“Trust him, my liege, my uncle?” Roland cried, leaping to his feet. “Trust him, yes, by all means, to betray us at the first opportunity. It would be insanity to believe him, his ambassadors or his troops in so much as a local truce to bury the dead. I have campaigned with you here in Spain these seven years, won you many cities and well I remember the last time you and the French foolishly trusted him. He sent an embassy then, holding olive branches and speaking soft words, and when our own messengers were sent in return, they were beheaded, murdered. I say avenge those two counts, prosecute this war to the end. Bring Saragossa under siege, take the place by storm, put it to the torch and punish Marsile for the two-faced evil he has already amply shown.”
After this outburst silence descended on the assembly and Charlemagne looked grave and deeply thoughtful. The young hero spoke truly enough and fairly. It had been foolish to trust Marsile before, impudent though it was for his nephew to say so.
“Sire,” Ganelon said, stepping forward through the throng. “My step-son is to be applauded for his zeal and his past service in these wars. For such his youth and boldness are of inestimable value.”
The look the two exchanged at this point all but burned those standing between them. Their hatred was palpable.
“However, recognizing opportunities for making peace and settling matters of state are best left to older, cooler heads.”
“Perhaps so,” Charlemagne smiled.
“And yes, my liege,” Ganelon went on. “Of course, Marsile betrayed us before. Who has forgotten? But things were very different then. He yet had hopes of defeating us in battle.”
“That is true,” the king and others around them allowed.
“We must be practical, though to younger heads it seems tame and tiresome, womanish even. We older men know better. The Franks cannot stay in Spain forever. We have beaten our enemies. When God places in a wise man's path such an opportunity as this, it is foolish and impious to refuse. Marsile, Sire, offers you peace and treasure, to place his realm in your hands, to accept Christ. Why, any man who would urge you to refuse such terms is careless not only of his own life but yours and that of many others, careless indeed of God's good grace.”
Only the distance and press of bodies separating them kept Roland from rushing at Ganelon, that and the restraining grip of Oliver. The moment passed, too, because the most respected and experienced soldier amongst the assembly spoke up in qualified support of what Ganelon had said.
“This is good advice Count Ganelon gives,” said the venerable Duke of Naimes, “if taken well. Marsile is desperate. He has few men to fight with and fewer still willing to do so. His allies are defeated, his chance of receiving help from elsewhere is gone. It would be a sin to fight on if there is no need, if Marsile is sincere, if there will be important hostages, if he will, in fact, take the faith. Yet be cautious too. Risk only a single one of us as ambassador to be sent back with the Emir Blancandrin to settle the peace and make the necessary arrangements.”
Everyone applauded the duke's wisdom and when the murmurs of approval had died down the king posed the obvious question.
“Who shall undertake this task? Who shall we send to Marsile of Saragossa?”
“I will go, of course, Sire,” the Duke of Naimes said matter-offactly. “Give me your glove and your staff and I …”
“No,” Charlemagne barked. “I'll not be deprived of my chief adviser at such a time as this. Someone else.”
“Me, uncle,” Roland stepped forward. “I will do this for you, Sire, and I will not be fooled by any of his tricks.”
“You cannot do this work,” cried Oliver, shaking his head and throwing an arm around his friend. “You are too quick tempered, too impatient and blunt. I would be afraid you would fail in your office and be killed as well. I will go, Majesty.”
“No, neither of you shall go,” Charlemagne waved his hand dismissively. “No Peer shall. Thus would we give them a hostage. Who else is willing?”
“I, my King,” said the Archbishop Turpin. “Give me your glove and staff and I will take the message to the heathen. I will also see how Marsile's heart is truly disposed regarding Our Lord.”
“No, no, not you either,” Charlemagne snapped. That would be too tricky, as well he knew, if Marsile was having a delicate time justifying his conversion to his court and people. Turpin was too great a prize for the enemy if treachery was afoot.
“What brave knight of France will undertake this deed? Choose one of yourselves to perform this task and defend the honour of his king if necessary, alone among the heathen.”
The obvious distress of the king, who knew this mission might well mean suicide for the man who undertook it, angered Roland. Charlemagne did not wish to order a man to his death, yet none who had volunteered thus far was suitable. It was the fault of Ganelon, Roland believed, that things had come to this, yet he was noticeably silent now. Before any other knight or noble could speak up, Roland again sprang to his feet.
“Sire, if the honour cannot be mine, then surely no man in all the army is a better choice than my stepfather, Count Ganelon. He is wise, experienced, and inspired in this cause, as we have already heard.”
Another fiery look shot between the two men. Ganelon's face had gone very pale and his lips trembled.
All around them the justice and wisdom of sending Ganelon was repeated and heartily agreed upon. Men slapped his back and shook his hand and as the king beckoned to him, he was proudly propelled towards Charlemagne.
“Come, Ganelon,” Charles said. “And take the glove and staff, for the voice of the flower of France has cried for you.”
“No,” shouted Ganelon before he could stop himself, fear and anger taking control of his tongue. “I am the victim of a conspiracy of Roland. He, Oliver and the other Peers are my enemies. I will never forgive them and here before you all I swear it.” Ganelon snarled.
“Calm yourself, Ganelon,” Charlemagne said. “You are too unjust and angry. You will go because I wish it.”
“Yes, Sire, I will go,” Ganelon ranted on. “I will go and be murdered like your last two messengers. Oh, remember that I am your sister's husband, that my son will be a brave hero one day if he comes to manhood.” Nearly in tears now, Ganelon continued. “Let him inherit all my lands and fiefs and please watch over him, Sire, for I will never see him again.”
“Your thoughts are too dark, Ganelon,” Charlemagne said more gently. “I command you to go to Saragossa and perform this duty, and you must go.”
Rage once more flared within Ganelon's heart and he flew at Roland, struggling with the men around them.
“Lunatic!” he screamed. “Everyone knows that you hate me for marrying your father's widow, and now you have thrown me to the wolves. You have contrived to send me to Marsile and my certain death.”
“Sire,” Roland laughed. “I care nothing for these ravings but should not a cooler head be sent on this errand and not a raging idiot? Ganelon, if the king allows it, I will go after all.”
“No, I will do my own work. The king has commanded me and I will obey.” Ganelon said, growing more controlled as he made his way through the throng towards Roland. “I go to Saragossa, knowing the dangers, for my king,” he said loudly, but as he drew near Roland he leant towards him and added, so that only Roland and those nearest him could hear, “Perhaps there I will find a way to be avenged on you.”
At this rashness and wild talk, Roland started to laugh, and so incensed Ganelon that he howled in rage and cast aside all discretion.
“I despise you and it is you who have left me with this horrible decision. You will pay,” he growled. “My king,” he said, turning to address Charlemagne. “I stand before you ready to perform any office you wish. I willingly go to Saragossa.”
“Excellent Lord Ganelon,” the king said, like the others not taking seriously the count's threats against Roland and thinking him at last himself again. “Take these terms to Marsile: he is to become my vassal, and be baptised; half of Spain wi
ll remain in his hands, the other half will go to Count Roland. If he refuses, tell him I will besiege and capture Saragossa, make him a prisoner, leading him through the streets of Aix in shame, where he will die in torment. Take this letter with my seal and place it into King Marsile's own hand.”
With that Charlemagne held out his right-hand glove for Ganelon to take. Such was the latter's reluctance to accept it, that it fell from his grasp onto the ground between them. All around the surprise and shock at this bad omen softly rumbled in gasps and whispers.
“What ill-fortune will come to the Franks from this business?” men asked of themselves and each other.
“You will be sent detailed news as soon as possible, Sire,” Ganelon said. “And now I must hurry. There is no time to be lost if peace be the prize; and, if death, no point in dallying.”
As Ganelon bowed low, Charlemagne made the sign of the cross over him and enjoined him to go for the honour of Christ, and for his king.
Back at his quarters, while preparing to depart for Saragossa, Ganelon refused to allow any of his retainers to accompany him, saying there was no need for good knights and men to die for nothing. He preferred to face the ordeal alone but beseeched them to look after his wife and son, Baldwin, and to guard his fiefdom. In tears they said farewell to him and he rode from the Frankish army's encampment with his heart in his mouth.
Riding hard, Ganelon soon overtook the Saracen ambassadors, who were returning to Saragossa at a deliberately leisurely pace so that he might catch up. Blancandrin greeted the nobleman warmly and invited him to ride by his side. As they rode on, each sized up the other.
Both made handsome speeches and adopted a friendly tone but behind this façade they were full of purpose, wishing to read the other's thoughts. The two envoys quickly saw in the other a skilful, cautious opponent and mutually enjoyed employing their guile in the mental fencing that occupied their journey.
For Ganelon, the challenge was to try to ascertain what his fate would be at the court of Marsile. Could Charlemagne trust the Saracen? Was he, Ganelon, going to be killed out of hand in some act of pure savagery, as part of some desperate attempt to draw the Franks into a rash attack? Were the Saracens stronger than was thought? Largely, too, Ganelon was desperate to find a way to revenge himself on Roland, and to do this he had to proceed with just as much, if not more, caution.
Blancandrin for his part needed to understand the Franks, to judge what they would do in the circumstances of the treaty being broken. It was on this point that the true meeting of their minds occurred. All their skill at deception and diplomacy could not hide this, one from the other.
For his mission, his life and his revenge, Ganelon was at pains to quite truthfully emphasize the danger the Franks posed, if crossed. He stressed Roland's talent and enthusiasm for war, and the loyalty to him of the Twelve Peers.
All this, while not being music to his ears, Blancandrin accepted with the good grace of a man whose pride did not allow him to underestimate his enemies. In his conversations with the Frankish envoy an unexpected truth emerged which he quickly saw could be used to advantage by his side. Ganelon, as if attempting at first to conceal it, let his hatred of Roland show. It was this seeming indiscretion that cheered Blancandrin, and it was Blancandrin's not too well concealed curiosity that cheered Ganelon.
Eventually, after a particularly vehement remark about Roland, Blancandrin laid his cards on the table. The plan of delaying, getting the Franks out of the country and then reneging on the agreement (in the hope they would not return soon or at all) was now in tatters, if what Ganelon said of Roland was true. The emir might have been more incredulous if he had only Ganelon's word for this – Ganelon, whose very life depended on Marsile believing it. However, his own observations, spies’ reports, and the fact that Roland stood to gain half of Spain, told him the same story.
“Do you have something personal against Count Roland?” Blancandrin asked in lowered tones, leaning a little out of his saddle towards Ganelon.
Ganelon remained silent but his face burned with rage and he would not meet the emir's eye.
“You desire revenge upon him.” Blancandrin suggested.
“‘I hate him,” Ganelon snarled, nodding reluctantly at the same time, as if unable to withhold his fury at the mention of his stepson's name. It required no fine acting.
Even now they wordlessly entered into a conspiracy to destroy Roland, each in his own mind feeling the other's certainty. It was only a matter of time before it came to be openly discussed, details worked out and measures taken. At this juncture neither man wished to risk speaking aloud of it. The matter had to mature within them and between them, and the emir would have to discuss it with his king. Ganelon knew that, too, of course.
At Saragossa, Blancandrin and the other ambassadors brought Ganelon before King Marsile, praising Charlemagne's gracious reception of their message to him. Formally they presented the Frankish envoy.
“Speak, sir, and I will listen,” Marsile nodded.
After a flowery and pious greeting, Ganelon spelt out Charlemagne's terms.
“You will be received into the Christian faith. Charles will allow you one half of Spain as your fief, the rest he will give to his nephew Roland.” Ganelon announced, adding as an aside, “And an arrogant fellow ruler you shall have in him.”
Ignoring the king's look and growing hostility among the assembly, he went on.
“If you refuse, Charles will conquer this city and bring you as a prisoner to Aix, where you will surely meet a miserable and humiliating end.”
Furious at this galling message, Marsile leapt up and would have skewered the Frankish envoy on the spot with his golden javelin, but that Ganelon, half expecting such a move, had nearly drawn his sword in self-defence.
“I die gladly for my king,” shouted Ganelon. “Yea, and die in noble company with a king, covered in his royal Spanish blood.”
Thus given pause, and impressed with Ganelon's ferocity, Marsile allowed himself to be calmed down while all praised the Frank's courage in standing up to the monarch in the name of his own king. When order had been restored, Ganelon repeated Charlemagne's message and handed Marsile the sealed letter he had been given.
Reading this, Marsile's face went red and uproar ensued when it was found to contain a further condition. Marsile's own uncle, the Caliph, who had been responsible for the deaths of the two previous ambassadors, was to be given up as a prisoner.
Now, not only the king but every nobleman present was angry and Ganelon was forced to place his back against a tree and draw his sword, ready to defend himself to the death. Once more, largely due to Blancandrin's intervention, violence was avoided. Marsile adjourned the audience and went away to confer with his advisers.
Soon Blancandrin returned and conducted Ganelon to the council. “Forgive my former anger,” Marsile told him. “Please accept this gift as a token of my regret.”
An attendant presented Ganelon with a marvellous robe of marten's fur which he graciously took, hoping that he was correct in believing that he knew what would follow. If he read the look from Blancandrin correctly, they were about to woo him, to try and tempt him to treason.
“You understand that these negotiations and my sad position go hard with me,” Marsile continued. “And I am still a relatively young king, a little rash still, I confess. Great Charles of course is very wise and full of years.”
“That is so,” Ganelon agreed.
“It is the only advantage I have over him,” Marsile smiled. “In that way only do I pity him. To be so old, so weighed down with age and responsibility. He surely must grow weary of it all.”
“Charles is yet full of power and strength and has no trouble governing his empire.”
“Yet how much longer can he sustain it?” Marsile sighed. “Yes, as to age I pity him. I doubt not that death holds no fear for Charles, brave and pious, but to wonder and worry over the fate of his domain …”
“As long as Roland an
d the Twelve Peers yet breathe,” Ganelon insisted, “Charles need never worry or wonder, nor trouble himself over any power under heaven. He has them, and in the Franks he has the most valiant warriors alive.”
“But without Roland?” Blancandrin prompted at last. “What if he were dead?”
“Will you have revenge on him through us?” Marsile suddenly asked. “If it can be turned to our advantage, we will help you destroy your enemy and I will reward you also with great wealth. All this will be done circumspectly, of course, that you may yet return to France with all honour. What say you?”
“Perhaps it can be done to the satisfaction of your cause and mine,” Ganelon said thoughtfully. He had, in fact, considered little else since leaving the French camp. The trouble was convincing the Saracens, whom he now knew had intended to violate the treaty all along, that all was not lost.
“If Roland were dead,” he exaggerated, “Charles would be thrown into deep melancholy and indecision. He would need to return at once to France to consolidate his power and look to the future succession. He would have little enough interest in Spain.”
“Truly?” Marsile wondered turning to his advisers.
“It is possible,” Blancandrin allowed. “But assassination would be difficult of execution and may accomplish nothing but …”
“To make your situation worse,” Ganelon agreed. “The Twelve Peers, Oliver particularly, would not rest until you were destroyed, even if Charles himself returned to France. For you to have a hope, they must all die.”
“But how is such a thing to be accomplished?” Marsile enquired, shaking his head. “Would not the army of the Franks, in anger and for policy, still overwhelm us?”
“Yes, with more difficulty perhaps, but yes.”
“Above all, the Frankish army must be got out of Spain,” Blancandrin said.
“And Roland left vulnerable to us. To you,” Ganelon nodded. “Here is how it may be done, with all your remaining troops and my manipulation back at Charles’ court. Firstly, do as you have offered. Pretend to accept the terms of my message. Send gold and other treasure as agreed, send hostages and I will assure Charles that you are willing and happy to be baptised soon. Let the French depart over the high mountain passes, carrying this booty and all they have taken from the rest of Spain. Incite the people of the mountains against them and stress the presence of the treasure, but say it goes with the Peers, that only they can be trusted with it by Charles. This you may tell your own men, too. I will see to it that, because of these mountain tribes and hot heads among your people, a strong rearguard is left this side of the passes. This will consist of Roland and the Twelve Peers, our finest men and the best ones for the job.”
Myths and Legends from Around the World Page 27