“They squeal and blush for their brave prince returned from the wars,” Roland replied. “Not the hedge knight from Breton March.”
Pepin chuckled, slapping Roland on the shoulder. “Court’s different than you remember when you ran the palace halls as a child. Now you’re our champion! You’ll attract many at court, friends and foes. From here on you must consider well in whom you place your trust.”
Roland ducked his head from a bit of female clothing that fluttered by to be snatched up by a marchman just behind him. “I will. Thank you for the advice, cousin. I’m most grateful.”
Pepin offered Roland a dark, humorless smile.
“Yes. I’m sure you are. We shall speak again, cousin.”
With that, the prince nudged his mount with his heels, the steed skittering forward to rejoin his father and brother.
Oliver pulled up alongside Roland. “What was that about?” he asked in a low voice.
Roland shrugged. “A bit of brotherly advice, I suppose.”
AOI
Charles wasted very little time convening a conclave of nobles—the realm’s stalwart vassals from Aquitaine, Burgundy, and Languedoc, and even sworn men from territories in northern Italy and along the Alammani frontiers. They descended upon Aachen in pomp and ceremony that extended days before the official gathering, flooding the streets with brightly colored surcoats and young bravos—a noisome, bickering amalgamation of Franks and foreigners who could rarely agree on the time of day let alone the call to war in far-off Spain. Roland spent those days greeting, feasting, and carousing, but behind the cup in his hand, the champion began to piece together the intricate relationships of men, families, and fortunes.
And then came the day the royal heralds trumpeted the first notes that signaled the beginning of the deliberations.
While the council members entered the room and noisily sparred for position, Charles stood at the head of the great table in the center. Its expanse of wood was scarred from many battles—some with these very men, who had been battered and beaten into submission to keep the Frank kingdom united. Covering the head of the table, a large map outlining the entirety of the Frank lands also roughly sketched the realm of the caliph at Cordova south of the Pyrenees Mountains. A dagger pierced the map at the gap through the mountains at Roncevaux.
When all the nobles had finally jostled through the doors, Charles raised his hands for silence. The chatter in the room muted but did not immediately abate. Irritated, Charles thumped the flat of his hand solidly on the table.
“Gentlemen! Brothers in arms! By now you have heard the reports from Karim, the son of Barcelona, and Saleem, the son of Saragossa.” He waved a hand to indicate the two men standing apart from the rest. “You now have the same news that we have. I will hear your thoughts on the matter.”
Turpin examined the map and slapped a dour Geoffrey of Anjou on the back. It didn’t seem to improve the nobleman’s humor, as his lands would lie in the path of any invasion force that swept out of Iberia.
“Sire,” Turpin said, “I feel the need to remind my noble colleagues that we’ve beaten Saracens before. With God’s strength, we’ll crush them again.”
Geoffrey leaned forward, his look earnest.
“My king,” he implored, “an attack on southern Francia will devastate the region for years to come. I would beg you take heed to these reports and strengthen us in the south.”
Bertrin chewed his mustache as he examined the map, his face wrinkled with memories of the fresh campaign in Saxony. “But the Saxons are not wholly beaten. When the snow melts—and it shall—they will swarm the Rhine,” he murmured. “This is madness. Instead of drawing our troops over the mountains, we should be bolstering the northern frontier with greater numbers.”
Ganelon, ever calculating, folded his arms across his chest. “Sire, you are being manipulated, even though it’s well intentioned. We’ve not suffered an invasion from the south in a generation. The reason is simple—the mountains are formidable.”
“Have you not heard from the Saracens’ own mouths?” Alans demanded, pointing at Saleem. “It would seem they think differently now!”
“Just talk, Alans,” Ganelon replied. He turned away from the young southerners and dropped his voice for those nearest him to hear. “From heathen whelps. Who knows what games they play?”
“Games? Games? Damn you!” snapped Alans, his face the color of beets beneath his bristling beard. “If Saragossa invades, it will be our homes that burn!”
A dozen voices erupted at once, each straining to be heard above the others. Charles slammed his fists on the table once more. “Enough! I seek answers, not squabbling! We’ve enemies enough to spare. The question before us is do we prepare for the Saxons to break faith? Or march across the Pyrenees into Spain?”
Chatter broke out once more, many simply unable to agree.
“Come now!” Charles commanded. “We must have a decision.”
Roland stepped forward from his place at Charles’s right hand, cutting an imposing figure in a new surcoat resplendent with the wolf embroidered in gold piping. While younger than the other men crowding the table, he’d grown in stature after the incident with Kennick, and Ganelon’s tight-lipped smile spoke volumes about the animosity between the two men.
“Majesty,” Roland said, “if I may—send a contingent south. Prepare for war there. But leave enough force to garrison along the Rhine.” He traced a finger down the winding track of the river, marking where the Saxons were most likely to cross.
“You would have us divide our forces?” Ganelon remarked. “Should we guard two fronts only halfway? This is folly!”
“We can afford to leave a sufficient force behind on the Rhine. There are only so many places to cross, and each is a bottleneck. With proper fortification they can be held. And southward, if the Saracens must indeed be dealt with, Barcelona and our allies in Spain have promised us aid. They can bolster our numbers against Marsilion.”
Charles chewed on the champion’s words for a moment.
“Yes. If the caliph moves against us, we’ll need support from south of the mountains.”
“We will,” Alans urged, his voice rising above the renewed chatter. “My king, it is time to take action! Aquitaine must not be exposed to attack!”
Geoffrey nodded. “I am agreed, my king. Anjou stands prepared to support the expedition to the south.”
Naimon, Charles’s most trusted counselor, had been quietly observing the exchange. Despite his aged frame being bent from years of service in the king’s name, there was a compelling air about him that could cow even Charles’s impulsive vassals. When he spoke with measured deliberateness, all side discussions halted. “You’ve been given sound advice, sire. In the balance, we must watch and monitor the peace, but sending forces south to gauge Saragossan resolve is critical.”
Charles pondered, studying each face in turn.
“We shall send troops to the south,” he finally commanded, straightening from the table. “They will prepare for war against Saragossa. Pepin, my son, after Yule I task you to lead the advance party. Select from my knights for this mission.” He paused before continuing, his face crinkling with humor. “And don’t let your brother fill the ranks with monks and friars.”
Pepin rolled his eyes dramatically as he dutifully bowed to his father. But Louis pushed his way through the crowded chamber to Pepin’s side.
“Father, this should be a joint command,” he said. “We both should lead this effort!”
Pepin laughed and leaned back to take pressure off his halt leg. “There’s no room for a divided command—on the battlefield or in our house. Besides, you always drag on my coattails, brother. I won’t let you have command. Content yourself with the chanting of your priests.”
“You little prig!” Louis growled. He knotted his fists and unleashed a punch across Pepin’s jaw
, sending his older brother sprawling into the arms of the surrounding nobles. “The command is not yours; it is ours!”
Charles stepped between them, a stern look chiseled into his features as he folded his arms. “Now, boys, there’s no need for this.”
Louis’s head bowed as he lowered his fists. “I’m sorry, Father. But you see how he baits me. It was a natural response.”
Pepin spit blood and shrugged off the hands supporting him. He straightened his robes, his eyes never leaving his father.
“It was a brute’s response—nothing more than mindless violence. Get him away from me!” He parted the nobles and limped for the door.
The war council had concluded.
Ganelon sauntered out the palace doors. Alans trotted to catch up with their squires shadowing them a few paces behind.
“What do you think of our new plan, Ganelon?” Alans ventured as he drew even with Ganelon’s elbow. “I suppose I could live with it.” He studied his comrade’s face, watching to see if he would take the bait. It wasn’t that he was necessarily trying to anger Tournai, but the man had been insufferably moody since arriving at the city, even more than after the embarrassment at the whipping post. His foul temper had begun to grate on the old warrior’s nerves. It was time for a little jab in return.
Ganelon, however, ignored him. When they reached the limit of the grounds, he took an unexpected turn to the left.
“Where are you going?” Alans stuttered in surprise. “Our quarters are this way—” He pointed onward down the path, but Ganelon tromped away with a deliberate step.
Peeved that his barb had fallen flat, Alans huffed after Ganelon with their equally confused squires in tow.
Ganelon led them around to the southern flank of the palace grounds, where there stood a tall gatehouse of mixed construction, moss-covered Roman near the ground and bare Frankish at the top. Ganelon stopped and stared at its battlements, still taking no notice of his impromptu train.
After a long moment, Alans cleared his throat. Ganelon, in the grip of some strong emotion, growled brokenly.
“What?” He tore his gaze away from the stonework. Alans was stunned to see his eyes, always so hard and calculating, were red-rimmed and wet. “What do you want?” He looked at them as if he had just noticed them. “Why did you follow me?”
“I … um,” Alans was, for once, at a loss for words. “You just walked away!” he finally answered a little too gruffly, caught off guard. “If you didn’t want me to come with you, you should have said something!”
Ganelon turned back to the gatehouse, his voice once again a barely restrained growl. “No matter. You can stay if you wish.”
Alans stared at him as his eyes bored into the stones. He turned suddenly to the squires. “Go! Back to our quarters! You have duties to attend to there, I am sure. Go!” The young lads, as confused as ever, turned on their heels and ran.
Once they had cleared the corner of the grounds, Alans turned back to his companion. “What are you doing here?” Ganelon’s rigid back offered no answers. Alans waved a hand around them. “No one is here but you and I, Ganelon. What is this place? Is this why you have been in such a mood?”
“‘Such a mood,’ you say?” A flash of the steely cold Ganelon that Alans knew so well reappeared. “‘Such a mood’? You know nothing, old man.”
“Then tell me.” Alans did not much like Ganelon, but the count of Tournai was always steady in a fight, and largely that was because nothing could shake him. This was a new side of the man that disturbed Alans. If he was to stand next to Ganelon in battle, he wanted to know what could possibly get under the man’s skin like this—for such a weakness could be a liability in the field. “What was it?”
Ganelon breathed deep. When he spoke, the iron curtain had again descended over his features, and his words were even and measured. “Nothing that concerns you, Alans. Only the death of my mother and my younger brother.”
He turned and marched past Alans, who was now twice speechless in one day.
AOI
That night the clouds blew away over Aachen, eventually allowing the moon to shine through.
As he walked from the palace, Roland drew a breath and let out a cloud of mist before his eyes. His thoughts were consumed with planning for the coming expedition to the south. As champion, he now found himself sitting through endless meetings from morning to night while nobles wrangled over how many resources each would provide for the venture. Lucky for him, Pepin always presided with a shrewd eye for detail and a fair amount of arm-twisting to stretch the royal resources committed to the campaign and make sure the counts put forth their fair share. Roland rubbed his temples as he moved around an iced-over garden pool in the shadow of the palace.
Above him, Aude leaned out of an open window, watching him walk lost in thought, a hint of a smile touching her full lips.
“I wonder,” she mused with a laugh, “if the knight skates better than a squire I once knew in my father’s house at the Vale?”
Roland looked up with a start. Recognizing her face, the cobwebs in his brain cleared immediately. He shrugged lightheartedly, testing the ice of the pool with a toe. The surface creaked when he stepped out onto it, but on the second step he lost his footing and fell with a crack.
Aude stifled a laugh with her fingers pressed to her lips and quickly closed the window. She appeared a moment later at the garden door, skipping down the portal steps two at a time in a fashion her matron would generously describe as unbefitting a lady.
Roland scrambled to his feet then offered her a gracious bow.
“Have we met before, fair lady?”
Aude gracefully stepped toward him, offering him her hand with an excess of formality.
“Oh,” she said, “was I too freckled then, a little girl?”
He took her hand in his, examined her face, then pulled her onward into the moonlight, all formal pretenses fluttering away.
“Aude?” he exclaimed in feigned astonishment. “Is that you?”
She nodded, tugging her hastily shouldered cloak higher about her shoulders. “Three long years, and I feared you wouldn’t remember me. Like some long-lost dream of spring, forgotten when your eyes flutter open.”
He gave her a more serious look. “If I recall, that lady of the vale drafted the squires and pages to bake mud cakes with her for the faire. That’s not something easily forgotten, my lady. Those are dreams that are meant to be remembered, to be cherished.”
Aude brushed his cheek with her hand.
“Oh, you tease me, sir! A champion who draws strength from childhood dreams?” she mused. “How rare! I hear tell from the youngest pages in the palace that the new champion draws strength from the souls of the slain as he wades through fields of blood.” Her voice grew bold like a herald relating a heroic saga. “All the while bringing glory to God and his king!” Then her voice dropped to a whisper. “Not from memories of muddy days at the Vale.”
Roland smiled as he pressed her hand to his face.
“Do they sing my song already?”
“Oh, yes,” Aude replied with a grin. “Like a lullaby to calm a child who refuses to go to bed. Now, let’s see—hush now, child that Saxons fright, be still, be still. For Roland will save you with all his might, be still …”
“You know,” he said, “it’s too bad I’ve been warned to keep my distance now that we’re both grown.”
She slid her arm into his.
“Oh? I suppose you’ve been spending too much time with Oliver. Well, my brother isn’t the one who waited three years to see you again. It was an eternity to me.”
“And I’ve spent a lifetime looking but only now see for the first time. Aude, you must remember the things Oliver told you about me. They’re likely true—or worse.”
She placed a finger on his lips, shaking her head slowly.
“They are forgotten. You are here.”
He wrapped his arms about her, pulling her close and breathing her in as if for the first time. Then they kissed.
Aachen’s populace fled the weather and the encroaching night, hurrying along the ice-crusted streets bound for warmth indoors. Standing above it all, surveying the breadth of the city from his window, stood Ganelon, his distant claim to the throne based on a family bloodline as ancient as the first Merovingian kings. From Clovis through the ill-fated Childeric, they had ruled the land and spawned mythic tales of princes with long locks of gilded hair. These very kings of folklore had been tossed aside, not vanquished in glorious battle against an overwhelming foe but by perfidious dictate of the pope and their own house steward—Charles’s father, Pepin the Short.
It was Pepin’s brutal purge of the Merovingians that had driven Ganelon’s mother, his infant brother in her arms, to leap from the scaffolding where Pepin had been rebuilding the gatehouse rather than let him take her. Clearly she had chosen the place as a clarion signal to the usurper, but it had been Ganelon, barely five summers old, who had found them in a bloody heap while chasing finches.
The center of his world had been ripped from him that day.
It was not until years later that he would finally understand why it had happened—and who had been responsible. He wrapped himself in the cold embrace of his own gall, using the burning shame of it to stoke the fires of his heart. His glance drifted across the buildings where the visiting nobles were quartered, their doorways marked by banners emblazoned with the devices of the noble houses. Breton March stood out among them—the very blood of Charles’s family.
“I should have silenced that bastard whelp long ago,” Ganelon muttered.
Someone knocked at the door.
“Come in, come in.” He pulled the shutters closed and stepped back into the room. The door opened with a clatter, and Gothard entered, anger written across his face.
He slammed the door behind him.
The Silver Horn Echoes Page 9
