As one voice, the nobles echoed, “God save us all!”
Petras appeared at the door and watched for a moment while Ganelon directed the squires stowing gear for the long deployment to Spain. In his priest’s rough and dark wool habit, he blended well with the shadows in the corridor. His serpent eyes quickly took in everything within the room.
A young ruffle-haired page of not more than ten years recklessly threw gear into a canvas bag. He yelped when Ganelon planted a boot in his backside.
“Everything has a place,” the count growled. He sternly pushed the lad to the side. “Contents must fit in a certain way so everything can be stowed. A knight far afield cannot afford for precious gear to be left behind because a lazy squire took no thought to his task.” He bent into the bag and began turning then fitting the pieces of gear. “Gloves fit inside the helmet. A spare pair of boots can be filled with garments and wedged back along the sides of the bag. Clothing is to be rolled tightly and stacked neatly.” He grabbed each item from the child in turn, demonstrating as he reprimanded. “Everything must find a place. And when we decamp in Spain, you are charged with remembering where everything is, replacing it the same way. Whether the camp moves a hundred yards or fifteen leagues, it’s all the same.”
The lad sniffled. “Yes, my lord.”
“Wipe those raindrops from your eyes,” Ganelon said. “Or we’ll put you to other assignments. You’ll like them less, and your father will be months cleaning shite from your hair.”
Petras entered the room. The lord of Tournai looked up at his steward.
“About time you graced me with your presence,” he noted dryly.
He left the scurrying squires to their tasks and gestured for the priest to follow him into the foyer. The priest swept behind Ganelon like a shadow sewn to the heel of his boot.
In the next room, Ganelon halted before the stairs to his bedchamber.
“Between deployments in Spain and the Saxon March, the men of Tournai will be stretched thin,” Ganelon hissed. “You must remain in Aachen to monitor my interests.”
Petras scratched at his bare scalp. “My lord. Of course I shall do as you wish. But there remains much to attend to in Tournai. Many men shirk their duties as their lord and his heir both take up the sword.”
“Yes, yes,” Ganelon replied. “The absence of the whip lightens the yoke. But my lovely wife, the king’s own sister, will need your wise counsel and, shall we say, oversight. You know her son will also be far away in the company of her husband. She will be distraught and vulnerable.”
A thin smile twisted the corners of the priest’s lips. “I shall remain at her side, my lord—to provide the guidance she will find necessary.”
Ganelon slapped the priest on the shoulder, a rare sign of affection. “Of course. I’m sure she will be well cared for. A sharp eye can protect our much-loved wife from unintended conflict and tears.”
“I shall be ever vigilant and include her in my prayers. She will be kept from harm.”
“And from those who would use her,” Ganelon added. “Her heart is much too kind.”
At last Charles rode from the palace to the sprawling camp that lay outside the city walls. Behind him streamed ironclad horsemen in a grand procession, the flower of the kingdom’s nobility off to war beneath rippling regal banners. As the train got under way, Ganelon inspected his horse for the journey, checking equipment with a meticulous eye. Gothard stood silently by the saddle with the stirrup in his hand. Finally and without a word, Ganelon finished obsessing, planted his foot in the metal footrest, and swung up onto the horse’s back, prodding the beast toward the departing throng.
“Father,” Gothard said, hustling to keep up with him. “I should be riding with you.”
Ganelon’s face remained a mask. “Such devotion,” he observed flatly. “Your duty is with Rene in Saxony. Never fear, my son, there will be honor aplenty regardless of where you find yourself.” He dug into the horse’s flanks with his spurs, and the steed cantered across the courtyard to fall into formation with the other knights.
Gothard spat after him, kicking at the churned-up turf. He stepped aside as other knights clattered past, followed by a steady stream of motley-equipped Frank infantry.
“I know my duty,” he growled at his father’s distant back. “Standing at the river’s edge watching sparrows and farmers. But there is no honor without war.”
AOI
Far to the south, things were quite different.
Barcelona’s walls groaned with the impact of stones hurled from Saragossa’s patiently manned siege engines. Support timbers inside the stone fortifications cracked and bucked, causing defenders to scurry to brace up the walls with loads of dirt and grafted-in braces.
Outside those walls, Saragossa’s formidable forces assembled beyond bowshot, preparing for what all—both within the city and without—expected to be the final assault. Bedecked in fine armor and silks, Marsilion watched the siegecraft from atop a fidgety white horse resplendent with tassels and gold braids along the fringes of its tack. He signaled to Blancandrin, who called out commands from atop his armored steed. The general grimly watched the city begin to splinter.
“Have the sappers completed their work?” the emir queried.
The general nodded. “They prepare to take down the gate as we speak. Watch, my emir.”
Marsilion returned his attention to the city. Blancandrin nodded to a messenger, who raised a bright red flag. A hundred yards away, the signal was taken up and repeated, passing from station to station down through the depths of the army to the front ranks.
There was a hushed pause as the entire force waited for what was coming.
Suddenly the city’s great stone-framed portal groaned and erupted as if touched by the wrath of a petulant god. The gate’s massive oaken timbers splintered, screaming with pulverized rock, and crumbled downward upon themselves.
“Very good,” the emir sang out, clapping his hands. “Remember, Blancandrin, don’t spare the brood of the traitor Sulayman.”
“But, my emir, they are an honored family!” Blancandrin replied, aghast. “They’ve fought valiantly. Many would pay a handsome sum for their parole—even the caliph.”
“They betrayed their people by allying with the infidels,” Marsilion snapped. “Kill them all. I’ll not have them at our back as we march into Francia!”
Blancandrin bowed respectfully in his saddle before flicking his spurs against his horse’s hide, riding off to organize the final push.
The emir watched the swirls of dust rise. Through his well-groomed beard, he grinned with delight.
AOI
Marcellus’s quarters within his stone keep were well appointed with tapestries, mosaics, and old furniture that bespoke his family’s ancient ties to the land. With its venerable splendor, it was well suited as headquarters to the Frank vanguard preparing to cross the pass at Roncevaux to the Iberian Peninsula southward. The chamber Louis had selected for his war room was illuminated through tall, narrow windows. For this warm spring day the shutters had been flung open to catch a fresh breeze and chase out the last stale air of winter.
The prince hunched over a table scattered with maps and documents—lists of provisions, rosters of local levies, and assessments of the lands beyond the mountains. The only things missing were intelligence reports by the spies and scouts sent by Roland southward to glean information on Marsilion’s movements.
There was a respectful knock at the door, and Roland himself entered the room.
“Highness,” he said, bowing low. “You summoned? I came as quickly as I could.”
Louis waved him to the table.
“Cousin, I need some advice.”
“Of course,” Roland replied.
Louis looked up from the maps then and smiled. “It’s good to have you here. I’ve always been able to trust your
judgment.”
Roland smiled faintly, hiding conflicting feelings behind the circumspect expression—gratitude and pride on the one hand standing at the forefront of the expedition—and bitterness on the other over years lost twisting under Ganelon’s thumb since the death of his father. But none of that was Louis’s fault, and he nodded in acknowledgment of his cousin’s compliment.
Louis continued. “Father will arrive soon, and we must know what we face across the mountains. What have you learned?”
Roland stepped close to the table and moved the clutter off the map. He traced his finger along the old shepherd’s track that doubled as a trade route south through the pass.
“We’ve word that some of the Hill People could put up resistance where we mean to cross,” he explained. “But to move further to the east or west will stretch our supply lines. I recommend that we cut through Roncevaux in force as planned then stage here, to the south.”
Louis chewed his lip thoughtfully. “And Barcelona? Is he prepared to support us?”
Roland tapped the mark for the city of Charles’s primary ally among the Saracen lands south of the Pyrenees. “We’ve sent men to scout the region,” he said. “But I fear Saragossa has drawn the noose tight about the city with his siege, for none have actually entered its walls.”
“And my father?” the prince asked. “What shall I advise him?”
“What intelligence we can gather suggests no changes to our plans,” Roland said. “Charles must send a strong vanguard to provide a cover for the remainder of the army to cross. Then we strike, driving toward Barcelona to join forces with our allies. If we hit them hard, we can lift the siege and consolidate our forces for a push on Saragossa itself.”
Louis steepled his fingers before his eyes and examined the map. “You believe this? We can break them?” he asked.
“I believe we can,” Roland replied. “Granted, our last messenger reported Saragossa was entrenched about Barcelona’s walls, and to succeed we must roll him back away from the city to his own lands. That will take effort, but the reward will be to ensure the caliph thinks twice about lending support.”
Louis straightened and walked toward one of the sun-drenched windows, staring out over the courtyard and beyond at the growing camp of levies that continued to arrive from local districts.
“Then the van must be prepared to march south when Father arrives,” the prince said.
Roland bowed. “Of course,” he said.
AOI
Aude stretched across her bed with sheets of vellum and a small inkpot for her letters home. Her room lay in the quarters her father kept in Aachen to house his family while at court. But it had been years since he had visited, suffering as he was from old age and what the physician called consumption. In her hand was a letter from her mother, written very neatly with the miniscule Latin letters fashionable among court scholars and those with interest in Charles’s ongoing scholastic pursuits. Aude revered her mother’s sharp curiosity—a woman who would rather pen letters than embroider scenes in tapestries.
A sudden knock on the door startled her. She set the letter down as another knock impatiently rattled the door.
“Coming!” she said, bouncing off the bed and hurrying across the room. She pulled the latch, cracking the door open. Outside stood Gisela, wrapped in a cloak against the chill night air that swirled through the corridors.
“Your servant let me in,” she apologized. “I’m sorry to disturb you, my dear. But I must speak with you.”
Aude pulled the door wide and gestured for her to enter. “What troubles you, my lady?”
Gisela pressed a small amber-colored bottle into Aude’s hands. “Roland asked me to examine William’s things. I found this. I’d never seen it before.”
Aude pulled at the cork and wrinkled her nose. “What is it?”
“Careful,” Gisela warned. “It has a nasty stink. Who knows, it could be a distillate of something useful. Lord knows when I was a child my own mother pried my mouth open to feed me nasty remedies.”
Aude pressed the cork back into the bottle.
“I’ll try to find out what it is.”
“Thank you,” Gisela said with a forced smile. “I prayed you would. Too many eyes watch my movements for me to carry this out quietly myself.”
“Do you think—” Aude began, but Gisela raised a hand, cutting her off.
“I’m sorry, child,” she whispered, patting Aude’s hand and then reaching for the door. “I’d rather not think.”
She hurried from the bedchamber with the rustle of her skirts the only sound of her passing.
Aude closed the door. She studied the innocuous vial in her hand. Stepping closer to the window, she held the bottle up to the light. The liquid was inky, and she could still feel the bite of it in her nostrils.
“Maybe it’s really something helpful,” she murmured hopefully.
Guttering candles kept the keep’s small chapel dimly lit, the shadows relegated to the edges. But tonight that suited Louis, who was wont to pray when he could avoid the pomp and ceremony that normally accompanied a member of the royal family. The simple roughed-out room allowed him the private supplication his soul craved far from the prying eyes of sycophants who bent their knees alongside him only to use his pious inclinations to curry favor. He bowed his head and murmured a prayer. Even as he recited the words, he knew communion with God required a more focused devotion. Yet despite attempts to separate his thoughts from the world, he could hear the commotion from readying troops in the courtyard just outside. He tried to shut out those sounds too so that he could hear the whispers from the divine.
Shouting chased away the last of the prince’s elusive reverie. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the shouts swelled to cheers that continued to gain volume. When the chapel door burst open and a tall figure strode into the sanctuary, Louis heaved a resigned sigh and rose, turning to meet the interloper—then broke into an excited smile. Charles still wore traveling clothes spattered with mud, but his face was fiercely alert, and the winter’s pallor had been chased from his features by days in the sun. The king genuflected without breaking stride, each step clattering up the length of the chapel. He clasped his son in a firm embrace.
“Good to see you, Father!” Louis said. “We’ve carried out our charge—preparations for the campaign are well underway.”
“Good, good! Come with me, son. Let us walk.”
They walked together back into the nave, its rough walls covered in Roman-style tiles chronicling the lives and deaths of the apostles.
“You’ve done well,” Charles observed. “We passed the main camp as we approached from the road. Everything looked in order. But what of local support?”
“Encamped to the east, toward the pass. Fifty-five thousand levies.”
Charles paused, clapping his son affectionately on the shoulder. “Very good,” he said. “And Roland? Is he ready to lead the army?”
Louis nodded. “Father, he is the hunter unleashed!”
The chapel door opened once more, and a woman slipped through the portal. She pulled back her traveling hood, revealing her face. Aldatrude smiled brightly at her brother and curtsied before she passed him, crossing herself respectfully before the altar in very precise motions.
“You didn’t mention bringing her with you,” Louis murmured.
“Your sister?” Charles responded. “I value her counsel, as I value yours. She’s a good daughter, as you’re a good son.”
“Pah,” Louis spat. “She’s nothing like me.”
Aldatrude batted her eyelashes. “I should hope not, dear brother,” she purred.
Louis turned away to the chapel door and pulled it open to find Roland standing there.
“Seems we’ve a family reunion,” he hissed.
Roland hurried in and fell to one knee before the king.
“Uncle, welcome,” he said. Charles offered him a hand and drew him up, kissing him on both cheeks in greeting. “And welcome to you too, cousin,” Roland said to Aldatrude. He took her hand in his and kissed it.
“Well, this is more like the welcome I imagined,” she said cheerfully. “And welcome to you too, dear cousin.”
“My son believes you are ready to lead the van across the mountains,” Charles said. “Is that so?”
Roland bowed slightly. “I believe we’ve spent the time wisely, building our forces and capabilities,” he responded. “I’m ready to lay siege to the gates of hell at your command, sire.”
Charles considered Roland’s words. “Consider the command given, Champion. Organize the vanguard and cross into Iberia. And I’ve heard there are prisoners already?”
“Yes,” Roland said. “They await your judgment.”
Charles glanced at the altar.
“Hang them along the road,” he said. “A sign to the Saracens of our resolve.”
That night, Count Marcellus hosted the royal party with a feast to celebrate both the ending of winter and the launching of the Iberian campaign. The kitchens turned out all manner of local meats dressed with the last of the stored vegetables, washed with abundant casks of dark southern wine sourced from local vineyards dotting the rich countryside. Roland sat next to Louis on Charles’s right hand, a place of honor among a famished host who tore into Marcellus’s generosity with great gusto. Serving women delivered heavy trays to the tables in a steady stream, dividing the men’s attention between the steaming food and other hungers that required sustenance.
Roland’s eyes explored the nobles, their interactions, and their strained relationships exposed through too much drink. At a nearby table, Ganelon ate in a muted hush with his bannermen from Tournai, most of whom Roland barely knew from a brief visit to the count’s estates after his marriage to Gisela. Ganelon’s eyes met his, and Roland responded with a tight smile. He raised his cup to his stepfather. Ganelon blew a bone through his pursed lips then returned to conversation with his men. There was no respect there, nor ever would there be.
The Silver Horn Echoes Page 15
