CHAPTER 4
Of David and Goliath

The camp stretched along the ridge, a serpent of tents, helmets, and sputtering fires that fought against the morning mists. Frank scouts had already pounded across the countryside, relaying to the pickets news of Roland’s approach. Thus they were not surprised when the young knight’s party appeared out of the fog making for them at a canter. The duty sergeant stepped out onto the rutted track and raised his hand for a halt. Roland pulled up abreast of him, his mount lathered in muck from the miles of hard riding. After exchanging a few words, the sergeant waved them forward, though not without giving the two Iberian Arabs a suspicious stare as they passed.

The party tramped along the track toward the center of the camp where soldiers directed them to an empty plot of ground. There Roland dismounted at last and ordered the men to set up the tents that would provide them with barest shelter from the bleak Saxon spring. He struck out across the encampment to seek audience with Charles.

Time wore on, and the sun neared midday, finally burning through the mist that clung to a nearby river flowing through thick forest and overgrown fields. Oliver secured the last tent rope and straightened from his task to examine the terrain. In the distance beyond the river, trails of smoke marked the location of the Saxon camp. He tossed his gear onto a camp table and walked a little further beyond his comrades to see the pickets from both armies mirroring each other’s movements along the river’s banks.

A gaggle of squires passed close by. Oliver called them over, setting them to lend a hand to Demetrius in stowing his diplomatic travel chests. Oliver quietly believed those chests were elbow-deep in gold solidi—the empire’s coinage, all of proper weight and purity, of course. The two Moors stood apart from the activity, and Oliver’s attention shifted to them with great curiosity, for prior to this venture, he’d never seen an Arab or Muslim before. Upon the road from the march, he had examined their every tic and movement. With what he’d seen thus far, he determined they were much like the princes at Aachen—used to having commands obeyed and to being surrounded by finer things, even on campaign.

The sound of tromping boots broke through his thoughts. He glanced back toward the tent to find Roland returning at last. Even before he gave voice to the question, the look on Roland’s face spoke the answer.

“We are not to see Charles?”

Roland walked past him and tossed his cloak into the tent.

Oliver cleared his throat. “I am here, you know.”

Roland stopped, shoulders hunched.

“I’m not to see Charles until after he crosses the river!” His voice was sharp with bitterness.

As Roland snatched up the remainder of his gear, Gothard sauntered into their midst.

“When the scouts told me it was you who rode up the road, I could not believe them!” A sneer coiled his thin lips. “I thought even you could not be so stupid! I almost had them flogged! But here I stand corrected. You’ve now surprised even me.” He leaned forward in a mocking half bow.

Straightening from sorting his belongings with a crack of his back, Roland offered his stepbrother a bright, dangerous smile in return. “Go away. I’m not here to suffer your idiocy.”

Gothard’s hand dropped to the long, wicked dagger slung on his hip. “Suffer me? I’m the least of your worries. You disobeyed a direct order from my father—our father.”

“Don’t presume to lecture me, or use family to sway me. We’re at war. It was a stupid order.”

“Mind your tongue!” Gothard snapped. “Your words were overlooked in the march. But they will not be here!”

Roland shrugged.

“I’ll remember that. But if you decide to press the point, you’ll find me ready.”

Gothard’s face clouded as his anger rose. He slid the dagger halfway from its scabbard then rammed it back home with a sharp snick. “I’ll remember that, brother.” He lifted his hand from the weapon, flexing his fingers. Then he spun on his heel, slipping in the wet, matted grass, and stalked off.

“You shouldn’t bait him,” Oliver warned. “He has many friends at court.”

“He may have many friends,” Roland replied as he tossed his gear in a heap into their tent, “but he hasn’t enough.”

Overhead the sun had already passed midday, the rays providing scant warmth to the Frank soldiers crowding along the riverbank. They cheered and groaned with the ebb and flow of the single combat splashing and clanking in the chilled waters before them. A towering Saxon warrior, broad chested beneath a scale mail shirt and with arms like tangled oaks, swung his ax at the smaller, armored Frank who ducked then lunged in return, mud sucking at each of his steps. The Saxon blocked the broad-bladed sword with the ax haft and hammered his own pommel home into the Frank’s helmet. The knight stumbled, his guard faltered, and the Saxon lifted the ax into oberhau position above his head with both hands. Muscles flexed with the down stroke. The ax bit deep, opening the knight at the hip, spurting crimson clouding the water.

The knight cried out. The Saxon wrenched the ax free then sliced again, catching the Frank under the arm, the keen edge separating iron and bone. He followed with a crushing blow to the knight’s face, and the man crumpled to float facedown in the bloody current. The Franks groaned in unison even as the Saxons broke out in a raucous cheer. With a grim laugh, the Saxon champion raised his ax once more then buried it deep in the knight’s back.

“Is this all you’ve got to send to Hengest?” he spat, his accent thick and guttural. “Is this the strength of the Franks?”

Charles stood silently among the crowded nobility, snowy beard framing his lean, pinched face under his heavy crown. His cheeks flushed with anger.

“My lords!” he snarled in a low voice. “Who will meet the Saxon and remove him from the crossing?”

Roland stood bolt upright a few paces away, disbelief spreading across his face. Bertrin, count of Poitiers, a solid man with a horseman’s muscled calves and the silver pate of a seasoned veteran, shouldered past him to stand before Charles. Behind him came Geoffrey of Anjou, a middle-aged noble with a close-cropped brown beard and impatient, fiery eyes. Both were veterans of Charles’s wars in Italy.

“Let me move up archers to clear the bastard and have done with it, my lord!” demanded Bertrin.

Geoffrey raised a gloved hand to counter his old comrade. “My king! If we did that, what would we have of our honor?”

“By God, Anjou!” Bertrin fumed, “You question my honor?”

“Where is the honor in assaulting him from a distance? What else is the purpose of single combat, if not to prove ourselves better?”

“Well, I for one have had enough of being made a fool like this!”

“And you think we will look less craven if we simply shoot him?”

“Craven! How dare you!”

“Enough!” Charles barked, his voice effectively leashing their exchange. “Tomorrow I will require one of you to stand against him.”

The nobles grumbled in assent but only faintly, for this was the third Frank knight to fall beneath the Saxon’s butchering ax. Charles swept away from the riverbank back to his camp.

Pepin, Charles’s elder son, watched the exchange with keen brown eyes beneath meticulously combed hair. His face was shadowed by the barest of a man’s growth, his skin pale from long days sheltered inside the palace at Aachen. The prince limped toward Anjou, his lifelong infirmity clearly visible, and bemusement visible upon his face. He leaned close to the man and whispered, “He doesn’t value your honor, Geoffrey, and he never has.”

Geoffrey pulled at his beard a moment as he watched soldiers fish the fallen knight’s remains from the river. “Indeed. Yet I must honor my oath of fealty, for he is my liege. What would you have me do, were you standing in my stead, my prince?”

Pepin waved his hand casually, affectionately placing his other arm around Geoffrey’s shoulder.

“I ask for nothing but your love, Geoffrey. We piss away our strength on these Saxons, while other dangers lurk far to the south in Saracen lands. For your love, I would end this war to protect Aquitaine and Anjou.”

“Welcome assurances, my prince,” Geoffrey said. “Our lands would be open to an incursion, should the Saracens take a notion to make one.”

“I intend to make more than assurances,” Pepin said. “When the time comes, I’ll remember you, dear Anjou.”

Oliver left the quartermaster with a bag of supplies slung over his shoulder. He glanced to one side to see Roland marching mechanically from Charles’s enclave in the camp center, ignoring the commotion around him. Oliver hurried through the milling troops to Roland’s side.

“If you don’t watch what you’re doing, you’ll end up a blot on the bottom of a wagon wheel,” he quipped.

Roland said nothing. Mist steamed from his nostrils like a dragon’s exhaust.

“Well,” continued Oliver as they approached their tents, “are we to ford the river and take the other bank?”

“No!” Roland threw up his hands. “Another has fallen before this Hengest. Saint Michael’s bones, we sit while the Saxon mocks us!”

“But one of our knights will finish this today?”

Roland tugged open the tent flaps and began rummaging through his gear. Oliver stood at the entrance, watching him.

“No, they wait until tomorrow,” Roland said. “This whole challenge is a game to our nobles, but there will be hell to pay when the entire Saxon army arrives. They stall us here, bound in our honor, for a reason!”

From deep in his saddlebag, Roland pulled a long dagger. He drew it from the sheath, balanced it in his hand for a moment, and then tucked it into his belt.

“What do you mean to do?” Oliver asked.

Roland crossed himself, lowering his head to mutter a prayer under his breath.

“Come on,” Oliver prodded. “I know you better than this. You’re dodging the question. Wouldn’t our purpose be better served if we just pushed our way into Charles’s tent? You are his nephew, after all.”

“He won’t see me until we cross the river, remember? So—” Roland cracked open his eye and smiled. “I’ll race you across!”

“No,” Oliver replied. “It’s not our place. You’re not the shepherd facing Goliath, you know.”

“Of course I’m not.” Roland laughed, patting the dagger affectionately. “I don’t even know how to use a sling.”

He slapped Oliver on the back then dashed out of the tent and hurried across the camp toward the river.

The curse of a soldier’s existence is to hurry up and wait. In the midst of troops busying themselves with menial tasks to distract their minds from the slowly building Saxon army across the river, a thick-bodied cleric caught sight of the two friends pushing through the soldiers. His merry, round face bristled with a gray-streaked beard, and his tonsured head glistened with sweat, even on this cool day. This particular man of God wore a war kit over the robes of his ecclesiastic calling. And amid the ordered chaos around him, the familiar youths’ single-mindedness piqued his interest.

He stepped into their path. “Roland! Oliver! Where are you two going? I’d have thought you’d be joining your company at prayer!”

Roland pulled up short, Oliver a half step behind. “You mean my stepfather’s men, dear bishop, not mine.”

Turpin wrinkled his nose. “You haven’t answered my question. Where to in such haste? Answer me true, lad. You know better than to lie to me.”

“I am going across the river,” Roland said.

Aghast at Roland’s audacity, Turpin took him by the shoulders with hands made more for wielding a sword than a bishop’s crooked staff. He peered into the youth’s eyes.

“This isn’t a game, you know. Besides, suicide is a sin, my son.”

“I tried to tell him that,” Oliver snorted.

Roland shrugged off Turpin’s hands.

“I have no intention of dying today, Father.”

He gave the cleric a quick bow and continued his jog through the camp.

Oliver and Turpin followed Roland past the guards and pickets near the river to where the usual collection of nobles and onlookers waited for something—anything—to happen. Charles, for his part, was nowhere to be seen, likely still at prayer himself at this hour.

Moments later, a heavily armored sergeant scratched his head curiously, watching Roland splash into the shallows. He signaled one of the idle troopers nearby to report back to the king. When he looked back, Roland was already halfway across the river, feeling about the bottom with his feet. After a moment, he cupped his hands and yelled toward the enemy camp.

“So, tell me this, are the Saxons ready to fight? Or have they come to shovel pig slop? Is there any Saxon without shite smeared on his breeches?”

The call echoed through the boles of trees back into the Frank camp, and within minutes it erupted into a wave of men rushing toward the river. In their midst flowed the royal colors as Charles and his entourage likewise scrambled to see what was unfolding.

Across the river where he sat by a smoldering fire pit, Hengest unfolded his long limbs and wiped crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand. He laughed, grabbed his ax and shield, and settled his helmet over his thick locks. Then he swaggered down to the river’s edge and roared with mirth when he saw the Frank youth standing in the ford pulling a dagger from his belt.

“You’re going to fight me with that pig-sticker?” he growled.

“No, I’m here to join you for breakfast,” Roland replied. “Shall we spoon porridge and carve sausages together? Or shall I just cross and take your whole meal?”

The nobles not far off on the Frank side of the river opened their ranks to allow Charles to approach the water’s edge. His face was stern, much unlike the surprised ogles of those around him.

Hengest’s laughter roared from deep within his barrel chest. When he strode into the water, his body created a bow wave that pushed out before him. His ax swung dangerously with a whisper of a whistle. “Come, little fishy!” he said with a wicked, gap-toothed grin.

He drew up an arm’s length from Roland and with a snort cut savagely at him.

The youth dodged in a flurry of water. “You can’t cut a pudding like that!” Roland taunted.

“Swinehund!” Hengest attacked again, muscles rippling like coiled snakes. Roland flopped back on the waves, and the ax blade sliced through his shirt. His footing slipped, his arms flailed, and he sank beneath the muddied surface. The Saxon beat at the water, kicking and cursing as he searched.

Roland broke the surface behind him, slinging fistfuls of mud at his back.

“There is shite on you, sir!” he spurted through a mouthful of water.

Hengest snarled and spun around with astonishing speed for a man so large. Roland ducked under the ax’s arc, straightened again, and stuck out his tongue. The Saxon’s fist followed the weapon, striking Roland’s jaw with a crack, throwing him off his feet into deeper water. Hengest wallowed after, teeth gnashing and nostrils flaring. He splashed with his hand, trying to break through the churned cloudy murk that obscured his quarry. Something bit into his leg, and he howled then floundered toward the riverbank.

Roland burst from the water nearby, dagger glistening in his hand, and spat water at the retreating champion.

“I’m over here!”

The Saxons crowding the opposite bank gasped, horrified at the turn of events.

Roland launched his body into Hengest’s unsteady bulk, slowed by the water but driven by the momentum of the fight. The Saxon staggered, arms windmilling, and the ax slipped from his fingers. Roland plunged after him, wrapping his arms around Hengest’s neck and pulling him under the surface. Limbs and bodies churned up muck. Then crimson blossomed across the rippling surface.

A few heartbeats later, Roland splashed though the surface, heaving Hengest’s body off him with a gurgle.

The Saxons broke, fleeing through their camp and, in the rush, leaving behind their equipment. Roland yanked his dagger free from Hengest’s throat then waded ashore on the Frank side, dropping to a knee before Charles, who thoughtfully tugged at his beard.

“The crossing is yours, sire,” Roland choked breathlessly.

“So it would seem,” Charles replied. “I’ll see you after we’ve crossed the river, nephew.” Without another word, he stalked away, his astonished entourage straggling after him.

Common soldiers surrounded Roland, clapping him on the back and lifting his arms high.

Within hours, the Frank war machine began to lurch into Saxony.

Nobles streamed in and out of the royal tent that had been hastily carted across the river and pitched on a rise within sight of the sprawling Saxon host. Roland navigated the throng of court bureaucrats—monks, scholars, brilliant liveried squires, and personal servants. He sidestepped pages burdened with scrolls that still dripped scarlet wax, the lads scurrying to find the recipient of each royal dictum. At the flap of the royal tent, Roland ducked his head and found himself in a crowd of northern counts who chatted in a contained courtly manner. Many observed and reacted with measured responses to those who could be potential rivals for royal favor. A squire approached Roland and signaled for him to follow through the milling officials to Charles’s private audience chamber, a room of canvas walls and woolen carpets separate from the main body of the tent.

At the far end of that room, Charles waited upon a gold-leafed traveling throne, chin resting on hand. The young knight stopped a respectful distance before the throne and bowed.

“Do stand,” Charles said sharply, waving his hand with a familiar agitation. “You’ve stirred up the nobles, my boy. And not only for this morning’s stunt. Just for being here, some want me to send you back to Aachen with the empty supply wagons and lock you away in a tower. Maybe even throw away the key!”

Roland straightened. “I meant no disrespect.”

Charles examined the youth’s face for a moment with an imperious gaze. Then he chuckled, like cracking flint. “No, of course not. I know in your heart you didn’t. Yet here you are, the young bravo—instead of in Breton March where Ganelon left you.”

Roland’s eyes never left Charles. “I’m here because Demetrius, the emissary from Constantinople, brought news. Important news.”

“He did, did he? And this news is?”

Roland felt his heart pulse in his throat. “An invasion by Saragossa.”

“Invasion?” Charles leaned back in his chair, tangling his fingers together. “Demetrius has proof of this?”

“Yes,” Roland said. “He brought with him the sons of Barcelona and Saragossa. The son of Saragossa, this Saleem, has detailed information on the emir’s plans.”

“Saragossa’s own son?” Charles nodded, staring off into space for a moment, then asked, “And you trust Demetrius?”

“He is the ambassador, sire.”

A frown sagged Charles’s face. “That’s not what I asked. Ambassadors are men. And more than most men, they cloud the truth.”

The youth’s eyes never wavered. “My father trusted him, and I trust him.”

Charles narrowed his eyes and stood. He paced slowly around the chair, clutching its back until his knuckles whitened. “We must finish our Saxon problem first. Afterward, we’ll assemble the court and present your news.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “This is serious, indeed.”

“Yes, sire. I remind you that if they surprise us, they could drive all the way to the heart of Francia.”

“I am well aware of that,” Charles replied with ill-concealed annoyance.

“My king, I meant no—”

“No disrespect, I know, nephew. I know. You never do.” He seemed to loosen slightly, like a tree bent by a wind that suddenly relents. “You have yet to learn the subtleties appropriate to your station. But then, perhaps diplomacy is not your calling.” He motioned Roland closer. “If this is true, this invasion must not happen.” Charles’s voice remained low and firm. “And you’ve a role in this. Once this business with the Saxons is done, I want your father’s spies activated. I must know more …”

He trailed off, rubbing his beard, then suddenly turned back to Roland and fixed him with an intense glare. “As for tomorrow, I cannot look to play favorites. You disobeyed an order from my appointed representative in the Breton March. You’ll go to battle but in the reserves—under Count Florian’s command.”

Roland opened his mouth, but before the words could tumble out, Charles raised a hand. Seeing the audience was over, Roland sketched another bow and slowly backed the way he had come. By the time the canvas flap ruffled closed, the king was already at his camp table rifling through documents, muttering beneath his breath.

Night descended on the tense fields, and the two armies congregated about campfires for their final meal before the hostilities of the next day. The smell of wood smoke and burnt meat drifted bucolically across the fields, the same fields that would be sown with blood on the morrow.

Ganelon stalked through the shadows of the Frank camp, his face stony, eyes focused on the steps before him through clusters of troopers readying equipment for the engagement. By the time he finally reached the tents he sought, some simple and some exotically different, the sun had descended below the horizon.

Roland emerged from one tent, shrugging and stretching.

“I thought that had to be you.” Roland laughed when he saw Ganelon’s darkened face.

“And here you are instead of in the march.” The words spit from Ganelon’s mouth in a rapid fire staccato. “And what you did today? Disgraceful! You acted like a damn fool! Despite all your birth and blood, it’s clear you’ve no regard for honor or decorum. You’re nothing more than a spoilt child playing at war!”

“I did what any soldier would. I used the ground to my advantage,” Roland countered. “Securing victory for Charles is all that matters.”

Ganelon stepped closer, expecting to cow the impetuous youth. “Not only dishonorable but arrogant. Today you stole honor from many great lords. Men who have fought and bled to earn the right to stand beside their king.”

“You mean the same great lords who leaped forward to take up our cause?” Roland spat back. “Now the Saxons have fled. We have crossed the river, and Charles has his honor.”

Ganelon motioned toward the soldiers stitching torn garments, honing edges on weapons, and repairing saddles. “Look around you. While you crow about the king’s honor, noble men prepare to die.”

“I see them. Yet this morning I saw noble men stare at their boots as the Saxon mocked us!”

“How dare you!” Ganelon snarled as Oliver pulled back the canvas to step out at Roland’s side. “Your cavalier attitude disgusts me!”

“Then,” Roland said levelly, “perhaps you should have offered to fight the Saxon.”

Ganelon’s hand fell to his sword hilt. “How dare you? I am not some drunken sot …” His eyes bored into the younger man’s, and his knuckles whitened on his pommel.

“Really, Roland,” Oliver quipped. “Baiting him like that. You know better. You’ll back him into a corner, and his honor will require that he draw a sword. Oh, what a blood feud that would begin!”

“Stay out of this!” Ganelon spat. But his attention had been broken.

“As you wish, my lord.”

By now Ganelon heard a change in the camp sounds behind him, a subtle shift in the character of the creaking leather and chinking metal. His eyes darted around. Several of Roland’s companions had risen to their feet. Though no weapons were blatantly readied, each man had a blade, a club, or some other deadly implement close to hand. Ganelon swung his gaze back to Roland, who returned it unflinchingly.

“It occurs to me, Roland,” Oliver offered gently, “now is not the time to be disrespectful. We’ve a battle in the morning. A better use of the time for all might be sleep.”

Roland held Ganelon’s gaze for just a heartbeat longer. Then suddenly his face broke into a grin.

“Of course, Oliver! My apologies, honored stepfather.” He bowed deeply. “It would seem I have spoken out of turn.”

Ganelon glanced between the two youths, Roland with his innocent dancing eyes, Oliver with the silent admonition to take the exit offered. His anger burned, but he knew the price of causing a disturbance on the eve of battle.

“Apology accepted.”

Ganelon slapped at the leather scabbard and dismissed them with a wave of the hand as he turned and stalked into the night.

AOI

Morning broke brisk and cold as the sky turned from shades of black to gray with darker clouds above rolling in that threatened rain. With that first light, the Frank camp became a sea of activity. Soldiers streamed into ranks stretching along the edge of the great forest across the fields to the sea, jostling one another beneath the rough admonitions of their sergeants. Pennants and standards waved bravely, each signifying a noble house taking a place in the line—infantry companies in the center with archers behind, Bertrin’s cavalry on the right flank and Ganelon holding hard by the sea on the left.

Before the Frank host stood ranks of Saxon foot soldiers spread along a low ridge near the dark, silent wood, secure behind oval shields and sporting a varied assortment of weapons hefted over their shoulders. Some wore homespun wool and animal skins like their Frank cousins, though most would strip off the encumbering layers before noontime as the grip of battle would soon enough provide sufficient warmth. Massive war-dogs roamed freely among them and barked madly at the Franks.

Horns blared, and the Frank army surged forward, slowly at first as the sergeants strained to keep an orderly advance and conserve energy, then picking up speed until they were charging across the field. Charles rode atop his dappled mare with his personal guards forming the center. Pepin and Louis, Charles’s younger son, both resplendent in fine armor and brilliant surcoats, rode at his side.

But outshining even them in the morning rays, a silver horn bounced among Charles’s finery on a polished chain. The martial instrument was crafted from a large bull’s horn, its milky smoothness chased with silver bands ornately carved with Germanic dragons and triumphant saints. This was the Oliphant, whose pure note in battles past had sounded Charles’s victories from the Northern Sea to the banks of the Rubicon, and even from the walls of Rome.

Roland sat upon his horse among the rearguard near Bishop Turpin, stewing in his armor as he watched the advancing troops move off. Fire burned within him, not from the anticipation of battle but rather from watching others fight and die from a distance. He flexed his hand around the reins, tightening his knuckles on the leather straps, fighting the urge to bury his spurs into his horse’s flanks. What a glorious race that could be to outstrip Bertrin and his cavalry to the Saxon line! But it was not to be, for near him old Florian of Burgundy leaned forward on his steed, squinting with rheumy eyes through bushy eyebrows. The man’s belly pushed against the saddlebow when he wheezed through his mustaches, a thick-jowled bear of a man with a bristly gray beard.

“Hold your place,” Florian grumbled.

In the distance, a horn sounded.

The roar of thousands releasing their battle-lust answered. Roland watched, lips pursed, as the Frank center struck and Charles’s eagle banner surged forward, the accompanying infantry driving a wedge into the Saxon middle. The two armies locked into a brawl whose winnings would be measured by yards of muddy ground and blood.

Atop his lunging warhorse, Charles leaned low in the saddle and with his sword hewed down a Saxon warrior. The long minutes of the initial collision stretched into an hour of mortal combat where Frank troopers pushed hard against the stiffening Saxon shield wall.

Amid the chaos, a Frank horseman, his surcoat already torn and bloodied, urged his steed toward the royal guard that fought like lions to keep the Saxons at bay. His face exuded nothing but confidence as his mount danced past a thrusting enemy spear.

“Sire!” he shouted over the din. “He’s flanked them! Bertrin mauls them on the right!”

Charles gestured nearby troopers forward into a newly opened gap in the Saxon line. He then pulled his horse back from the fray, choking for breath for a moment before he responded. “Ride on to Ganelon. He must hold against the sea!”

The messenger saluted, hauled his horse around, and spurred through the infantry to the left of the Frank line. Charles raised the Oliphant to his dry lips and blew a note that broke across the Frank center, cutting through the din of battle like the cry of an avenging angel, rallying the men in another mighty push to break the Saxons.

With the notes still echoing across the fields, Oliver rode up beside Roland and pointed across the battle to Bertrin’s heavy cavalry. The horsemen charged with wicked iron-tipped lances into the Saxons and drove them back but in so doing pulled away from the center and opened a gap between. Before them, the enemy staggered back against their own lines as men bunched together then fell back.

“Look! They buckle! The Saxons will not stand!” Oliver cheered.

But Roland could see the impending danger. His feet twitched in the stirrups.

Florian mumbled, “Hold the line.”

Bertrin raced to envelop the Saxons, leading the entire right wing around the enemy flank and widening the gap between him and the Frank center.

Just then northern horns blared from the wood beyond the battle. Roland’s blood chilled.

“God, no!”

He spurred his horse forward, heedless of Florian’s fumbling, as rank upon rank of Dane warriors emerged from an arm of the forest reaching to the ridgeline. The pale sunlight glinted from their helmets while a ragged cheer broke from the Saxons. Even from this distance, Roland could mark their jarl, ringed by his mailclad bodyguard and bannermen.

The Danes lifted their bows and bent them skyward. Upon a distant command, they released as one, the arrows hissing high and then screaming down to tear into Bertrin’s exposed flank. Horses and riders tumbled, churning up muck as steel barbs found chinks in their armor. The Danes let out a raucous cheer then bent their bows once more, releasing a rain of fletched death down on the combatants, Saxon and Frank alike.

“My lord!” Roland shouted urgently to Florian. “They must not be allowed to join with the Saxons! The whole right flank will crumble! We must intervene!”

But as the count turned his wide girth in the saddle to shout commands, something else consumed him. He began suddenly garbling and choking. His eyes desperately darted back and forth as he vainly sought words. With a huff, he sagged into the saddle, his limbs quivering and his faculties unresponsive. Squires rushed to support his violently twitching body.

“Apoplexy!” Turpin exclaimed as the squires struggled under the count’s sporadic thrashing and sagging bulk.

“Dear God! Gather the bandon commanders!” Roland shouted, pulling his mount’s head around to face the reserves once more. A pair of squires scampered away to gather the nobles commanding the ragtag units that constituted the reserves.

“They must fight!” Roland whispered urgently to Oliver.

“Then you must lead them!” his friend replied.

Roland felt breath chill in his throat with Oliver’s words, for this could quickly turn into a slaughter when they reached the gap and faced the full fury of the Northmen. It was one thing for him to rush into the fray with seasoned troops from the march who had fought for his father. But these with him now—these were only a hodgepodge of poorer hedge-knights and peasants who barely knew their place in line, let alone the measured movements of a well-disciplined formation. Regardless, the task had to be done. He spurred his horse’s flanks and cantered up the ragged group. Too many faces—there were just too many for him to remember each one that looked to him for guidance and direction. And all too soon they would be trampled under Danish boots to be forgotten even by the realm that was about to throw them into the breach.

He sucked the chilled air between his teeth and prepared to give the order to advance, when from the midst of the reserves, rank upon rank of Breton marchmen pushed to the fore. Kennick’s familiar grizzled face strode before them, a grin splitting his salt-and-pepper beard. The marchmen halted and locked their shields, their precise movements a peerless reflection of the moldering texts Roland had drilled into them while slogging through the muddy fields of the march.

“God bless you, Kennick!” Roland reached down to clasp the warrior’s arm in his hand. “But what on earth have you done?”

“Well, my lord,” the grizzled veteran grumbled, “it seems that in your rush to get off to war, you forgot something.” He handed Roland a saddlebag with road mud still on it. “I thought you might be needing this.”

Roland reached inside then looked sharply at Kennick. “You know there will be hell to pay for this.”

“I always pay my debts, boy.”

Roland tugged out the folded banner, shaking it to its full length. A grin broke out across his face—the rampant wolf of Breton March had arrived to lead them to war.

“Squire!”

He handed the banner off to a youth who tied the pennant to the end of a lance. Roland grabbed it back eagerly. The men fell silent as the wolf rose proudly overhead. The sign of the champion had returned to the field.

“Men!” Roland called over the distant clash of battle. “Our king is sorely pressed, and we’re honor bound to aid him! You’d follow Florian into battle. Now, I ask that you follow me!” He thrust the banner into the air. “Today, will you live and die with the wolf of the Breton March?”

The men shouted in an incoherent cheer, banging their weapons against their shields. Roland handed the lance to the squire, crossed himself solemnly, then clasped his hands together. He bowed his head, and the anxious men clustered around following his example.

Bishop Turpin dismounted and knelt in their center. “Dear God,” he said, “deliver us, your faithful servants, from the hands of the heathen. Amen!”

Roland drew his sword, the long steel flashing in the uncertain light, and wheeled his mount back around to face the battle. A glitter of gold caught his eye when out of the throng Demetrius, Karim, and Saleem trotted forward and settled into the front rank next to him.

“You’re here as well?” Roland said. “But this isn’t your fight!”

Karim flashed bright teeth. “Our fathers are allies, are they not?”

Demetrius shrugged. “I ride with my friends.”

Saleem only grunted and appeared aloof.

Roland nodded. “Your friends welcome you.” Then raising his voice, he continued, “Cavalry, with me! Oliver, draw up the infantry and fill the gap. We will strengthen Bertrin’s left and cut off the Danes. Strike hard!”

Horns blared and the reserves leaped forward—hedge knights on bony nags and footmen with mismatched armor—with Roland at their head.

In the center of the now struggling Frank line, Charles found himself urgently waving troops forward through a field choked with the dying and the dead. Arrows continued slicing down, finding chinks in armor and bare exposed flesh. His mount suddenly pitched over and crashed to the earth, an arrow through its eye. Guards rushed to his aid, fighting desperately against the surging Saxons driven with wicked abandon as they sniffed victory at hand. The guards cut at Charles’s harness, freeing him from the tangle of leather and dead horseflesh. He grabbed a soldier by the arm and staggered to his feet.

“Father!” Pepin yelled from his vantage point atop his steed. “The Danes flank Bertrin! They’ll encircle us!”

“Send to Florian! He must commit the reserves to the right. To the right!” Charles stepped into a gap in his own line, thrusting his sword under a Saxon’s chin. The man staggered back, clutching at his open throat, to be finished by another Frank who shouldered him off balance and punched a hammer against his temple. Cheers drew Charles’s eyes toward the rear of his own army, but he could see nothing afoot.

“What is it?” he demanded.

“The wolf!” Louis shouted, drawing his own horse up near his father. “Breton March rides before the reserves!”

Charles straightened, his bloody sword clenched in his fist. “We must hold! Saint Michael be praised!”

He lifted the Oliphant, pressing the silver horn to his lips, and blew. Its clear, sweet note echoed above the din of battle, and his mind flew for the briefest instant to a time when he had held his first field command and used the same horn to call for help. A knight had ridden to his side that day—a knight named William of Breton March.

Hooves churned through the muck on the rear of Charles’s right flank, and the reserve cavalry raced toward the edge of Bertrin’s line. Dane arrows voraciously rained upon them, dropping horses and men in headlong flight, but it did not slow their charge. Roland’s banner surged to the fore of a wave of iron under the ringing note from the Oliphant, and then the Frank cavalry collided with the Danes, armored knights wreaking havoc among the lightly armed skirmishers, trampling them like so many blades of grass and driving the survivors before them.

A Dane howled a battle cry and drove his spear into the chest of Roland’s charging mount, toppling horse, rider, and attacker into the muck. The Dane leapt to his feet first and snatched the butt of his broken weapon from the horse’s carcass. He lunged. Roland awkwardly parried the attack even as he struggled to free himself from his own harness.

Oliver raced through the butcherous cacophony, his lathered horse lashing out with iron-shod hooves to those reckless enough to offer challenge. Roland’s opponent fell when Oliver struck him above the collar of his hauberk and severed his head in a fountain of blood. Nearby, the squire bearing the wolf bravely fought more Danes, but an ax opened him up at the shoulder, and the standard faltered, dropping from his slackened hands. Oliver leapt from his steed to grab the pennant from the muck and fight back the Danes. Then he hefted it high above the fray. Roland extracted himself at last and rushed to Oliver’s side to keep the northern enemy from stripping the marchmen of their standard.

A wave seemed to ripple through the Danish ranks. Not far away, Kennick and the marchmen, having stabilized the line, now shoved further into the enemy to recover their young lord. Locked shields bore down against the loosely formed Danes who gave way as the Franks stabbed and slashed, each man protecting his comrade to his left.

The reserve cavalry regrouped under Demetrius’s direction and advanced as well. Karim and Saleem fought like lions in their midst, deadly Damascan blades carving a path of mayhem.

The tide began to turn.

Otun, broad-shouldered and mail-clad champion of the Danes, had been fighting in his jarl’s bodyguard until the battle’s confusion had separated him from them. He now roved down the flank with a great murderous ax gripped in both his meaty hands, laying into any contenders within reach. His green eyes, deep-set under bushy red brows, were fixed on the Frank reserves that had stalled his countrymen’s advance, and the knight fending off fierce Danish warriors from under a wolf banner.

That standard would be a welcome trophy for the Jarl’s great hall, Otun mused as if a whisper from a Valkyrie had placed the thought in his battle-drunken head.

He hefted the ax, spat mud and blood, and with a bellow upon his lips launched into the chaos surrounding this youth. Frank troopers fought back, but he shrugged them off and answered only sparingly with the edge of his weapon. He had no time for such trifles. He was focused on his prize, this young man cutting, thrusting, and barking orders.

Roland pulled his blade from the groin of yet another enemy, the man collapsing in a gush of blood and jumble of flesh. Turpin yelled something that was incoherent in the chaos, and Roland spun in time to see a great red beast of a man, covered in finely made chain and bearing a deadly two-headed ax, breaking through the ring of marchmen around him.

This Dane cut at him with a roar, but Roland deflected the ax with an adroit tilt of his shield. Slightly off balance, the red-bearded giant swung again, driving forward with knotted shoulders, pushing Roland back and splintering the shield. Roland dropped the ruined board, rolled to the side, and threw his blade forward at an angle just as his assailant brought the ax down in a two-handed overhead maneuver. The sword flexed dangerously from the ax head’s impact on the flat, but his hand braced the blade and deflected the cut away from his body. He drove the sword and the ax into the ground and smashed the Dane in the face with an armored fist, then hooked his foot around the other’s trailing leg as he lunged forward, toppling them both. Roland landed atop the Dane and tugged his dagger free, pressing the edge to the enemy’s throat.

“Yield!” Roland demanded.

The Dane sputtered, flailing his arms. He noticed for the first time the young warrior’s motley collection of companions, from poor knights and farmers to an exotically armored Byzantine standing near two Saracens. “What manner of man are you?”

“Do you yield?” Roland pressed the dagger down, drawing blood.

The fallen man ceased struggling.

“Who do we yield to?” he rasped.

“I am Roland, son of William, who was count of the Breton March!”

The Dane twisted his head to one side, calling to his struggling comrades. “Jarl Sigursson, is he dead?”

“He is fallen, Otun!” replied a Dane warrior who paused, notched sword still at the ready, and was covered from head to toe with blood and earth.

Otun’s red eyebrows knit together. Then he forced the words from his mouth, “We yield to the wolf!”

One by one as the Danes recognized the word of their champion, they disengaged and lowered their weapons.

Oliver thrust his sword skyward to the reserves’ ragged cheer, the ripple of which was felt through the entire line of battle—from the forest verge, through the torn fields, to the edge of the sea.

Under the clearing vermillion sky, a brilliant note echoed off the hills. Victory, it sang.

Charles lowered the silver horn from his lips, his eyes scanning the wreckage from the day’s business. Around him stood the stalwart men who had held the center even as Bertrin recklessly chased after the Saxon feint. The bodies of Danes, Saxons, and Franks lay tangled among dead horses and war-dogs. Crows circled and cawed overhead, anxious to feast amid the cracked armor and torn gambesons.

From the fading light that engulfed the carnage emerged those who had held the left flank through the crisis on the right—Ganelon, who had fought with his back to the sea as the Saxon onslaught consumed the center; Alans, who had rolled over the Saxon king’s position and slaughtered his guard to a man; and Gothard, who had stood knee-deep in corpses when the tide turned following the reserve charge. Good men, all.

Alans took a knee before Charles. “We shattered them, my king.”

Charles laid a hand on his shoulder. “Yes. We did indeed. I pray to God they accept the terms.” He scanned the field once more. “And the reserves, what of them? What of Florian’s command? I lost them when they hit the Danish host.”

A soldier pointed toward the darkened forest. From the shelter of its ancient boughs a disparate group of men in mismatched arms picked their way through the fallen and the broken, pausing here and there to lift another survivor to carry along with them. At their head strode Roland, followed by Kennick, Oliver, and Bishop Turpin.

When they reached the king, Roland dropped to his knees next to Alans and held up a canvas bundle. Charles took it from him, his hands shaking slightly when he unwrapped it.

“What is this?” he breathed, his voice low as he folded back the cloth.

“The sword of the Dane jarl,” Roland replied, bowing his head.

Charles drew forth the gleaming blade and lifted it for all to see, its hilt and pommel a scrolling work of art that belied the butcher’s intent of the thick blade.

“A prize indeed.” He lowered the weapon and examined its workmanship. “We owe you much, young Roland.”

Taken by a sudden urge, he lifted the blade again. “With my nobles here assembled,” Charles’s voice rose with majestic authority, “I make this pronouncement before God and his angels … Roland of Breton March, by the authority I hold as anointed ruler of this people, I bestow upon you the rights, privileges, and honors of champion!” He touched Roland on the shoulder with the steel blade. “Arise, son of William! Arise, champion of the realm, and sword of God!”

The Frank soldiers shouted their approval, striking their shields with mailed fists. The rearguard crowed the loudest and the longest.

Gothard leaned to his father’s ear. “He now has a champion to protect him once more. Father, you’ve planned so long!”

Ganelon’s face remained a stoic mask. “We are the house of Clovis, blood of the first king. Patience. Always patience. Draw no attention to yourself. Trust me when I say no champion will stand between us and the throne.”