by Judith Tarr
There was nothing to say to that. Roland set his lips together and gazed out across the river. The far bank, past the walls of Saragossa, had been green and lovely once. The army had stripped it bare.
“There are times,” Charles said, “when I wonder. When rumors buzz in my ear—when tales heap one on another, and every man seems to have some account of the strange or the uncanny . . . I wonder then, sir. What shall I believe?”
Roland was very calm. The only marvel had been that Charles had not spoken of this before. “You’ve always known what I am,” he said.
“Have I? Have I truly? All of it?”
“As much as I myself know,” Roland said.
Charles looked long and hard at him. Roland bore that scrutiny, which after all he had earned. At length Charles said, “I trust you. You’re hardly the most comforting of men: you’re wild, you’re fey, you raise hackles with a glance—but you’ve never lied to me. I think you are an honest—whatever you are.”
“A man,” Roland said.
“Not entirely. Men can’t do what you can do.”
“Will you cast me out?” Roland asked.
Charles sat up, swept a hand across and cuffed him. “Puppy! What do you take me for?”
“A king,” said Roland through the ringing in his ears, “whose people have turned against one of his Companions. If they believe that I’ve corrupted you—”
“It’s far too late for that,” Charles said. “I’d be no kind of king if I dismissed a loyal servant because my people are spreading hysteria in his name. Serve me as you’ve served me since you came to court, be loyal as you’ve been loyal from the beginning, and I’ll keep you by me as I always have. But if you ride out again to challenge a whole nation to single combat—ask my leave first.”
“Yes, sire,” Roland said faintly. “But the men—”
“The men will see that you have my trust. If they’re wise they’ll forget their fears. If not . . . they’ll have me to face. I will hear no ill of you. And you will do nothing to invite it.”
“Yes, sire,” Roland said again, more strongly.
“And,” said Charles, “I will keep the promise I made when you first came to me. I will not ask you to serve me save as a man may.”
“I release you from that promise,” said Roland. And as Charles shook his head, stirring to speak again, he said, “Don’t bind yourself, sire. You may need more than my good right arm. And now that the men know—”
“The men know nothing but rumors,” Charles said.
“They know an enchanter serves you. That may prove useful, sire. As may I.”
Charles was a king. He used what came to hand, whatever it might be. Just as he could be a good Christian and still declare friendship with the infidel Caliph in Baghdad, so he could see the wisdom in Roland’s words. “You are certain?” he asked.
And that, Roland thought, was why he loved this man. Charles took thought for his people. He asked leave, even where he need not.
Roland nodded. It was half a bow. “I am certain, sire,” he said.
“Then I’ll remember,” said Charles.
CHAPTER 28
The day they broke the siege of Saragossa, clouds veiled the sun. The wind blew, if not cold, then less searing hot than it had for so long. The Franks took it as an omen, a remembrance of their cool and rainy country.
The people of the city lined the walls to watch them go. There was no jeering, no mockery. Only silence. The Franks sang as they formed in their long column, mounted, lifted banners, rode away. Behind them they had scoured the earth of every living thing. There would be no harvest for Saragossa.
This was a darker joy than had brought them into Spain, but it was joy nonetheless. They were going home. The war had failed, but their honor was intact. They had done as they agreed to do. The Spaniards had broken their word and so dishonored themselves.
That was the song the Franks sang as they rode: the song of Spain’s dishonor. They sang it in all the languages of all their nations. Some even sang in the Spaniards’ tongue, and a few in Arabic. It was a soldiers’ song, fit to burn delicate ears.
Sarissa, who had heard worse, was glad to be riding in man’s clothes on a rather plain Frankish cob—for Tarik refused to carry her while she persisted in what he considered to be her folly of mistrusting Roland. It would have mortified the rough troopers in the line before and behind, if they had known what she was.
She was as glad as they that the siege had ended. Now, she thought, the real war would come. Already in spirit she could see the loom of mountains, feel the cool air streaming down from snowfields that lingered even in summer. If she closed her eyes, she could forget this sun-parched plain and see another landscape altogether.
It happened that she was riding between the Bretons and a company of men from the lands near Paris in Francia. Just ahead of those rode the women, both the king’s mistresses and the few nuns who had come with the army. Her erstwhile companions from Chelles were riding there, mute and demure beside the formidable Sister Dhuoda.
Sister Rotruda was clenched upon herself, huddled on the back of her mule. Dhuoda’s cold blue eye caught Sarissa’s. The elder nun nodded very slightly. It was seen to, that nod said. Rotruda would be looked after.
Sarissa sighed faintly. For a moment she allowed herself to remember the abbey of Chelles: the chilly quiet of the cloister, the echo of sweet high voices in the chapel. She had been almost content there in that house of women. In another world, perhaps, in another life . . .
She shook her head and sighed. Not in this world, and not in any world that touched on it. That God was not her God, that rite not hers. She was born to one older and higher.
The world of men and war closed in about her. The wind was freshening. It bore a scent of rain. The Franks breathed deep and sighed, as if for this little while they had come home.
Roland was riding in the van with the king, rather than commanding the rear as was his wont. He had been close by Charles of late—conveying a message to the army, and guarding the king from the old enemy. The men had taken note of the king’s favor. Wise that they were in Charles’ ways, they understood what he had done. Rather more seemed to find it acceptable than not.
And that, she sensed, was not to the enemy’s liking. Now that she knew who he was, she could feel him like a crawling just under the skin. He could by the force of his magic have turned that whole army against Roland, but he did not choose to do it. He was biding his time.
Or perhaps he was preoccupied with greater matters. She had been aware of things passing in the night, wings against the moon, shadows in starlight. Her own messenger had not returned, nor had there been a response, but that was as she had expected. What she had set in train was begun long before.
She would have been glad of something to do. If Roland had not been such a fool as to turn his back on her—
And need he do that now? Between his own headlong act and the king’s clear favor, maybe he would reckon himself safe again. Her bed had been lonely these past nights, her arms empty. She had caught herself dreaming of him even in daylight—she, who was not one to lose her wits over any man.
The rain closed in a little after noon. By nightfall it had diminished to a few sudden squalls and a flurry of clouds streaming away eastward. Though the sun had set some while since, the western sky shimmered still with rose and gold.
The king’s army camped on a long hill by a trickle of river. There had been no attacks, though they had seen riders at a distance: scouts or spies, sent no doubt to be certain that the Franks were riding homeward. The king had ordered a war camp, with walls of earth about it and guards set on it. Even so, the mood was as light as it had been since they left Saragossa. The men might even have welcomed an ambush. It would have given them an excuse to strike back against the Spaniards.
It was a strange mingling of joy and anger, gladness and hunger for revenge. Sarissa tasted it as she passed through the camp, sweet, underlaid with a gagging
bitterness.
The joy was their own. The anger . . . was it stronger than it should have been? Was it darker?
That was one of the enemy’s arts and ancient skills. He had never created anything. Like his master of the darkness, he could only misshape and destroy. Whatever he wrought, he wrought of what he found before him. He could use this anger, could twist it to his own ends.
As she walked, a shadow in shadow, she cupped light in her hands: some from the last gleam of sunset, some from stars and moon, some from firelight and men’s hearts. She gathered it all together and sowed it like seed. Where it fell, anger faded. Darkness brightened. The air was cleaner, and not only from the rain.
Roland had gone to the tent far sooner than Olivier, as she had known he would. It wore at him to be stared at, as he still was, though no longer with such open hatred.
The lamp was lit. He was lying on his side, arm crooked under head. Tarik’s grey cat-shape curled in the warmth of his middle.
They regarded her with the same flat yellow stare. She would have expected it of Tarik; he was a puca, a creature not remarkably susceptible to either logic or reason. Neither was a man, for the matter of that, but she could not think of anything that she had done to Roland to deserve such coldness.
“A fair evening,” she said with determined sweetness, “and a fine greeting to you, my lord of Brittany.”
Roland’s lips tightened. His habit of courtesy, like that of solitude, was well ingrained. “Good evening, lady,” he said without warmth.
She sat on Olivier’s cot, tucking up her feet, smiling brightly. “Were you glad of the rain today, my lord? A good omen, the men were saying. A promise of a safe and fair return to Francia.”
Roland crossed himself. “I pray it may be so,” he said.
“So it should be, if you ride straight and swift, and offer no threat to this country,” she said.
“You are in great haste to be rid of us,” he said. “Was it only a game, then? Were we no more than trained bears dancing to your drumming? ‘Let us test the Franks’ simplemindedness,’ you said to one another. ‘Let us see how unwieldy an army they will raise, and how futile a war they will fight, for a cause they are too lackwitted to understand. Then let us cast them back again, and send them home no wiser and no richer; but we have been much diverted by the game.’ ”
He was as bitter as the worst of the darkness that had lain on the camp, as angry as the angriest of the men she had passed. Her seeds of light had not touched him. He had old blood, wild blood. His magic made him stronger than any mortal man, but it was his weakness, too. The enemy could touch him through it, could lay hold of his spirit.
The gust of his anger rocked her where she sat. “You can’t trust me, can you?” he demanded of her. “You’ll always wonder. You’ll always doubt. You won’t ever believe that I’m just as you see me.”
“You aren’t,” she said. It always disconcerted her that he could do that; that he could read her so terribly easily.
And could that be, her heart asked, because he trusted her, and did not doubt her?
He had turned his back on her. She astonished herself with pain. It was only a boy’s temper, but it was a cold, lonely thing to be the object of it.
She could not help either her heart or her head. He would learn to see it, or he would not. And that was a cold and lonely thing, too, but it was what she was.
For all of that, she did not have to let him shut her out. She stared down the puca until he flattened his ears and hissed, but took his leave. When he was well and thoroughly gone, she slipped off her garments, softly, and fitted herself to Roland’s back. He was rigid against her. Her hand moved down over his breast and belly to the proof that one part of him at least would welcome her. He must be aching with it.
He gasped as her fingers closed about it, but he did not ease or turn. She kissed his nape and the curve of neck and shoulder, nibbling, nipping. He flinched but held silent. She slid round to the front of him. His face was set. She kissed his lips. They were stiff and cold. “Do you hate me?” she asked him.
He shook his head once, sharply.
“Then love me,” she said.
His whole body clenched like a fist. All at once it let go. She gasped with the force of it, and laughed, opening to take him in.
His own gasp was half a sob. He buried his face in her breasts, and held her till she thought she would faint for want of air. Then they found it again as if they had never lost it: the old harmony, the perfect match of body and body, heart and heart, spirit and spirit.
They lay together in the aftermath, warm flesh on warm flesh. He was all loosed as before he had been taut, lying in her arms. Little by little his breathing quieted.
“Are you still angry with me?” she asked him.
“Yes,” he said.
She kissed the parting of his hair. “Do you love me?”
“With my heart and soul.”
“Then I’m content,” she said.
“Even though you don’t trust me?”
“I do love you,” she said.
“But I have no honor in your heart.”
“You have all honor,” she said.
“And no trust.”
“That is earned,” she said.
“And love is not?”
“Love simply is,” she said.
He sighed. “I’ll never understand you,” he said.
“No one understands me better than you,” she said.
“Then you are truly incomprehensible.”
She laughed softly. “I’m a woman. That’s ineffable enough, as any man will tell you.”
“It is true,” he said, “that I know nothing of women. But even what little I have seen—there’s none like you.”
“There are many like me,” she said.
“None,” he insisted.
“So strong-willed a child,” she said.
He lifted himself abruptly, raising his face over her. For the first time in a long while, she caught her breath, taken aback by the oddity of his eyes. He saw: they narrowed. But his mind was on another thing. “Tell me how old you are,” he said.
She blinked. Somehow she had not expected that question. “Do I look ancient?” she asked.
“Sometimes,” he said.
“All women do.”
He shook his head. “No, don’t. Tell me.”
“Someday,” she said, “I will.”
He thrust himself up and away. “I,” he said tightly, “have one-and-twenty summers. I keep count. It matters, Merlin told me, when one is young. He stopped counting for long years. Then I came, and he reckoned the years again.”
“By that count,” she said with the flicker of a smile, “I was born a year ago, in the spring, in the magic of wood and water.”
“I could almost believe that,” he said. “Except . . .”
“Except?” she asked.
“You never limned your life in memories of me.”
“Are you sure of that?”
Roland did not trouble with answers that she already knew. He was closing her out again. He would not be content, she knew, until he had all her secrets.
In time, if the goddess was kind, he would.
She stormed his walls now, won him back with kisses. When she had him in her arms again, she said, “Don’t go away from me.”
He looked as if he would speak, but thought better of it. He closed the embrace, sighed and was silent.
It was answer enough, if she would take it so.
PART THREE
MONTSALVAT
CHAPTER 29
The joy that had brought the Franks out of Saragossa was seared and faded by long days of marching in the sun. The anger that had lain beneath it began to wear through. Mild quarrels sharpened to blows; small frustrations led to drawn steel.
They sacked Pamplona. They had won it as they came down from the mountains, taken and held it in the first bright fire of the crusade. Now, in the bitter ashes, they had no d
esire to keep it. They rode through its gates as conquerors. The people saw them pass in sullen silence.
What began it, no one knew. The king gave no signal. One moment they were marching through the narrow dusty streets toward the citadel. The next, they had scattered, whooping, striking, pillaging.
Charles made no move to stop them. His mood was as strange as theirs, his anger, if anything, deeper. He rode through to the citadel, broke down its gate which had been too hastily secured against him, and waited in its hall for his men to have their fill of looting and worse.
Roland’s place was beside the king. But he had felt a shock in his body just before the men broke loose—as if something outside of him had plucked at his spirit. He had walls and wards against such things, and still he had come close to running wild; and these were plain mortal men. That power from without was playing them like a harp.
He could not find Sarissa. She had lain with him in the night, as she had every night since she came to him outside of Saragossa. In the morning, as every morning, she had been gone. He had not seen her riding in her wonted place near the rest of the women.
They were secure in the citadel, well shut away from the madness without. She was not with them. Nor did he see her near the king.
He asked no one’s leave, and spoke to no one. He went out into the city.
The force that had loosed the army’s anger was gone. Like a spear in the vitals, once it had struck, it need do no more. They themselves completed what it had begun.
The Franks rampaged through the streets, stormed into houses, broke down doors and walls. Everything that could be seized or carried, they took away. Men who opposed them, they stripped and beat senseless. Women suffered worse.
Roland’s armor and the shimmer of his sword gave him passage. He beat men off from struggling, shrieking women; but none of them was ever Sarissa. None would be. His heart knew that. She was not in Pamplona. She was not anywhere that he could see, in his heart or with his eyes.
Still he hunted, if not for her, then for something that he could not set a name to. Charles had made it clear: none of his Companions was to hinder the sack.