All of Aachen turned out to witness Charles the Great’s triumphal return—nobles, merchants, and commoners alike jostled and elbowed for a place along the muddy street. They crowded against armed soldiers for a better look at the processional that squeezed into the narrow lanes. Not since the liberation of Rome from the Lombards had the city turned out in such riotous numbers. Roland rode in a place of honor just behind the royal entourage among a troop of his men. Otun marched on foot alongside him, sporting a fierce grin and bearing high the standard of the crimson wolf rampant on its white field. The banner snapped viciously in advance of the marchmen and blond- and red-bearded Danes that marched in formation in their wake. Rabble and nobles alike roared their approval when Bishop Turpin lifted his war hammer, calling in a raucous voice to young women leaning out of upper windows, spilling cleavage in defiance of the critical glares of their disapproving matrons.
“Good Bishop,” Oliver laughed, waving at the same enticing faces framed in tumbled locks, “it seems you’ve been away too long!”
“Yes, far too long,” the cleric mused with a round-cheeked smile. “Now home to warm the flock with plenty of drink and tales of the summer campaign!”
Oliver snatched a flower that drifted from the hand of a bright-faced girl, her bodice revealing spring and promise. “I’m afraid it will take more than ale and stories to warm them!”
Both men laughed, their voices pleasantly lost in the cacophony of the moment.
Far above the celebrations, in a richly appointed room of the palace, Charles’s willowy daughter Aldatrude examined bolts of Greek silk from a merchant just returned from the Orient. Her blonde locks fell loose about her lovely pouting face, and a hand rested upon her hip in a nettled pose. Silks and expensive linens clung to her form, accentuating each of her quick movements. Her sister Berta, shorter and darker with round, flushed features, feigned interest and waited for the inevitable outburst of temper and the lash of Aldatrude’s sharp tongue.
Forgotten in the deliberations, Aude, Oliver’s sister, wandered to the nearby window. Where Roland’s companion was dark haired, she bore their mother’s golden tresses that framed high cheekbones highlighted with a faint scattering of freckles and features that bore the stamp of ancient, even Celtic blood. Oh, and she was bored with the talk of baubles and trinkets, trinkets and baubles—on and on without end, the women of the court possessing nothing more to fill their chatter or their minds. They had all waited, for hours it seemed, for the army to snake past their window. But there was only one company in all the mass of troops in which she had an interest. She squinted through the spider web of autumn frost covering the glass and rubbed at it with her slender fingers. Out of habit, her other hand brushed back a golden strand of hair and tucked it behind her ear.
At last the procession appeared in the warren of streets below. From her vantage point, she saw resplendent guards clad in crimson and gold turn the corner and march with precise martial dignity. The crowd continued to press closer, and troopers pushed back with spears and shields. Charles’s expansive personal retinue followed and flowed toward the palace, brave banners rippling in the crisp late autumn sunlight. She whispered to herself as she recognized each one, from the crimson boar of Aquitaine to the golden stag of Anjou. Above them all floated the great Roman eagle, gold, black, and scarlet, under which rode Charles himself with his sons and heirs, Louis and Pepin.
“They’re home,” she barely dared breathe, her fingers rising to her lips. “Here they come!”
She threw open the window as the other women, suddenly galvanized by her words, dropped the exotic wares and flocked to the casement. Just then the wolf of Breton March rode into view, and she caught her breath. Next to Roland, Oliver appeared as well, riding with his companion. “Oh, he’s changed so much,” she whispered as the two princesses crowded her to one side to see their father and brothers.
“Who’s changed?” asked Berta, frantically squeezing for a place at the casement and waving for all her audience below. “Oliver?”
Aude lowered her hand. “Oh, yes. My brother has become a man.”
Aldatrude’s shrewd eyes darted between Aude and the marchmen. She tugged her sister from the window. “Why, indeed he has. As have my own brothers, Pepin and Louis. I almost missed Oliver among that rabble. Are those the marchmen? It looks like they leashed some unruly Danes and Saxons as part of their wolf pack.” She examined the troopers more closely. “Look, there’s Roland! He rides in a place of honor—I hear he acquitted himself well in the victory over the Saxons.” She gathered Aude’s hand in hers. “A fine catch for some noble family, don’t you think? A kissing cousin to the king’s family, so to speak.”
Aude lowered her eyes. “Oh, I wouldn’t know, my lady. Such things aren’t for me to venture.”
“Indeed,” Aldatrude mused. She leaned out to catch Roland’s eye.
Oliver waved to the window where the women of court fluttered hands and handkerchiefs in greeting.
Roland followed his friend’s gesture and caught a fleeting glance of Aude before Aldatrude and Berta crowded her completely out.
Ever astute, Pepin reined his steed back a pace to fall in line with Roland, smiling and tossing an occasional coin to bystanders who scrambled for the rare bit of hard currency.
“You’ve a following at court, cousin,” he said, nodding toward the royal welcome above that was blooming into a spectacle of sisters scrapping for attention before the citizenry.
“They squeal and blush for their brave prince returned from the wars,” Roland replied. “Not the hedge knight from Breton March.”
Pepin chuckled, slapping Roland on the shoulder. “Court’s different than you remember when you ran the palace halls as a child. Now you’re our champion! You’ll attract many at court, friends and foes. From here on you must consider well in whom you place your trust.”
Roland ducked his head from a bit of female clothing that fluttered by to be snatched up by a marchman just behind him. “I will. Thank you for the advice, cousin. I’m most grateful.”
Pepin offered Roland a dark, humorless smile.
“Yes. I’m sure you are. We shall speak again, cousin.”
With that, the prince nudged his mount with his heels, the steed skittering forward to rejoin his father and brother.
Oliver pulled up alongside Roland. “What was that about?” he asked in a low voice.
Roland shrugged. “A bit of brotherly advice, I suppose.”
AOI
Charles wasted very little time convening a conclave of nobles—the realm’s stalwart vassals from Aquitaine, Burgundy, and Languedoc, and even sworn men from territories in northern Italy and along the Alammani frontiers. They descended upon Aachen in pomp and ceremony that extended days before the official gathering, flooding the streets with brightly colored surcoats and young bravos—a noisome, bickering amalgamation of Franks and foreigners who could rarely agree on the time of day let alone the call to war in far-off Spain. Roland spent those days greeting, feasting, and carousing, but behind the cup in his hand, the champion began to piece together the intricate relationships of men, families, and fortunes.
And then came the day the royal heralds trumpeted the first notes that signaled the beginning of the deliberations.
While the council members entered the room and noisily sparred for position, Charles stood at the head of the great table in the center. Its expanse of wood was scarred from many battles—some with these very men, who had been battered and beaten into submission to keep the Frank kingdom united. Covering the head of the table, a large map outlining the entirety of the Frank lands also roughly sketched the realm of the caliph at Cordova south of the Pyrenees Mountains. A dagger pierced the map at the gap through the mountains at Roncevaux.
When all the nobles had finally jostled through the doors, Charles raised his hands for silence. The chatter in the room muted but did not immediately abate. Irritated, Charles thumped the flat of his hand solidly on the table.
“Gentlemen! Brothers in arms! By now you have heard the reports from Karim, the son of Barcelona, and Saleem, the son of Saragossa.” He waved a hand to indicate the two men standing apart from the rest. “You now have the same news that we have. I will hear your thoughts on the matter.”
Turpin examined the map and slapped a dour Geoffrey of Anjou on the back. It didn’t seem to improve the nobleman’s humor, as his lands would lie in the path of any invasion force that swept out of Iberia.
“Sire,” Turpin said, “I feel the need to remind my noble colleagues that we’ve beaten Saracens before. With God’s strength, we’ll crush them again.”
Geoffrey leaned forward, his look earnest.
“My king,” he implored, “an attack on southern Francia will devastate the region for years to come. I would beg you take heed to these reports and strengthen us in the south.”
Bertrin chewed his mustache as he examined the map, his face wrinkled with memories of the fresh campaign in Saxony. “But the Saxons are not wholly beaten. When the snow melts—and it shall—they will swarm the Rhine,” he murmured. “This is madness. Instead of drawing our troops over the mountains, we should be bolstering the northern frontier with greater numbers.”
Ganelon, ever calculating, folded his arms across his chest. “Sire, you are being manipulated, even though it’s well intentioned. We’ve not suffered an invasion from the south in a generation. The reason is simple—the mountains are formidable.”
“Have you not heard from the Saracens’ own mouths?” Alans demanded, pointing at Saleem. “It would seem they think differently now!”
“Just talk, Alans,” Ganelon replied. He turned away from the young southerners and dropped his voice for those nearest him to hear. “From heathen whelps. Who knows what games they play?”
“Games? Games? Damn you!” snapped Alans, his face the color of beets beneath his bristling beard. “If Saragossa invades, it will be our homes that burn!”
A dozen voices erupted at once, each straining to be heard above the others. Charles slammed his fists on the table once more. “Enough! I seek answers, not squabbling! We’ve enemies enough to spare. The question before us is do we prepare for the Saxons to break faith? Or march across the Pyrenees into Spain?”
Chatter broke out once more, many simply unable to agree.
“Come now!” Charles commanded. “We must have a decision.”
Roland stepped forward from his place at Charles’s right hand, cutting an imposing figure in a new surcoat resplendent with the wolf embroidered in gold piping. While younger than the other men crowding the table, he’d grown in stature after the incident with Kennick, and Ganelon’s tight-lipped smile spoke volumes about the animosity between the two men.
“Majesty,” Roland said, “if I may—send a contingent south. Prepare for war there. But leave enough force to garrison along the Rhine.” He traced a finger down the winding track of the river, marking where the Saxons were most likely to cross.
“You would have us divide our forces?” Ganelon remarked. “Should we guard two fronts only halfway? This is folly!”
“We can afford to leave a sufficient force behind on the Rhine. There are only so many places to cross, and each is a bottleneck. With proper fortification they can be held. And southward, if the Saracens must indeed be dealt with, Barcelona and our allies in Spain have promised us aid. They can bolster our numbers against Marsilion.”
Charles chewed on the champion’s words for a moment.
“Yes. If the caliph moves against us, we’ll need support from south of the mountains.”
“We will,” Alans urged, his voice rising above the renewed chatter. “My king, it is time to take action! Aquitaine must not be exposed to attack!”
Geoffrey nodded. “I am agreed, my king. Anjou stands prepared to support the expedition to the south.”
Naimon, Charles’s most trusted counselor, had been quietly observing the exchange. Despite his aged frame being bent from years of service in the king’s name, there was a compelling air about him that could cow even Charles’s impulsive vassals. When he spoke with measured deliberateness, all side discussions halted. “You’ve been given sound advice, sire. In the balance, we must watch and monitor the peace, but sending forces south to gauge Saragossan resolve is critical.”
Charles pondered, studying each face in turn.
“We shall send troops to the south,” he finally commanded, straightening from the table. “They will prepare for war against Saragossa. Pepin, my son, after Yule I task you to lead the advance party. Select from my knights for this mission.” He paused before continuing, his face crinkling with humor. “And don’t let your brother fill the ranks with monks and friars.”
Pepin rolled his eyes dramatically as he dutifully bowed to his father. But Louis pushed his way through the crowded chamber to Pepin’s side.
“Father, this should be a joint command,” he said. “We both should lead this effort!”
Pepin laughed and leaned back to take pressure off his halt leg. “There’s no room for a divided command—on the battlefield or in our house. Besides, you always drag on my coattails, brother. I won’t let you have command. Content yourself with the chanting of your priests.”
“You little prig!” Louis growled. He knotted his fists and unleashed a punch across Pepin’s jaw, sending his older brother sprawling into the arms of the surrounding nobles. “The command is not yours; it is ours!”
Charles stepped between them, a stern look chiseled into his features as he folded his arms. “Now, boys, there’s no need for this.”
Louis’s head bowed as he lowered his fists. “I’m sorry, Father. But you see how he baits me. It was a natural response.”
Pepin spit blood and shrugged off the hands supporting him. He straightened his robes, his eyes never leaving his father.
“It was a brute’s response—nothing more than mindless violence. Get him away from me!” He parted the nobles and limped for the door.
The war council had concluded.
Ganelon sauntered out the palace doors. Alans trotted to catch up with their squires shadowing them a few paces behind.
“What do you think of our new plan, Ganelon?” Alans ventured as he drew even with Ganelon’s elbow. “I suppose I could live with it.” He studied his comrade’s face, watching to see if he would take the bait. It wasn’t that he was necessarily trying to anger Tournai, but the man had been insufferably moody since arriving at the city, even more than after the embarrassment at the whipping post. His foul temper had begun to grate on the old warrior’s nerves. It was time for a little jab in return.
Ganelon, however, ignored him. When they reached the limit of the grounds, he took an unexpected turn to the left.
“Where are you going?” Alans stuttered in surprise. “Our quarters are this way—” He pointed onward down the path, but Ganelon tromped away with a deliberate step.
Peeved that his barb had fallen flat, Alans huffed after Ganelon with their equally confused squires in tow.
Ganelon led them around to the southern flank of the palace grounds, where there stood a tall gatehouse of mixed construction, moss-covered Roman near the ground and bare Frankish at the top. Ganelon stopped and stared at its battlements, still taking no notice of his impromptu train.
After a long moment, Alans cleared his throat. Ganelon, in the grip of some strong emotion, growled brokenly.
“What?” He tore his gaze away from the stonework. Alans was stunned to see his eyes, always so hard and calculating, were red-rimmed and wet. “What do you want?” He looked at them as if he had just noticed them. “Why did you follow me?”
“I … um,” Alans was, for once, at a loss for words. “You just walked away!” he finally answered a little too gruffly, caught off guard. “If you didn’t want me to come with you, you should have said something!”
Ganelon turned back to the gatehouse, his voice once again a barely restrained growl. “No matter. You can stay if you wish.”
Alans stared at him as his eyes bored into the stones. He turned suddenly to the squires. “Go! Back to our quarters! You have duties to attend to there, I am sure. Go!” The young lads, as confused as ever, turned on their heels and ran.
Once they had cleared the corner of the grounds, Alans turned back to his companion. “What are you doing here?” Ganelon’s rigid back offered no answers. Alans waved a hand around them. “No one is here but you and I, Ganelon. What is this place? Is this why you have been in such a mood?”
“‘Such a mood,’ you say?” A flash of the steely cold Ganelon that Alans knew so well reappeared. “‘Such a mood’? You know nothing, old man.”
“Then tell me.” Alans did not much like Ganelon, but the count of Tournai was always steady in a fight, and largely that was because nothing could shake him. This was a new side of the man that disturbed Alans. If he was to stand next to Ganelon in battle, he wanted to know what could possibly get under the man’s skin like this—for such a weakness could be a liability in the field. “What was it?”
Ganelon breathed deep. When he spoke, the iron curtain had again descended over his features, and his words were even and measured. “Nothing that concerns you, Alans. Only the death of my mother and my younger brother.”
He turned and marched past Alans, who was now twice speechless in one day.
AOI
That night the clouds blew away over Aachen, eventually allowing the moon to shine through.
As he walked from the palace, Roland drew a breath and let out a cloud of mist before his eyes. His thoughts were consumed with planning for the coming expedition to the south. As champion, he now found himself sitting through endless meetings from morning to night while nobles wrangled over how many resources each would provide for the venture. Lucky for him, Pepin always presided with a shrewd eye for detail and a fair amount of arm-twisting to stretch the royal resources committed to the campaign and make sure the counts put forth their fair share. Roland rubbed his temples as he moved around an iced-over garden pool in the shadow of the palace.
Above him, Aude leaned out of an open window, watching him walk lost in thought, a hint of a smile touching her full lips.
“I wonder,” she mused with a laugh, “if the knight skates better than a squire I once knew in my father’s house at the Vale?”
Roland looked up with a start. Recognizing her face, the cobwebs in his brain cleared immediately. He shrugged lightheartedly, testing the ice of the pool with a toe. The surface creaked when he stepped out onto it, but on the second step he lost his footing and fell with a crack.
Aude stifled a laugh with her fingers pressed to her lips and quickly closed the window. She appeared a moment later at the garden door, skipping down the portal steps two at a time in a fashion her matron would generously describe as unbefitting a lady.
Roland scrambled to his feet then offered her a gracious bow.
“Have we met before, fair lady?”
Aude gracefully stepped toward him, offering him her hand with an excess of formality.
“Oh,” she said, “was I too freckled then, a little girl?”
He took her hand in his, examined her face, then pulled her onward into the moonlight, all formal pretenses fluttering away.
“Aude?” he exclaimed in feigned astonishment. “Is that you?”
She nodded, tugging her hastily shouldered cloak higher about her shoulders. “Three long years, and I feared you wouldn’t remember me. Like some long-lost dream of spring, forgotten when your eyes flutter open.”
He gave her a more serious look. “If I recall, that lady of the vale drafted the squires and pages to bake mud cakes with her for the faire. That’s not something easily forgotten, my lady. Those are dreams that are meant to be remembered, to be cherished.”
Aude brushed his cheek with her hand.
“Oh, you tease me, sir! A champion who draws strength from childhood dreams?” she mused. “How rare! I hear tell from the youngest pages in the palace that the new champion draws strength from the souls of the slain as he wades through fields of blood.” Her voice grew bold like a herald relating a heroic saga. “All the while bringing glory to God and his king!” Then her voice dropped to a whisper. “Not from memories of muddy days at the Vale.”
Roland smiled as he pressed her hand to his face.
“Do they sing my song already?”
“Oh, yes,” Aude replied with a grin. “Like a lullaby to calm a child who refuses to go to bed. Now, let’s see—hush now, child that Saxons fright, be still, be still. For Roland will save you with all his might, be still …”
“You know,” he said, “it’s too bad I’ve been warned to keep my distance now that we’re both grown.”
She slid her arm into his.
“Oh? I suppose you’ve been spending too much time with Oliver. Well, my brother isn’t the one who waited three years to see you again. It was an eternity to me.”
“And I’ve spent a lifetime looking but only now see for the first time. Aude, you must remember the things Oliver told you about me. They’re likely true—or worse.”
She placed a finger on his lips, shaking her head slowly.
“They are forgotten. You are here.”
He wrapped his arms about her, pulling her close and breathing her in as if for the first time. Then they kissed.
Aachen’s populace fled the weather and the encroaching night, hurrying along the ice-crusted streets bound for warmth indoors. Standing above it all, surveying the breadth of the city from his window, stood Ganelon, his distant claim to the throne based on a family bloodline as ancient as the first Merovingian kings. From Clovis through the ill-fated Childeric, they had ruled the land and spawned mythic tales of princes with long locks of gilded hair. These very kings of folklore had been tossed aside, not vanquished in glorious battle against an overwhelming foe but by perfidious dictate of the pope and their own house steward—Charles’s father, Pepin the Short.
It was Pepin’s brutal purge of the Merovingians that had driven Ganelon’s mother, his infant brother in her arms, to leap from the scaffolding where Pepin had been rebuilding the gatehouse rather than let him take her. Clearly she had chosen the place as a clarion signal to the usurper, but it had been Ganelon, barely five summers old, who had found them in a bloody heap while chasing finches.
The center of his world had been ripped from him that day.
It was not until years later that he would finally understand why it had happened—and who had been responsible. He wrapped himself in the cold embrace of his own gall, using the burning shame of it to stoke the fires of his heart. His glance drifted across the buildings where the visiting nobles were quartered, their doorways marked by banners emblazoned with the devices of the noble houses. Breton March stood out among them—the very blood of Charles’s family.
“I should have silenced that bastard whelp long ago,” Ganelon muttered.
Someone knocked at the door.
“Come in, come in.” He pulled the shutters closed and stepped back into the room. The door opened with a clatter, and Gothard entered, anger written across his face.
He slammed the door behind him.
“Something on your mind, boy?” Ganelon asked evenly. He had little room in his heart tonight for anyone else’s pain, and the measured tone should have signaled that to Gothard.
But it was not to be. “Father!” Gothard sputtered. “You are the king’s brother-in-law—the champion’s title and honors should be yours!”
Ganelon’s laugh rasped. “What? Not so much as a ‘Good even, Father’? Maybe Gisela’s brat will have better manners than my eldest.”
Gothard growled at the rebuke but was stopped short when Ganelon pounced, grabbing him by the throat and pinning the young man to the wall.
“I hope that was your dinner digesting, son.”
“I meant nothing by it,” Gothard choked. Ganelon released him, leaving wicked red marks on his throat. “You fought bravely,” his son rasped, rubbing at his windpipe. “You kept the Saxons pinned against the sea. We fought with honor!”
Ganelon crossed the room to a chair, flopped into it, and began pulling off his boots. “Our house, the house of Clovis himself, has been eclipsed by rabble from the Breton March and the nursling of a usurping butler. Yes, it seems more than we can bear. But bear it we must, my son. Patience will bring us closer to the throne. We play our parts as dutiful vassals and wrap all our actions in patience. Remember—remain focused on the prize, not the distractions. It matters not to me who is champion.”
He tossed the boots to the floor in a heap and leaned back in the chair, propping it against the wall as he continued. “But with a new champion at Charles’s side, we’ll need to remain vigilant to ensure our plans bear fruit.”
“And someone will be dead before spring?” Gothard asked.
Ganelon’s lips twitched in a murderous sort of smile.
“Let the great drama unfold. Kings and princes now take the stage. We shall ever be ready when the throne room door opens to us.”
Charles’s suite was spartan compared to the opulent chambers found elsewhere throughout the palace in areas laid out for public consumption. Except for a few treasured trappings of imperial rank, bestowed on him by the pope or won through hard-fought negotiations with the emperor in Constantinople, little suggested the power of the room’s occupant. Charles was not a man for reveling in finery; rather he preferred to spend his time at a simple desk with a manuscript spread before him. This great searching soul, focused on the attainment of ancient knowledge, had himself only recently learned to read. His ability was still unsure. He leaned close to the page in his hand as he traced the words with his finger and spoke haltingly.
“Caesar … crossed the Rubicon. From that point … there was no … turning back.”
A latch rattled and squeaked then the door cracked opened. Pepin, in his finely brocaded night robe, thrust his head through the opening.
“There you are,” said Charles. “Come in, my son.”
Pepin limped across the room.
“Is it chilly in here?” Pepin asked as he tugged his robes more tightly about his waist. “You really must put more wood on the fire, Father.”
Charles chuckled, pushing the manuscript aside. “At my age,” he said, “every night is chilly. But let’s cut to the chase, my boy. You’ve come to convince me, haven’t you? You really should read the Cicero we just translated. He was quite good at this sort of thing.”
“Yes,” Pepin replied wryly. “Backed the wrong side when Caesar died, if I recall. Ended up a head short.”
Charles pulled his fingers through his beard. “Too much wine, I understand.”
“Father, this is serious,” Pepin said. “Even now we prepare for war with enemies intent on carving up the kingdom. Enemies on two sides, and I’m afraid there are more within us as well. If you were to fall, the entire Frank nation would bleed from uncertainty and disjointed authority. Think of it! All you’ve worked for—education—reviving ancient learning—the rebuilding of Rome herself—all for naught!” He placed his hands over his father’s. “For the welfare of the kingdom, Father, name me as your sole successor!”
“And what of your brother?” Charles asked, shaking his fingers loose and pushing back from the desk to lock eyes with his eldest son. “I can’t deny my own blood—your own blood. And under Frank law, you both have right to the kingdom. You will both be crowned at my death. The law is clear on this.”
Pepin limped closer to his father’s side, the malady that pained him more pronounced since the summer campaign.
“The law is antiquated,” Pepin said, appealing to his father’s sense of reason. “It sows chaos and division of our nation’s strength. Name one heir, to ensure stability! I’ll care for Louis, father. You have my word.”
Charles leaned forward and placed a hand on Pepin’s shoulder. For the first time, the younger man noticed the thin skin and blue veins that traced the tired, knotted knuckles.
“I will care for him,” Charles said, “by doing things my way. You will do as I command in this.”
Pepin relented and offered his father a stiff bow.
“I am your dutiful son,” he said. “Good night, Father.” He pecked a kiss on his father’s cheek and left the room.
When the door closed, Aldatrude peered into the room from behind a curtain, her lithe body barely covered by a silky gossamer gown.
“What was that about?” she purred to her father. “The cub snarls at the lion, and I lose my beauty sleep.”
Charles drummed his fingers on the side of his desk for a moment. Finally he said, “The cub learns to show his claws. But I must consider all my children.”
“Even Augustus had but a single heir and the empire prospered. But, come, let’s think of more pleasant things.” She curled around him and settled sensually into his lap, pressing her lips to his, but he was not to be deterred.
“So you take his side in this?”
Aldatrude pouted. “You think that?” She curled his beard in her finger. “I take your side in all things, dear.” She leaned over and snuffed out the oil lamp on the edge of his desk, plunging the room into darkness.
AOI
The following day, a coach rattled over the frozen, rutted road that twisted through the countryside toward Aachen. Across the empty window frames, quilted curtains had been pulled down to keep the biting wind off the passengers. Armored knights, bearing both the sigils of Breton March and the imperial eagle of Charles on their surcoats, rode escort.
Within the gloomy interior, Gisela bounced on a seat wrapped in heavy blankets, a small gurgling bundle nestled in her arms. She leaned over her baby’s round face and cooed gently. Across from them, a willowy, hawkish woman hunched over them both—a nursemaid to attend to the needs of the mother and child. Her sharp nose stood out redly from her winter trappings. Next to the nursemaid sat the gaunt figure of Petras, his eyes closed and his head bowed.
Gisela felt a prickle run up the back of her neck every time she glanced over at the man who even in sleep had thin hands clasped together before him as if in prayer. But she knew he wasn’t oblivious. The priest absorbed each and every word around him, catching stray utterances like moths in a spider’s web. Those same words would later be regurgitated up like a starling feeding its young for his master, her husband.
Outside the carriage, the escort troopers began shouting. “What is that?” Gisela asked the nursemaid. “Do you see anything?”
The woman tugged back one of the curtains and peered into the chill sunlight.
“Riders, my lady!”
The carriage slowed to a halt. Gisela held her breath. These roads had ever been the hunting grounds for bandits; even armed parties traversed them with caution.
A familiar voice carried into the carriage.
“Is she here? Mother!”
Relief swept her. “Roland, is that you?”
With that, the priest’s eye twitched and slitted open.
The door flung open, and Roland leaned in, blond hair trailing from beneath his helmet. His wolf-emblazoned surcoat was visible under a cloak spattered with mud from the wheel-rutted track of a road. Behind him trailed a squad of Charles’s men, entourage of the new champion. Gisela caught her breath—he looked so much like her beloved William.
She leaned forward in her seat and touched his scruffy cheek with a hand. “Winter has ended now that I’ve seen you,” she said brightly.
Roland noticed the bundle in her arms and frowned.
“Is that his?” he more stated than asked.
“He’s your brother Baldwin. My son. As are you.”
He turned his eyes from the child to her. “Have you done as I asked, Mother? I do so need your help.”
Gisela lowered her eyes, a pained look crossing her features. She glanced across at the priest. Roland’s eyes followed hers, and his mouth tightened when he saw Petras.
“Then you betray your true beloved husband,” he said. “Thank God he didn’t live to see it.” He stepped back, leaving the door swinging open, and climbed back into his saddle. He spurred his horse’s flanks and continued along the frozen path onward to Aachen, his companions falling into place behind.
The nursemaid leaned forward, pulled the door closed, and rapped on the roof to signal the driver to get underway. As the carriage lurched into motion, Gisela glanced across at Petras and felt her breath freeze in her lungs. He was holding the curtain open, his serpent eyes following Roland and his horsemen as they cantered down the road.