Atop a low hill overlooking the camp, Blancandrin orchestrated the proceedings atop a spirited steed wearing his most splendid armor. Seeing that he had the Franks’ attention, he booted his horse into a stuttering trot toward them. Behind him, a detachment of soldiers dragged two men up the crest of the hill from the Saragossan side—Basan and Basile.
“Franks, hear me!” he shouted, his steed fidgety beneath him and straining at the rein. “I bear the words of Marsilion, emir of Saragossa! You have invaded our country, have put our brave sons to the sword, and have defiled our cities! For your crimes, these men will die!”
Charles’s counts were forced to their knees.
At the edge of the camp, Roland clenched his fists. “My horse!” he ordered. “Hurry!”
Two tall Saragossan swordsmen stood behind the prostrate Frank nobles and drew curved blades that flashed savagely in the unrelenting glare of the sun. The steel blades blurred, and both men’s heads fell from their shoulders, their bodies crumpling to the dusty ground like unstrung puppets.
Without another word, Blancandrin turned his steed toward the city. The Saragossan soldiers fell in behind him, leaving the dead where they lay.
Veillantif arrived, dragging the squires that held his reins, surrounded by Oliver, Otun, and a contingent of marchmen. Roland sprang into the saddle and pounded over the distance to the hill without waiting for the others.
He slid down to the ground at the blood-soaked scene and knelt next to the bodies, reverently touching each corpse’s stilled chest with his fingers. He pulled his fingers away, sticky with gore.
“We will avenge you, my brothers,” he vowed. “Blood will answer for blood.”
CHAPTER 24
Whisperers
Multicolored birds from Africa and far-off Asia warbled in the carefully tended trees, flitting and fluttering about on clipped wings. Beneath their antics, women in veils and filmy silks chattered merrily. For all appearances, they were oblivious to the peril that amassed beyond Saragossa’s walls—yet when left to themselves, their talk was infused with the latest news, rumors, and conjecture that was rampant within the elegant confines of Marsilion’s private quarters and court.
Conversations died away when they caught sight of the emir hurrying past. His face was resolutely impassive. On his arm was the tall and fair Bramimunde, daughter of Visigoth kings who had once ruled the whole of Iberia—barbarians who had wrested it from the Romans only to fall to invading armies from North Africa. On his opposite hand, Blancandrin walked with head bowed, quietly relaying the latest intelligence on Frank activities. Behind them scurried Ja’qub, his slippered feet but a whisper on the tiles, robe fluttering about his scarecrow frame. Honorius, immaculate as always, rounded out the group—his Eastern lamellar armor exotic even in Marsilion’s resplendent court.
Across the garden, the palace gates groaned open to admit a single horseman atop a heaving steed. The beast clattered into the garden sanctuary, causing a rippled hush through Marsilion’s entourage. The messenger, covered in road dust from head to toe, slid from the saddle and fell to his belly before the emir.
Marsilion gestured with measured restraint for the man to rise.
“My lord,” the messenger stammered breathlessly. “I bear word from the caliph! Emir, pirates have sacked Cadiz! He cannot send relief and advises you to negotiate peace with the Franks.”
“What?” Marsilion snarled. The thin stoic veneer over his features melted away. “Is that all?”
The rider nervously bowed his head. “My lord, the caliph prays for your success.”
Color rose in Marsilion’s cheeks, beard bristling with boiling anger. “He prays for me?” He thrust his hands into the air and shouted, “While the Franks tear the city down about my ears? He prays for me as I administer justice to Frank envoys for crimes against my people? I need more than prayers!” He lashed out a foot at the messenger, who dodged deftly.
Bramimunde stroked his cheek with long, soft fingers.
“Don’t negotiate with the Franks,” she purred. “They cannot be trusted. They’ll send their champion to burn us out like rats. Remember Carcassonne.”
Marsilion pressed her fingers to his cheek. “What can I do? I can’t break the noose strangling the city!”
Blancandrin lowered his eyes deferentially and cleared his throat.
“My lord, there is a way,” he offered. “Take back the initiative by offering an olive branch of peace. If the offer alone isn’t enough, clean out the treasury to pay Charles off. After prolonged sieges and loss of men, do what it takes to convince him it’s time for the Franks to return to their homes. Surely he’ll see the wisdom in your entreaty.”
Honorius shook his head, offering Blancandrin a cloying smile. “Do you believe that is wise, gracious emir? The Franks are a vicious and unpredictable people.”
Marsilion ignored the ambassador. “Continue,” he said to Blancandrin.
Honorius bowed his head, wearing well his diplomatic mask, for no emotion showed at the rebuke.
Blancandrin went on, “My emir, tell Charles that once peace is concluded, you’ll follow his armies to Aachen, and there swear fealty to him. If he desires hostages to secure the agreement, give them. Make him believe there’s no more need for bloodshed.”
Honorius’s words were smooth as a garden serpent’s. “You know it will not be enough. There’s been too much blood on both sides. He’ll demand a pound of flesh as well as coin.”
“It will be enough!” Blancandrin shot back. His hands balled into fists at his side. “And if needs be, I’ll offer up my own son as part of the price. It would be better to have hostages carted away to Francia and there lose their lives than to have Saragossa ripped from us. Without this city, we would be reduced to nothing more than beggars in our own land! If you do this, Emir, they’ll go home. Their army will melt away to harvest crops and herd flocks before the first snow flies in the north.”
A stern look and wave of the emir’s hand stifled a retort on the ambassador’s lips.
“Go on,” Marsilion said. “There is more, yes? We don’t just swear loyalty to these—these—brigands for nothing!”
Blancandrin bowed humbly, feeling the sting of Honorius’s eyes upon him like so many biting ants. “At Michaelmas, as all know, Charles holds a great holiday celebration—days of drunken feasting. We’ll be expected to arrive and in dramatic theater swear fealty to him before his assembled people. But we will not. We will remain here. For that, he will indeed have our hostages killed, and he will rage with anger at the heavens—but let him rage, I say! He won’t dare come back here, knowing that we’ve prepared to hurl his armies into the pit!”
Marsilion grimaced but nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. Yes, we will let him rage.”
AOI
The Tournai men continued to expand their earthen fortifications behind their screens while roving bands of Saragossan horsemen darted close to the lines and launched arrows at them, only to scatter before Frank cavalry could gallop in pursuit. Loads of dirt rose into earthen works, behind which men and equipment could move more freely to continue extending the fortifications around the city in a strangling noose. Amid that backbreaking work, Julian snatched up a water bucket then slipped away into the constantly moving mass of men. Once out of sight of the Tournai men, he hurried toward the finer accommodations in the center of the camp.
In a nearby pavilion, Guinemer directed a farrier tapping out a dent from a helmet. When he straightened to wipe sweat from his eyes, he also caught a glimpse of the youth moving through the crowds. His shaggy eyebrows furrowed together when Julian reached a gap in the traffic and cut a beeline toward Demetrius’s tent.
Guinemer stepped out of the canvas shelter, covering his eyes with a hand against the sunlight, and watched the youth disappear inside.
Guards, who just a moment before sagged against their long spears, s
napped to attention when Roland approached the sentry position. The champion acknowledged them then stepped across the defensive trench to stand alongside them and watch the horsemen kicking up dust from Saragossa. Blancandrin rode his familiar black steed, his long lance topped by a white flag tight in his grip. Behind him straggled an awkward party of timid, robed men that put Roland in mind of their own priests. A Frank outrider circled the plodding procession and then pounded across the parched ground to where he stopped before the champion.
“My lord, they’ve no weapons,” he reported.
Blancandrin placed a hand over his heart then bowed slightly from the saddle.
“I bear greetings from the emir!” he called out. “He wishes to discuss peace with the Frank nation!”
“Peace is a convenient word, is it not?” Roland asked. He pointed to the white cloth on Blancandrin’s lance. “You’ve killed our own under sign of truce. That also was a discussion of peace.”
A thin-lipped grin touched Blancandrin’s face.
“Blood has satisfied blood. Today is a new day, and perhaps further shedding of blood can be avoided.”
“A new day, indeed.” Roland slapped the shoulder of the sergeant standing at his elbow. “So what say you?” he asked the man. “A change of heart?”
A gap-toothed grin broke the sergeant’s pockmarked face. He looked the Saragossans over with a critical eye, and his response was quick. “I wouldn’t trust them, my lord.”
“Agreed, I fear. But we must show decorum. We wouldn’t want our guests to think us barbarians.” He gestured for the guards to take positions surrounding the newcomers. Then he walked to the head of the party and led them toward the center of the camp.
Through the gawking Frank soldiers clustered along the way, Blancandrin rode bolt upright, his eyes unwavering in their focus on the large, multicolored canopy surrounded by fluttering eagle pennants and a cordon of stalwart Frank sergeants. At a respectful distance from the tent, the group stopped. Guards stationed there pulled back the enormous canvas flaps. A heartbeat later, Charles emerged, followed by Naimon and several other notables of the Frank court.
Blancandrin dismounted, handing off his lance to a scholar who fumbled it but at least kept it from landing in the dirt. The general took a few steps toward Charles before dropping to the ground to prostrate himself in the dust.
Charles folded his arms, a stern look upon his face. “A knee is all that’s required here.”
A low chuckle rippled through the assembled ranks. A curt look from the king silenced them.
The remainder of the Saragossans dismounted and, following their general’s example, dropped to their knees.
Charles gestured for them to rise.
As protocol demanded, Naimon stepped forward.
“Speak your business,” he commanded.
Blancandrin rose, reassuming the commanding air that he carried before the armies of the emir.
“Great king of the Franks and Romans! I bring you the greetings of all Saragossa and the words of Marsilion, its emir,” he said in a crisp voice that rose through the ranks surrounding the audience. “Our scholars have studied the laws of the Franks regarding war and peace. The emir graciously offers to satisfy them. Noble King, he shall pay you generously—enough to provide bonuses to your entire army. Then, during your holy days, my master swears to travel to Aachen where he will pledge you his service. All this he will do if you leave our lands in peace and return to your home beyond the mountains.”
The nobles surrounding Charles broke out in surprised chatter. Yet the king remained silent, examining the general’s face for a few heartbeats. “You are well spoken,” he finally said. “But the emir is my enemy. He has shed the blood of my people and my own family. Why should I believe him now?”
Blancandrin bowed once more, his voice low and direct. “My master Marsilion has also lost family to this war. He desires nothing more than its end and peace between our peoples—so that generations of our nations live free from the shadow of war. To prove his words, he offers hostages as a guarantee of peace. Know this, great king, my own son will be among them.”
“And I’m to value your son more than my own daughter?” Bitterness clipped Charles’s words. “Naimon, have the men pitch a tent for our guests. Bring them food and drink. They will wait for my decision.”
The champion’s sun-bleached tent stood near the king’s grand pavilion, the canvas sagging under the intense midday heat. Two of the walls were rolled up to take advantage of the barest breeze. Undaunted, Roland and Oliver stood within the scant shade, where they reviewed troop deployments and searched hastily sketched maps for holes in the enemy defenses.
Demetrius ducked under the canvas roof to hand Oliver a vellum document covered in miniscule script. Oliver began matching up the new intelligence with other documents.
Demetrius pulled up a chair and rubbed at his eyes.
“So what have you learned, my friend?” Roland asked.
“Of Ganelon? Not much, I’m afraid,” the Greek replied with a frown. “He takes counsel with Alans, but our man cannot get close enough to gather details.”
Roland leaned forward on his stool, an earnest set to his own features. “He must. I need proof, damn it!”
Oliver put the documents down.
“Ganelon is a wily one,” he observed. “He’s survived many years at court by distancing himself from controversy and leaving no loose ends scattered about. It is not a simple thing you ask.”
“That’s why it takes time to get close,” Demetrius added. “It’s a matter of trust.”
Roland kicked at the stack of documents at his feet, scattering them in a flurry.
“Time is a luxury we don’t have! We must get proof and finish this before the Tournai men get back over the mountains—back to Francia and those who sympathize with him!”
“Be assured,” Demetrius said. “If a snake hides beneath the rock, we’ll find it.”
Squires scurried through the crowded conclave of nobles waiting outside the king’s tent. Turpin, his tonsured head rosy beneath the morning sun, found Roland haggling with two northern counts, urging them to speak up and support his position. The men listened courteously, but Turpin could see in their eyes that they wanted no more of this war. Both men excused themselves when Charles stepped from the tent and into the sunlight with Louis at his side, dressed in their gold-trimmed royal finery. Turpin gave Roland an encouraging nod. The lobbying had worn down even the count of the Breton March’s boundless energy. Regardless, Roland took his place on Charles’s right hand, and Turpin muttered a prayer that the Lord would sort out the right of things and bless the Franks whatever the decision.
“My lords,” Charles began, clearing his throat. “Marsilion offers us tribute and fealty in exchange for peace between our two nations. This is a weighty decision, my brothers. I ask you, do we accept?”
Bickering bubbled up as the counts jostled one another with opinions—never in short supply among an assemblage of Franks. Roland raised his voice to be heard above the cacophony.
“My king, we sent two of our finest to negotiate peace, and the emir brazenly violated a flag of truce. I say take Saragossa! End this war once and for all. Then we march to Francia and drive the Saxons into the sea!”
Many murmured in agreement with their champion. Ganelon gauged the response and then raised his hand for the floor. Silence took a few moments to take hold.
“Charles, great king,” he began, irony in his voice. “Believe a fool—me or any other fool—and mark my word, we’ll all pay dearly. Marsilion sues for peace! I wager he recognizes the wrong he has done to you, my lord. Thus he has offered up his coffers.” He sauntered close, until he stood at Roland’s elbow. “Anyone who opposes this offer doesn’t really care for the lives of his comrades, either here or in Saxony.” He did not look at his stepson. “I urge you to
seek counsel with wise men that we might see beyond the clouds of passion and explore the offer based on its merits.”
The council fractured, some cackling in agreement with the count of Tournai. But Ganelon’s eyes never left Charles’s, even when Naimon spoke.
“Count Ganelon’s right on this, my king,” the wizened counselor interjected, tugging uncomfortably at his beard with gnarled fingers. “Marsilion is effectively caged within Saragossa. If we continue this campaign against a beaten man, then we bear the burden of a greater sin.”
Charles nodded tentatively in agreement.
“If we do this, then who do we send to negotiate on our behalf?” he asked.
“Of course, I will go,” replied Naimon, straightening as best he could.
The king placed a hand on his old companion’s bent shoulder. “No, old friend, remain at my side,” he said. “I will have need of your wisdom before this is through.”
Roland stepped before the king and bowed his head.
“I’ll go, sire,” he offered.
Oliver jostled to the fore, placing a hand over his heart.
“No, my king. Send me!”
Charles raised both hands. “This task requires tremendous diplomacy.” His eyes narrowed as they roved over the assembly. “Both of you are veterans of the battlefield—my best warriors. But you aren’t seasoned for this task. My knights, choose someone to speak for me.”
“Since you seek a man versed in peace, Uncle,” Roland said, “why not send my stepfather? Marsilion will find great delight in his eloquence.”
A ripple of agreement rustled through the nobles though Ganelon’s face darkened and his eyebrows wrinkled together. He leaned over to Roland, his voice a dangerous whisper. “You had no right to name me.”
“The king needs you,” Roland breathed back. “If he commanded me, I’d take your place and spare you the danger of losing your head.”
“Yes, it will be Ganelon,” Charles commanded, either oblivious to the exchange or ignoring it.
Ganelon put on a fervent expression and spoke up for all to hear.
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