The Silver Horn Echoes

by Michael Eging

  He limped back up toward the choke point where the pass narrowed—to a place where he could stand against the emir’s minions. At the narrowest point, he found a wind-wracked oak. He pressed his back against the gnarled trunk and braced his legs. His hand fell to his side, feeling the Oliphant’s cool surface.

  “Oh, Aude,” he cried out. “Forgive me!” Clenching his teeth together, he pushed himself to full height and raised the horn to his lips.

  As he drew breath, a Saragossan outrider rode into the pass, lance lowered.

  Roland blew, and the note rang out once more, clean and pure.

  The rider closed, and the cruelly barbed lance tip struck Roland in the chest. But the note soared crisp and true over the battlefield, echoing on through the pass as if lifted upon wings. A single brilliant beam of crimson light broke then across the rocks from the reaches of the dying sun, bathing Roland’s eyes in its glow and holding at bay for the barest moment the encroaching shadows of everlasting night.

  CHAPTER 29

  Retribution

  Charles waited, with Ganelon at his side, near the mouth of the pass until the day was nearly done before turning his horse’s head toward the anxious members of his court. He started to raise a gloved hand to signify that the operation was, for now, complete enough to rest.

  Abruptly he lowered his hand and strained about to look once more into the shadowed depths of Roncevaux. A long note, faint but clear, drifted down from the heights of the purple peaks and faded quickly.

  “It’s him!” he cried. “Good God, it’s him!”

  The words barely escaped his throat when a small group of horsemen pounded up the road, refusing to be challenged by guards and courtiers alike.

  Aude rode bareheaded in the fore, horror crossing her face. She too heard the horn.

  “My king!” she called. “You are betrayed!” She dragged the reins back on her steed, the lathered beast skidding to a halt before Charles. She jabbed a finger at Ganelon. “This traitor murdered William and even now plots against you!”

  Like a coiled serpent, Ganelon and his band of conspirators sprung. Guinemer, Alans, and the Tournai troops turned upon their unwitting comrades. Charles reeled in his saddle to avoid a lashing cut from Ganelon. The blade’s tip caught his cheek, drawing royal blood. Charles’s steed danced back, but Ganelon struck again. This time Naimon pushed his mount between them, grabbing at Ganelon’s extended arm. They grappled, their horses stomping madly beneath them. Louis leaped from his saddle to seize Ganelon from behind and, with titanic effort, hurled him to the ground. They rolled around in a clatter until the prince pinned the grim-faced count with a dagger pressing his throat.

  The fighting quickly died down when loyal troopers flooded through the wagons to the king’s side. The conspirators, forced to show their hand before the army was strung out across the length of Francia, fought desperately until Alans and Guinemer were also beaten to the ground. Then, almost before the fight had really begun, the usurpers’ men threw down their arms.

  Charles spurred his horse toward the pass.

  “Betrayed!” he shouted. “To me! We ride to relieve the rearguard!”

  Hours passed until finally the night sky gave way to a sliver of light. A squad of mounted scouts stole warily from Roncevaux’s darkness to the shattered southern hills, arms at the ready. Beneath the silent mountains, the broken bodies of friend and foe lay tangled together in heaps before them. Finding no adversary at hand, they reported back for the main body to advance.

  Charles’s red-rimmed eyes scanned past the hastily placed bandage on his face. He dismounted with a heavy heart. The entire company followed him to begin the long work of gathering the remains of the men, their brothers and cousins—they who until only days before had marched, laughed, and fought beside them. Charles stalked among the dead, a specter of his regal self, his pace quickening with the discovery of each familiar face found among the marchmen—Turpin, Demetrius, and Otun. Louis came upon Oliver and reverently gathered up Halteclare to be borne northward with honor.

  Then, a short distance off, he spied Roland’s lifeless body spiked to the ancient tree by the Saracen’s lance. Charles cried out, hurrying to him across the loose stones. He sank to his knees next to the still form with sorrow washing through his body. Then he tenderly pried open Roland’s fingers and lifted the battered Oliphant from the corpse’s cold grip.

  Charles’s face streaked with tears that dripped on Roland’s paled skin.

  Naimon and Louis solemnly stepped forward to retrieve Roland’s body, wrapping him in the king’s cloak before laying him among his companions. A squire timidly handed Charles a torn length of soiled cloth. The king shook out the rampant wolf and laid it on Roland’s chest.

  “My boy,” he whispered, “my champion, my nephew. Dreams are indeed the words of God. Even a king must listen to his counsel.”

  A Frank outrider spurred his horse up the hillside.

  “My king! My king!” he shouted. “The army of Saragossa lies to the south!”

  Charles stood and looked out across the plain.

  “Again we’ve been betrayed. But this day I swear that Marsilion is a dead man!”

  Charles handed the Oliphant to Louis. Behind them the column of Frank troopers continued to emerge from Roncevaux. Once along the ridge, Frank sergeants formed them into ranks, a veritable flood of ironclad men and beasts charged with lust for the blood of the faithless. They swelled to the edge of the hilltop—numbers building steadily as more and more marched through the pass. The morning sun had risen to near noonday before the last soldiers took their place in formation and stood glinting above the crest, away from the enemy’s view. Louis rode before them with the king’s silver horn raised above his head, eliciting a cheer from thousands of throats. He paused at the center of the formation.

  The Frank battle line held its collective breath. Hands tightened on weapons. Heels poised over horses’ flanks. Louis shouted a single word—

  “Roland!”

  He raised the Oliphant to his lips and let out a long, clear blast. The Frank battle cry broke like a raucous thunder over the plain, followed by the echo of their hooves as they flooded down onto the slopes.

  The avalanche grew in momentum when the tents of Saragossa came into view. Enemy pickets unfortunate enough to be caught in the open were either crushed under hoof or fled before the seething Franks. At the outer edge, guards fell like reeds in a storm. Then the Franks were upon the heart of the camp, tearing through men with a rage that brooked no argument, deferred to no defense, and offered no mercy. Lances skewered the first of Marsilion’s men, quickly followed by the butchering work of edged and blunt weapons. Saragossa’s multicolored tents became a killing field, many buckling like so many maidens’ kerchiefs in a gale of steel.

  Marsilion stumbled from his palace of silk, his ruined face wrapped in bandages. In his hand was a sword that he swung with wild abandon. Frank troopers charged him, but they veered off, dancing out of reach. He swore at them. But when a single rider finally did bear down on him, the emir ran. Louis swept Halteclare like a farmer’s scythe, and Marsilion’s head leaped from his shoulders, his body stumbling several paces before it too finally dropped.

  The fallen emir’s great army broke, and the Franks cut them down, paving the road back to Saragossa with their bloodied carcasses.

  AOI

  CHAPTER 30

  Love and Loss

  The royal family’s chapel in Aachen was not nearly as grand as the great cathedral; the smaller edifice was meant only for the intimate personal ministrations of Charles’s family. Within the close fluted walls, two coffins rested before the altar, their plain wood covered with the torn banners that had led the marchmen and even the entire kingdom—the rampant wolf and the great stag.

  The abbot knelt by a monk and offered prayers on behalf of the slain. Once finished, he then join
ed his companion in a hushed melody directed on high to saints and angels who surely must accompany such as these through the gates of heaven. With the sound of brushing skirts, he raised his eyes and glanced at the entrance. Aude stood in the doorway. She respectfully curtsied, hand touching the points of the cross on her breast, then stepped further in. The priests rose and stood to the side.

  Aude paused at the first casket, her fingers tracing the golden stag of Vale Runer, its lines muddied and torn.

  “Dear brother,” she said. “I would once more see your sweet face. I would laugh with you. Cry for you.”

  The abbot raised a hand toward the image of Christ upon the Tree above the altar. “Lady, please come and share your grief with the Lord.”

  “For He will make your burden light,” enjoined the monk.

  A distant smile touched Aude’s lips.

  “Yes, I will lighten my burden and sink into blissful sleep.”

  She turned to Roland’s coffin, splaying her hands over the pennant-covered surface as if placing her hands on her lover’s chest.

  “Be true to your purpose,” she whispered. “Send me swiftly to my love.”

  The abbot’s bushy eyebrows knit together. “What was that, child?”

  But Aude no longer listened, consumed as she was with her beloved who lay beneath the coffin’s lid. She leaned closer, her words meant for him alone, even if there were other ears nearby that might also hear.

  “Your spirit cannot be contained by this pine box, nor by cold, dead flesh,” she said urgently. “I’ll follow you, my love, my husband—my champion! I pray your mortal deeds are sufficient to redeem me from this act, that I might be at your side in life and death, into the eternities—”

  A spasm gripped her body. She gasped. The clerics rushed too late to her side as she slumped against the coffin lid—her body the final covering for her husband’s remains.

  As her breath stilled, her clenched fist relaxed, and a small amber bottle slipped from her fingers.

  Courtiers, dressed in somber finery, stood in the palace courtyard, while around them crowded the populace of Aachen. Amid the trappings of power stood Charles, his gold-trimmed mantle heavy about his shoulders and his crown glimmering atop his white locks. But shadows clung to the fierce thick brows that obscured his eyes. Behind him stood Gisela, her infant son clutched tightly to breast. At the nearby gallows, two corpses swung by the neck, twisting slowly in the breeze—Alans and Guinemer, already sent to eternal justice.

  In the center of the courtyard stood a lone defiant figure, bound and yet still erect. Ganelon—traitor, murderer, and stepfather of the slain champion—kept his eyes fixed on the face of the man he would have replaced on the throne.

  “The evidence has been examined.” Despite the exhaustion evident in his tones, Charles’s voice carried above the noise of the gathering. Voices hushed, and the king continued. “Laws of God and man have been broken. Ganelon, count of Tournai, husband to my sister, you stand condemned, and justice is demanded.”

  Ganelon spat on the ground before the king.

  “What right do you have to judge me? Usurper!”

  No emotion showed on Charles’s face when he signaled to the guard. Armored sergeants advanced on the prisoner and wrestled him to the ground. Ganelon struggled, but the troopers continued and tied thick ropes to his wrists and ankles.

  “This will not stand!” he shouted. “Pretender! I am the blood of Clovis, he who was anointed of God! You should honor me! Honor the family of your rightful king!”

  “The four corners of Francia will know of your treachery!” Charles roared, causing many in the audience to shrink back at the unexpected outburst. “That will be your honor!”

  Charles signaled again, and the guards stepped away. Gisela covered Baldwin’s face.

  A lash cracked and four horses launched in each direction of the compass. Ganelon shrieked in final agony as his limbs were torn from his body.

  Hours passed before a solemn procession snaked up the boulevard from the palace to the great cathedral. Banners, pennants, kerchiefs, and streamers filled the air to proclaim the passing of the champion and his peers. Some in the crowd whispered while the coffins passed on their sable-draped wagons that Roland, Oliver, Turpin, and the rest were paladins, holy knights of God—even the once-heathen Dane Otun would be accepted into the Lord’s rest, and none seemed inclined to dispute. Around the cathedral doors, the kingdom gathered to mourn with their king. The royal guard assembled, and when the wagons stopped, they stepped forward in a line and lifted the caskets to their shoulders. A moment later, many held their breath at the arrival of a single white cart but a few paces behind the others, bearing a gossamer-covered box. This catafalque was also lifted and borne up the steps into the nave behind the others. Within lay brave Aude, who had dared ride the length of Francia to bring word to the king, and by grace of royal dispensation now followed her beloved through the veil.

  Charles stood near Gisela on the steps to greet the champion and his dearest companions. As the procession passed, he heard the quiet sobs of a mother bereft. He turned and wrapped her in his arms.

  “Your son saved us from certain destruction,” he said, offering what comfort could be had. He brushed a tear from her face. “His sacrifice kept us from being consumed by Marsilion when all of us believed the olive branch of peace within our grasp. We owe a great debt to Roland and his brave men.”

  Gisela nodded, her lips trembling.

  “And what of my remaining son?” she asked. “Ganelon’s son?”

  Charles thought for a moment, his eyes still following the champion’s procession.

  “He shall be as William’s flesh,” he proclaimed. “If you wish, heir to the march, and, in time, a peer of the realm. I pray, sister, that he walks in Roland’s path.”

  Gisela allowed her moist eyes to drift back to the coffins that were slowly carried the length of the cathedral.

  “Oh, William,” she whispered. “This is all I have to offer.”

  She buried her head against Charles’s shoulder.

  “No,” Charles said in her ear. “You’ve given us much more. Roland’s deed, his song, will be sung through the ages. He will never be forgotten.”

  Gisela looked up past her brother, past the pomp and circumstance, to the clouds roiling in the sky overhead. A ray of light stabbed downward, and she felt the warmth upon her face. As she closed her eyes, the crisp note of a silver-chased horn echoed through the streets of Aachen, to the highest battlements of the city walls, and beyond.

  EPILOGUE

  A Kingdom Won

  Southern Coast of Britain

  October 1066

  William, duke of Normandy, surveyed the wreckage of his battle against the stalwart Saxons. It had been hard going to defeat Harold—more so than he had expected. The enemy archers had very nearly driven his troops back and at the height of the combat he had been forced to ride the length of the field to prove to his men that he was, in fact, still alive. But in the end, his army had carried the day. He had feared he had taken a chance relating the story of Roland to them; the paladin had died in the end, after all—but the hero’s fighting spirit had inspired them, and now Harold was dead and England lay before them.

  Joachim sauntered up to William’s side. “My lord! The day is yours!” He flashed a crooked smile. “The men have taken to calling you ‘The Conqueror’!”

  “Have they?” William snorted. He was almost disappointed. “The Bastard” had had a dangerous sound to which he’d become accustomed. “You had nothing to do with that, I venture?”

  “The men will claim their own, my lord. I am merely their voice.” He swept his cap off with a fool’s flourish. “Good evening to you, sire, and may the morrow bring you greater victory in London!”

  Joachim ambled away, ignoring William’s gaze as it bored into his back.

&
nbsp; William the Conqueror, the duke thought. Indeed. He couldn’t deny them, though. They had fought hard and valiantly for him. God bless their hardheaded souls.

  He turned, almost colliding with his squire who stood behind him with an oblong bundle.

  “Gads, boy! You can move like a cat when it suits you, eh?” He motioned the lad forward, took the silk-wrapped parcel from him, and reverently folded back the wrappings.

  Durendal had been lost centuries ago, somewhere on the Iberian plain never to be found. But the Oliphant had endured—indeed William was sure it had been the horn’s ringing cry that had rallied his men at the end. He carefully exposed the glittering silver and ivory that gleamed as if still new. He knelt in the setting sun, bowing his head, and offered his thanks to Saint Michael for stalwart companions and noble heroes.

  Victory was won. There was only one thing remaining.

  He raised the horn to his lips and blew.

  AOI

  AUTHORS’ NOTES

  Roland and his exploits have been part of my life since I was very young. Some of the first stories I read as a child were from books of mythology that regaled me with the exploits of Roland and his peers. These tales then led me further to the chivalric deeds of Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table, Men of Iron by Howard Pyle, and the eternal Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott. Many a summer afternoon, after all the chores were done on our small Ohio farm, I spent curled up in the bole of a willow tree with some small volume smuggled from my parents’ bookshelves transporting me to lands where brave knights faced insurmountable odds. The books in our home were plentiful, and when I ran out, my parents encouraged the use of my library card to seek out more. It was there that I discovered the feats of Byzantine emperors and generals, Charlemagne and his paladin knights, and many more historical tales. Unbeknownst to me at the time, my father was a kindred spirit who must have taken some pride in my interest in things medieval, and in particular a knight named Roland.