The Silver Horn Echoes

by Michael Eging

  In the distance, shadows thrashed through the underbrush.

  “He’s on them like a hound!” Marcellus exclaimed, standing up in his stirrups for a better look.

  Oliver squinted, trying to track the movement. “Pray we catch the hound before the quarry turns on him!” He spurred his horse and waved the men forward in a canter.

  Ahead of them, a Saragossan raiding party plunged through the forest, pursued by a single knight atop a black steed. Roland stretched low against Veillantif’s neck to dodge branches snatching at his scale mail coat. The raiders broke from the trees and brambles into an open field, racing toward a burned-out manor house still smoldering from the torch. Roland and Veillantif erupted from those same trees in close pursuit, the great black steed stretching into a gallop that chewed up the distance behind the knot of men they pursued.

  Within the low walls surrounding the wrecked house, a group of raiders idled themselves by tormenting a clutch of peasant prisoners. The approaching riders yelled for their attention and madly gestured at the lone knight trailing behind as their horses leaped the broken walls. Upon seeing the sudden increase of numbers arrayed against him, Roland reined Veillantif short and tugged Durendal from the saddle’s harness. He hefted the weapon in his right hand as his left settled into the leather armbands of his shield.

  “Heavenly Father, be my strength,” he whispered, his breath rising in a gray chill mist before him. He leaned forward and patted the steed on the neck. “We’re to be blooded, my friend. I trust Aude chose you well.”

  He pressed his knees into the horse’s ribs, launching forward—an intractable juggernaut of steel, flesh, and bone. In a heartbeat he was among the raiders, laying about him, deflecting curved sabers and straight Arab blades. One rider’s flashing steel skittered off the band of Roland’s shield, catching his shoulder and crunching through the mail. A warm stream trickled down his side, but he ignored it and returned the attack with a vicious lateral swipe. Durendal struck the rider just under his helmet brim, and the wound gushed blood and brains as the man toppled from his saddle. Roland jammed his shield edge-wise into another rider’s chest then hammered the man’s face with Durendal’s hilt as he rebounded forward. Bones crunched audibly as the blow struck. The raider tumbled backward into another that pressed forward to get at the knight, throwing him off balance and spoiling his attack.

  Veillantif’s hooves dug at the soft ground as he bounded into a sprint toward the larger war party in the ruins. The two horsemen raked their heels into their steeds and caught Roland short of the manor walls, thrusting and cutting to halt the headlong charge. Roland plied Durendal wickedly, and the dance began in earnest—the combatants circled each other, probing for advantage as the soldiers within the walls gathered the peasants together.

  Roland cut at a raider, but the man grinned when he blocked the blow. The knight quickly riposted, Durendal whistling through the air in a blurred arc, and blood sprayed from the man’s neck. Roland pressed his knees against Veillantif’s side, and the horse wheeled around, mist streaming from its nostrils and its hide slick with sweat.

  The remaining Saragossans moved into a confining cluster around the peasants and prodded them back through a gate toward the far wall. Roland spurred his horse and galloped around the ruins to meet them there.

  One of the raiders, marked as their leader by his ornate gold-trimmed mail coat, rode a few paces out of the gate and raised his armored fist. His face was lean, the tanned features sharp and hawkish, accentuated by a close-cropped beard.

  “Hold where you are, Christian!” he shouted, spittle flinging from his lips.

  Roland skidded Veillantif to a halt. The raider reached down into the huddled mass of farmers and dragged a young woman, kicking and shrieking, up across his saddlebow. Her sobbing daughter desperately reached up for her mother’s arms. Ignoring the child, the raider drew his saber and laid it against the woman’s neck. She quieted at the touch of steel on her skin.

  “Their blood will be upon your hands!” he threatened.

  Veillantif pranced beneath Roland’s firm grip.

  “Upon my hands?” Roland replied grimly. “I’ve blood enough on my hands, but this shall not be a part of it. Release them or you will die!”

  The officer laughed, but the sound held no humor. “You bring this on them!”

  “Be their protection, O God,” Roland whispered, his eyes never leaving his enemy’s. “Forgive me for what I must do.”

  With a press of Roland’s knees, Veillantif surged across the open ground into the captors and their human shields. The officer parted the woman’s neck with a butcher’s stroke then pushed her body from him. The little girl screamed and stumbled toward the twitching corpse only to be ridden down by the raider’s counter charge. An old peasant woman in the group wailed after her, falling to her knees and scooping the child’s broken body into her arms.

  The two warriors collided with a crack that echoed through the nearby trees. Swords flashed, steel struck, and the combatants sought for advantage, each probing for vulnerable seams in armor while deflecting murderous cuts. The raider thrust at Roland, and the steel scraped across Durendal. The knight’s gloved hand shot out and grabbed the man’s elbow. Roland spurred Veillantif, pulling hard on him, and toppled the armored Saracen to the ground. Roland loosed his stirrups and leaped down after him. Before he could gain the advantage, the raider lunged at Roland, bearing the knight over with a thump while fumbling for his dagger. But before the raider’s smile could fade, he gurgled blood when Durendal suddenly punched under his armpit to spring from his throat. Roland clambered to his feet and pulled the gory blade free.

  Marcellus’s company appeared then around the broken walls, hooves reverberating off the stonework, and the Frank troopers quickly encircled the ruins.

  “Enough!” Roland shouted, wiping at the mud and sweat rolling down his forehead into his eyes. “You’re prisoners of the emperor! Lay down your arms!”

  One of the Saragossans rode forward a pace, his saber at the ready. He studied Roland’s face then quickly scanned the Frank troopers who surrounded them. He spat. “We know how Christians treat their captives.”

  Roland extended his arm, Durendal’s stained length pointed at the man’s armored chest.

  “You’ve seen how I treat my enemies,” he growled.

  The Saracen turned in the saddle and conferred in urgent Arabic with his comrades. There was a moment’s hesitation. Then, as one, they sheathed their weapons.

  Oliver rode to Veillantif, wandering loose, and grabbed the steed’s reins.

  The peasants gathered what remained of their loved ones into their arms and fled for the protective circle of Frank steel. The Saracens tossed their weapons to the ground, but that wasn’t enough for one villager, who darted in close, reached up, and grabbed a dagger from the pile. He plunged the length of steel into one raider’s gut, thrusting again and again all the while crying wordlessly. Roland grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted the dagger loose from his hand.

  “Enough!” the knight said firmly. “Hasn’t there been enough blood today?”

  The peasant broke into a sob, hanging his head and staring at the blood on his fingers. He wiped it in a red smudge across his rough-spun tunic then silently followed the rest of the villagers away.

  Roland moved from one Saragossan horse to the next, his boots sucking in the muck, removing the stolen village loot from their saddlebags. Frank troopers followed behind, pulling the enemy from their mounts and one by one stripping them of their gear. A scuffle between a Frank trooper and one of the raiders gained his attention. A familiar symbol hung about the raider’s neck. Roland stalked over and, ignoring the threat of being trampled by the raider’s horse, reached up and grabbed the man harshly by the sleeve. He nearly unhorsed him when he snapped the silver ornament from his neck.

  It was a crucifix.

 
“What’s your name?” Roland demanded.

  “It doesn’t matter to you what my name is,” the man spat back. “I’m still a dead man, is that not right?”

  Roland rolled the cross around in his hand. On the reverse, he found Latin letters. He tossed it to Oliver.

  His friend squinted at the engraving. “Alonzo.”

  “A Christian?” Roland demanded. “You’re a Christian? And yet you attack your own brothers in the faith?”

  Alonzo’s face darkened. “Franks have no love for the Hill People. I owe you nothing.”

  “Yet you commit murder against women and children who hold your faith!”

  Frank sergeants dragged him roughly from the saddle and bound his wrists. Alonzo only laughed, even through one of the troopers striking him with a mailed fist.

  “In war,” this time he spat blood with the words, “there are no innocents.”

  Roland closed his fist on Alonzo’s crucifix. “As God is my witness,” he said, “there will always be innocents. The wicked are those who make no distinction.”

  Troopers dragged Alonzo to his feet, but he focused on Roland with a palpable bitterness. “When you weep in the ashes of your own home and cry to the heavens for justice, then you will know the face of the wicked. I survive. I survive and I make no apologies!”

  Roland tucked the crucifix into his belt. “Better to die with honor than to live in darkness.”

  He gestured for the soldiers to drag the man away with the others.

  A partially burned shell rose above ruined huts, smoldering in the late-afternoon sun, crumbling walls all that remained of the small country church. The stones were scorched black, and the primitive mortar crumbled from the heat that had been unleashed there. The edifice itself wasn’t large, but the rough-hewn stones and timbers had been a point of pride to those who had constructed it, laboring in devotion for a generation to be able to worship within its walls.

  A straggling procession of villagers bearing the bodies of the fallen approached. They made their way up the few steps, through doors wedged open on twisted hinges, to crowd into the blackened interior. In the midst of the sorrow, Roland bore the shattered body of the trampled child. He laid her on the altar and then assisted the others who struggled under the weight of the other bodies, including that of the mother.

  From the shadows emerged the hunched figure of the priest who served as vicar to these people. He hobbled through the fallen timbers with a crude crutch aiding his balance. One of his legs was a twisted red ruin, and an angry wound marred his balding scalp. He appeared to be a simple man, dressed in stained and threadbare garments. His face screwed up in pain when he raised his hands, waving at the people in frustration.

  “Father,” Roland said. “There will be a funeral mass for all who fell.”

  “I can’t,” the priest whined, tears streaming down his face. “There is none here but me.”

  “Father, I understand,” Roland replied gently, “but each of us has our duties. Yours is to pray over these people, in life and death—to sing them into the eternities.” He took a breath and looked sadly at the little girl’s body. “And mine is to send them there.”

  The priest genuflected urgently as if warding off a demon. “You profane this house,” he warned.

  Roland held up both hands. “You’re right, Father. I apologize. But, please—sing their passing. We will help as we can.”

  He fished in a pouch at his belt, produced a few coins, and tossed them to the altar next to the dead mother and daughter. The priest stared at the bits of metal and then at the torn bodies of his former parishioners.

  “Honor the innocent,” the knight continued. “As Christ honored the children.”

  The priest nodded, his face easing, though the pain clearly remained. He herded together some of the village boys and began searching through the wreckage for the items needed to perform a proper service. The townsfolk gathered about the altar, some of them pressing their hands against the torn bodies and garments lying on the bier. Roland stumbled from them, found a quiet corner, and sank to the floor, burying his head in his hands.

  “I asked you to protect them, dear God,” he choked, his voice a hushed whisper. “Please, take them into Thy bosom. And forgive me, Father. Forgive me, the cause of their death.”

  AOI

  Roland led the Frank scouting party pounding up the muddy track toward the towers that rose ahead, the Saragossan prisoners mounted between them with their hands tied to their saddles and to each other. Marcellus’s fortress squatted in the pastures surrounding it, old and stolid—the product of skilled Roman engineers that had been ancient when the Franks had first arrived in Francia nearly four hundred years before. As the party approached, guards rushed across the drawbridge to greet them and to take custody of the prisoners.

  Marcellus, having returned while Roland tarried at the church, gamboled out on bowed legs to eye the new charges.

  “My lord Marcellus,” inquired a sergeant from the far reaches of the Breton March, “where will we be housing our guests?”

  Roland eased Veillantif close to the rotund count and leaned over. “These men bear information on events across the mountains.”

  “Understood,” the count rumbled through his beard. He pointed through the gate to a dark ironbound door set deeply into the inner courtyard wall.

  Shouts of defiance mingled with terrified screams that echoed through the musty depths of the keep. Days had stretched into the better part of a week, yet the Frank jailer leaned once more over the smoldering brazier and thrust his instruments into the heat. At his back, bloodied tools lay scattered across a dark-stained wooden bench. A man lay strung out on a plank, stripped to the waist, his torso maimed and his face twisted in pain. His ankles and wrists were bound tight to keep him still, even under the terrible duress that kept his body twitching. Nearby, a dark-robed cleric mumbled in Latin, marking the points of the cross over his chest to ward off the effects of what he’d witnessed during the interrogation. Other prisoners strained against their bonds, only to have a guard prod them back against the wall with the butt of his spear, their chains clacking to keep time with the man’s pained wails.

  Roland stood nearby, stone-faced, watching the jailor ply his craft.

  “Saragossa. The emir …” frothed from the prisoner’s lips in a rasp.

  “And the caliph?” Roland demanded. “What’s his part in this?”

  “Please …” the prisoner pleaded. “All I know are camp rumors.”

  The jailor held up a brightly glowing instrument, heat shimmering from the metal. A smudge of smoke rose from it, tainting the fetid air.

  “When Barcelona’s subdued,” the man gibbered, “ships … he’ll land in Francia, north of Carcassonne, to support Saragossa. Some whispered a hundred thousand or more. It’s Allah’s will!”

  Marcellus stepped from the shadows. His bushy eyebrows knit together, concern upon his round sweat-beaded face. “If this is true, all of southern Francia will be devastated.”

  Roland examined the man’s tortured face.

  “It is true,” Roland said. “Cut him loose. And give them food and drink.”

  Roland turned and strode from the chamber, the shadows swirling in his wake nipping at the edge of his cloak.

  CHAPTER 13

  A House Divided

  Charles sat on his golden throne while the nobles of the realm crowded into the great hall. His ermine-trimmed cloak rested high on his shoulders, its particular purple hue the result of contention and negotiation with the Eastern Empire—for the Byzantines jealously guarded the color as a singular imperial prerogative.

  As he watched the assembly jostle into the room and for position near the throne, his fingers drummed along the haft of a scepter of fine Byzantine craftsmanship topped by a gilded eagle with outstretched wings. He was restless to leave the machinations
of the capital behind for a season—to breathe clean air free from platitudes and deceit. Behind him, Turpin and Naimon held places of honor as the king’s advisers, Naimon serene as ever, the stalwart bishop fidgeting in his finest vestments.

  Finally the room filled, chatter faded to a whisper, and Charles said, “It is time.”

  Naimon stepped forward, cleared his throat, then in a full voice declared, “Peers of the realm. I bid you welcome in the name of the king.”

  The remaining whispers died.

  “Count Rene of Agincourt, if you please,” Naimon continued. He then handed Charles a set of white calfskin gloves and an intricately carved staff, similar in style to the royal scepter.

  The king stood when Rene emerged from the crowd, his peers parting to let the tall veteran pass. The noble confidently strode the length of the room to halt before the throne with a martial flair and bend his knee to his monarch. Charles descended the two steps between them. With courtly solemnity, he placed the gloves and the staff into the count’s outstretched hands.

  “It shall fall upon my lord Agincourt to lead a contingent of my knights to the Saxon March. I bestow upon him all the rights and authority to act in my name in defense of the realm.”

  Agincourt raised his eyes and pressed the tokens against his chest.

  “Saint Michael as my witness,” he replied, his voice filling the room with a confident bellow, “the kingdom will be free from Saxon depredations in your absence, sire. This I swear!”

  Charles nodded, gesturing for Agincourt to rise.

  “I pray your words are prophetic, dear count.”

  Rene bowed deeply and returned to the front ranks of the nobles.

  Charles scanned the assembly. “Noble Franks,” he continued, “vassals, and friends. It is time to bid adieu to our loved ones. In a fortnight we journey to Spain. God save us all.”