Myths and Legends from Around the World

by Robin Brockman

  “This sounds promising,” Blancandrin smiled, for what Ganelon suggested was an enhancement of his own plan. “And you are certain Charles will not turn and aid the rearguard, or quickly return and avenge it?”

  “Once they are through the passes you and the local tribes will have little to fear from them. Without Roland and the Peers to lead and inspire them, in the difficulty and cold of the mountains, already nearly home in France with their new wealth, again as I say, the king needing to settle the succession, the Franks will not return. Not soon, perhaps never. And I will always advise against it,” Ganelon declared grandly. “I will thwart the expedition at every turn if it is mounted, or even lead it myself and do little once here.”

  Looking at the faces of Marsile, Blancandrin and the other Saracen nobles, Ganelon knew they would agree to his plan, that they wanted to believe him when he said the Franks would not return.

  “Defeating and destroying Roland and the rearguard will not be simple in itself,” one emir with great battle experience and a good knowledge of Marsile's men commented. “If any portion of the Frankish force manages to return we may meet with disaster still, having risked all.”

  “I will tell you how it may be accomplished, knowing Roland and his flaws,” Ganelon smiled broadly.

  The traitor duly returned to the Frankish camp and presented the physical evidence of Marsile's willingness to accept Charlemagne's terms in full. Of course, this consisted of what seemed endless treasure and the most noble, well-connected young hostages. Alas, according to the testimony of Count Ganelon himself, Marsile's uncle had died at sea trying to leave Spain with several followers. The count was certain there was no doubt of it. He also attested to the sincerity of Marsile's Christian conversion. All this seemed assurance enough.

  Preparations were begun at once for the army's return to France, during which time nothing occurred to indicate any changes in the position of the parties to the treaty. Roland, while suspicious as ever of the Saracens, had forgotten – or so completely dismissed his stepfather's threats – that he looked for no danger from that quarter, though their enmity had not disappeared.

  So it was that as the army moved off at last and entered the mountains, a messenger from Marsile arrived and spoke to Ganelon. None was surprised by the information the latter relayed to Charles. The traitor had already prepared the way cleverly.

  “A few disaffected knights,” he reported to Charles, “and the greed of the people who live in the mountains, may, King Marsile fears, lead to attempts to harass the rear of our column as we approach the high passes. There may even be an attempt to hold the passes against us for a time after most of the column has passed. They might hope thereafter to rally others who might turn against Marsile and defy France further. While Marsile's reign is secure, and these forces pose no major threat,” Ganelon pretended to surmise, “he feels it best to warn us, to avoid misunderstanding, and to make sure we are not caught off guard.”

  “That is wise of him,” Charlemagne said.

  “We have left Marsile too weak to easily challenge these men himself or he would send warriors to do so …”

  “We can protect ourselves from a few marauders,” Roland scoffed. “Had I not better form a rearguard for the column, Sire?” he asked his uncle, obviously keen to fight in this one last action of the war.

  “Yes,” Charlemagne smiled indulgently. “Pick your men.”

  Meanwhile, Ganelon smiled a different sort of smile.

  Inevitably the courteous and valiant Oliver, the fighting Archbishop Turpin and the other Twelve Peers of France volunteered, along with the cream of the army. Roland decided to share the sport with the Peers, but in addition to them chose only a few hundred knights and men at arms to make up the main body of the force.

  Charlemagne nearly vetoed this idea as rash, and considered ordering a larger unit of good veterans commanded by one of his excellent barons.

  “Such a move, while wise in time of war, might prove counterproductive now, Sire,” Ganelon said, even before Roland himself could protest. “In these circumstances it could provoke an even larger attack, seeming to signal to the enemy that we take Spain too lightly. These lands will be Roland's and he must stare down the die-hards and if need be dispatch them personally to leave his mark.”

  Charlemagne, preoccupied with his return to France, agreed, but later as he moved away with the centre of the column, after making a brief farewell to Roland and the others, his heart grew heavy. This feeling increased with each stride of his horse. What had he dreamt the night before? He tried to recall. And what was that which seemed to pass between Roland and Ganelon as they parted? Another argument, surely, but about what? And why just then? Ganelon was riding near at hand. He could ask him, but that would be foolish. It was their business and no doubt they always bickered. But what had that bad dream been about, the great king wondered.

  Ganelon noticed Charles look in his direction but thought little of it. He was happily recalling his final exchange with Roland.

  “Thank you stepfather for your words in my behalf,” Roland had smiled a touch ironically. “Perhaps the role of wise adviser has come to suit you, after your survival as an envoy.”

  “My survival,” Ganelon hissed in a low voice, “was thanks only to my own wit, which is your ill-fortune. But if you perhaps thought you would long regret my returning alive from Saragossa, you are wrong. You will regret it, but not long. Not long.”

  Now these words meant little to Roland, for he feared nothing Ganelon might do to him, but it was the smug, self-satisfied look in his stepfather's eyes that sent a chill through him. It was not what he might do, but what he had done and would yet be done with much help.

  “You have betrayed me, you treasonous vermin,” Roland growled. “But, unlike you, I will not whimper, nor bring an ill-omen to my errand by dropping from a shaking hand the symbol of my office.”

  Boldly, letting on to no one what he suspected, Roland stepped forward for the king's bow, swearing no harm would come to a single man or horse of the column while he guarded its rear. Only the guttural words and glares that he and Ganelon exchanged had signalled to anyone a hint of what had passed between them.

  As Ganelon had guessed, again correctly, Roland's pride would not allow him to complain or explain, let alone ask for help. He also knew that even now, the Saracen host was gathering, armed with yet more well-judged information about Roland and the Twelve Peers. They would follow to the letter his advice about how best to destroy them, though it would cost more men in the process. It was too good and logical a plan to do otherwise. Ganelon's revenge would be most thorough.

  As the army of the Franks wound its way through the high passes of the Pyrenees, and with glad hearts down towards fair France, Roland, resplendent in his gleaming armour, rode before the men of the imperilled rearguard. He well knew that his own honour, his men's lives and the safety of all the Frankish troops lay in his hands.

  On the march as they were, in linear formation along the narrow tracks and defiles, inter-mixed with camp followers and the cumbersome baggage train, the army was vulnerable. A force overwhelming its rear could roll it up and cause many deaths and much damage to even so large and well seasoned a body of men as Charlemagne's. Calculating his betrayal, Roland, even better than his wretched stepfather, knew what a position the men of France were now in.

  This bigger treachery angered Roland more than the idea that he himself had been placed in a dangerous position. That Charlemagne and his army, that the very point of these wars had been put in jeopardy over a personal dispute, enraged him. Alas, he cursed his stepfather under his breath and set about making the best of a bad situation. It did not cross Roland's mind to send back for more men, to have Ganelon arrested, to contact the Saracens and warn them of the consequences of renewed hostilities.

  Roland would stand. He would endure. He would protect the Frankish rear, defying his personal and national enemies, and, he felt sure, win through or die magnifi
cently. Either option was perfectly acceptable, both to Roland and nearly all the men at his command. Indeed, none was shaken even when a patrol led by his vassal Count Gautier did not return, but only the mortally wounded count himself.

  Rushing from his bleeding friend to the top of a rise in the sloping ground, Roland joined Oliver. Here, through caution and a sense of military duty beyond personal glory, was the only man who would or could question him. Oliver had long been standing on the high place observing the enemy and hearing their shouts of self-encouragement and grisly plans for the Franks. Many cried out “Death to the Twelve” or boasted of his individual certainty of personally slaying Roland.

  “We are going to have a very big fight on our hands, my friend,” Oliver remarked.

  “Good,” Roland smiled grimly. “That is as it should be. Gautier shall soon be avenged.”

  “The enemy is in force,” Oliver went on, “and manoeuvring to surround us.”

  “Even very good,” Roland nodded. “We shall soon have them just where we want them.”

  “Hadn't we better increase the odds in our favour, though, old comrade?”

  “Why trouble the king and the army with a duty we have sworn to perform?”

  “Because,” Oliver turned to his friend, a little impatiently, “we are betrayed. That is plain. The Moors cry out for us. They know already whom they face and there will be more of the enemy than these. Ganelon has done for you and all of us.”

  “Yes,” Roland sighed, bowing his head. “I know it.”

  “Then blow your mighty war horn and alert the king and the army to our plight.”

  “No, that is not necessary. We can carry the day against these heathens and I will not dishonour our bold contingent by calling for help.”

  “But you admit we are betrayed by Ganelon. This will be far from the equal fight it seems. They are not as they appear merely twice our number but many more still. Ganelon has created this trap for us.”

  “Speak not of my stepfather now, he is my kinsman. I will not blame this on him. I am here for my duty.”

  The steady glare, the set jaw and cool words told his friend that Roland was determined and would not accept contrary advice. He could already see the action to come, already hear the cries of death and wounding, the songs of glory afterwards. Roland's pride would not allow him to seek assistance, or flinch from what was to come.

  Walking somewhat stiffly down the rise, Roland went to address his men. Yes, he had been betrayed, his vassals killed, his men placed in danger, but there was only one reply and that was to smite the enemy and see to it that all was paid for in full. To fight so well, so boldly and with such disregard for his own life that nothing else mattered. He would lose his fears and doubts and guilt in battle.

  As Oliver watched his friend mount his horse and take up his lance, he knew that unlike their comrades who even now were approaching France, Roland would not be going there, not be going home that way. Battle was his home and he would return only to that.

  Catching up with Roland, he took hold of his stirrup and beseeched him once more to summon reinforcements.

  “Roland, it may already be too late and you condemn all these men. Sound your horn.”

  “It would be cowardly and I cannot abide a coward,” Roland growled, then suddenly he slipped from the saddle and embraced Oliver. “Please, say no more. The king has given us this task, these bold French comrades, and God, this time, this moment. Lay on with your lance and I will wield my sword Durendala and the pagans shall rue the day they thought to trick and overcome the likes of us.”

  Clapping his friend on the back, Oliver laughed with abandon and they sprang into the saddles of the horses their squires held ready.

  “Death before dishonour,” Oliver sang out, with only a light touch of irony.

  “Noble Franks,” cried Roland, riding before the rearguard, drawing his famous sword. “We fight for Christ, Charles and Glory. If we prevail, let all France sing of our valour and skill. If we die, let all know we fell as Christians, loyal vassals and the maddest, bravest sons of France.”

  “Aye, for the Faith!” shouted Turpin.

  “The Emperor Charlemagne!” cried Oliver.

  “And immortality. Charrrrrge!” screamed Roland. A roar went up from the French and the slow trot of the great warhorses began, soon growing into a thunder while on the flanks archers loosed arrows at the approaching heathen host.

  The Saracen centre faltered for a second at sight of the Frankish charge. With every tactical advantage against them, facing numbers double their own and no escape in the direction of Spain, the wild Franks came on. It was incredible.

  With a battle cry of ‘Allah’, the twelve champions of Marsile, led by the Saracen king's nephew, leapt ahead and thrust themselves at the Twelve Peers. The clash of steel, wood, horseflesh and human strength was mighty. A groan of ecstasy, agony, and relief arose from both sides. Battle had commenced at last, the waiting and fearful suspense was over. Nothing mattered now but the simplicity of killing an enemy, helping a friend, and surviving. In an ugly, complicated, demanding world, what bliss.

  In the general haze of battle the individual combats largely went the way of the Franks, who bested Marsile's champions and tore into the Saracen army, killing many and losing yet a few of their own. All around the corpses of both sides piled up.

  Roland was everywhere just when needed, seeing and filling a gap, rescuing outnumbered knights, driving back the enemy, reinforcing any weakened place in the line. The slaughter was great and the pagans’ numbers dwindled, despite great acts of bravery, leaving the exhausted, battered and reduced French band in possession of the field.

  With hope almost springing into their hearts, they saw yet another Saracen formation, larger than the first. Now, even the most innocent and optimistic of them knew they were finished, that their betrayal had been sure and complete. Cleverly, they had been shown just enough of the enemy host to stir them, just enough to prick their pride but not so many as to make any but the most prudent and cool-headed retreat and call for help.

  The full realization of their desperate situation hit them all. Everyone had fought unstintingly, had seen comrades fall, repeatedly risked his body and his horse. Many were wounded and yet it had been a battle against the odds in which their superior skill and spirit had told, as they knew it would. Here was the proof, however, of their folly. Here was the first universally understood evidence that they were well and truly trapped.

  That some would die was always accepted. That all might do so was liberally bandied about and even romantically dreamt of. To actually face this as a very distinct possibility gave them pause. Now, the real, desperate savage, body aching, hard labour fighting would begin. Thoughts of glory were fading rapidly.

  Wearily, though no less bravely, they formed up once more to face the enemy. Turpin felt within himself the change and saw it in the rest. This was no time to speak of minstrel's songs, of poet's verse, of lad's awed respect and maiden's sighing regard.

  “For Jesus’ sake stand. For hope of Paradise and for salvation, with the power of God in your arms, the love of Christ in your hearts, meet these heathens now my brothers and smite them, the enemies of Heaven.”

  Bracing up with renewed fire in their bellies, they greeted the new onslaught, stopped it cold and cut down the Saracens as barley under a scythe. Personally led by Blancandrin, the emir who had conspired with Ganelon, the valorous Moors came on regardless, and slowly the French began to give ground and to tire. The Peers themselves went down in numbers, battling to the last, a swathe of slaughtered enemies at their feet. Blancandrin himself was among the Saracen dead.

  Roland, Oliver and Turpin took a terrible revenge upon the slayers of the Peers, but more good French knights went down. Many died at the hand of the particularly valiant and swift-bladed Saracen warrior, Grandoigne, until he came face to face with Roland. A look of mutual respect and recognition passed between the two despite the chaos around them. No
formal salute was needed, no words were exchanged and yet in that mêlée and at that desperate stage of the battle both knew and others sensed it and gave them room even while fighting for their own lives. Theirs was a single combat, a duel within a battle. One would die at the other's hand, perhaps both would be mortally wounded but this would be no fleeting passage of arms. There would be no escape, no turning aside to deal with others, to help a comrade, to give orders or rest horses or catch a breath.

  Almost eagerly they met, exchanging blows, sword on shield, wheeling their mounts, flailing and striking solid or glancing hits, countering and blocking until their arms felt leaden. Finally, dropping their shields, horses alongside each other, they simply hammered twohanded blows upon each other. A chance, weary upper cut of Roland's blade found its way under the Saracen's right arm. The Frankish hero stood up in his stirrups and thrust down, driving the fairly blunt point of Durendala into the body of his brave enemy.

  With a grunt Grandoigne stopped fighting and swayed in his saddle, then fell slowly like a great tree, crashing to the stony ground with a vibrating crunch that was audible above the general din and made men pause even in their own struggles to look for the cause. But the pause was not long and there was no rest for Roland, who at once rode hard for the hottest part of the surrounding action.

  At last, though they had killed so many of the Frankish force, the exhausted and bloody Saracens retreated, leaving nearly all of their strength lying dead and dying at the feet of the enemy. The survivors of the attack rushed as best they could back to King Marsile and begged him to commit his last body of men to the assault, which would surely now prevail, but only with their help.