The Silver Horn Echoes

by Michael Eging

  “Oh, sire,” the steward said, rebalancing the cup with a hand. “My apologies. I could have run you over!”

  Pepin raised a hand. “No apologies needed, good man. I’m going to my father’s chambers. I’ll take that.”

  “But …” the man stammered. Yet the look in Pepin’s eyes would brook no argument. “As you wish, sire.” He handed Pepin the tray and hurried back the way he’d come.

  Pepin continued down the hallway to the royal chambers. Geoffrey of Anjou waited there, clad in his mail coat with his sword riding at his side in a worn scabbard.

  “Is all in place?” Pepin asked.

  “At your command, sire” Anjou said with a wolfish gin.

  “Very good,” Pepin said. “And when this business is done, remind me to purge the serving staff. They could be complicit to murder, you know.”

  Roland sat up and rubbed his eyes with a balled fist. Something hit the door, and he started. He threw the wool covers over Aude’s slender form then slid to the side of the bed, grabbed his trousers, and stepped into them. The stone beneath his feet was cold as he padded across to the door.

  He drew back the latch and pushed it open.

  “What is the meaning of—?” The words froze in his throat. An armed warrior knelt over the prone form of Roland’s squire. His mailed fist dripped red. The soldier looked up and gestured to unseen comrades who with rough hands shoved the door open wide.

  Aude sat up and screamed.

  Several armed men forced their way in, reaching for Roland. But he danced back into the shadows then leaped across the bed and his wife. He grabbed Durendal and tossed aside the scabbard.

  A sergeant, wearing Anjou’s colors, stepped into the room behind the others.

  “Kill him!” he growled. Three soldiers advanced.

  Durendal flashed in the waning moonlight, a wraith in the hands of a shadow. Aude pressed herself against the wall, reaching for her own dagger in an end table as her husband drove headlong into the guards. Men groaned and cursed when the sword bit. One sank to the ground, grasping at his throat. Steel grated against steel, Durendal ever quick in the hands of the champion, sliding from guard to ward to whistling cuts as if possessed, until the blade blurred in the shadows and another soldier fell, the point sprouting from the man’s neck.

  “Roland!” Aude called. He spared a glance back—one of Anjou’s men teetered on the bed, right arm dripping blood from the bite of Aude’s dagger.

  Roland swung the sword in a mighty arc, and the blade severed the man’s head from his neck. Blood sprayed across the sheets as the corpse fell in a tangle. Roland returned his attention to the door. Only the sergeant remained standing.

  Roland lunged.

  Steel and flesh collided. The sergeant cut at Roland, following with a mailed fist. A grunt escaped Roland’s lips when sturdy knuckles connected with his ribs, but he drove the man back into the doorway until he slipped in the pool of the squire’s blood. The sergeant was unbalanced for only a heartbeat, but it was one heartbeat too long. Roland wrapped him in his arms and drove him back into the sitting room.

  The sergeant tripped backward over a chair and struck the wall behind. His ribs cracked from the impact, and Roland followed by hammering Durendal’s pommel up into the man’s jaw, shattering bone and teeth. The sergeant gagged and kicked. He fumbled for his belt but instead found Roland’s hand clamped about his wrist. With a deft switch of his grip on the sword, the champion rammed the blade up the man’s groin under his mail coat. The sergeant sagged, gurgling on broken teeth and blood.

  Roland spat on the corpse.

  Aude stood nearby, pressed against the wall and covered in blood, eyes wide. Roland pressed a hand to her cheek.

  “Don’t leave our rooms,” he said, more gruffly than he intended. He sucked air through his teeth at a pinch of pain in his ribs. “I’ll send someone. I promise.”

  Aude forced a brave smile. “Go. You must see to the king.”

  Roland bent and, with a foot on the corpse’s chest, yanked Durendal free.

  Charles maintained a simple field-altar next to his bed for personal worship. The small crucifix was rough-hewn from olive wood imported from the Holy Land itself, and the tiny beeswax candles surrounding it guttered with the slightest disturbance—this time Pepin pushing open the door bearing the cup of wine in his hands. Charles looked up from where he knelt in his night robes.

  “Ah, my son. To what do I owe this visit?”

  Pepin set the tray on the desk and lifted the cup in his hands. “Does a son really need a reason to serve his father?”

  Charles smiled as he reached for the offered drink. “Words I would expect more from Louis. But I thank you.”

  “I am nothing if not a dutiful son,” Pepin replied with a smile.

  Throughout the palace, heavily armed men wearing green surcoats blazoned with the red rose of Anjou rushed to secure positions within the corridors and along the walls. The royal guards mustered out to stop the flood of intruding steel, but many were brutally cut down before they could gather in sufficient strength to resist the interlopers. The coup became a slaughter.

  Outside the walls, Demetrius could hear the sounds of struggle as he dragged his ragged prisoner to an alley overlooking the palace gates where a handful of royal guards faced Anjou’s overwhelming companies. Behind the Greek came the steady tromp, tromp, tromping of boots—this time the marchmen, emerging from the shadows with Oliver, Otun, and Kennick leading them. Their mail coats and weapons flashed in the winter’s moonlight.

  One of Roland’s squires crept from the shadows.

  “My lords!” he said. “Roland is already inside the palace!”

  “What is this?” Oliver asked sternly. “We came as fast as we could muster out!”

  “Pepin has moved against Charles,” Demetrius reported. “And Anjou supports his cause.”

  By the distant gate, they could see Anjou’s men butchering the guards, their blood running in dark streams from the entrance. The southerners finished the last of the defenders and started closing the ironbound portal.

  “Damn!” Kennick growled. “We’ll need more men if we have to force the gates!”

  “And Roland is alone in there,” Demetrius reminded them.

  A wicked smile formed on Otun’s lips. “Now’s the time for blood!”

  Oliver lofted Halteclare over his head. “All right, then. As one!” he commanded. “In tight formation. We’ll drive the gate open!”

  The marchmen formed up smartly, locking their shields in Roman style. On Oliver’s signal, they charged the gate.

  Charles lifted the cup from the tray and rose, arthritic knees making him a bit unsteady at first, but he recovered quickly and navigated into a nearby chair.

  “Have you thought about my request?” Pepin asked, leaning in close. “I am the eldest. I can hold the realm together. Advance your legacy. Please, Father, God would not want you to go to your rest and allow this, His kingdom, to descend into civil war and chaos!”

  “I cannot abandon your brother,” Charles murmured with a hint of sadness in his voice. He had argued round and round too often with Pepin on this issue. “I will take care of my children. Frank law and tradition are preeminent in this matter.”

  “But your entire reign breaks with tradition!” Pepin said, his voice rising. “You war against the encroaching darkness of tradition and ignorance by translating the ancients’ law and philosophy. You’ve instituted higher learning, brought together the finest Christian, Muslim, and Jew scholars. Father, name me your heir. I swear by all that is holy and sacred that I will keep your dream alive. The Frank kingdom will be the light on the hill!”

  Charles shook his head, his face drawn and tired. “As with any father, my children are my legacy. My kingdom, on the other hand, is a legacy to all Franks, no matter if each of you governs a piece o
f the whole. Now please, I am tired, my son.”

  Pepin bowed deeply. “Of course, Father.”

  Charles lifted the cup. Before the wine could pass his lips, Roland crashed through the door and stumbled in. In his hand, Durendal dripped blood.

  “My king,” he said breathlessly with a bow, though still moving forward to close the distance. “Cousin,” he nodded at Pepin.

  Pepin shuffled to block Roland’s approach.

  “What is this, Champion?” Pepin snapped. “You’ve interrupted the only time I’ve had with my father in days.”

  Roland bent to his knee and lowered his head to the king.

  “Sire, there is a threat to your life!”

  Charles leaned forward in his chair, setting the cup on the table beside him.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  “What threat?” Pepin challenged. “How can there be danger to him in his own house?”

  Roland pointed at the cup sitting near Charles’s hand. He glared unrepentantly at Pepin.

  “Would the betrayer dare to take up the cup?” he challenged.

  The color drained from Pepin’s face. “You’re insane! Father, he accuses me!”

  Charles leaned forward, his brows knit together. “You tread dangerously, Champion.”

  Roland took a step toward the cup, his hands spread before him, blade turned away.

  “If all is as it should be, then drink,” he baited the prince.

  “He’s mad, Father. Probably murdered your guards to get in!” Pepin snarled. “I’ll have him removed. Then we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  Roland brushed past the prince, lunging for the cup. He grabbed it and lifted it to his mouth. “If you do not drink, then I will! You will stand condemned by my last breath—”

  Before Roland could taste the cup, Geoffrey burst through the door. His face was flushed, and blood stained his fine garments.

  “Anjou?” Charles stood. “What have you done?”

  “You?” Roland spat. “I supported your cause! Charles committed to defend the south for you!”

  Anjou laughed. “Why should I trust you? You being champion is an insult to your betters, and Charles was mad to have chosen you!”

  Roland set the cup down on a table, hefted Durendal in his hand, and raised the long steel blade to guard.

  “You’re a traitor!” he said, accusation dripping from his voice.

  Geoffrey launched at him, the keen edge of his weapon whistling through the air. Roland sprang forward into the attack, jarring the downward cut to a stop by slamming his own blade into Geoffrey’s cross guard, then snatching the stalled weapon and ripping it out of the count’s hands. Geoffrey desperately clamped his hands around Roland’s throat, but his grip slackened and failed when Roland’s blade sprouted bloody from his back. The count of Anjou wheezed and spat blood into Roland’s face.

  “Go to hell,” Roland growled.

  Oliver burst into the room, Demetrius on his heels dragging the man he’d captured in his wake. Oliver skidded across the bloody stone to place himself between Pepin and Charles. Demetrius hurled his prisoner to the floor, tossing a few of the man’s fingers after him.

  “Apologies, Your Majesty,” Demetrius said with a bow. “I see we’re not too late.”

  Pepin could not help but glance fearfully at the cup on the table.

  Marchmen crowded into the room, many half-dressed and lightly armed. Before they could react, the prisoner lunged for the cup and thrust his face into the drink, draining it. Waving his bloody hands, he fell to the floor cackling madly—but he would spill no more secrets. He expired as the marchmen hauled his corpse to its feet.

  CHAPTER 11

  Consequences

  A leaden gray sky cast its pall over the remaining members of Charles’s retinue that filed out the palace door. Freezing rain clung to clothes and soaked through to bones, but undeterred they assembled around the battered ancient stump that thrust up in the middle of the confined space. These, the great men of the realm, were accustomed to death and betrayal, yet they were pale and silent, tugging their cloaks and furs further up about their necks. Many fidgeted and stomped chilled extremities.

  They didn’t have to wait long, for a small portal to one side screeched open on icy hinges. Guards marched from the darkness, stiff, somber, and formal. Behind them, draped in iron manacles and chains, limped Pepin. He was cleanly clad in plain linens and leather shoes. He held his head high even while shuffling through the slush to the executioner’s stump. Behind him, Roland followed the procession to the center of the courtyard.

  Charles emerged from the palace door flanked by the remainder of his children, Naimon, and a few other close associates. Louis appeared dour, keeping pace with his father. Both Aldatrude and Berta had clearly been crying, and though they marched stiffly with all the gravity required of them, their faces remained red and puffy. Charles’s face was set and stern. He stopped before Pepin.

  A hush fell across the yard. The tension between father and son was palpable.

  “Pepin. My son.” He paused for only a moment. “You’ve been found guilty of murder … of treason.”

  The prince stared back with venom.

  Charles struggled to press on. “Pepin, Pepin … I held you as you took your first breath of life!” The king’s voice broke, but his eyes remained flinty. “We laughed together as you took your first steps! Cried when you were sad! Pepin, my son, you’ve broken my heart!”

  Pepin threw back his head and laughed. The nobles stiffened visibly at this blatant display, this stunningly unrepentant rebellion against the very order of God.

  “Well, Father, I got my way after all! It seems you will only have one heir now—too bad it’s the wrong son!”

  Roland whispered to the sergeant next to him. The soldiers took hold of the prince, but he shrugged them off. Silently he stepped forward, sank to his knees, and extended his neck across the block. He gave a sidelong glance at Roland and hissed, “Use this well, Champion.”

  The executioner stepped forward hefting an ax that glinted sharply in the diluted light. He sighted on the prince’s neck, raised the blade high overhead, and swung it down with a huff through his nostrils. Pepin’s head sprang from his shoulders in a pulsing spurt of blood.

  Tears welled in Charles’s eyes, spilling over and tracking down his cheeks. Roland walked across the yard to Charles’s side.

  The king’s voice trembled. “How could he do this—my own flesh?”

  Roland shook his head. “You are much wiser than I, sire. But it seems ambition blinds ties of blood.”

  Charles clenched Roland’s shoulder, leaning on him and taking strength from the young champion. They walked back to the open palace doorway. “Promise me you’ll never be so blinded,” he whispered.

  “With my whole heart, my king,” Roland replied.

  AOI

  The next morning dawned crisp and cold. Aachen’s shutters and doors remained closed—bundled up against the stubbornly resurgent winter. Louis rode from the palace atop his warhorse, bedecked in plates of scale and elaborate arms, as befitting a prince of the realm. His travel cloak was tight about his body to fend off the chill. But his eyes were unfocused and far afield from the martial procession unfolding in his wake, for Louis both hated and grieved for his lost brother.

  Behind him rode the troops handpicked for war with Saragossa, a clattering, rattling river of living steel that churned through the morning crust of ice atop the muddy track to the main gate. After Louis, Roland rode next to Oliver atop a spirited black warhorse that tossed his head and bellowed steam from his flared nostrils. The banners of Breton March and Vale Runer streamed behind them, between which Otun rode a bit unsteadily, towering over Kennick and Turpin beside him. Next in line rode the marchmen atop their solid Frank mounts. Behind those stalwart companies rode the Dane and Sax
on warriors who had sworn fealty on the distant riverbank in Saxony.

  The black warhorse beneath Roland strained at the rein to overtake Louis, its strong teeth chomping against the bit. The knight handled the beast with a strong hand, and though it clearly desired to fly through the countryside at breakneck speed, the great black remained reluctantly apace with the column.

  Above the procession, Aude stood in the window of the champion’s quarters, the shutters flung wide so that she could watch them go. A brisk cold wind brushed at her cheeks, but she ignored it. Roland’s spirited warhorse pranced and lunged beneath her vantage point.

  “Carry him with honor, Veillantif,” she whispered to the animal, her fingers toying with the gem about her neck. “And bring him safely home to me.”

  The soldiers and knights rode out through the main gate. There each man passed two long spears standing upright, planted before the spring crops with their grisly fruits for all to see—Pepin’s and Geoffrey’s severed heads, silently awaiting the crows as they stared across the plaza.

  CHAPTER 12

  Collateral of War

  Emerging buds lent a hint of green to the stark branches of the gnarled trees, but the muted color was the only thing marking the return of spring to southern Francia despite the weeks that had passed since the army marched from Aachen. Birds fluttered among ancient trees that had stood sentinel when the Franks’ ancestors first appeared in long-ago Roman Gaul. Above the rolling foothills, the dark Pyrenees’ snow-capped peaks broke the expanse of sky above the trees’ outstretched fingers. A muddy track was worn into those foothills, no more than a footfall wide.

  A small patrol astride their Frank mounts picked along that root-broken way. At their head clattered the portly Count Marcellus, clad in a mail coat that hugged his girth and mounted atop a warhorse sprinkled with gray from tail to mane. The count’s face, in contrast, sported an unruly bristly blond beard under an iron helmet covered in a dark patina. Oliver and a handful of southern knights followed.