Next to Roland, William’s figure gathered substance from the shadows once again. Though dark emotion hardened his face, his features softened when his unfathomable eyes fell upon his son. “And yet to be the sword of your king, you must be conversant with your God, my son.”
The familiar voice tore at Roland’s heart. The youth raised his eyes and regarded his father’s shade. Then he looked down at the floor. “First you haunt my dreams, Father, and now my waking hours as well? Am I to take your place as his champion? That is a hard thing to require.”
“Sometimes we are required to do difficult things, my son—to be honorable in the sight of God and your king. I beseech you, take up this task.”
“It must first be offered, Father. Surely there are great nobles who are better respected. And the way Ganelon lords it around the march like he’s my wet nurse, no one will take me seriously in any case.”
William raised a hand, withered and gaunt, not vibrant and firm as Roland remembered from when he had been alive. “You are to be Charles’s sword, the champion of God. There is no other choice for Charles to make. It is ordained.”
Roland shook his head and rubbed at his eyes. “God could have chosen more wisely. Someone worthy of His call.”
William shook his head, a weariness spreading across his features as his form lost substance and dissolved. “He knows what He is doing. Trust in Him and act.”
The door creaked open once more, and a gust of air dissipated the last of William’s visage. Oliver entered the chapel and paused.
“There you are, my friend,” he said, loosening his cloak from about his shoulders and tossing it across a stool. “Who were you talking to?”
Roland smiled wanly.
“No one. I was just having a reading session with your bookish priests.”
“In the middle of the night? Why don’t I believe that?” Oliver walked to the altar, knelt next to Roland, and crossed himself. “Something is bothering you. Tell me what it is.”
Roland sucked a deep breath as he shifted through his father’s revelations as well as the hazy memories of the earlier evening. “Ganelon,” he said after a pause. “Oh, I know what you’re thinking. There’s nothing he does that pleases me. But seriously—it’s something he said.”
“He’s said many things,” Oliver noted, “on many days. He’s an ass.”
“This was no joke,” Roland said. “I’m sure he murdered my father.”
“What? I thought your father was wounded in battle. And died of a fever.”
Roland shook his head. “No. I’ve been thinking—my father’s wounds were clean. He was gaining strength. Then, suddenly, he just died. And Ganelon wasted no time in marrying my mother. You remember—my father wasn’t even cold in his grave when he petitioned the Crown for control of the march.”
Oliver leaned over closer, his voice a bare whisper. “Do you have proof? Or is this all just speculation?”
“You heard him in the great hall,” Roland said, his voice flat. “His own words betray him.”
AOI
The keep’s tower was built of rough stone, its walls covered with dead brown ivy not yet ready to bud with the fresh season’s growth. It rose from the surrounding earthen fortifications with lines of sight to the west across the Breton frontier, north to the channel and eastward to the nearby town of Le Mans. Gisela looked out from her bedchamber window into the night, her hair loose about her shoulders. She pulled a shawl up against the chill. Ganelon stirred from the nearby bed, rose, and crept up behind her, a blanket about his own shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” Gisela said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“It’s not you,” Ganelon replied, extending his own gaze through the window across the fields. “It’s your son. He accuses me of murder.”
“It’s just the drink. He doesn’t believe that. You see more than what is there.”
Ganelon took her by the shoulders, wrenching her around to face him and glaring fiercely into her eyes.
“But he does,” he said sternly. “Oh, he certainly does, the drunken fool. Charles was right giving me control over the march. You must watch him and keep him from his wild notions. I won’t allow him to stain my family’s reputation.”
Gisela looked away, shrugging his hands off her.
“He’s just a boy, Ganelon.”
Ganelon snorted.
“I’ve told you not to coddle him. He’s old enough to be held accountable for his actions.” He forced her face to his, pressed his lips hard on hers. “But enough of his foolishness. It’s time to think of your husband.”
She stiffened beneath his touch, her fingers clenching at her side.
CHAPTER 2
Campaign Season
Sunlight filtered into the room through thin homespun curtains to where Oliver lay in a twisted tangle of blankets, his breathing rhythmic and deep. In the distance, a rooster’s crackling crow jangled through the early morning.
The door banged open, and Roland burst into the room, jolting Oliver awake with a start. “Rise and shine, lazy bones!”
“What?” Oliver grumbled, groggily rubbing at his eyes.
Roland laughed with a mischievous smile. “Come along! The day is slipping away!”
“Oh, dear God in heaven,” Oliver murmured as he sat up. He fumbled at the bedside table for a cup, which he quickly filled with water from the nearby pitcher and splashed onto his face. He shook the droplets from his eyelids and squinted at Roland. “You’re up early for a drinking man. What’s the idea?”
Roland flopped onto the bed next to him.
“Well, I figured you might need some time to pray before we get started!”
“Started?” Oliver asked as he poured another cup, drinking this one. “Am I going to need prayers?”
Roland laughed and tossed one of Oliver’s boots at him.
“We’re all in need of prayers,” Roland assured him, suddenly less exuberant. “Pray for me as I take my first steps on the road to Damascus.”
Inside the home guard’s barracks across the courtyard, shutters remained closed for the men of the Breton March slept off the previous evening’s carousing, stretched out on their straw mattresses with their clothes and gear strewn across the floor.
The door slammed open, and Kennick, the master-at-arms, a grizzled soldier with rough tanned skin and a salt-and-pepper beard, stormed into the bay banging on an old pot. Roland and Oliver followed behind, clapping and shouting at the top of their lungs. The groggy men scrambled to their feet protesting loudly.
One man stubbornly pulled a cover over his head. “Out with you!” he groaned. “We spent our strength with you last night!”
Kennick ripped the blanket off of him.
“All right, my sleeping beauties,” he shouted. “Up and out! Up and out!”
“Mary Mother of Jesus what is this?” groused a young recruit from a local village. “I left this behind with the shite on my boots from my father’s pigs!”
Roland grabbed the youth by the feet, pulling him from the bunk onto the cold floor with a loud thunk.
“Come along, Gunter! The spring levies will be called up soon! The marchmen fought many campaigns with my father in years gone by. But are we happy with past glory? Or do we prepare for a new future? A future of our making!”
The marchmen grumbled but rousted from their beds nonetheless.
Later, near the muddy track that was the main road, the marchmen maneuvered in tight rectangular formations of the long-departed legions of Rome. Shoulder to shoulder with shields interlocked, they executed commands bellowed over grunts, curses, and the sucking mud by a priest reading from a worn vellum manual. Roland and Oliver sweated and marched in the center of the company alongside the men.
Along that same road, a rider in the brightly colored livery of the king of the Franks galloped to the
gate. His lathered horse blew steam from its flaring nostrils as he pulled the animal to a halt. A guard straightened from where he rested against the wall, salutes were exchanged, and then the rider clattered across the drawbridge over the stagnant moat into the courtyard. He leaped from the saddle and hurried toward the great hall, stripping his cloak and tossing it to a squire who fell in behind him.
Inside the hall, Ganelon ate his midday meal at a long table with his son Gothard, a younger, lankier version of himself with thick, dark hair and the same permanent condescending scowl pressed into his features. The younger man looked up from his food long enough to eye the muddied messenger with disdain, then brushed his unkempt locks back and returned his attention to the meat. Petras, however, emerged from a shadowed corner, drifting purposefully across the floor. He always held a keen interest in the comings and goings of the nobility. Ganelon’s ambitions would tolerate nothing less.
The rider strode across the rushes and offered a stiff, restrained bow.
“You may speak,” Ganelon barked.
“I bring you greetings from Charles, where he assembles the nobles at Aachen,” the messenger replied. “He commands you to gather your levies from Tournai and meet him in Saxony.”
He handed Ganelon a rolled vellum message, the scarlet wax seal stamped with the imperial eagle.
“And Roland?” Ganelon asked.
“I have no orders for the son of William.”
“Good. Very good.” Ganelon waved for a serving boy. “Make sure this man has meat and drink. Hurry now, see to it!”
The boy led the newcomer to the kitchens. Ganelon caught Gothard’s eye.
“So we are off to Saxony then. Petras!” He turned to the priest. “I will require you to watch over the march in my absence. Maintain order by whatever means necessary. Oh, and do ensure my wife and stepson are monitored appropriately.”
Petras pressed his bony hands together in a show of fealty.
“Of course,” he replied. “I will alert you to any undue activities.”
Ganelon dismissed him with a wave of his hand, and the cleric slipped from the room without another word.
“He’ll demand to come with us, you know,” Gothard said in a hushed tone.
“Let him demand.” Ganelon reached for a crust of bread, tore it apart, and sopped it into his stew. “I removed William. I will remove Roland, when the time comes.”
“You’re far too patient, Father.”
“Yes, I am.” Ganelon smiled, thin lips stretched over strong teeth. “But my patience will be their undoing. Mark my words. I will have the throne. It is my right.”
The marchmen straggled into the courtyard covered in sweat and accidentally spattered blood to lay their weapons and shields in rows by the barracks before assembling into ranks. Roland and Oliver emerged from their midst to stand before them.
“You’re the pride of the march, boys!” Roland called over the sound of stacking gear.
Kennick, on the other hand, stood sentinel behind them at the barracks steps, the last barrier between the men and their supper. “Time to get your pride cleaned up!” he roared. “The last man to stow his gear gets dog scraps!” He glared at their sagging shoulders. “You heard me, boys! Why are you still standing here?”
He leaped to one side as the abruptly revived men erupted toward the door, jostling to get through.
Roland grinned at Oliver.
“See, finished before your evening prayers.”
“And before your evening cups,” Oliver replied. “So it’s been a good day indeed.” Oliver paused as Ganelon strode from the main hall, Gothard jogging at his side.
“Hang on a moment,” Roland said as he struck out across the courtyard.
He stopped a dozen paces from Ganelon. “When do we march?”
“‘We?’”
“I saw Charles’s messenger,” Roland observed. “The men are ready for campaign.”
“Ah, yes. So they seem.” Ganelon looked toward the milling logjam of men at the barracks door. “This season, Charles has different plans for the marchmen, I’m afraid. They will do as their name suggests—they will protect the frontier from land and sea. Breton March will be secure during the summer raiding season.”
“Garrison duty?” Color rose to Roland’s cheeks. “Garrison duty! But Charles needs his best troops! These have served him faithfully since my father was champion! They have been the backbone of Charles’s center in every campaign since he gained the crown!”
Ganelon’s jaw muscles clenched. “Those days are gone, stepson.” Behind him Gothard crossed his arms and smiled. Ganelon continued, “This is my final word on the matter. While we are on campaign, neither you nor your marchmen will set foot in Saxony.”
CHAPTER 3
Imperial Whispers
Saragossa bustled with activity within its sheltering ring of mountains.
From its tangled mass of dusty streets seething with the trade of a continent, a Roman bridge thrust across the blue Ebro River. Its stark functionality formed the sole link between the daily muddle of life of the city’s provincials on one end and an opulent palace on the other. That palace was home to the most cosmopolitan court to grace the expanse of Iberia in many generations. Over this grand edifice, a proud banner snapped in the breeze, bearing a scimitar thrust through a crescent moon—the sign of the House of Marsilion, emir of Saragossa. And within those muted pale walls, courtiers bedecked in silken garments hurried through columned hallways in slippered feet that had never felt the rough paving stones of the city whose affairs they oversaw.
Deep in the center of the royal residence, the ornate doors of the throne room formed a final barrier between the emir and his domain. Outside their gilded panels, emissaries from distant lands cooled their heels, whether adorned with bushy beards and northern furs or garbed in linen and sandals, and waited on the pleasure of the man within—all these, in fact, but one. At this particular moment, a single willowy figure confidently advanced to the regal portals, his long black cloak wrapping about his body and whispering across the polished tile floor. With his hood over his head, he seemed like a wraith of exotic origins. A curved saber-sheath protruded from under the fine fabric shrouding his hip.
Two heavily armored guards stood at either side of the doorway. They moved to stop the man but paused when they saw the flash of an imperial insignia on his shoulder—the golden eagle of Rome, which clutched his robe in its talons and declared his identity more surely than words: he was Honorius, envoy of Eastern Empire. He pushed back his hood to reveal curly dark locks that rolled to his shoulders and a slender face tanned to an olive complexion, his dark eyes darting observantly about his surroundings.
“I will see him now,” he announced with a casual air. He unbuckled his blade and handed it to one dumbfounded sentry. The guard glanced at his more seasoned partner, who nodded curtly then pushed open the tall doors. Bright light spilled out, and Honorius strode into the chamber without waiting for invitation or announcement.
At the far end of the arched expanse, near wide windows opening to a panorama of the city, Marsilion sat on a pile of fluffy tasseled cushions while well-groomed scholars laden with documents and bureaucrats in expensive robes hurried back and forth on important errands. While age had crept up on Marsilion, he still had the look of a man barely two score years—a man who had come to the seat of power early in life. The emir distractedly adjusted his silken garments as attendants vied to review stacks of reports and legal instruments with him, but the staccato beat of Honorius’s boots on the tiles diverted his always-volatile concentration. He ran his fingers through his peppered beard and eyed the approaching man suspiciously.
General Blancandrin, supreme commander of Marsilion’s armies and an imposing presence even without his elaborate armor, disengaged from the emir’s side, stepping forward to intercept the emissary. He snarled, exposing fl
ashing teeth amid his dark, close-cropped beard. His black eyes found Honorius’s and held them as if with an unspoken challenge.
Honorius paused only long enough to offer the tall champion a stiff nod of acknowledgment before sidestepping him.
“Please let him through, Blancandrin,” Marsilion commanded.
Blancandrin bowed dutifully and took a step back, but his eyes never left the newcomer. His hand slipped to the scabbarded blade at his side and toyed with the pommel.
Honorius took a perfunctory knee. “Emir Marsilion, master of Saragossa—I bear the respects of my master, Nicephorus, emperor of the Romans in Constantinople.”
“I heard you were coming,” noted the emir tartly. He stretched his frame and dismissed the courtiers and their endless documents with a wave. “And this time will you offer any words not drenched in diplomatic doublespeak?”
“My honored emir!” Honorius’s tone feigned insult. “My master would cry out from such a deep wound had he heard you speak with his own ears! But fear not, for my message will carry clearly to your ears the intents of the emperor.”
The general took a step forward, his jaw clenched. “Intent is proved by more than words, Greek. All the caliphate knows of your double-dealing.”
“Direct and insightful, as always, my lord,” the messenger replied. “Diplomacy can be a dangerous sport—be warned before entering the Hippodrome, as we say.” He alluded to the intense rivalry of the Blues and the Greens, audiences of the vicious chariot races in the great stadium of Constantinople who wielded enormous influence within that city, the same mob that had caused even emperors to pay with life and throne to satisfy their fickle whims. “But today, Emir, I bear you news of an opportunity—an opportunity not likely to be soon repeated.”
“I’m listening.” Marsilion covered his mouth with the back of his hand as he sucked in a yawn.
Honorius leaned closer and dropped his voice. “My ship just arrived from Saxony, great Emir—by way of Francia. Charles prepares to march north as the weather breaks. He draws troops from the south to engage his Saxon problem.”
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