Charles waited, with Ganelon at his side, near the mouth of the pass until the day was nearly done before turning his horse’s head toward the anxious members of his court. He started to raise a gloved hand to signify that the operation was, for now, complete enough to rest.
Abruptly he lowered his hand and strained about to look once more into the shadowed depths of Roncevaux. A long note, faint but clear, drifted down from the heights of the purple peaks and faded quickly.
“It’s him!” he cried. “Good God, it’s him!”
The words barely escaped his throat when a small group of horsemen pounded up the road, refusing to be challenged by guards and courtiers alike.
Aude rode bareheaded in the fore, horror crossing her face. She too heard the horn.
“My king!” she called. “You are betrayed!” She dragged the reins back on her steed, the lathered beast skidding to a halt before Charles. She jabbed a finger at Ganelon. “This traitor murdered William and even now plots against you!”
Like a coiled serpent, Ganelon and his band of conspirators sprung. Guinemer, Alans, and the Tournai troops turned upon their unwitting comrades. Charles reeled in his saddle to avoid a lashing cut from Ganelon. The blade’s tip caught his cheek, drawing royal blood. Charles’s steed danced back, but Ganelon struck again. This time Naimon pushed his mount between them, grabbing at Ganelon’s extended arm. They grappled, their horses stomping madly beneath them. Louis leaped from his saddle to seize Ganelon from behind and, with titanic effort, hurled him to the ground. They rolled around in a clatter until the prince pinned the grim-faced count with a dagger pressing his throat.
The fighting quickly died down when loyal troopers flooded through the wagons to the king’s side. The conspirators, forced to show their hand before the army was strung out across the length of Francia, fought desperately until Alans and Guinemer were also beaten to the ground. Then, almost before the fight had really begun, the usurpers’ men threw down their arms.
Charles spurred his horse toward the pass.
“Betrayed!” he shouted. “To me! We ride to relieve the rearguard!”
Hours passed until finally the night sky gave way to a sliver of light. A squad of mounted scouts stole warily from Roncevaux’s darkness to the shattered southern hills, arms at the ready. Beneath the silent mountains, the broken bodies of friend and foe lay tangled together in heaps before them. Finding no adversary at hand, they reported back for the main body to advance.
Charles’s red-rimmed eyes scanned past the hastily placed bandage on his face. He dismounted with a heavy heart. The entire company followed him to begin the long work of gathering the remains of the men, their brothers and cousins—they who until only days before had marched, laughed, and fought beside them. Charles stalked among the dead, a specter of his regal self, his pace quickening with the discovery of each familiar face found among the marchmen—Turpin, Demetrius, and Otun. Louis came upon Oliver and reverently gathered up Halteclare to be borne northward with honor.
Then, a short distance off, he spied Roland’s lifeless body spiked to the ancient tree by the Saracen’s lance. Charles cried out, hurrying to him across the loose stones. He sank to his knees next to the still form with sorrow washing through his body. Then he tenderly pried open Roland’s fingers and lifted the battered Oliphant from the corpse’s cold grip.
Charles’s face streaked with tears that dripped on Roland’s paled skin.
Naimon and Louis solemnly stepped forward to retrieve Roland’s body, wrapping him in the king’s cloak before laying him among his companions. A squire timidly handed Charles a torn length of soiled cloth. The king shook out the rampant wolf and laid it on Roland’s chest.
“My boy,” he whispered, “my champion, my nephew. Dreams are indeed the words of God. Even a king must listen to his counsel.”
A Frank outrider spurred his horse up the hillside.
“My king! My king!” he shouted. “The army of Saragossa lies to the south!”
Charles stood and looked out across the plain.
“Again we’ve been betrayed. But this day I swear that Marsilion is a dead man!”
Charles handed the Oliphant to Louis. Behind them the column of Frank troopers continued to emerge from Roncevaux. Once along the ridge, Frank sergeants formed them into ranks, a veritable flood of ironclad men and beasts charged with lust for the blood of the faithless. They swelled to the edge of the hilltop—numbers building steadily as more and more marched through the pass. The morning sun had risen to near noonday before the last soldiers took their place in formation and stood glinting above the crest, away from the enemy’s view. Louis rode before them with the king’s silver horn raised above his head, eliciting a cheer from thousands of throats. He paused at the center of the formation.
The Frank battle line held its collective breath. Hands tightened on weapons. Heels poised over horses’ flanks. Louis shouted a single word—
“Roland!”
He raised the Oliphant to his lips and let out a long, clear blast. The Frank battle cry broke like a raucous thunder over the plain, followed by the echo of their hooves as they flooded down onto the slopes.
The avalanche grew in momentum when the tents of Saragossa came into view. Enemy pickets unfortunate enough to be caught in the open were either crushed under hoof or fled before the seething Franks. At the outer edge, guards fell like reeds in a storm. Then the Franks were upon the heart of the camp, tearing through men with a rage that brooked no argument, deferred to no defense, and offered no mercy. Lances skewered the first of Marsilion’s men, quickly followed by the butchering work of edged and blunt weapons. Saragossa’s multicolored tents became a killing field, many buckling like so many maidens’ kerchiefs in a gale of steel.
Marsilion stumbled from his palace of silk, his ruined face wrapped in bandages. In his hand was a sword that he swung with wild abandon. Frank troopers charged him, but they veered off, dancing out of reach. He swore at them. But when a single rider finally did bear down on him, the emir ran. Louis swept Halteclare like a farmer’s scythe, and Marsilion’s head leaped from his shoulders, his body stumbling several paces before it too finally dropped.
The fallen emir’s great army broke, and the Franks cut them down, paving the road back to Saragossa with their bloodied carcasses.
AOI