"Our supplies are insufficient, my lord."

"Insufficient supplies? We've been through shortages before and managed just fine..." Geoffrey grumbled.

This march into Italy had been especially trying—first the knights refused the summons, then came a string of bad news. Had he offended heaven itself?

Just as Geoffrey was about to explode with rage, Theodoric drew a letter from his robe and handed it to him.

"My lord, rather than fume, perhaps you should read this."

Theodoric unfolded the letter, but Geoffrey waved it away with a brusque slap. "I can't read. Just tell me."

"Yes, my lord," Theodoric replied. "Lucca is under siege by the Pisans. The Pope’s nephew, young Anselm, is there. He requests your aid, hoping you can help him break free."

Lucca under siege?

At this news, Geoffrey’s brow furrowed, his beard quivering with tension. His troops were already exhausted; if he had to force-march them to Lucca now, what then?

"The good news," Theodoric continued, "is that a bishop will meet us there. This may alleviate our supply problems."

A welcoming party? That was certainly good news. Geoffrey’s gloom lifted, and a faint smile appeared.

His efforts had not been in vain after all. After so many years of maneuvering, it seemed that a number of clergy finally recognized his authority.

"Then we march south, to Lucca!"

Geoffrey glanced back at Parma’s walls, a look of defiance on his face. He spat toward the city.

"That old bastard—I’ll deal with him when I have time."

With that, Geoffrey raised his hand high, tracing a circle in the air. His knights responded at once, urging their horses back into formation.

As the Duke returned to his troops, the soldiers looked up, eager to hear his next command.

"Everyone, forward!"

His booming order echoed over the ranks, though the soldiers’ faces betrayed confusion, and some grumbled in discontent.

Especially the greater nobles; they stirred uneasily, unable to understand the decision. They had just crossed the mighty Alps and forded the roaring Po—now, even the hardiest warriors needed rest. Yet the Duke demanded they march again?

Some began plotting to force the Duke to halt, insisting the men be allowed a few days’ proper rest.

"To Lucca! There, at least, we’ll have a place to rest!" Geoffrey shouted again, and the grumbling subsided somewhat.

Still, the men followed reluctantly, trailing after the ducal banner as it moved southward. The journey from Parma to Lucca would take several more days, but the promise of respite, however uncertain, was better than idling at Parma. That was the consensus—the hope that kept them moving.

As the column began its march, the earth itself seemed to tremble. Their banners blotted out the sky, their presence formidable. Though the knights of Lorraine were weary, these veterans carried themselves with pride and unbroken spirit, heads held high, their martial bearing undiminished.

On Parma’s walls, Honorius wiped sweat from his brow.

At last, they were gone.

"My lord, why have they left?" a monk approached, clearly confused.

Honorius turned, his face clouded with anger; he could have torn out the monk’s tongue for asking. Could he admit he didn’t know himself?

"Never mind that. I have a task for you," he said, folding his hands behind his back as he descended the wall.

"You know of Lucca, don’t you? Go there and deliver this message to Bishop Leo of Pisa. Make sure you arrive before their army—travel day and night if you must, but you must be faster than them."

"Me? You mean me?" The monk pointed to himself, astonished.

"Yes, you, Ricardo," Honorius said, turning with grave earnestness. Ricardo could not fathom why such a serious matter was entrusted to him.