Sunlight filtered into the room through thin homespun curtains to where Oliver lay in a twisted tangle of blankets, his breathing rhythmic and deep. In the distance, a rooster’s crackling crow jangled through the early morning.
The door banged open, and Roland burst into the room, jolting Oliver awake with a start. “Rise and shine, lazy bones!”
“What?” Oliver grumbled, groggily rubbing at his eyes.
Roland laughed with a mischievous smile. “Come along! The day is slipping away!”
“Oh, dear God in heaven,” Oliver murmured as he sat up. He fumbled at the bedside table for a cup, which he quickly filled with water from the nearby pitcher and splashed onto his face. He shook the droplets from his eyelids and squinted at Roland. “You’re up early for a drinking man. What’s the idea?”
Roland flopped onto the bed next to him.
“Well, I figured you might need some time to pray before we get started!”
“Started?” Oliver asked as he poured another cup, drinking this one. “Am I going to need prayers?”
Roland laughed and tossed one of Oliver’s boots at him.
“We’re all in need of prayers,” Roland assured him, suddenly less exuberant. “Pray for me as I take my first steps on the road to Damascus.”
Inside the home guard’s barracks across the courtyard, shutters remained closed for the men of the Breton March slept off the previous evening’s carousing, stretched out on their straw mattresses with their clothes and gear strewn across the floor.
The door slammed open, and Kennick, the master-at-arms, a grizzled soldier with rough tanned skin and a salt-and-pepper beard, stormed into the bay banging on an old pot. Roland and Oliver followed behind, clapping and shouting at the top of their lungs. The groggy men scrambled to their feet protesting loudly.
One man stubbornly pulled a cover over his head. “Out with you!” he groaned. “We spent our strength with you last night!”
Kennick ripped the blanket off of him.
“All right, my sleeping beauties,” he shouted. “Up and out! Up and out!”
“Mary Mother of Jesus what is this?” groused a young recruit from a local village. “I left this behind with the shite on my boots from my father’s pigs!”
Roland grabbed the youth by the feet, pulling him from the bunk onto the cold floor with a loud thunk.
“Come along, Gunter! The spring levies will be called up soon! The marchmen fought many campaigns with my father in years gone by. But are we happy with past glory? Or do we prepare for a new future? A future of our making!”
The marchmen grumbled but rousted from their beds nonetheless.
Later, near the muddy track that was the main road, the marchmen maneuvered in tight rectangular formations of the long-departed legions of Rome. Shoulder to shoulder with shields interlocked, they executed commands bellowed over grunts, curses, and the sucking mud by a priest reading from a worn vellum manual. Roland and Oliver sweated and marched in the center of the company alongside the men.
Along that same road, a rider in the brightly colored livery of the king of the Franks galloped to the gate. His lathered horse blew steam from its flaring nostrils as he pulled the animal to a halt. A guard straightened from where he rested against the wall, salutes were exchanged, and then the rider clattered across the drawbridge over the stagnant moat into the courtyard. He leaped from the saddle and hurried toward the great hall, stripping his cloak and tossing it to a squire who fell in behind him.
Inside the hall, Ganelon ate his midday meal at a long table with his son Gothard, a younger, lankier version of himself with thick, dark hair and the same permanent condescending scowl pressed into his features. The younger man looked up from his food long enough to eye the muddied messenger with disdain, then brushed his unkempt locks back and returned his attention to the meat. Petras, however, emerged from a shadowed corner, drifting purposefully across the floor. He always held a keen interest in the comings and goings of the nobility. Ganelon’s ambitions would tolerate nothing less.
The rider strode across the rushes and offered a stiff, restrained bow.
“You may speak,” Ganelon barked.
“I bring you greetings from Charles, where he assembles the nobles at Aachen,” the messenger replied. “He commands you to gather your levies from Tournai and meet him in Saxony.”
He handed Ganelon a rolled vellum message, the scarlet wax seal stamped with the imperial eagle.
“And Roland?” Ganelon asked.
“I have no orders for the son of William.”
“Good. Very good.” Ganelon waved for a serving boy. “Make sure this man has meat and drink. Hurry now, see to it!”
The boy led the newcomer to the kitchens. Ganelon caught Gothard’s eye.
“So we are off to Saxony then. Petras!” He turned to the priest. “I will require you to watch over the march in my absence. Maintain order by whatever means necessary. Oh, and do ensure my wife and stepson are monitored appropriately.”
Petras pressed his bony hands together in a show of fealty.
“Of course,” he replied. “I will alert you to any undue activities.”
Ganelon dismissed him with a wave of his hand, and the cleric slipped from the room without another word.
“He’ll demand to come with us, you know,” Gothard said in a hushed tone.
“Let him demand.” Ganelon reached for a crust of bread, tore it apart, and sopped it into his stew. “I removed William. I will remove Roland, when the time comes.”
“You’re far too patient, Father.”
“Yes, I am.” Ganelon smiled, thin lips stretched over strong teeth. “But my patience will be their undoing. Mark my words. I will have the throne. It is my right.”
The marchmen straggled into the courtyard covered in sweat and accidentally spattered blood to lay their weapons and shields in rows by the barracks before assembling into ranks. Roland and Oliver emerged from their midst to stand before them.
“You’re the pride of the march, boys!” Roland called over the sound of stacking gear.
Kennick, on the other hand, stood sentinel behind them at the barracks steps, the last barrier between the men and their supper. “Time to get your pride cleaned up!” he roared. “The last man to stow his gear gets dog scraps!” He glared at their sagging shoulders. “You heard me, boys! Why are you still standing here?”
He leaped to one side as the abruptly revived men erupted toward the door, jostling to get through.
Roland grinned at Oliver.
“See, finished before your evening prayers.”
“And before your evening cups,” Oliver replied. “So it’s been a good day indeed.” Oliver paused as Ganelon strode from the main hall, Gothard jogging at his side.
“Hang on a moment,” Roland said as he struck out across the courtyard.
He stopped a dozen paces from Ganelon. “When do we march?”
“‘We?’”
“I saw Charles’s messenger,” Roland observed. “The men are ready for campaign.”
“Ah, yes. So they seem.” Ganelon looked toward the milling logjam of men at the barracks door. “This season, Charles has different plans for the marchmen, I’m afraid. They will do as their name suggests—they will protect the frontier from land and sea. Breton March will be secure during the summer raiding season.”
“Garrison duty?” Color rose to Roland’s cheeks. “Garrison duty! But Charles needs his best troops! These have served him faithfully since my father was champion! They have been the backbone of Charles’s center in every campaign since he gained the crown!”
Ganelon’s jaw muscles clenched. “Those days are gone, stepson.” Behind him Gothard crossed his arms and smiled. Ganelon continued, “This is my final word on the matter. While we are on campaign, neither you nor your marchmen will set foot in Saxony.”