Marsile smiled and nodded. It had been costly but it had worked. Ganelon's advice and strategy was succeeding marvellously. Scouts reported that there was no sign of the main French army hearing of this fight, or turning around. Roland had been lulled by pride and design into thinking he could handle each Saracen force as it was revealed. Now, with a handful of knights left, it remained only to bring up the largest body of men yet, and finish him off at last. This time Marsile would lead personally, push his men to the end, and be there at the death.
As the remnant of the Frankish rearguard stood breathing hard, wiping blood and sweat from their eyes and resting weary arms, they counted the small number of men left on their feet and far fewer in the saddle. They spotted the new Saracen host arriving beneath their king's bright silken banner. Bigger than ever, royal guards to the fore, fresh and well mounted, there would easily be a hundred good, bold enemies to each of their own battered, broken band. They had expected and fully accepted their deaths, indeed believed the last attack would have been pressed until they were all down. Yet, suddenly, after the untimely retreat of the enemy, this all-new host had stepped up. It was almost bizarre.
Oliver stared with the others, amazed at the sheer effort and number the enemy was prepared to bring to bear on them and he began to laugh. From deep in his belly it swelled out loud, real and jolly, and other men joined in, until all roared together, save Turpin, who quietly prayed, and Roland who, at last, with this unwanted time for reflection, realized what he had done, to his men and to his king.
He looked round the battlefield and finally saw the bodies of his invincible friends and followers, of the very core of the king's power, of the lost future of France. He knew too that he was doomed and that his life was not his alone to give but the property of his sovereign, and that through his pride he had wasted it.
“I will blow my horn,” he said desperately. “I will summon the king and the army.”
“It was disgrace,” cried Oliver, “when I spoke of it and when it might have been of use. Do not shame us now.”
“Think of our king bereft of the flower of his chivalry, the security of his realm and conquests. I will call them …”
“I cannot approve it. It is too late and you have killed us, risked the king's achievements and the nation's future. Do not play the coward.”
“I must,” Roland swore. “The king and the army will come …”
“Coward,” cried Oliver. “What of death before dishonour? If miraculously we live and see home once more, you will not wed my sister. I renounce you as my friend. Your valour without judgement is stupidity. You have undone your comrades, your king, and your homeland. I break with thee.”
Turpin stepped between the shouting angry heroes and calmed them.
“This is no time to question but only to accept and to act and to die well. Let Roland sound the horn and summon Charles and the army to avenge us, to bury these brave dead Christians and let not the wild beasts feed on their bones. Let him blow the war horn and bring back the army to destroy at last the might of Saragossa, whom we have drawn out from behind her walls and so weakened, or all these heroes and we ourselves die in vain. Ganelon has betrayed the Moors just as he has us. Let that not be wasted, either.”
“Yes,” Oliver said. “That is true.”
And Roland nodded, raising the magical ivory war horn ‘Oliphant’ to his lips. He blew so loudly that the sound was heard faraway by Charlemagne, who had recalled his dream and knew that it was of the loss of Roland and some symbolic trickery by Ganelon. It had troubled him all day and when the faint sound of the war horn came he pulled up his horse and harkened to it.
“Our men are in action. Hard action.”
“Nay,” Ganelon scoffed. “If anyone but the king had said so I would swear it a foolish lie.”
When again Roland blew the horn, this time with such despair and self-disgust at his earlier folly that his mouth bled and veins burst in his forehead, Charlemagne heard it. Again he pulled up and listened.
“Roland is in battle. He would not sound the war horn else.”
“But, Sire,” laughed Ganelon with too much heartiness, “that cannot be, for Roland is too proud to sound the horn to signal danger. Nay, there is no battle. Perhaps he celebrates victory in some skirmish, or while hunting with his friends. Your worries but show your great age, Sire, the timid heart of the old. Let us ride on. Home lies far below us.”
When faint and failing the horn sounded once more the king wheeled his steed around and his face grew grim.
“There is death in that sound.”
“Sire …” Ganelon began, riding up beside Charles.
“You,” growled Charlemagne as he reached out a surprisingly still powerful arm and grasped Ganelon by the neck. “This is your work. You have sold them to Marsile.”
“Majesty,” the Duke of Naimes shouted, riding up at a canter. “Roland is betrayed, I fear.”
Charging the men in the train about him to arrest Ganelon, Charlemagne ordered the army immediately to turn around and march back into Spain. The prayer on everyone's lips was that God should preserve the rearguard until they arrived. Meanwhile, the kitchen staff beat Ganelon, chained his hands and feet, and set him bareback on a skinny old mule until Charlemagne should ask for him again.
Over the crests and through the passes and defiles, along the narrow tracks the French rode and ran, hastening to the rescue of their comrades in the rearguard. With blaring trumpets they hoped to hearten Roland's force and frighten the foe. Help was coming, coming swiftly but was it too late, too late?
As Roland let fall his warhorn upon its strap, he surveyed the grisly scene of battle around him where few Frenchman stood and everywhere was red with blood, limbs lay severed from bodies and brains spilled from battered skulls. Dying horses screamed and men moaned and wept or lay still and cold and lifeless. The smell was of a slaughterhouse.
“May god bless you all, my comrades, may every soul find its way into Paradise. Fair France is the poorer for your untimely passing and I am to blame. I alone have murdered thee. Please, God, take these men into your keeping.”
Stumbling forward to the battle line he placed his hand on the nearest man and addressed the others.
“Brothers, come, let us attack the pagan horde and win a good death, or I die of grief instead.”
With that he rushed at the advancing Saracens, aiming for the royal banner and those beneath it.
“Yes, attack,” Turpin shouted approvingly, joining in the advance. “Give God a good death, ye Christian knights. Let the faint hearted be monks and cower in cloisters and pray for the souls of fighting men such as we. Show the heathen how we die for Christ.”
“Come along ye martyrs for Christ,” Roland yelled over his shoulder. “Sell your lives dearly.”
Marsile had seen Roland's charge, seen him turn to meet the royal party within the Saracen line, Roland on his dying horse, his armour falling from him in places, his helm dented and his shield gone. The Saracen spurred ahead, hoping to have the honour of killing Roland himself. Beside him, however, his son of but fifteen summers rode. Lighter was the burden of the youth's steed, even armoured head to toe as he was.
Roland ducked a clumsy cut as they met, and sent a backhanded slash at the youth's kidney, knocking him out of the saddle and under the feet of the chargers around them. There he perished beneath the flailing hooves.
Incensed, Marsile flew at Roland, his deadly scimitar high above his head poised to strike at a bare spot in the Frankish hero's armour, where the buckles had given way. Despite his exhaustion Roland parried the blow and exchanged and blocked others of the furious king. Waiting his chance, he parried a slash at his face and then with a deft flick of the wrist, cut hard at the arm of the Saracen, neatly severing his hand before retainers and champions bore the wounded king away.
Marsile's withdrawal put a sudden panic into the Saracen host, many of whom fled in confusion. In this brief respite, Roland surveyed the c
arnage and counted his fellows. There were but two left beside himself. Turpin and Oliver, almost inevitably. The three exchanged a nod and a thin smile. Now, finally, was the time.
The king's uncle, the caliph, was rallying men and bringing up his newly arrived, fanatical volunteers fresh from Arabia. Again the Saracens advanced, emboldened by the sight of just three Franks left mounted and none still standing. All the rest were plainly dead or dying. From all sides they rushed in, the caliph himself thrusting his lance into Oliver's side, yet swiftly the courteous, judicious warrior, turned and with his sword ‘Hauteclaire’ severed the great caliph's head from his shoulders.
“With me, Roland,” Oliver cried, knowing himself mortally wounded and wishing to die in action. Spurring one last time into the enemy's midst, swinging his sword and shouting the war-cry ‘Montjoie’, he slew yet more pagans as he slowly died.
At the sight of Oliver, slumped in the saddle, his side bleeding like a waterfall into a mountain stream, the broken lance protruding from two sides of his body, Roland wept with grief and guilt and came near to fainting. He was weakened by a hundred little wounds and sheer exhaustion. His horse was close to succumbing too. It stumbled beneath him, worn to nothing from speeding as it had from one point of danger to another. At last it fell, its heart giving out. Landing on his feet like a cat despite his state, but walking in a daze towards his friend, Roland dragged his sword behind him, his eyes glazing over and his head full of fog and horror.
Around Oliver the foe had fallen back to watch him die. Roland slowly approached his friend. His eyes filled with blood from a deep gash in his forehead, the dying Peer swung with all the might left to him and brought his trusty sword down on Roland's head. The blow cut through the helmet, but stopped short of cleaving Roland's skull, despite drawing much blood. Far from damaging Roland further, it woke him from his swoon in time to catch Oliver in his arms as the latter slid headlong from the saddle of his warhorse.
“Comrade,” he asked gently. “Was that blow to kill one who loves you, yet has led you to doom? Would you take vengeance on me, Oliver?”
“Roland, I hear your voice but cannot see. I stuck at what I thought a Saracen's head. May God forgive me if I hurt thee.”
“I but lost a helm I'll soon have no use for. But I am not harmed.” The blinded warrior's hand felt the features of his friend's face then fell to his shoulder and gave a soft, parting squeeze. With a gasp, Oliver prayed for his sins to be forgiven, that he might be vouchsafed a place in Paradise, praying also for the protection of his king, and to preserve above all men his best-loved brother-in-arms, Roland. With that he breathed his last and died facing towards the east.
Roland wept, regretting all that had led to this and most of all that he yet lived himself. Looking up at last he saw that only he and Turpin were left, though the badly wounded Count Gautier, survivor of the lost patrol, had crawled forth, ready to expire but determined to die with his liege lord. He was finally snuffed out by the next shower of arrows loosed by the Saracens, who were wary of coming nearer the ground where Turpin and Roland stood back to back. Their leaders were dead or had retreated with wounds. They would not spare the Franks but were no longer willing to sacrifice themselves in order to dispatch them.
Another rain of arrows and javelins fell, hitting Turpin in many places. Two of the wounds were plainly mortal and so he charged the enemy, slaying many before he was finally felled, cursing the heathen in the name of Jesus.
Alone now and ready to collapse, his armour broken, his bare head pouring blood, new wounds being inflicted upon him all the time, Roland raised Oliphant to his lips and weakly blew once more. Charlemagne heard its faint notes and despaired.
“Faster,” he cried to his knights. “Roland is nearly done for. Sound the trumpets that he may yet take heart and know we are drawing near.” At this, thousands of horns sounded all along the Frankish relief column and now the Saracens heard them and feared.
“Charlemagne is coming,” they shouted in a frenzy of confusion.
“We must kill Roland or he will recover and he and Charlemagne will ravage all of Spain and our Saragossa will be sacked and raised to the ground.” Thus they still believed Ganelon's lie that here lay their only chance of victory, that without his nephew Charlemagne would not prosecute the war.
Rallying forty men, a giant of a Saracen warrior led a final attack on the solitary figure of Roland, who roused himself for a last great effort while hoping for the death blow that would relieve his suffering. The Frankish champion killed several of his attackers and drove the remainder away.
As the moors retreated for good, hearing Charlemagne's war-horns grow louder and believing Roland's wounds to be mortal, the hero fell to his knees, calling for them to return and fight to the finish. With a sob he saw them disappear through the trees and down the mountainside.
With a Saracen banner he cleaned the blood from Durendala and sheathed the sword. Then limping and bleeding he went to the body of Turpin who was still breathing. Tearing off the Archbishop's battered armour, he tried to bind his friend's wounds. Turpin stirred, however, and waved him away as if to say he had no use of bandages now. Roland carried and dragged as many of the Peers and knights to surround Turpin where he lay, that he might bless and absolve them.
This struggle was as severe as his exertions in battle that day. With much effort he searched the field, looking into dead face after dead face. Painfully he brought the Peers and, last of all, his well-loved friend Oliver to Turpin, whereupon he fainted from loss of blood and utter exhaustion.
Fighting to get to his feet the Archbishop retrieved Oliphant, the ivory war-horn from round Roland's neck and stumbled to the stream nearby to fill it with water to bring to his friend. The effort was too much, however, and only feet from Roland's unconscious body, Turpin fell face first to the ground, the water-filled horn held out in both hands.
Awakening, Roland groaned to find himself yet living and slowly rose to his feet, looking for Turpin. When he found him he wept for pity, seeing what his friend had been trying to do even as he died. Commending Turpin's noble soul to heaven, he crossed the Archbishop's white hands and prayed over him for some time.
Knowing his own death was finally near, Roland, with sword in one hand and his war-horn in the other, took himself off a distance from the carnage, an arrow shot's distance forward of his men's last position. Up a small hill, he found two pine trees forming a V shape, with some ancient marble steps between them. Here again he fell, passing once more out of consciousness.
Suddenly from out of cover a lightly wounded Saracen who had been left by his retreating fellows, darted forward to claim a valuable trophy. Snatching Durendala from Roland's limp right hand, he raised it to the sky.
“The nephew of Charles is dead and I will carry this, his sword to Arabia.”
Opening his eyes yet still dazed Roland looked at the Saracen. “You are not one of ours,” he muttered, before smashing Oliphant against the man's head, killing him instantly.
This had been a near-run thing. The notion of his sword Durendala falling into unworthy hands horrified Roland so much that he found new strength, attempting repeatedly to break the blade on the marble steps. Again and again it only glanced away, chipping the stone, grating the steel but never breaking.
“Bright as an angel, my faithful Durendala, what victories we have won for our king, what champions we have vanquished. Let France not be disgraced by your coming into the possession of heathens.” Again he swung the blade against the rocks, but succeeded only in shattering them completely while the sword vibrated and remained strong and complete.
Giving up and sensing the onset of death, Roland lay down upon the ground, his war-horn and sword beneath him, his body facing the enemy so that the French could see that he had died victorious and in possession of the field. He made his confession and prayed for mercy, crying ‘Mea Culpa’ and begging pardon for his sins large and small. Holding his righthand glove up to heaven as a sign
of submission, he felt the angels of God descend and stand around him. He felt Gabriel accept the glove and with bowed head and clasped hands the great hero died.
Soon afterwards, Charlemagne neared the scene of the battle, desperate for news of the rearguard's fate, his heart full of fear for his nephew and the Twelve Peers.
“Where is Roland?” he cried. “Where is Count Oliver, Turpin and the others? How many men survive?”
At the head of the army against all advice, he rode at the gallop into the valley of Roncesvalles where not an inch of ground was bare of pools of blood, severed limbs or dead bodies. By now all the wounded of both sides had perished.
Weeping and tearing at his beard, Charles lamented and everywhere around him the army mourned its fallen comrades and kinsmen. But when the tears dried, hearts hardened and but one thought settled upon them all. The revenge they would take would be terrible and swift.
With not a single wounded man to succour and no prisoners to deal with, the army's renewed advance was rapid. By the next day, the scattered and shattered forces of Saragossa were overtaken and overcome, though they had been aided somewhat by the force fresh from Arabia, which had arrived earlier on premature news of victory by Marsile. However, this unhappy king, lying mortally wounded in Saragossa, on learning of this final defeat, turned his face to the wall, cursed Ganelon and died.
Sated of revenge, Charlemagne turned his thoughts once more to mourning and he made his way back to Roncesvalles to look for Roland's body. He knew instinctively where this would be found. It would, he told himself, be at the head of his force, facing towards the enemy. On arriving at the battlefield he sought the higher ground in what had been the Saracen positions, and reckoned where an arrow shot from his own lines would have landed.
Myths and Legends from Around the World Page 29