Charles stalked the corridors of the palace trailing a squire behind him, the lad burdened with fluttering sheaves of paper for the king’s signature. They passed courtiers, maids, and stewards apparently distracted by a clatter echoing from the courtyard outside. Wondering what they might be gawking at, Charles stopped at an unoccupied window and rubbed at the frosted pane, but the icy surface resisted his attempt to see through. He gestured for the squire to help him open the casement.
“What’s this?” he asked, craning his neck to search for the source of the noise.
The yard below was covered in snow trampled by Roland, Oliver, and the marchmen. In their center stood a wooden pell—a wide, smoothed log topped with a thick cross-arm and embellished with a battered helmet. The marchmen attacked it with wooden practice swords while Louis watched the exercises with interest from a perch on a low retaining wall. Otun, just arrived from the kitchens with a warm loaf, stopped in his tracks and roared with mirth at their efforts, spraying breadcrumbs.
“Would Thor practice fighting giants by striking a scarecrow with a butter churn?” he asked. “Let us be about man’s work!”
Roland stepped forward, his linen gambeson stained with sweat.
“Look and learn,” he replied. “With a wooden waster, we can practice striking like this.”
He stepped toward the pell, striking it with fierce intent again and again from different positions and stances, the waster thumping and clacking against the wooden post until the blade cracked. He stepped back and took another from a pile ready nearby. “It keeps our limbs ready to fight in the spring,” he panted.
Otun stretched his expansive chest, took up his ax, and hefted it with a warrior’s grace. Flashing Roland a skeptical eye, he shouldered past him to where he squared off at the pell like a woodsman. With remarkable quickness, he swung the ax over his head and split the pell, cleaving the helmet and burying the blade deep in the seasoned wood. He turned toward Roland with a mischievous gleam in his eye and was caught off guard when Roland thrust with his waster, striking Otun hard in the chest and knocking the breath from him.
“Eh?” the Dane huffed, rubbing at his breastbone. “What’s this?”
“Footwork!” Louis shouted from the wall. “It’s all about footwork!”
Again Roland struck Otun square in the chest. The Dane backpedaled and grabbed the ax haft with one hand, fiercely wrenching it up and down to free it from the pell while using the other to deflect Roland’s bothersome prods. Roland gracefully sidestepped past Otun’s swatting hands with a pivot cut and laid the flat of the weapon alongside Otun’s neck. Louis hooted and kicked his heels against the wall.
Undeterred, Otun wrapped his thick arms around Roland, tumbling them both into the muddy snow. Slush flew into the air as arms and legs thrashed while each tried to gain advantage.
Louis jumped from the wall. “My companions!” he shouted. “Our pell is struck, and we must make reply!”
Oliver joined the prince and leaped into the muck with the combatants. Chaos erupted as the rest of the marchmen joined in. Around the outside of the yard, courtiers and bureaucrats timidly peered at the scene from behind pillars and window frames.
From high above the commotion in the yard, Charles chuckled and flicked snow off the windowsill. Beside him the squire stood in silent amazement when the king of the Franks joined his voice to the chaos below.
“Oh—there he goes! Watch there!”
The courtiers looked up to see whose voice cheered the muddied contenders. Charles snickered, watching arms, legs, and bodies collide and slide through the slush below. He remembered his own comrades who had fought mock wars in the very same yard so many years ago, and especially William, the squire from Breton March who would be his friend and champion. Many times William had outfoxed older boys with a martial deftness yet always had a ready smile for those he vanquished.
“My sons,” he mused, “care well for these men. These are they who will strengthen the kingdom when you rule. Alas, the blood of my generation grows cold. It grows cold, and the world needs warmth.”
An elbow jabbed Roland in the eye. He pushed Otun off, only to have a Frank sergeant replace him with thrashing legs and boots dripping with slush. Roland heaved against bodies until at last he was able to sit up. He rolled to one side, grinning, and watched the fracas over his shoulder. Oliver and the marchmen gave as good as they got, throwing snow and driving other men into the muck. But near the sheltered walkway, members of the court began congregating. Some cheered, and others huddled together whispering. Through the curious gaggle stepped Pepin, his countenance darkening at the sight of the kingdom’s elite warriors flopping through the yard like common brawlers. In his wake strode Geoffrey of Anjou, likewise scanning the scene with a critical eye.
Roland regained his feet and gave his cousin a polite bow.
“I see you’ve taken my advice to heart,” Pepin said, his words dripping. “The peers of the realm engaged in a match more suited for a squire who serves a cup at Vale Runer.”
The prince’s comments rippled through the yard, and the marchmen disengaged and straggled to their feet, looking shamefaced under the royal disapproval. Even Louis, panting, red-faced, and bruised, could not bolster a smile under the scrutiny. Otun, however, lifted his bulk to tower over the rest, a wild grin on his bristly face, his bushy red eyebrows fierce over defiant blue eyes.
“I mean no disrespect, sire,” Roland replied. “But the men strain at the bit for the spring campaign. It’s but an outlet …”
“Yes, and as any rider will tell you, if the horse is not performing to satisfaction, the bite of a whip may be needed. Do you have the hand to provide that whip, Champion?”
“As you say, cousin. Some prefer to use the whip. But my father taught me to also to prize the stallion and, on occasion, give the beast its head and hang on tight in awe of the magnificence.”
“Pah,” Pepin spat. “Such is nonsense when ruling men. You must organize and move the entire herd, Champion—not allow the nags to run wild.”
Louis brushed muck from his breeches and stepped to Roland’s side. “Never mind him, cousin. My loving brother speaks to me.” The prince shook his hands in the air, flinging glop in Pepin’s direction. “But I’ve need of a bath and clean clothes.”
Louis stalked off past his brother.
The gawking courtiers collectively released their breath. Pepin glared at Louis’s back and, after a moment, spun around and limped back inside. Anjou, however, remained as the marchmen gathered their gear.
“Cocksure and ever the drunk,” he said imperiously. “A bit of advice, cousin to the king—leave the cups here when you campaign.”
Roland’s boots flew across the bedchamber to a skidding muddy heap—quickly followed by his soiled linen gambeson. The young champion stormed across the room, tugging at his trousers before he noticed the page trailing behind him to gather up the heap of garments.
“Leave!” Roland shouted, and as soon as the harsh word left his mouth, he regretted it. But nevertheless the page skittered away fearing a thrashing, or worse.
Roland pounded the stone wall with his fist, leaving red scraped across the gray. On the table near the bed, a flagon of wine remained with an empty cup. He gathered up the Burgundian vintage and heaved it into the fireplace where it sloshed with the cold ash.
He sat down on his father’s great oaken chest at the foot the bed and closed his eyes, distant memories washing over him.
The tavern was alive in the waning afternoon when he stepped through the threshold. The ride from the capital had been invigorating. The young knight waved cheerfully to the revelers, many of whom he would later drink under the table. Yet he wasn’t there for them. Across the room, a lithe form rose from a table, blonde locks tumbling beneath the hood of her cloak. Deidra, a merchant’s daughter, opened her full lips to call his name. Roland reached for a flagon …
He remembered very little else of that night, for when he returned to Aachen the next morning, his father lay dead.
He opened his eyes. The fleeing winter sun left the room darkened and chill, made even more so by the familiar figure sitting on the chest next to him and regarding him with a shadowed gaze.
“I’ve begged God to bring you peace,” Roland whispered. “Bring me peace. But there is no forgiveness, it seems.”
William’s shade seemed to draw the darkness to him, and Roland felt a chill in the silence.
“Speak,” he begged. “Please. We both know I abandoned you to seek my own pleasure. I never thought it would be for the last time.”
The shadows clung to his father’s face. His ethereal lips parted. “All we are given is a limited number of breaths, Roland. It is what we do with them that fills the songs sung of us.”
“And what song shall they sing of me? That I left my father when he needed me? And now you have returned to—to torment me, to call me to account and demand repayment. I don’t want this, Father. I’m afraid of what I will find. What it will do to Mother. Her child is his. If I prove the deed, Baldwin will be fatherless and Mother will be a widow once more.” He stood and paced the floor. “Is there a purpose, Father? Justice, of course, but the price …”
William’s ghost was immovable.
A draft from the chimney brushed through from the hearth, filling his senses with the smell of wine and ash. He inhaled deeply until it passed, and when he looked back, his father’s shade was gone. He staggered, exhausted, onto the bed, looking up at the dark ceiling, despairing and hopeless.
And then sleep consumed him.