Afraid. Whosoever could imagine that a man like Rafael Rodriguez was afraid? Only a young woman who knew naught of the world and its ways!
He fumed as he presented himself for the midday meal in the hall. He sat at the end of the table with his comrades and drank his ale. They had served the meat, and he was aware that the lady herself watched him from the high table. Her brothers had taken note of her interest as well.
Rafael showed interest only in his ale. He would become drunk. He would be a besotted mercenary and show his true measure—even though that was not his measure. The fact was that he seldom drank in excess, but he thought recent events justified the change. He did not wish to spend another night in the company of Franz. He would prove that the brother Alexander’s expectations of him were justified, and that would eliminate Elizabeth’s interest in him.
It would be best for both of them.
“Another ale!” he roared.
Afraid.
“A song!” called someone from the back of the hall when the platters of venison stew had been licked clean and the trenchers of bread cast to the dogs. The hall was warm and the men there appeared to be filled with contentment. Rafael found his fingers drumming, and knew himself to be alone in his impatience to leave the hall. He refused to so much as glance to the high table, where Elizabeth sat on one side of her brother, Malcolm. His new wife, Catriona sat on Malcolm’s left, and Alexander, Laird of Kinfairlie, sat beside Catriona.
He drank heartily of the ale, hoping it would dull his agitation, but it only seemed to increase his restlessness.
“A tale, indeed,” Tristan echoed, raising his cup. The Sable League added their voices to the appeal, though Rafael wished the party from Kinfairlie would simply depart as quickly as possible.
They did not seem inclined to go. In fact, Rafael sensed a new harmony between Malcolm and his brother. Perhaps the older brother would return the horses to Ravensmuir’s stable. Perhaps all would end well for his comrade.
It was clearly time Rafael rode south. He tried to discuss destinations with his fellows, but they waved off such serious discussions and called for more ale.
It seemed that all would celebrate the triumph of the night before. Rafael surveyed the hall, seeking one person so restless as he and could not spy a one.
Not for the first time, Rafael was aware that he was different from those who surrounded him. It was more than his coloring, more than his heritage, more than his mother tongue, his perspective and his experience. He did not fit, even amongst a company of mercenaries. He did not share their ease with peaceful times, their enjoyment of a tale, their ability to savor the moment.
Rafael was always watching the portal, listening for attack, prepared to fight. He was always so prepared to depart that he never unpacked his saddlebags. He could be gone in a trio of heartbeats, with no regret for what he left behind. It was his way, and always would be. Indeed, he had been six months at Ravensmuir, and still his gear was packed, his saddle alongside his steed, his blade honed.
It was past time to leave.
He quaffed another cup of ale.
Rafael did not wait well. That, too, was different about him.
As he watched, Malcolm shrugged, for he was not one to recount tales. The Laird of Ravensmuir glanced at his wife, who could tell a story well enough, but the babe cried from the solar in that moment and Catriona excused herself to nurse her son.
“We must have a tale!” Elizabeth entreated, and Rafael stared into his cup lest he inadvertently catch her gaze. He knew she looked toward him, and guessed that she wished to linger at Ravensmuir so she could speak to him again.
Or perhaps she thought to change his mind that he—he!—could be the hero of one of these tales she favored. Rafael had never heard such nonsense in all his days. Heroes in tales were valiant and noble and honorable.
Yet he had treated this lady with honor, despite his yearnings to do otherwise.
Indeed, Rafael burned with the vehemence of his desire for Elizabeth. He knew he had done aright in denying her but in this moment, the choice felt all wrong.
He had need of a woman, ’twas clear. The warmth of a whore’s thighs would clear his thoughts. He had been unnaturally chaste at Ravensmuir and should ride to the nearest burg to ensure his satisfaction.
Then continue south from there.
“I have a tale,” Alexander said, rising to his feet. “I think it a most fitting one for this day, when Malcolm is returned to his home, after venturing far abroad, and here has defended what he has inherited to be his own.”
“Where are his horses?” Rafael muttered, but no one paid him any heed.
The company roared approval at Alexander’s suggestion and the ale was passed around again. Cups were filled, and the men turned their attention to Alexander. The Laird of Kinfairlie cleared his throat, then began to sing.
He had a remarkably fine voice, to Rafael’s surprise, though the tale he recounted made the mercenary frown. It was familiar, in some ways at least.
“A king there was, named Charlemagne,
Who rode to fight the Moors in Spain.
Men from far and wide pledged to his hand,
And that of his nephew, brave Roland.
They rode to war, ten thousand men,
Slew countless Moors before going home again.
Their packs were heavy with tribute gained,
Their purses never would be empty again.
Seven years they fought and glad they were
To return home with riches and cheer.
They sang as they rode through the pass,
Their hearts were merry at Roncesvaux.
But at Roncesvaux they were betrayed:
An enemy force in hiding laid
The trap was sprung on the mighty host.
And valiant Roland bore the cost.”
“Treachery and betrayal,” Ranulf said with gusto. “’Tis the meat of every good tale.”
“I thought winning the love of a fine woman was the merit of every good tale,” Tristan countered and Ranulf shrugged agreement.
“There is that to be sure.” Ranulf scanned the hall, clearly in search of a willing wench to hear his views. “For the love of a good woman is the greatest prize a man can win.”
Giorgio drew Guilia into his lap and she teased Ranulf. “Save your fine words for the moment there is a wench to hear them.”
They laughed together, as Alexander continued his song. Rafael had another cup of ale to dull the sound of the merriment he did not feel. This tale always irked him and on this day, his reaction was precisely as it always had been.
“The die was cast the month before
With a treaty and a wager sworn.
So fierce were Charlemagne’s men of war,
And so great their success, year after year,
That the Moorish king proposed a truce
Bargained with whoever Charlemagne trusted most.
One man there was in Charlemagne’s host,
Who he admired more than most.
One knight so skilled as to be the best,
One warrior more valiant than all the rest.
One man both fair of face and strong,
One man whose loyalty was their bond.
His nephew Roland was that man,
A knight renowned through every land.
The French king asked his beloved Roland
Who said instead to send Ganelon
That knight had wed Roland’s mother
And was known for his tact of manner.
The king saw the merit of the choice
And sent Ganelon to the Moorish court.”
“The right choice must be made when negotiating a treaty,” Amaury said. “I would guess this Ganelon spoke the language of the Moors.”
“As Rafael does,” Tristan agreed and Rafael fairly felt Elizabeth’s gaze lock upon him.
“I do not speak it so well as that,” he protested.
“You speak it more t
han any of us,” Bertrand countered. “I would choose you to negotiate a treaty on our behalf.”
They saluted Rafael and raised their cups high to toast him. He knew the rest of the company, including Elizabeth, watched with curiosity. She whispered to Malcolm who confided some detail to her. Rafael studied the bottom of his cup.
Alexander continued to sing.
“But Ganelon did not trust Roland.
Nor did he trust the Moorish man.
He believed his step-son did him ill
And meant for him to be killed,
By this foreign king who claimed he’d treat
And so Ganelon, his allies did cheat.
He told the Moor how best to attack
To ensure Charlemagne would never come back.
He knew the rear guard was led by Roland
And told the Moor to kill that man.
He took a payment of coin and gold
And to no man his betrayal told.
So, Charlemagne believed all at peace
And confident in the treat, led his men east.”
Rafael had heard this chanson in many versions over the years, but the version he knew to be the truth was solely told in Spain. That he alone knew of it in this company again marked him as a stranger, an outsider and a foreigner.
It was yet another hint that he did not belong in this foul land.
Much less in Malcolm’s court.
It was yet another reminder to be gone as soon as possible.
The ale, he had to admit, was not bad.
Alexander, refreshed by a cup of ale himself, sang.
“The company, ten thousand strong
Had fought fierce battles overlong.
They thought of little but home fires
And so it was they were took unawares.
The force rode late for the king did see
The hills and plains of his own country.
The men were threaded through the pass,
Stretched out thin, Roland at the last.
The hour was late, the night falling chill
The silence to Roland seemed to bode ill.
He shivered and looked back to find
Shadows approaching from behind.
Knights there were on steeds so fine,
Their banners red and gold did fly.
A thousand trumpets were blown as one
Their armor lit by the last of the sun.”
There was, to be sure, a cruel beauty in the trappings of war. The pennants and banners, the majestic destriers, the caparisons and gleaming armor, and helms catching the morning sun. It was all so familiar to Rafael, as was the aftermath of battle, with its blood and mud and mire. The song sent a thrill through Rafael, reminding him of all the times he had mustered before a battle, all the days he had admired the finery of his fellows, all the times he had faced a foe with his heart in his throat, wondering who would die in the battle ahead.
He cast a glance at the high table, seeing how Elizabeth was rapt in listening to her brother. Aye, people like this maiden believed war was all glory and honor. They knew naught of the dirt, much less the futility of it all.
The thought compelled Rafael to refill his cup of ale and drain it quickly.
“Wise Oliver stood beside Roland,
Awed by the Moors upon the land.
That knight climbed a hill beside the road,
The better to see the numbers of their foe.
He could not count them nor could see
The end of their ranks. ‘’Twas a sea
Of knights on horseback fully armed
Come to fight on mountain scree.
He feared they could not win this day
And to Roland Oliver did say
‘Blow your horn and do it now;
Summon the king to fight this foe!’
But Roland laughed and refused the plea
For he thought it would be cowardly.
The rear guard was his to defend,
And so he turned to face the fiends.
‘My duty it is to fight for my king
And I will hear my sword sing
As it slices through Moorish skulls
And brings victory, as God wills.’”
That was the manner of leadership that saw men dead, and for no good end. The folly of Roland was clear to Rafael as it was not to those at the high table. Dying foolishly had never been his own aspiration.
Indeed, he would prefer not to die at all.
A memory stirred at that, the presence of those demons and the portal to Hell a little too close for comfort, and Rafael took refuge in the ale. On this night, it would be worth the price to sleep dreamlessly, even if his own hide was at risk.
Elizabeth clutched her hands together in her lap as Alexander sang. The Song of Roland was a thrilling one, and she never tired of hearing it. On this day, though, she was struck by the references to warfare, and wondered if it was all too familiar to Rafael.
He drank ale with a gusto unexpected, more even than his fellows, and she wondered if he were a drunkard. He otherwise seemed to be in such control of his impulses, that she would never have expected as much. When she caught Malcolm’s frown of surprise, she knew that something was different about Rafael on this day.
Was it possible that he was as agitated as she?
“A hundred thousand Moors were there,
A force more fearsome ne’er did appear!
The rear guard eyed the gathering foe
And more than one quailed in fear, just so.
‘Fear not,’ brave Roland then did cry
‘For Durendal cannot be denied.
My blade will run with Moorish blood
And a blow will be delivered for God.
We will cut down those who lie and cheat
We will defend our king from such deceit.
My blade will slash, and it will sing,
And soon we will ride home again.’
Wise Oliver advised his friend
To blow his horn to call the king again.
More forces then would they be
And more assured their victory.
But Roland laughed at such prudence
He swore to offer all for the king’s trust.
He mounted his steed, he gave his sign
Ten thousand men rode forth aligned.
From all those throats broke the king’s own cry
For they rode to war calling ‘Mountjoy!’”
The company cheered at this and echoed the battle cry. “Mountjoy!”
“The first Moor taunted them indeed
For he told them of Ganelon’s deed.
‘What manner of men betray each other?
What kind of knight deceives his brother?
For God’s will, you all shall die.
And we shall take your bounty as our prize.’
Roland struck the first blow that night
For he cut down this dark Moor with might.
He sliced his helmet and split his head
With one blow, he struck that man dead
His blade cut the Moor to the spine
For Durendal could not be denied.
The Moors bellowed, their voices brash
The two armies met with a mighty clash.
The blood did flow in quantity,
The full moon shone on death indeed.
Oliver, Roland and Archbishop Turpin
Fought with vigor to the end.
And when back to back fought they three
They knew there was no place to flee.
Oliver begged Roland again to blow
A mighty bellow upon his horn.
Archbishop Turpin did agree,
Though they would not survive, they three.
’Twould be best to call the king
That he might avenge the loss there had been.
Roland did cede to them in this,
And lifted his horn to his lips.
He blew so hard and with such force,
>
That his temples burst and he was lost.
In giving this last battle cry
So the king’s most valiant warrior did die.”
Elizabeth watched as Rafael spat into the rushes. “A fool,” that warrior said as he rose to his feet. “He was no champion, but a fool who led others to their demise! That is no hero worthy of a tale!” Rafael sat down with a scowl then and beckoned for the ale.
His fellows withheld it.
Alexander and Malcolm exchanged a glance, and Alexander began to sing again.
“The summons echoed through the hills
For thirty leagues, its sound did peal!
Charlemagne knew the sound of Oliphaunt
The horn Roland carried on his belt.
He turned the entire company
The host racing back to the melée.
They found the rear guard, slaughtered all,
And Roland, brave Roland, also fallen.
Angels gathered around the dead,
A trio cradled Roland’s head.
Charlemagne watched the heavenly host
Gather the nephew he loved the most.
Brave Roland was carried to heaven high
The earth itself sending forth a cry
For there would be no knight again
So prepared to fight for king and men.”
There was fulsome applause from the company, and Alexander took a sip of ale himself before he bowed in acknowledgment. “And so it was that our father was named Roland,” he said. “It was a tribute to a bold hero and a name to ensure his own valor during his life.”
“It is a noble name, indeed,” Elizabeth agreed. “And a wondrous tale.”
The company began to applaud again, all except for Rafael. That man stood again, his manner as intense as Elizabeth had ever seen it, and raised his voice. “It might be a wondrous tale,” he said and the company fell silent. “If it were true.”
All's Fair in Love and War: Four Enemies-to-Lovers Medieval Romances Page 117
