A few heartbeats later, Roland splashed though the surface, heaving Hengest’s body off him with a gurgle.
The Saxons broke, fleeing through their camp and, in the rush, leaving behind their equipment. Roland yanked his dagger free from Hengest’s throat then waded ashore on the Frank side, dropping to a knee before Charles, who thoughtfully tugged at his beard.
“The crossing is yours, sire,” Roland choked breathlessly.
“So it would seem,” Charles replied. “I’ll see you after we’ve crossed the river, nephew.” Without another word, he stalked away, his astonished entourage straggling after him.
Common soldiers surrounded Roland, clapping him on the back and lifting his arms high.
Within hours, the Frank war machine began to lurch into Saxony.
Nobles streamed in and out of the royal tent that had been hastily carted across the river and pitched on a rise within sight of the sprawling Saxon host. Roland navigated the throng of court bureaucrats—monks, scholars, brilliant liveried squires, and personal servants. He sidestepped pages burdened with scrolls that still dripped scarlet wax, the lads scurrying to find the recipient of each royal dictum. At the flap of the royal tent, Roland ducked his head and found himself in a crowd of northern counts who chatted in a contained courtly manner. Many observed and reacted with measured responses to those who could be potential rivals for royal favor. A squire approached Roland and signaled for him to follow through the milling officials to Charles’s private audience chamber, a room of canvas walls and woolen carpets separate from the main body of the tent.
At the far end of that room, Charles waited upon a gold-leafed traveling throne, chin resting on hand. The young knight stopped a respectful distance before the throne and bowed.
“Do stand,” Charles said sharply, waving his hand with a familiar agitation. “You’ve stirred up the nobles, my boy. And not only for this morning’s stunt. Just for being here, some want me to send you back to Aachen with the empty supply wagons and lock you away in a tower. Maybe even throw away the key!”
Roland straightened. “I meant no disrespect.”
Charles examined the youth’s face for a moment with an imperious gaze. Then he chuckled, like cracking flint. “No, of course not. I know in your heart you didn’t. Yet here you are, the young bravo—instead of in Breton March where Ganelon left you.”
Roland’s eyes never left Charles. “I’m here because Demetrius, the emissary from Constantinople, brought news. Important news.”
“He did, did he? And this news is?”
Roland felt his heart pulse in his throat. “An invasion by Saragossa.”
“Invasion?” Charles leaned back in his chair, tangling his fingers together. “Demetrius has proof of this?”
“Yes,” Roland said. “He brought with him the sons of Barcelona and Saragossa. The son of Saragossa, this Saleem, has detailed information on the emir’s plans.”
“Saragossa’s own son?” Charles nodded, staring off into space for a moment, then asked, “And you trust Demetrius?”
“He is the ambassador, sire.”
A frown sagged Charles’s face. “That’s not what I asked. Ambassadors are men. And more than most men, they cloud the truth.”
The youth’s eyes never wavered. “My father trusted him, and I trust him.”
Charles narrowed his eyes and stood. He paced slowly around the chair, clutching its back until his knuckles whitened. “We must finish our Saxon problem first. Afterward, we’ll assemble the court and present your news.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “This is serious, indeed.”
“Yes, sire. I remind you that if they surprise us, they could drive all the way to the heart of Francia.”
“I am well aware of that,” Charles replied with ill-concealed annoyance.
“My king, I meant no—”
“No disrespect, I know, nephew. I know. You never do.” He seemed to loosen slightly, like a tree bent by a wind that suddenly relents. “You have yet to learn the subtleties appropriate to your station. But then, perhaps diplomacy is not your calling.” He motioned Roland closer. “If this is true, this invasion must not happen.” Charles’s voice remained low and firm. “And you’ve a role in this. Once this business with the Saxons is done, I want your father’s spies activated. I must know more …”
He trailed off, rubbing his beard, then suddenly turned back to Roland and fixed him with an intense glare. “As for tomorrow, I cannot look to play favorites. You disobeyed an order from my appointed representative in the Breton March. You’ll go to battle but in the reserves—under Count Florian’s command.”
Roland opened his mouth, but before the words could tumble out, Charles raised a hand. Seeing the audience was over, Roland sketched another bow and slowly backed the way he had come. By the time the canvas flap ruffled closed, the king was already at his camp table rifling through documents, muttering beneath his breath.
Night descended on the tense fields, and the two armies congregated about campfires for their final meal before the hostilities of the next day. The smell of wood smoke and burnt meat drifted bucolically across the fields, the same fields that would be sown with blood on the morrow.
Ganelon stalked through the shadows of the Frank camp, his face stony, eyes focused on the steps before him through clusters of troopers readying equipment for the engagement. By the time he finally reached the tents he sought, some simple and some exotically different, the sun had descended below the horizon.
Roland emerged from one tent, shrugging and stretching.
“I thought that had to be you.” Roland laughed when he saw Ganelon’s darkened face.
“And here you are instead of in the march.” The words spit from Ganelon’s mouth in a rapid fire staccato. “And what you did today? Disgraceful! You acted like a damn fool! Despite all your birth and blood, it’s clear you’ve no regard for honor or decorum. You’re nothing more than a spoilt child playing at war!”
“I did what any soldier would. I used the ground to my advantage,” Roland countered. “Securing victory for Charles is all that matters.”
Ganelon stepped closer, expecting to cow the impetuous youth. “Not only dishonorable but arrogant. Today you stole honor from many great lords. Men who have fought and bled to earn the right to stand beside their king.”
“You mean the same great lords who leaped forward to take up our cause?” Roland spat back. “Now the Saxons have fled. We have crossed the river, and Charles has his honor.”
Ganelon motioned toward the soldiers stitching torn garments, honing edges on weapons, and repairing saddles. “Look around you. While you crow about the king’s honor, noble men prepare to die.”
“I see them. Yet this morning I saw noble men stare at their boots as the Saxon mocked us!”
“How dare you!” Ganelon snarled as Oliver pulled back the canvas to step out at Roland’s side. “Your cavalier attitude disgusts me!”
“Then,” Roland said levelly, “perhaps you should have offered to fight the Saxon.”
Ganelon’s hand fell to his sword hilt. “How dare you? I am not some drunken sot …” His eyes bored into the younger man’s, and his knuckles whitened on his pommel.
“Really, Roland,” Oliver quipped. “Baiting him like that. You know better. You’ll back him into a corner, and his honor will require that he draw a sword. Oh, what a blood feud that would begin!”
“Stay out of this!” Ganelon spat. But his attention had been broken.
“As you wish, my lord.”
By now Ganelon heard a change in the camp sounds behind him, a subtle shift in the character of the creaking leather and chinking metal. His eyes darted around. Several of Roland’s companions had risen to their feet. Though no weapons were blatantly readied, each man had a blade, a club, or some other deadly implement close to hand. Ganelon swung his gaze back to Ro
land, who returned it unflinchingly.
“It occurs to me, Roland,” Oliver offered gently, “now is not the time to be disrespectful. We’ve a battle in the morning. A better use of the time for all might be sleep.”
Roland held Ganelon’s gaze for just a heartbeat longer. Then suddenly his face broke into a grin.
“Of course, Oliver! My apologies, honored stepfather.” He bowed deeply. “It would seem I have spoken out of turn.”
Ganelon glanced between the two youths, Roland with his innocent dancing eyes, Oliver with the silent admonition to take the exit offered. His anger burned, but he knew the price of causing a disturbance on the eve of battle.
“Apology accepted.”
Ganelon slapped at the leather scabbard and dismissed them with a wave of the hand as he turned and stalked into the night.
AOI
Morning broke brisk and cold as the sky turned from shades of black to gray with darker clouds above rolling in that threatened rain. With that first light, the Frank camp became a sea of activity. Soldiers streamed into ranks stretching along the edge of the great forest across the fields to the sea, jostling one another beneath the rough admonitions of their sergeants. Pennants and standards waved bravely, each signifying a noble house taking a place in the line—infantry companies in the center with archers behind, Bertrin’s cavalry on the right flank and Ganelon holding hard by the sea on the left.
Before the Frank host stood ranks of Saxon foot soldiers spread along a low ridge near the dark, silent wood, secure behind oval shields and sporting a varied assortment of weapons hefted over their shoulders. Some wore homespun wool and animal skins like their Frank cousins, though most would strip off the encumbering layers before noontime as the grip of battle would soon enough provide sufficient warmth. Massive war-dogs roamed freely among them and barked madly at the Franks.
Horns blared, and the Frank army surged forward, slowly at first as the sergeants strained to keep an orderly advance and conserve energy, then picking up speed until they were charging across the field. Charles rode atop his dappled mare with his personal guards forming the center. Pepin and Louis, Charles’s younger son, both resplendent in fine armor and brilliant surcoats, rode at his side.
But outshining even them in the morning rays, a silver horn bounced among Charles’s finery on a polished chain. The martial instrument was crafted from a large bull’s horn, its milky smoothness chased with silver bands ornately carved with Germanic dragons and triumphant saints. This was the Oliphant, whose pure note in battles past had sounded Charles’s victories from the Northern Sea to the banks of the Rubicon, and even from the walls of Rome.
Roland sat upon his horse among the rearguard near Bishop Turpin, stewing in his armor as he watched the advancing troops move off. Fire burned within him, not from the anticipation of battle but rather from watching others fight and die from a distance. He flexed his hand around the reins, tightening his knuckles on the leather straps, fighting the urge to bury his spurs into his horse’s flanks. What a glorious race that could be to outstrip Bertrin and his cavalry to the Saxon line! But it was not to be, for near him old Florian of Burgundy leaned forward on his steed, squinting with rheumy eyes through bushy eyebrows. The man’s belly pushed against the saddlebow when he wheezed through his mustaches, a thick-jowled bear of a man with a bristly gray beard.
“Hold your place,” Florian grumbled.
In the distance, a horn sounded.
The roar of thousands releasing their battle-lust answered. Roland watched, lips pursed, as the Frank center struck and Charles’s eagle banner surged forward, the accompanying infantry driving a wedge into the Saxon middle. The two armies locked into a brawl whose winnings would be measured by yards of muddy ground and blood.
Atop his lunging warhorse, Charles leaned low in the saddle and with his sword hewed down a Saxon warrior. The long minutes of the initial collision stretched into an hour of mortal combat where Frank troopers pushed hard against the stiffening Saxon shield wall.
Amid the chaos, a Frank horseman, his surcoat already torn and bloodied, urged his steed toward the royal guard that fought like lions to keep the Saxons at bay. His face exuded nothing but confidence as his mount danced past a thrusting enemy spear.
“Sire!” he shouted over the din. “He’s flanked them! Bertrin mauls them on the right!”
Charles gestured nearby troopers forward into a newly opened gap in the Saxon line. He then pulled his horse back from the fray, choking for breath for a moment before he responded. “Ride on to Ganelon. He must hold against the sea!”
The messenger saluted, hauled his horse around, and spurred through the infantry to the left of the Frank line. Charles raised the Oliphant to his dry lips and blew a note that broke across the Frank center, cutting through the din of battle like the cry of an avenging angel, rallying the men in another mighty push to break the Saxons.
With the notes still echoing across the fields, Oliver rode up beside Roland and pointed across the battle to Bertrin’s heavy cavalry. The horsemen charged with wicked iron-tipped lances into the Saxons and drove them back but in so doing pulled away from the center and opened a gap between. Before them, the enemy staggered back against their own lines as men bunched together then fell back.
“Look! They buckle! The Saxons will not stand!” Oliver cheered.
But Roland could see the impending danger. His feet twitched in the stirrups.
Florian mumbled, “Hold the line.”
Bertrin raced to envelop the Saxons, leading the entire right wing around the enemy flank and widening the gap between him and the Frank center.
Just then northern horns blared from the wood beyond the battle. Roland’s blood chilled.
“God, no!”
He spurred his horse forward, heedless of Florian’s fumbling, as rank upon rank of Dane warriors emerged from an arm of the forest reaching to the ridgeline. The pale sunlight glinted from their helmets while a ragged cheer broke from the Saxons. Even from this distance, Roland could mark their jarl, ringed by his mailclad bodyguard and bannermen.
The Danes lifted their bows and bent them skyward. Upon a distant command, they released as one, the arrows hissing high and then screaming down to tear into Bertrin’s exposed flank. Horses and riders tumbled, churning up muck as steel barbs found chinks in their armor. The Danes let out a raucous cheer then bent their bows once more, releasing a rain of fletched death down on the combatants, Saxon and Frank alike.
“My lord!” Roland shouted urgently to Florian. “They must not be allowed to join with the Saxons! The whole right flank will crumble! We must intervene!”
But as the count turned his wide girth in the saddle to shout commands, something else consumed him. He began suddenly garbling and choking. His eyes desperately darted back and forth as he vainly sought words. With a huff, he sagged into the saddle, his limbs quivering and his faculties unresponsive. Squires rushed to support his violently twitching body.
“Apoplexy!” Turpin exclaimed as the squires struggled under the count’s sporadic thrashing and sagging bulk.
“Dear God! Gather the bandon commanders!” Roland shouted, pulling his mount’s head around to face the reserves once more. A pair of squires scampered away to gather the nobles commanding the ragtag units that constituted the reserves.
“They must fight!” Roland whispered urgently to Oliver.
“Then you must lead them!” his friend replied.
Roland felt breath chill in his throat with Oliver’s words, for this could quickly turn into a slaughter when they reached the gap and faced the full fury of the Northmen. It was one thing for him to rush into the fray with seasoned troops from the march who had fought for his father. But these with him now—these were only a hodgepodge of poorer hedge-knights and peasants who barely knew their place in line, let alone the measured movements of a well-disciplined form
ation. Regardless, the task had to be done. He spurred his horse’s flanks and cantered up the ragged group. Too many faces—there were just too many for him to remember each one that looked to him for guidance and direction. And all too soon they would be trampled under Danish boots to be forgotten even by the realm that was about to throw them into the breach.
He sucked the chilled air between his teeth and prepared to give the order to advance, when from the midst of the reserves, rank upon rank of Breton marchmen pushed to the fore. Kennick’s familiar grizzled face strode before them, a grin splitting his salt-and-pepper beard. The marchmen halted and locked their shields, their precise movements a peerless reflection of the moldering texts Roland had drilled into them while slogging through the muddy fields of the march.
“God bless you, Kennick!” Roland reached down to clasp the warrior’s arm in his hand. “But what on earth have you done?”
“Well, my lord,” the grizzled veteran grumbled, “it seems that in your rush to get off to war, you forgot something.” He handed Roland a saddlebag with road mud still on it. “I thought you might be needing this.”
Roland reached inside then looked sharply at Kennick. “You know there will be hell to pay for this.”
“I always pay my debts, boy.”
Roland tugged out the folded banner, shaking it to its full length. A grin broke out across his face—the rampant wolf of Breton March had arrived to lead them to war.
“Squire!”
He handed the banner off to a youth who tied the pennant to the end of a lance. Roland grabbed it back eagerly. The men fell silent as the wolf rose proudly overhead. The sign of the champion had returned to the field.
“Men!” Roland called over the distant clash of battle. “Our king is sorely pressed, and we’re honor bound to aid him! You’d follow Florian into battle. Now, I ask that you follow me!” He thrust the banner into the air. “Today, will you live and die with the wolf of the Breton March?”
The men shouted in an incoherent cheer, banging their weapons against their shields. Roland handed the lance to the squire, crossed himself solemnly, then clasped his hands together. He bowed his head, and the anxious men clustered around following his example.
The Silver Horn Echoes Page 6
