The Silver Horn Echoes

by Michael Eging

  “Because Charles commands it, I shall do my duty!” A cheer rose from his supporters among the crowd.

  “Very well,” the king replied. “Ganelon, count of Tournai, we thank you for carrying our words to Saragossa. Come forward—receive the staff and glove.”

  Naimon passed the tokens, a matched set of those lost with Basile and Basan, into Charles’s hands. Ganelon stepped forward and offered a precise bow, then took the glove from Charles’s hand. The token slipped from his fingers and slapped on the ground.

  The nobility gave a collective gasp.

  Ignoring them, Ganelon scooped up the glove and straightened himself, gathering his dignity.

  “Sire, since this matter requires urgency, I beg your leave.”

  Charles handed him the staff and a letter bearing the royal seal.

  “Of course, dear count.” He clasped a hand to Ganelon’s shoulder. “God go with you and bring you success.”

  Ganelon bowed stiffly and then spun on his heel, striding through the parting sea of Frank lords without looking at them.

  Turpin watched him go. To no one but himself he murmured, “God as my witness, nothing good will come of this.”

  Amid the tents of the Tournai men, a squire held the ornate bridle of a warhorse as Guinemer held the stirrup for Ganelon to mount. His retainers and common levies assembled to watch their master follow the footsteps of the first doomed envoys to the Saragossan court. Julian jostled among them for a better position where he could watch Ganelon more closely.

  “God ride with you,” Guinemer said.

  Ganelon wrapped his hand in the reins then leaned down to his uncle’s scarred face and spoke in a low voice.

  “Uncle, ours is a mighty line,” he whispered. “I swear it will not end here. I removed William. I will remove his king. The throne will be mine!”

  He slipped Charles’s letter into Guinemer’s hand.

  “Burn this.”

  His spurs bit the steed’s hide, and it launched through the knot of Tournai men, who lifted their voices in bold cheers. With a slap of the reins, he continued on toward Blancandrin and the waiting Saragossan envoys. Julian watched until the commotion gave him cover to disengage from Ganelon’s troops. Then he silently lost himself among the war host.

  But as Guinemer tucked the king’s letter into his sleeve, he spied the youth slinking into the throngs. The wily older man set his sights on Julian’s back and fell into step a good distance behind.

  Ganelon rode through the camp sharply cognizant of the thousands of eyes that followed him. Undoubtedly, he mused, many were wondering if this would prove his final ride. But the count of Tournai had weightier things on his mind, for seeds must be sown early if they are to bear fruit in season. Across the bustling camp, Breton marchmen drilled in a veil of dust. The wolf banner rippled and snapped defiantly. These were the very men who must be crushed to bring down the Crown—men who would rather die fighting for their usurping king than accept a legitimate heir with his bloodied hands clenched to the gilded arms of the throne. Ganelon chortled. He would crack them apart and break them down just like their own Germanic ancestors had broken the Romans.

  At the edge of camp, Blancandrin and his company waited to escort him to the court of Saragossa.

  Yes, the very instruments were near at hand to implement the plan formulating in his head.

  Roland watched the horsemen depart from his position amid the marchmen’s battle formation.

  “Do you think it’s to be peace then?” Oliver asked, huffing from the exertion.

  Roland hefted Durendal in his hand, straightening his shield to cover the man on his left.

  “What I think doesn’t matter,” he replied with a wan smile. “Marsilion may have been crushed on the battlefield. But he’s achieved much more than a martial victory. He’s destroyed Charles’s spirit.”

  A Dane warrior jostled into Otun, and he roared in frustration.

  “All right, lads!” Roland called out. “Let’s work together!”

  Otun grumbled with a mighty flexing of his arms. The other Danes laughed, but all once again fell into step, and the Breton March moved as a single unit—the tip of the Frank spear.

  As they passed the last Frank sergeants at the outlying pickets, Ganelon rode next to Blancandrin. The Saracen general appeared much relieved by the growing distance between himself and the enemy. And yet there was something more in his tone of voice when he turned to the count of Tournai. “You know, your Charles is a mighty king. He leads powerful war hosts and has humbled many mighty nations. Peace will be a welcome season in this land.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Ganelon replied, meeting the general’s eyes. “But you should think on this—Roland, his nephew and champion, has far greater ambitions than even the king.”

  “Greater ambitions? What do you mean?”

  “I have a tale to share, one not widely spoken of outside the circle of intimates surrounding the king and his family,” Ganelon began. He glanced about conspiratorially to ensure no one else could hear his words. “Not many weeks ago, Charles sat beneath a tree to escape the miserable heat. Roland came to him, fresh from plundering near Carcassonne, his horse still covered in dirt and sweat. In his hand, he held the dripping head of the local sheikh. This he offered to Charles as a gift, saying, ‘Dear uncle, take this—for it is the first of all the kingdoms of the earth with their thrones and riches, which I will seize for you.’”

  “Surely you’re joking,” Blancandrin replied. “No man could be so consumed with bloodlust.”

  Ganelon smiled, a friendly but not altogether pleasing expression. “You’ve seen him in battle? You’ve seen him before the walls of a besieged city?”

  “Of course,” the general said. “He’s a dangerous foe. I’ve played chess with him on the field and faced the edge of his blade in combat.”

  Ganelon tapped the side of his nose with his finger. “Then you have your answer. To achieve his ends, he would drench the earth in blood and cover what remains in ash.”

  Blancandrin swallowed hard. He remained silent while the company approached Saragossa’s walls.

  AOI

  Marsilion fidgeted uncomfortably on his thick-cushioned throne while his court assembled around him in the expansive chamber. He flashed a painted-on smile at Honorius and Ja’qub when they took their accustomed places. Oh, how he hated these conclaves for their incessant chattering and second-guessing of his decisions—never mind that bringing his unruly nobles together bred sedition, if for no other reason than it was easier to speak against one’s lord when surrounded by others who might do the same. And now this proud scion of desert lions faced not just his nobles but also an envoy from the Frank nation—the messenger from a proud and vengeful monarch. How he wished for a chilled drink, but then blaring trumpets announced Blancandrin’s arrival. Palace guards threw open the great double doors and admitted the general with cluster of troopers flanking the solitary Frank. He was an older man who walked tall and straight, eyes boring straight ahead at the emir. Marsilion wrinkled his nose at the anticipated stench of this barbarian whose Frank finery was nothing more than rags and rusty bits compared to the Saragossan splendor arrayed about the chamber.

  Blancandrin prostrated himself before his master. Marsilion waved for him to rise, but his eyes narrowed when he noted the Frank had failed to follow suit. Instead the man had only bowed slightly, a gesture that barely bordered on propriety. Guards’ hands twitched on their spears, the men awaiting an angry outburst from the emir.

  Blancandrin climbed to his feet then hurried to the throne.

  “My lord, I delivered your petition to Charles. Praise Allah, the Frank king has sent this emissary to us!” He extended a hand to Ganelon. “May I present Ganelon, count of Tournai and brother-in-law to King Charles of the Franks.”

  Marsilion explored Ganelon’s fac
e through slitted eyes, his hand tugging at the end of his close-cropped beard. He nodded slightly, for this was an appropriate emissary to be sure—kin to the king. “Speak,” he commanded. “We will hear you.”

  Ganelon stood planted where he had halted, his thumbs hooked in his broad leather belt and an arrogant grin on his face. “Emir, I bring to you the word of Charles, king of the Franks and Lombards, colleague to the emperor in the East, and servant of God.” His words were stiff and formal, each syllable well rehearsed. “Before God and this court, I present terms satisfactory to the king. First, Charles requires you to be baptized, accepting the waters within the space of a day. Second, once you step on dry land, he shall return half your possessions. Third, you will swear fealty to him without condition. If you reject these terms, Saragossa will be destroyed.”

  Marsilion reeled in his chair. “Infidel!” he roared, his face throbbing deep red. “I shall never! Do you hear me? As Allah is my witness, I shall never accept those terms!” He vaulted from the throne and wrenched a spear from the nearest guard’s hand. The emir rushed down the steps, the wicked point aimed straight for the Frank’s gut.

  The collective breath of all the spectators in the chamber stopped.

  Blancandrin intervened, grabbing the haft and bringing Marsilion to a halt.

  “Release me, mutinous cur!” the emir snarled, his words dripping with threats.

  “Please, my lord,” Blancandrin said, his voice low and even. “Listen to this man. Upon my honor, he, of all the Franks, means you no ill will.”

  “All the pain I’ve suffered, and yet you come to me with these harsh words?”

  Marsilion spat at Ganelon’s feet.

  Ganelon raised his hands. “I am but the messenger. I swear to you the words are not my own.”

  “Please, Emir,” Blancandrin said in a soothing tone. “Don’t allow anger to cloud your judgment. Listen to him. Listen to what he has to say.”

  Marsilion stared at the Frank with loathing. Around him, he could fairly feel the stares of his vassals, ever watching with calculating eyes, trying to mark any weakness that could be exploited later. Then he looked beyond Ganelon to the windows and the smoke beyond them perpetually wafting over the city these last many days. He thrust the spear into Blancandrin’s hands.

  “Proceed,” he growled, though his face remained darkened.

  Ganelon bowed deeply, offering the emir a much more polite gesture than when he had entered.

  “Emir, know also that the other half of your possessions will be given to Roland, the king’s champion. If you reject these terms, Charles will order him to march on Saragossa and tear down her walls about your ears. Once the city is subdued, you’ll be chained like an animal and dragged to Aachen where you’ll be put to death in the cathedral square.”

  Marsilion charged the knight again, hands raised to claw at Ganelon’s eyes. Ganelon raised his own hands in defense, but Blancandrin restrained the emir once more.

  “Get out!” Marsilion wailed. “Get out before I have you torn apart and fed to the dogs! My own son got no better from you Franks!”

  Ganelon cautiously lowered his hands.

  “Emir, you are not the only father to lose a son to this needless war.”

  Marsilion sputtered while Ganelon’s words sank in.

  “You?” The emir then hissed, breathlessly sucking in air, straining against Blancandrin’s iron grip. “Your son is dead as well?”

  “Yes, in Saxony.” He glanced at Honorius and then lowered his voice. “Abandoned on the frontier by his king.”

  “Tell me then,” he said, taking Ganelon’s cue and dropping his voice to a whisper, “what will entice Charles to give up this war and leave in peace?”

  Ganelon leaned toward Marsilion. “With Roland as his champion and standing as his shield, Charles fears no man, not even the emperor in the East.”

  Honorius’s eyes shot poisonous darts while he strained closer to hear their conversation.

  Ganelon forged ahead. “This war will not—no, cannot end so long as Roland lives.”

  “But the caliph, our allies in Africa—with more troops, we can prevail,” Marsilion said defiantly.

  Ganelon shrugged. “Troops alone are not the answer. Do not forget, Emir, the walls of Carcassonne.” Ganelon glanced again at Honorius, who had abandoned all decorum and stepped closer to them. He took the emir’s elbow and bent close to his ear. “I have an idea. Listen quickly—with Roland gone, Charles and his usurping brood will be vulnerable, and I am the nearest heir to the true blood. Surely men such as ourselves could come to an accommodation.”

  A toothy grin broke across Marsilion’s face, the fine seams around his eyes deepening with delight. He clasped the Frank on the back and waved his hands to the skies.

  “I like this man!” he exclaimed. “Yes, we must talk, envoy of the Franks. Wine and food—bring us wine and food!”

  CHAPTER 25

  Ganelon Triumphant

  A dust cloud rose outside the city walls. Within its obscuring veil, a large party paraded from the suburbs of Saragossa toward the Frank pickets that strangled access to the roads. Scouts dispatched hurried messengers to the king when they spied Ganelon atop his sturdy warhorse at the head of the chaotic lot—a parade of mules, camels, warhorses, and struggling servants bearing heavy chests. Following them rumbled horse-drawn carriages loaded with other exotic treasures. The count of Tournai grinned at his countrymen’s dumbfounded faces and, in faux annoyance, waved on the menagerie to keep up the pace. Rank-and-file soldiers scrambled out of the way, their eyes wide at the treasures spewing forth from Saragossa—at the flutter of colorful birds in cages, the mewling growl of a thick-maned lion that paced nervously in its cage, and many more wondrous sights.

  Before the canvas chapel in the camp center, Ganelon signaled for his many charges to form a circle about the worshipers. He nodded to friends and winked at rivals with an air of showmanship. The triumph of Ganelon, envoy for the great king of the Franks, unfolded before both those who loved him and those who loathed him—he who had kept his head atop his shoulders yet again when others had failed.

  “Charles, my king! May the Lord God save you!” he called when the king stepped out from the chapel with Turpin, Roland, and Naimon. “What a glorious day this is! Behold, my king, the riches of Saragossa laid before you!”

  He waved to four tall Saragossan warriors, who advanced from the throng with a large chest slung on sagging poles. They set it heavily on the ground before Charles. One of them—a captain by the look of his polished chain mail and the colorful plumes rising from his helm—threw open the lid, spilling gold coins to the collective hush of the crowding nobles and soldiers. “Look for yourselves,” Ganelon crowed. “The purest byzants from Constantinople! And many more silks and riches Saragossa offers to you!”

  Naimon caught a glimpse of a group of frightened children, many in resplendent clothes, huddling together in fear from the battle-hardened Franks. “And these?” he asked, pointing to them.

  “These?” Ganelon answered with a flourish. “Why, these are presents from the noblest of Saragossa’s families! Hostages meant to guarantee the peace between our two peoples. Guard them well, sire. Guard them well!”

  Charles allowed a hint of a smile to touch his lips, but Roland remained stoic.

  “What are the terms, Count Ganelon?” Charles called.

  Ganelon bowed respectfully in his saddle. “Marsilion has sworn to follow you to Aachen, where he has promised to swear fealty to you.”

  “God be praised,” Charles shouted. “It is done. It is done!”

  Ganelon slipped from his steed and strode to the king. He took a knee and bowed his head. “An honor to be your voice, sire.”

  Roland organized the last of his gear for stowage. All around him, squires and pages wiped equipment down with oiled cloths, leaving what gleam they
could on the battered helmets, spears, and coats of scale mail. Roland looked up from his task when a squad of men approached carrying crowbars to pry up tent stakes.

  Oliver threw open the canvas flaps.

  “Your grand home-away-from-home is next to fall,” his friend announced.

  “Don’t strike my colors yet. I want it to be the last thing they see retreat from the city wall.”

  Oliver laughed. “Well, that’s more benevolent than sowing their bloody fields with salt, I suppose.”

  Roland flopped on his cot, snatched up Durendal, and drew it free of its battle-worn scabbard. He set to work on the brilliant steel blade with oil and stone, his keen eyes looking for even the slightest imperfection.

  “I just never imagined we would fight to the brink of victory only to withdraw with the enemy laughing at our backs. Surely they’ll be sharpening their claws for the next opportunity to set upon us.”

  “Maybe,” Oliver said. “But the treasure the emir sent? Surely they must be paupers one and all within the walls.”

  “Ill-gotten gain his horde plundered from other cities before we intervened,” Roland snarled. “I saw many pieces that surely came from Carcassonne.” He looked down the bevel of the blade, slowly turning the sword so he could examine each angle. “Their assassins struck at the king’s heart, and all the coin in the world means nothing compared to the loss of his daughter. Mark my words—good men will yet die before Marsilion is leashed. I feel it in my bones.”

  “Your bones have trooped too long at the head of the Frank nation,” Oliver said. “All that jarring over rutted roads and wilderness tracks.”

  “Maybe so,” Roland replied. But the look on his face should have told Oliver he was having none of the excuses that men were already weaving for exiting the field with the enemy behind them, intact and armed.

  In time the Frank army set out northward, a great iron-and-steel serpent winding along the dusty roads bound for the mountains and pass that would lead them to the lush fields of home that lay beyond those towering peaks. Sergeants shouted commands to keep troops in ordered units within the tromping flow. Villagers and shepherds from miles around came to see the proud banners of King Charles and his brave bandons of knights. At the head of the martial spectacle, the royal eagle pennants of Charles’s house rippled proudly, flanked by the wolf of Breton March on the right and the stag of Vale Runer on the left. The great houses of the Frank knights followed next atop thick, solid horses, clad in their finest armor to celebrate their triumphant return home. One and all looked north to Francia and prepared to face the resurgent Saxons who threatened their homes and loved ones. Lesser Frank infantry tromped just behind the Tournai knights, followed by miles of supply wagons.