“Something on your mind, boy?” Ganelon asked evenly. He had little room in his heart tonight for anyone else’s pain, and the measured tone should have signaled that to Gothard.
But it was not to be. “Father!” Gothard sputtered. “You are the king’s brother-in-law—the champion’s title and honors should be yours!”
Ganelon’s laugh rasped. “What? Not so much as a ‘Good even, Father’? Maybe Gisela’s brat will have better manners than my eldest.”
Gothard growled at the rebuke but was stopped short when Ganelon pounced, grabbing him by the throat and pinning the young man to the wall.
“I hope that was your dinner digesting, son.”
“I meant nothing by it,” Gothard choked. Ganelon released him, leaving wicked red marks on his throat. “You fought bravely,” his son rasped, rubbing at his windpipe. “You kept the Saxons pinned against the sea. We fought with honor!”
Ganelon crossed the room to a chair, flopped into it, and began pulling off his boots. “Our house, the house of Clovis himself, has been eclipsed by rabble from the Breton March and the nursling of a usurping butler. Yes, it seems more than we can bear. But bear it we must, my son. Patience will bring us closer to the throne. We play our parts as dutiful vassals and wrap all our actions in patience. Remember—remain focused on the prize, not the distractions. It matters not to me who is champion.”
He tossed the boots to the floor in a heap and leaned back in the chair, propping it against the wall as he continued. “But with a new champion at Charles’s side, we’ll need to remain vigilant to ensure our plans bear fruit.”
“And someone will be dead before spring?” Gothard asked.
Ganelon’s lips twitched in a murderous sort of smile.
“Let the great drama unfold. Kings and princes now take the stage. We shall ever be ready when the throne room door opens to us.”
Charles’s suite was spartan compared to the opulent chambers found elsewhere throughout the palace in areas laid out for public consumption. Except for a few treasured trappings of imperial rank, bestowed on him by the pope or won through hard-fought negotiations with the emperor in Constantinople, little suggested the power of the room’s occupant. Charles was not a man for reveling in finery; rather he preferred to spend his time at a simple desk with a manuscript spread before him. This great searching soul, focused on the attainment of ancient knowledge, had himself only recently learned to read. His ability was still unsure. He leaned close to the page in his hand as he traced the words with his finger and spoke haltingly.
“Caesar … crossed the Rubicon. From that point … there was no … turning back.”
A latch rattled and squeaked then the door cracked opened. Pepin, in his finely brocaded night robe, thrust his head through the opening.
“There you are,” said Charles. “Come in, my son.”
Pepin limped across the room.
“Is it chilly in here?” Pepin asked as he tugged his robes more tightly about his waist. “You really must put more wood on the fire, Father.”
Charles chuckled, pushing the manuscript aside. “At my age,” he said, “every night is chilly. But let’s cut to the chase, my boy. You’ve come to convince me, haven’t you? You really should read the Cicero we just translated. He was quite good at this sort of thing.”
“Yes,” Pepin replied wryly. “Backed the wrong side when Caesar died, if I recall. Ended up a head short.”
Charles pulled his fingers through his beard. “Too much wine, I understand.”
“Father, this is serious,” Pepin said. “Even now we prepare for war with enemies intent on carving up the kingdom. Enemies on two sides, and I’m afraid there are more within us as well. If you were to fall, the entire Frank nation would bleed from uncertainty and disjointed authority. Think of it! All you’ve worked for—education—reviving ancient learning—the rebuilding of Rome herself—all for naught!” He placed his hands over his father’s. “For the welfare of the kingdom, Father, name me as your sole successor!”
“And what of your brother?” Charles asked, shaking his fingers loose and pushing back from the desk to lock eyes with his eldest son. “I can’t deny my own blood—your own blood. And under Frank law, you both have right to the kingdom. You will both be crowned at my death. The law is clear on this.”
Pepin limped closer to his father’s side, the malady that pained him more pronounced since the summer campaign.
“The law is antiquated,” Pepin said, appealing to his father’s sense of reason. “It sows chaos and division of our nation’s strength. Name one heir, to ensure stability! I’ll care for Louis, father. You have my word.”
Charles leaned forward and placed a hand on Pepin’s shoulder. For the first time, the younger man noticed the thin skin and blue veins that traced the tired, knotted knuckles.
“I will care for him,” Charles said, “by doing things my way. You will do as I command in this.”
Pepin relented and offered his father a stiff bow.
“I am your dutiful son,” he said. “Good night, Father.” He pecked a kiss on his father’s cheek and left the room.
When the door closed, Aldatrude peered into the room from behind a curtain, her lithe body barely covered by a silky gossamer gown.
“What was that about?” she purred to her father. “The cub snarls at the lion, and I lose my beauty sleep.”
Charles drummed his fingers on the side of his desk for a moment. Finally he said, “The cub learns to show his claws. But I must consider all my children.”
“Even Augustus had but a single heir and the empire prospered. But, come, let’s think of more pleasant things.” She curled around him and settled sensually into his lap, pressing her lips to his, but he was not to be deterred.
“So you take his side in this?”
Aldatrude pouted. “You think that?” She curled his beard in her finger. “I take your side in all things, dear.” She leaned over and snuffed out the oil lamp on the edge of his desk, plunging the room into darkness.
AOI
The following day, a coach rattled over the frozen, rutted road that twisted through the countryside toward Aachen. Across the empty window frames, quilted curtains had been pulled down to keep the biting wind off the passengers. Armored knights, bearing both the sigils of Breton March and the imperial eagle of Charles on their surcoats, rode escort.
Within the gloomy interior, Gisela bounced on a seat wrapped in heavy blankets, a small gurgling bundle nestled in her arms. She leaned over her baby’s round face and cooed gently. Across from them, a willowy, hawkish woman hunched over them both—a nursemaid to attend to the needs of the mother and child. Her sharp nose stood out redly from her winter trappings. Next to the nursemaid sat the gaunt figure of Petras, his eyes closed and his head bowed.
Gisela felt a prickle run up the back of her neck every time she glanced over at the man who even in sleep had thin hands clasped together before him as if in prayer. But she knew he wasn’t oblivious. The priest absorbed each and every word around him, catching stray utterances like moths in a spider’s web. Those same words would later be regurgitated up like a starling feeding its young for his master, her husband.
Outside the carriage, the escort troopers began shouting. “What is that?” Gisela asked the nursemaid. “Do you see anything?”
The woman tugged back one of the curtains and peered into the chill sunlight.
“Riders, my lady!”
The carriage slowed to a halt. Gisela held her breath. These roads had ever been the hunting grounds for bandits; even armed parties traversed them with caution.
A familiar voice carried into the carriage.
“Is she here? Mother!”
Relief swept her. “Roland, is that you?”
With that, the priest’s eye twitched and slitted open.
The door fl
ung open, and Roland leaned in, blond hair trailing from beneath his helmet. His wolf-emblazoned surcoat was visible under a cloak spattered with mud from the wheel-rutted track of a road. Behind him trailed a squad of Charles’s men, entourage of the new champion. Gisela caught her breath—he looked so much like her beloved William.
She leaned forward in her seat and touched his scruffy cheek with a hand. “Winter has ended now that I’ve seen you,” she said brightly.
Roland noticed the bundle in her arms and frowned.
“Is that his?” he more stated than asked.
“He’s your brother Baldwin. My son. As are you.”
He turned his eyes from the child to her. “Have you done as I asked, Mother? I do so need your help.”
Gisela lowered her eyes, a pained look crossing her features. She glanced across at the priest. Roland’s eyes followed hers, and his mouth tightened when he saw Petras.
“Then you betray your true beloved husband,” he said. “Thank God he didn’t live to see it.” He stepped back, leaving the door swinging open, and climbed back into his saddle. He spurred his horse’s flanks and continued along the frozen path onward to Aachen, his companions falling into place behind.
The nursemaid leaned forward, pulled the door closed, and rapped on the roof to signal the driver to get underway. As the carriage lurched into motion, Gisela glanced across at Petras and felt her breath freeze in her lungs. He was holding the curtain open, his serpent eyes following Roland and his horsemen as they cantered down the road.
CHAPTER 8
The Mettle of Men
Charles stalked the corridors of the palace trailing a squire behind him, the lad burdened with fluttering sheaves of paper for the king’s signature. They passed courtiers, maids, and stewards apparently distracted by a clatter echoing from the courtyard outside. Wondering what they might be gawking at, Charles stopped at an unoccupied window and rubbed at the frosted pane, but the icy surface resisted his attempt to see through. He gestured for the squire to help him open the casement.
“What’s this?” he asked, craning his neck to search for the source of the noise.
The yard below was covered in snow trampled by Roland, Oliver, and the marchmen. In their center stood a wooden pell—a wide, smoothed log topped with a thick cross-arm and embellished with a battered helmet. The marchmen attacked it with wooden practice swords while Louis watched the exercises with interest from a perch on a low retaining wall. Otun, just arrived from the kitchens with a warm loaf, stopped in his tracks and roared with mirth at their efforts, spraying breadcrumbs.
“Would Thor practice fighting giants by striking a scarecrow with a butter churn?” he asked. “Let us be about man’s work!”
Roland stepped forward, his linen gambeson stained with sweat.
“Look and learn,” he replied. “With a wooden waster, we can practice striking like this.”
He stepped toward the pell, striking it with fierce intent again and again from different positions and stances, the waster thumping and clacking against the wooden post until the blade cracked. He stepped back and took another from a pile ready nearby. “It keeps our limbs ready to fight in the spring,” he panted.
Otun stretched his expansive chest, took up his ax, and hefted it with a warrior’s grace. Flashing Roland a skeptical eye, he shouldered past him to where he squared off at the pell like a woodsman. With remarkable quickness, he swung the ax over his head and split the pell, cleaving the helmet and burying the blade deep in the seasoned wood. He turned toward Roland with a mischievous gleam in his eye and was caught off guard when Roland thrust with his waster, striking Otun hard in the chest and knocking the breath from him.
“Eh?” the Dane huffed, rubbing at his breastbone. “What’s this?”
“Footwork!” Louis shouted from the wall. “It’s all about footwork!”
Again Roland struck Otun square in the chest. The Dane backpedaled and grabbed the ax haft with one hand, fiercely wrenching it up and down to free it from the pell while using the other to deflect Roland’s bothersome prods. Roland gracefully sidestepped past Otun’s swatting hands with a pivot cut and laid the flat of the weapon alongside Otun’s neck. Louis hooted and kicked his heels against the wall.
Undeterred, Otun wrapped his thick arms around Roland, tumbling them both into the muddy snow. Slush flew into the air as arms and legs thrashed while each tried to gain advantage.
Louis jumped from the wall. “My companions!” he shouted. “Our pell is struck, and we must make reply!”
Oliver joined the prince and leaped into the muck with the combatants. Chaos erupted as the rest of the marchmen joined in. Around the outside of the yard, courtiers and bureaucrats timidly peered at the scene from behind pillars and window frames.
From high above the commotion in the yard, Charles chuckled and flicked snow off the windowsill. Beside him the squire stood in silent amazement when the king of the Franks joined his voice to the chaos below.
“Oh—there he goes! Watch there!”
The courtiers looked up to see whose voice cheered the muddied contenders. Charles snickered, watching arms, legs, and bodies collide and slide through the slush below. He remembered his own comrades who had fought mock wars in the very same yard so many years ago, and especially William, the squire from Breton March who would be his friend and champion. Many times William had outfoxed older boys with a martial deftness yet always had a ready smile for those he vanquished.
“My sons,” he mused, “care well for these men. These are they who will strengthen the kingdom when you rule. Alas, the blood of my generation grows cold. It grows cold, and the world needs warmth.”
An elbow jabbed Roland in the eye. He pushed Otun off, only to have a Frank sergeant replace him with thrashing legs and boots dripping with slush. Roland heaved against bodies until at last he was able to sit up. He rolled to one side, grinning, and watched the fracas over his shoulder. Oliver and the marchmen gave as good as they got, throwing snow and driving other men into the muck. But near the sheltered walkway, members of the court began congregating. Some cheered, and others huddled together whispering. Through the curious gaggle stepped Pepin, his countenance darkening at the sight of the kingdom’s elite warriors flopping through the yard like common brawlers. In his wake strode Geoffrey of Anjou, likewise scanning the scene with a critical eye.
Roland regained his feet and gave his cousin a polite bow.
“I see you’ve taken my advice to heart,” Pepin said, his words dripping. “The peers of the realm engaged in a match more suited for a squire who serves a cup at Vale Runer.”
The prince’s comments rippled through the yard, and the marchmen disengaged and straggled to their feet, looking shamefaced under the royal disapproval. Even Louis, panting, red-faced, and bruised, could not bolster a smile under the scrutiny. Otun, however, lifted his bulk to tower over the rest, a wild grin on his bristly face, his bushy red eyebrows fierce over defiant blue eyes.
“I mean no disrespect, sire,” Roland replied. “But the men strain at the bit for the spring campaign. It’s but an outlet …”
“Yes, and as any rider will tell you, if the horse is not performing to satisfaction, the bite of a whip may be needed. Do you have the hand to provide that whip, Champion?”
“As you say, cousin. Some prefer to use the whip. But my father taught me to also to prize the stallion and, on occasion, give the beast its head and hang on tight in awe of the magnificence.”
“Pah,” Pepin spat. “Such is nonsense when ruling men. You must organize and move the entire herd, Champion—not allow the nags to run wild.”
Louis brushed muck from his breeches and stepped to Roland’s side. “Never mind him, cousin. My loving brother speaks to me.” The prince shook his hands in the air, flinging glop in Pepin’s direction. “But I’ve need of a bath and clean clothes.”
Louis
stalked off past his brother.
The gawking courtiers collectively released their breath. Pepin glared at Louis’s back and, after a moment, spun around and limped back inside. Anjou, however, remained as the marchmen gathered their gear.
“Cocksure and ever the drunk,” he said imperiously. “A bit of advice, cousin to the king—leave the cups here when you campaign.”
Roland’s boots flew across the bedchamber to a skidding muddy heap—quickly followed by his soiled linen gambeson. The young champion stormed across the room, tugging at his trousers before he noticed the page trailing behind him to gather up the heap of garments.
“Leave!” Roland shouted, and as soon as the harsh word left his mouth, he regretted it. But nevertheless the page skittered away fearing a thrashing, or worse.
Roland pounded the stone wall with his fist, leaving red scraped across the gray. On the table near the bed, a flagon of wine remained with an empty cup. He gathered up the Burgundian vintage and heaved it into the fireplace where it sloshed with the cold ash.
He sat down on his father’s great oaken chest at the foot the bed and closed his eyes, distant memories washing over him.
The tavern was alive in the waning afternoon when he stepped through the threshold. The ride from the capital had been invigorating. The young knight waved cheerfully to the revelers, many of whom he would later drink under the table. Yet he wasn’t there for them. Across the room, a lithe form rose from a table, blonde locks tumbling beneath the hood of her cloak. Deidra, a merchant’s daughter, opened her full lips to call his name. Roland reached for a flagon …
He remembered very little else of that night, for when he returned to Aachen the next morning, his father lay dead.
He opened his eyes. The fleeing winter sun left the room darkened and chill, made even more so by the familiar figure sitting on the chest next to him and regarding him with a shadowed gaze.
“I’ve begged God to bring you peace,” Roland whispered. “Bring me peace. But there is no forgiveness, it seems.”
William’s shade seemed to draw the darkness to him, and Roland felt a chill in the silence.
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