“Is this mission just to get a message to Charles, or were you just chomping at the bit for an excuse to break Ganelon’s command?” Oliver laughed.
“It was an order made to be broken,” Roland replied with a grin. “Like so many I’ve seen him issue since he came to stay at the march. Why make pronouncements that no one intends to keep?”
Oliver leaned over and punched Roland in the arm.
“Because in his world, no one would dare defy him.”
Roland rolled his shoulder, a mock grimace on his face.
“Well, let’s not spoil this fine morning with thoughts of his sour face.” He laughed. “Rather, tell me news of the vale. And tell me about your fair sister, Aude. She is, what, sixteen now?”
“My sister? Seventeen. But that’s of no matter.” Oliver clucked with his tongue to encourage his horse to keep in stride with Roland’s.
“No matter?” Roland asked. “She is radiantly dirty, always with mud on her skirts from chasing frogs—frogs that could be the lost princes of the marsh. Unless, of course, she’s grown up while I’ve been away.”
Oliver pulled up his horse short.
Roland wheeled his mount’s head around and stopped next to him.
Oliver frowned. “Look, you’re like a brother to me. No, you truly are more than a brother. But I’ve seen you tumble more women than I can even remember. You touch—no, you even think of my sister, and I’ll be forced to demand satisfaction.”
Roland’s face broke once more into his irrepressible grin.
“No need for anything so drastic, I’m sure!” he said brightly. Then, a little more seriously, “I swear to you, Oliver, we’re only passing the time at your expense.” He eased his horse’s head to face back down the road. “Race you to the Le Mans Bridge!”
With a shake of his head, Oliver spurred his horse after Roland. The rest of the company rounded the bend then, thinking they had finally caught the two, only to find they had to race headlong once more along the muddy track or be left behind.
CHAPTER 4
Of David and Goliath
The camp stretched along the ridge, a serpent of tents, helmets, and sputtering fires that fought against the morning mists. Frank scouts had already pounded across the countryside, relaying to the pickets news of Roland’s approach. Thus they were not surprised when the young knight’s party appeared out of the fog making for them at a canter. The duty sergeant stepped out onto the rutted track and raised his hand for a halt. Roland pulled up abreast of him, his mount lathered in muck from the miles of hard riding. After exchanging a few words, the sergeant waved them forward, though not without giving the two Iberian Arabs a suspicious stare as they passed.
The party tramped along the track toward the center of the camp where soldiers directed them to an empty plot of ground. There Roland dismounted at last and ordered the men to set up the tents that would provide them with barest shelter from the bleak Saxon spring. He struck out across the encampment to seek audience with Charles.
Time wore on, and the sun neared midday, finally burning through the mist that clung to a nearby river flowing through thick forest and overgrown fields. Oliver secured the last tent rope and straightened from his task to examine the terrain. In the distance beyond the river, trails of smoke marked the location of the Saxon camp. He tossed his gear onto a camp table and walked a little further beyond his comrades to see the pickets from both armies mirroring each other’s movements along the river’s banks.
A gaggle of squires passed close by. Oliver called them over, setting them to lend a hand to Demetrius in stowing his diplomatic travel chests. Oliver quietly believed those chests were elbow-deep in gold solidi—the empire’s coinage, all of proper weight and purity, of course. The two Moors stood apart from the activity, and Oliver’s attention shifted to them with great curiosity, for prior to this venture, he’d never seen an Arab or Muslim before. Upon the road from the march, he had examined their every tic and movement. With what he’d seen thus far, he determined they were much like the princes at Aachen—used to having commands obeyed and to being surrounded by finer things, even on campaign.
The sound of tromping boots broke through his thoughts. He glanced back toward the tent to find Roland returning at last. Even before he gave voice to the question, the look on Roland’s face spoke the answer.
“We are not to see Charles?”
Roland walked past him and tossed his cloak into the tent.
Oliver cleared his throat. “I am here, you know.”
Roland stopped, shoulders hunched.
“I’m not to see Charles until after he crosses the river!” His voice was sharp with bitterness.
As Roland snatched up the remainder of his gear, Gothard sauntered into their midst.
“When the scouts told me it was you who rode up the road, I could not believe them!” A sneer coiled his thin lips. “I thought even you could not be so stupid! I almost had them flogged! But here I stand corrected. You’ve now surprised even me.” He leaned forward in a mocking half bow.
Straightening from sorting his belongings with a crack of his back, Roland offered his stepbrother a bright, dangerous smile in return. “Go away. I’m not here to suffer your idiocy.”
Gothard’s hand dropped to the long, wicked dagger slung on his hip. “Suffer me? I’m the least of your worries. You disobeyed a direct order from my father—our father.”
“Don’t presume to lecture me, or use family to sway me. We’re at war. It was a stupid order.”
“Mind your tongue!” Gothard snapped. “Your words were overlooked in the march. But they will not be here!”
Roland shrugged.
“I’ll remember that. But if you decide to press the point, you’ll find me ready.”
Gothard’s face clouded as his anger rose. He slid the dagger halfway from its scabbard then rammed it back home with a sharp snick. “I’ll remember that, brother.” He lifted his hand from the weapon, flexing his fingers. Then he spun on his heel, slipping in the wet, matted grass, and stalked off.
“You shouldn’t bait him,” Oliver warned. “He has many friends at court.”
“He may have many friends,” Roland replied as he tossed his gear in a heap into their tent, “but he hasn’t enough.”
Overhead the sun had already passed midday, the rays providing scant warmth to the Frank soldiers crowding along the riverbank. They cheered and groaned with the ebb and flow of the single combat splashing and clanking in the chilled waters before them. A towering Saxon warrior, broad chested beneath a scale mail shirt and with arms like tangled oaks, swung his ax at the smaller, armored Frank who ducked then lunged in return, mud sucking at each of his steps. The Saxon blocked the broad-bladed sword with the ax haft and hammered his own pommel home into the Frank’s helmet. The knight stumbled, his guard faltered, and the Saxon lifted the ax into oberhau position above his head with both hands. Muscles flexed with the down stroke. The ax bit deep, opening the knight at the hip, spurting crimson clouding the water.
The knight cried out. The Saxon wrenched the ax free then sliced again, catching the Frank under the arm, the keen edge separating iron and bone. He followed with a crushing blow to the knight’s face, and the man crumpled to float facedown in the bloody current. The Franks groaned in unison even as the Saxons broke out in a raucous cheer. With a grim laugh, the Saxon champion raised his ax once more then buried it deep in the knight’s back.
“Is this all you’ve got to send to Hengest?” he spat, his accent thick and guttural. “Is this the strength of the Franks?”
Charles stood silently among the crowded nobility, snowy beard framing his lean, pinched face under his heavy crown. His cheeks flushed with anger.
“My lords!” he snarled in a low voice. “Who will meet the Saxon and remove him from the crossing?”
Roland stood bolt upright a few paces
away, disbelief spreading across his face. Bertrin, count of Poitiers, a solid man with a horseman’s muscled calves and the silver pate of a seasoned veteran, shouldered past him to stand before Charles. Behind him came Geoffrey of Anjou, a middle-aged noble with a close-cropped brown beard and impatient, fiery eyes. Both were veterans of Charles’s wars in Italy.
“Let me move up archers to clear the bastard and have done with it, my lord!” demanded Bertrin.
Geoffrey raised a gloved hand to counter his old comrade. “My king! If we did that, what would we have of our honor?”
“By God, Anjou!” Bertrin fumed, “You question my honor?”
“Where is the honor in assaulting him from a distance? What else is the purpose of single combat, if not to prove ourselves better?”
“Well, I for one have had enough of being made a fool like this!”
“And you think we will look less craven if we simply shoot him?”
“Craven! How dare you!”
“Enough!” Charles barked, his voice effectively leashing their exchange. “Tomorrow I will require one of you to stand against him.”
The nobles grumbled in assent but only faintly, for this was the third Frank knight to fall beneath the Saxon’s butchering ax. Charles swept away from the riverbank back to his camp.
Pepin, Charles’s elder son, watched the exchange with keen brown eyes beneath meticulously combed hair. His face was shadowed by the barest of a man’s growth, his skin pale from long days sheltered inside the palace at Aachen. The prince limped toward Anjou, his lifelong infirmity clearly visible, and bemusement visible upon his face. He leaned close to the man and whispered, “He doesn’t value your honor, Geoffrey, and he never has.”
Geoffrey pulled at his beard a moment as he watched soldiers fish the fallen knight’s remains from the river. “Indeed. Yet I must honor my oath of fealty, for he is my liege. What would you have me do, were you standing in my stead, my prince?”
Pepin waved his hand casually, affectionately placing his other arm around Geoffrey’s shoulder.
“I ask for nothing but your love, Geoffrey. We piss away our strength on these Saxons, while other dangers lurk far to the south in Saracen lands. For your love, I would end this war to protect Aquitaine and Anjou.”
“Welcome assurances, my prince,” Geoffrey said. “Our lands would be open to an incursion, should the Saracens take a notion to make one.”
“I intend to make more than assurances,” Pepin said. “When the time comes, I’ll remember you, dear Anjou.”
Oliver left the quartermaster with a bag of supplies slung over his shoulder. He glanced to one side to see Roland marching mechanically from Charles’s enclave in the camp center, ignoring the commotion around him. Oliver hurried through the milling troops to Roland’s side.
“If you don’t watch what you’re doing, you’ll end up a blot on the bottom of a wagon wheel,” he quipped.
Roland said nothing. Mist steamed from his nostrils like a dragon’s exhaust.
“Well,” continued Oliver as they approached their tents, “are we to ford the river and take the other bank?”
“No!” Roland threw up his hands. “Another has fallen before this Hengest. Saint Michael’s bones, we sit while the Saxon mocks us!”
“But one of our knights will finish this today?”
Roland tugged open the tent flaps and began rummaging through his gear. Oliver stood at the entrance, watching him.
“No, they wait until tomorrow,” Roland said. “This whole challenge is a game to our nobles, but there will be hell to pay when the entire Saxon army arrives. They stall us here, bound in our honor, for a reason!”
From deep in his saddlebag, Roland pulled a long dagger. He drew it from the sheath, balanced it in his hand for a moment, and then tucked it into his belt.
“What do you mean to do?” Oliver asked.
Roland crossed himself, lowering his head to mutter a prayer under his breath.
“Come on,” Oliver prodded. “I know you better than this. You’re dodging the question. Wouldn’t our purpose be better served if we just pushed our way into Charles’s tent? You are his nephew, after all.”
“He won’t see me until we cross the river, remember? So—” Roland cracked open his eye and smiled. “I’ll race you across!”
“No,” Oliver replied. “It’s not our place. You’re not the shepherd facing Goliath, you know.”
“Of course I’m not.” Roland laughed, patting the dagger affectionately. “I don’t even know how to use a sling.”
He slapped Oliver on the back then dashed out of the tent and hurried across the camp toward the river.
The curse of a soldier’s existence is to hurry up and wait. In the midst of troops busying themselves with menial tasks to distract their minds from the slowly building Saxon army across the river, a thick-bodied cleric caught sight of the two friends pushing through the soldiers. His merry, round face bristled with a gray-streaked beard, and his tonsured head glistened with sweat, even on this cool day. This particular man of God wore a war kit over the robes of his ecclesiastic calling. And amid the ordered chaos around him, the familiar youths’ single-mindedness piqued his interest.
He stepped into their path. “Roland! Oliver! Where are you two going? I’d have thought you’d be joining your company at prayer!”
Roland pulled up short, Oliver a half step behind. “You mean my stepfather’s men, dear bishop, not mine.”
Turpin wrinkled his nose. “You haven’t answered my question. Where to in such haste? Answer me true, lad. You know better than to lie to me.”
“I am going across the river,” Roland said.
Aghast at Roland’s audacity, Turpin took him by the shoulders with hands made more for wielding a sword than a bishop’s crooked staff. He peered into the youth’s eyes.
“This isn’t a game, you know. Besides, suicide is a sin, my son.”
“I tried to tell him that,” Oliver snorted.
Roland shrugged off Turpin’s hands.
“I have no intention of dying today, Father.”
He gave the cleric a quick bow and continued his jog through the camp.
Oliver and Turpin followed Roland past the guards and pickets near the river to where the usual collection of nobles and onlookers waited for something—anything—to happen. Charles, for his part, was nowhere to be seen, likely still at prayer himself at this hour.
Moments later, a heavily armored sergeant scratched his head curiously, watching Roland splash into the shallows. He signaled one of the idle troopers nearby to report back to the king. When he looked back, Roland was already halfway across the river, feeling about the bottom with his feet. After a moment, he cupped his hands and yelled toward the enemy camp.
“So, tell me this, are the Saxons ready to fight? Or have they come to shovel pig slop? Is there any Saxon without shite smeared on his breeches?”
The call echoed through the boles of trees back into the Frank camp, and within minutes it erupted into a wave of men rushing toward the river. In their midst flowed the royal colors as Charles and his entourage likewise scrambled to see what was unfolding.
Across the river where he sat by a smoldering fire pit, Hengest unfolded his long limbs and wiped crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand. He laughed, grabbed his ax and shield, and settled his helmet over his thick locks. Then he swaggered down to the river’s edge and roared with mirth when he saw the Frank youth standing in the ford pulling a dagger from his belt.
“You’re going to fight me with that pig-sticker?” he growled.
“No, I’m here to join you for breakfast,” Roland replied. “Shall we spoon porridge and carve sausages together? Or shall I just cross and take your whole meal?”
The nobles not far off on the Frank side of the river opened their ranks to allow Charles to
approach the water’s edge. His face was stern, much unlike the surprised ogles of those around him.
Hengest’s laughter roared from deep within his barrel chest. When he strode into the water, his body created a bow wave that pushed out before him. His ax swung dangerously with a whisper of a whistle. “Come, little fishy!” he said with a wicked, gap-toothed grin.
He drew up an arm’s length from Roland and with a snort cut savagely at him.
The youth dodged in a flurry of water. “You can’t cut a pudding like that!” Roland taunted.
“Swinehund!” Hengest attacked again, muscles rippling like coiled snakes. Roland flopped back on the waves, and the ax blade sliced through his shirt. His footing slipped, his arms flailed, and he sank beneath the muddied surface. The Saxon beat at the water, kicking and cursing as he searched.
Roland broke the surface behind him, slinging fistfuls of mud at his back.
“There is shite on you, sir!” he spurted through a mouthful of water.
Hengest snarled and spun around with astonishing speed for a man so large. Roland ducked under the ax’s arc, straightened again, and stuck out his tongue. The Saxon’s fist followed the weapon, striking Roland’s jaw with a crack, throwing him off his feet into deeper water. Hengest wallowed after, teeth gnashing and nostrils flaring. He splashed with his hand, trying to break through the churned cloudy murk that obscured his quarry. Something bit into his leg, and he howled then floundered toward the riverbank.
Roland burst from the water nearby, dagger glistening in his hand, and spat water at the retreating champion.
“I’m over here!”
The Saxons crowding the opposite bank gasped, horrified at the turn of events.
Roland launched his body into Hengest’s unsteady bulk, slowed by the water but driven by the momentum of the fight. The Saxon staggered, arms windmilling, and the ax slipped from his fingers. Roland plunged after him, wrapping his arms around Hengest’s neck and pulling him under the surface. Limbs and bodies churned up muck. Then crimson blossomed across the rippling surface.
The Silver Horn Echoes Page 5
