It was nearing the noon hour in the pass at Aspromonte. The Franks had finished burying their dead from the previous day’s battle, but at Archbishop Turpin’s insistence, had left the Saracen’s where they’d fallen. The fighting Archbishop of Reims was a fervent seminarian and eccleastic pupil of all religions. As such, he was well aware of every hadith including the Muslim requirement that their dead be interred within one full day. He viewed leaving them to rot, (thus, providing carrion for the scavenging animals of the forest) as a golden opportunity to send all Islam a message.
The archbishop reasoned that such a brazen act of blatant disrespect would serve as an overt demonstration of Francia’s contempt for everything the Koran stood for. Further, it would provide all Islam with a seminal historic event for serious consideration should the hubris of a One-World-Caliphate cross the minds of its leaders ever again.
Charlois had been reluctant to lend his royal sanction, fearing the ramifications and possible, long-term repercussions. But, he wished to show his appreciation for the esprit that Turpin had instilled in the hearts of his men preceding the historic engagement. He’d therefore acquiesced to the idea. His instincts were good, however. He would live to regret it.
The buzzards circling lazily overhead seemed somehow juxtaposed—a paradox; out of place on such a calm, fresh and shimmering, Summer morning, pulsating with the full flower of life in its prime. All members of the massive, ninety-thousand-man army (over ten thousand had perished in the battle) had been hard at work since before the break of day, packing up and assembling their order-of-march in preparation for the long journey home.
At about the mid-day hour, their two-league-long column was ready to move. Ogier the Dane was always at the head of the great defile and as such, was now almost four miles distant from the encampment’s original center. There he awaited the clarion call of the king’s great ivory horn, Oliphant; the which would be his signal to lead out.
Roland had not allowed his father, Duke Milon, to be buried with the others. He meant to return his remains to his mother in Carcassonne for a proper Christian burial in the shadow of his beloved castle near his boyhood, cottage home. To that end, they’d carefully wrapped the body in multiple, wet blankets in an attempt to preserve it for as long as possible and had then loaded it into its own separate, two-wheeled, armory cart.
Roland and his party were just finishing up and were standing around casually discussing the logistics of the journey back to their homeland.
Alda and Melesinda were there. Also near at hand was Roland’s page, Mitaine and her brother, Count Guy de Berenger. Melesinda’s husband, Count Guyferros was also with the little group as was Roland’s squire, Ferractus the Moor and Roland’s great friend, Count Gautier, Constable of Languedoc and Greater Septimania
While the little gathering was discussing its options for the return, Duke Ganelon approached accompanied by his cousin, Pinabel of Mayence.
It was obvious he intended to speak with Roland. Recognizing the fact, Roland halted his discussion with the others and awaited the duke’s address.
Ganelon managed a forced smile, which he masterfully made to look genuine. As he did so, he reached out and squeezed Roland’s arm. “Roland, I want to tell you one more time how truly sorry I am about the loss of your father.”
Assuming his sincerity, Roland managed a sad smile and replied, “Thanks, Duke. Your kind words are appreciated.”
Ganelon continued. “I’ve been talking it over with my constable here, and we both agree that if your father’s remains are to be returned in any kind of fit condition to your mother in Carcassonne, they simply must be rushed there in all haste.”
Roland nodded and looked to the ground with a fixed stare reflecting remorseful resignation as he replied. “Yes and there isn’t much hope of that, I’m afraid.”
“Well, if the cart was driven night and day with two extra horses trailing, which could be rotated out, it could be done!” exclaimed the duke.
“True,” Roland nodded, “but with the ladies and my squire, who’s still recovering from his wounds in tow, it’s just not possible.”
The Duke’s drooping bedroom eyes widened as he lifted their sagging lids high. With a grin on razor-thin lips that accentuated the narrowness of his hawk-like nose against a dark, bony face framed by long, scraggly locks of oily dark red hair, he spoke in his most empathetic tone. “Roland, as arguably your family’s closest friend and ally; I, along with my cousin Pinabel here, would like to ask a favor.”
Roland was taken aback, but at the same time, owing to the current circumstance, found himself in a relatively generous mood. “I’ll gladly help you if I can. What is it you need?”
Ganelon was delighted with himself. The young Count had taken the bait. Now all he had to do was reel him in!
“Only that we’d consider it a privilege and an honor if you’d allow us to drive on ahead with the wagon bearing your father’s remains so they can be saved and properly prepared for interment. If we travel night and day, one sleeping, while the other drives, we can make it back to Carcassonne in seven days. Otherwise, you’ll be nearer three weeks getting there.”
Roland was elated. “You’d do that for me?”
Ganelon reveled in the opportunity to show off what a kind and generous soul he was in front of the others looking on. His plan to further ingratiate himself to the unsuspecting count was working like a charm. He had everyone standing within earshot fooled. Pinabel was amazed and in a state of his usual awe at how effortless his master could manipulate others. To him, it seemed that in this department, his cousin had no peer.