Ganelon rode near his uncle, surrounded by Tournai men proudly marching under the white lily in their blue surcoats. Though he chose not to ride in the king’s intimate company, he nevertheless could feel the full confidence of the nation.
“Say farewell to this godforsaken land,” Guinemer crowed. “All this dirt and not a skin of wine to be found.”
Ganelon wiped his cracked lips with the back of his hand. “Time enough for drinking upon our return, Uncle. We must remain vigilant. Opportunity is near at hand. On the other side of the mountains, the army will be strung out, and Charles will be deprived of his precious shield.”
A wolfish grin stretched across Guinemer’s lean, seamed face.
“God save the king,” he snarled.
That evening the Franks encamped across a ridge in the foothills near Roncevaux pass, much as they had the night they had entered Spain. Campfires sprang up on the slopes, sprinkled points of light that chased back the night’s chill. A merry spirit infected the Franks, celebrating one final time with the men from Barcelona. The conflict had begun with them as cautious allies, but now at the withdrawal from Spain, these Franks and Saracens found themselves to be blooded brothers in the struggle against a common foe. Germanic and Arabic voices mingled around many of the campfires in a dissonant melody of hard-fighting men who would recall this moment to their children and grandchildren for generations to come.
With the passing of the night, the fires burned to glowing embers, and the conversations faded. Karim gathered his men with Roland and his command at the edge of the camp, exchanging farewells, clasping hands and embracing one final time. Roland drew forth a dagger from his belt, a battle-worn length of steel that had accompanied him through every hard-fought step of the campaign. He pressed it into Karim’s hands.
“Farewell, my friend,” he said.
Karim examined the weapon then slipped it into his belt. He unclasped the curved saber at his side, a blade forged in distant Damascus that had carved a bloodied path to the west with Karim’s forebears, and turned it over into Roland’s fingers. It was a workman’s weapon, and it had served the son of Sulayman well.
“It is not good-bye, my infidel brother,” Karim replied. “Rather may the days be kind until we meet again.”
Roland laughed. “Aye, that is a good way to part.”
Karim mounted his sturdy desert steed, and his men did likewise. Roland watched them wheel about and melt into the shadows, their horses’ hooves pounding into the night.
Movement caught at the corner of his eye. He turned and found Saleem standing beside him, also watching his countrymen leave.
“You aren’t going with them?” Roland asked.
Saleem shook his head. “My path does not lie with theirs.”
“So will you be coming with us?”
“No,” Saleem replied.
“Then where are you bound?”
Saleem shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe I will set aside the world and make the pilgrimage to the homeland of my fathers in far-off Arabia.”
“You are welcome among us,” Roland reassured him.
“I thank you for the offer.” He wrinkled his nose. “But your ways are not for me either.” Saleem turned away into the darkness. “Farewell, champion of the Franks!” he called over his shoulder.
Roland stood alone staring into the darkness.
While the men caroused, Charles retired to his bed and an unsettled slumber. The king tossed and turned beneath the canvas tent. Though rest seldom came easily to the monarch, this night it stole upon him, spiriting him away atop a spectacular warhorse in a perpetual twilight. Across exotic battlefields he rode, the armies of his enemies falling before him in a bloody reaping. In his fist he gripped a long lance topped with a familiar rippling eagle pennant.
From mists drifting over a particularly ruinous salient, a lone rider charged him. As he closed, Charles could make out the lily of Tournai emblazoned on his shield, Ganelon bearing down on him with a murderous force. Horses and riders collided, and the impact staggered Charles’s doughty steed. Ganelon tore the lance from his hand, shattering it and sending splinters flying heavenward.
And then, as dreams oft will do, this vision whispered away as so much drifting smoke, and he was elsewhere.
The altar at Aachen rose before the supplicant king, who knelt with hands pressed together before him, whispering his prayers. Smoldering candles illuminated the vision of Christ hanging from the tree above. Something crashed across the long nave at the door of the cathedral. The deep, thundering boom echoed through the edifice, followed in quick succession by another and then another.
The hinges of the great portal shattered, and through it burst a gigantic wild boar. The beast’s nostrils flared with a snort, and its small red eyes scanned the interior. Charles rose slowly, searching for a weapon. He grabbed a candelabrum and swung it, spilling wax to the floor. The boar shook its bristly mane and charged. Charles waved the guttering candles, but the beast was undeterred. Its massive muscles bunched, and it sprung at the king. A tusk slashed through Charles’s sleeve, slicing skin and drawing blood.
Suddenly on his left, a deep, purring growl erupted into a blur of yellow and black and a leopard sprang from the shadows. Charles swept the candelabrum back, landing a glancing blow on the cat. But his desperate defense was not enough for both beasts, and they drove him back against the altar.
A wild howl caused the beasts to whirl in their tracks. A large, shaggy hound bounded through the broken doors and raced up the nave, leaping with slavering jaws into the fray. The other beasts attacked in a tumult of rending claws, teeth, and tusks. Then the hound found purchase on the boar’s throat, bearing it to the ground. But the great feline raked the hound mercilessly with razor claws and spattered Charles in blood.
The hound’s jaws remained clamped tightly onto the thrashing boar’s throat in spite of the leopard’s onslaught. It struggled valiantly, but the feral beasts bore the newcomer to the floor in a sloshing pool of red. Charles struck with the candelabrum, hitting the two monsters over and over, but was unable to drive them from the hound that thrashed beneath them.
Finally the hound ceased its struggles, choking with a ragged breath. The king kept pounding on its assailants until the hound breathed its last and finally released the boar’s throat.
His heartbeat throbbing in his ears, Charles startled awake, drenched in sweat—the dream had been so vivid he could still hear the howls of the hound ringing through his head. He slid his feet to the floor and ran his fingers through tangled hair, gasping to catch his breath. He picked up a rumpled robe, tugging it about his body. Placing his bare feet on the floor, he stood and walked to the flap of his tent, pushing the canvas open to the night air. He nodded distractedly at the guard outside. The camp had quieted and lay still amid the cold of the night.
Roncevaux lay in the darkness beyond, a great cavernous maw filled with shadows like the deep gloom of an empty cathedral.
An oil light flickered in Ganelon’s tent, and beneath its glow the count reviewed a stack of vellum sheaves. Each thick page accounted for his requisitions in gear, food, and monies won during the campaign—all to be loaded and carted back to his holdings in Tournai. The expedition, while costly in blood, would bring wealth to many hedge knights who would have otherwise been forced to scratch out a life in the fields alongside their own peasants. Ganelon chortled at the thought of conveniently removing a few during the trek home to retain their portions. He paused, holding up the gold byzant Charles had given him for a memento of his mission to Marsilion. He flipped the coin deftly between his fingers. It was a fortune for the lowliest stable hand but merely a tasty morsel for the right nobles, particularly with a kingdom at stake.
A scuffle outside the tent stole his attention. A young man stumbled through the entrance, falling to the ground, his face swollen. Guinemer stepped in after him.
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“Here’s a little one I caught snooping around, nephew.”
Ganelon examined the youth more closely. Through the raging red welts and bruises, Ganelon recognized him—a stalwart young man who had been among the first with the ladders at Carcassonne.
The youth looked up at the count of Tournai’s dark features. “I was just going to my guard post, my lord.”
“Guard post?” Ganelon replied flatly. “Either you’re late for your shift, or you intend to report very early.”
Guinemer kicked the lad in the kidney, crumpling him in pain.
“I’ve seen him talking to Demetrius, the Greek,” he spat. “He’s Roland’s creature.”
“Really? Your name—Julian, right?” Suddenly Ganelon reached out and grabbed the lad by his shirt, dragging him to his feet and pulling him close. “So you spy for Roland? You’ve eaten my food! Bled with my own flesh! What have you told your master?”
“You are my master,” Julian said, planting his feet and trying to straighten. “You are the one I serve, my lord.”
Ganelon released him. “You know, the Lord himself said you cannot serve two. It just doesn’t work that way.”
Metal flashed as Ganelon slipped a long, slim dagger from the scabbard at his belt. He thrust it into Julian’s belly. The lad’s eyes widened in shock, but his cry choked when Guinemer clamped a meaty hand over his mouth. Ganelon twisted the blade, leaning in close to Julian’s ear.
“Tell your master—I’ve killed wolves before. And I will have the eagle as well.” He clenched Julian’s chin in his hand, wrenching the young man’s eyes back to his own. “Be sure he hears that.”
Ganelon jerked the dagger free and wiped it on Julian’s shirt.
“Wrap the wound,” he ordered Guinemer. “Secure him in the supplies for the rearguard. Be sure to hide him well. By the time they find him, it’ll be too late.”
Guinemer opened the tent flap to drag the youth away.
Ganelon tossed the dagger back into his gear and continued counting coins.
A cool breeze stirred from the nearby pass, providing relief from the heat that chased them from the Spanish plain. Through that crisp morning air, trumpets sang out, their precise notes signaling the army’s order of assembly. Franks tumbled from their tents, struck camp, and formed up in units for transit orders through the pass. As the final troops hurried into formation, Charles appeared atop his bedecked warhorse. A squire held the spirited animal’s bridle while the monarch surveyed the host before him with eyes haunted by dark circles. After the men sorted themselves into order, the nobles fell into their places of honor at the king’s right and left hand. Then the trumpets ceased, and a hush dropped over the assembly.
Since the earliest days of warfare, soldiers from all walks of life have constituted armies. Peasants in ill-fitting quilted linen armed with hand-me-down weapons lined up next to ranks of regular infantry stiffened by mail-clad sergeants. Hedge knights in their homespun tabards and trousers with patina-darkened helmets rubbed shoulders with stalwart landed warriors upon serviceable steeds—the very backbone of the heavy cavalry that had broken Saragossa over and over. And finally, proud beneath their gold-and-crimson pennants, Charles’s own guard, those eminent nobles who had marched with their king from Saxony to Rome and now Spain, resplendent in ermine and brightly dyed fabrics over burnished steel plates. Many of these men traced their family heritage through the centuries to barbarians who had first threatened Rome and had carved out their kingdoms from under the noses of her legendary iron legions.
And then there were the men of the Breton March, who stood rank upon rank in trim and ordered rows. Charles’s eyes lingered on the familiar faces of their brave columns, heartrendingly thinned by the brutal campaign. Those same indomitable men had campaigned under Roland’s father, William. Now their legacy stood in disciplined order beneath the banners of the champion, the rampant wolf that led every charge, bled in every skirmish, and refused to bend in the face of adversity. Yet those same ranks would never appear undermanned so long as one of them remained. Charles cleared his throat, knowing that his nephew pulled his mount up at his right elbow. Even if not in agreement with his king, Charles knew his champion stood ready to drive back the Saxons without hesitation.
“My lords and dear men of Francia!” Charles raised his voice to carry across the massed formation. “In preparation for our withdrawal, we must appoint someone to command the rearguard.”
With that cue, Naimon urged his light mount forward to Charles’s side, holding the staff and glove of royal authority. A ripple of voices began in the marchmen, as if the formation would step forward as one to volunteer even without a noble sponsor.
“My king!” said Ganelon. The count nudged his mount forward from among the nobles. “Please, sire, I beg your indulgence. This has been a long campaign. All of us are ready to cross the mountains and kiss the sweet soil of home. But we know choosing the rearguard is an important decision. Our enemies must see strength even as we move northward. And who better to do this than my stepson, Roland? He’s been a loyal and dutiful general. Giving him the rearguard will remind our enemies that betrayal is pointless.”
Charles’s white brows knit together. “And who will lead the van?”
“Why not Alans!” Guinemer shouted from further down the line of nobles. “Surely, sire, he’s earned a place of honor among your peers!”
Roland jostled Veillantif closer to Ganelon. “If I’m given the rearguard, I swear before God that Charles will not lose a single man, horse, or mule in the crossing!”
Ganelon grinned in reply. “His Majesty should expect nothing less! And neither would I of my son.”
Roland rode forward, turning his steed to face Charles. “Uncle, give me the staff and glove. I gladly offer to take the charge.”
“Come and receive them then,” Charles said.
Roland dismounted and stood before the king’s steed. Naimon handed off the tokens to Charles, who leaned down close to Roland as he passed them in turn to the younger man.
“Half the army is yours if you ask it,” Charles whispered, barely masking the apprehension that gripped his chest.
“If I had need, I would ask,” Roland replied with a smile, tucking the glove into his belt and gripping the staff in his clenched fist. “I’ll keep a thousand in my bandons, sire. The strength of the march is enough to do the job.”
Before Roland could lead his horse back into the line, Charles tugged the Oliphant from his saddlebow, the cool metal shimmering in the morning light.
“Wait,” he said, barely audible.
Roland paused, for now the king dismounted to stand with his champion before the army.
Charles thrust the horn into his hands. “If you’ve need, sound it,” Charles commanded. “I promise I will return with all the fury of your brethren at my back.”
“But the Oliphant has only been used to signal victory,” Roland replied with concern. “I’ll not have it used otherwise.”
A smile spread across Charles’s face, fine lines wrinkling into his beard. He clasped his nephew’s shoulder firmly in his hand. “Take it nonetheless.”
Roland solemnly accepted the horn, slinging it over his shoulder to rest at his hip opposite Durendal.
“I’ve spent my life striving to model Plato’s philosopher king,” Charles confided. “Yet in the end, I find myself just an old man. I am tired of loss. Don’t dally on shepherds’ paths through the mountains. Come home soon.”
Roland clasped Charles’s shoulder in return, a gesture that few would presume to make. “Safe journey, Uncle. I’ll see you on the other side.”
Charles released his grip, and Roland bowed smartly before remounting Veillantif. With a snap of the reins, the champion rode through the ranks of men. Oliver, Turpin, Otun, and the marchmen with their Danish brothers fell in behind to follow him through the ranks t
o the rear. Thousands of voices roared acclimation that echoed off the nearby mountains and into the distant reaches of the pass.
Once clear of the army’s main body, the marchmen formed up into ranks. Outriders then galloped away from the pass to monitor the approaches, while the Frank army began filing homeward through Roncevaux’s maw in columns of twos and threes.
Demetrius settled in next to Roland.
“Permission to ride with you, my lord?” he asked.
Roland laughed. “All this time, and I’ve never understood why you fight with us.”
The Greek’s lean face was almost feral when he grinned.
“It’s an excuse that will declare me an eccentric rather than a bloodletting Frank warrior!”
“You’re a craftsman with that fine weapon of yours,” Roland noted. “How could I ever think less of you?”
“Well, truth be told,” Demetrius continued, “as a lad, I listened to tales of Scipio Africanus who fought the Carthaginian elephants, of Belisarius who warred against the Goths, and of Heraclius who danced through the streets of Jerusalem before fragments of the One True Cross. I wasn’t blessed to live in those magnificent times. But if I must live now, beneath the dome of the blessed Hagia Sophia, I have vowed before God to burn just as brightly.”
Roland shook his head. “I never knew. You’ve the soul of a bard!”
The Silver Horn Echoes Page 28