In the late afternoon of that same day, Roland rode Veillantif bareback on the road that wound its way around the monolith, like a snake around a wedding cake, to the castle of Vienne’s main gate. His head was bare. He wore no armor or battle tabard and carried no weapons of any kind.
He was dressed in a simple linen shirt, soft leather pants to the knee, linen leggings cross-gartered with leather and low-cut soft leather boots. Veillantif was uncaparisoned as well and the two together presented the picture of an impoverished serf riding his plow-horse into town. The only thing indicating he might be anything more was the white flag he carried fixed to a rude stick he’d picked up off the ground along the way.
Upon reaching the main gate, the guards on the ramparts looked down and immediately realized he could only be an emissary sent by the king, come to parlay. The Iron portcullis creaked and groaned as they reeled it up by its massive iron chains. As it reached the top of the gateway, four additional guards lifted the plank out of the iron stays that held the two great, Oak-planked doors closed and then pulled them open. They motioned him on through.
As he passed inside, six mounted guards, three on either side, joined him. They escorted him up through the town’s esplanade to the main entry gate that marked the entrance into the inner courtyard of the Duke’s primary living quarters. As he rode along, all in the town along with the soldiers manning the ramparts stopped and stared silently. Not a word was spoken.
The guard-mount at the inner castle’s courtyard gate-towers could see the drama playing out before them and, in anticipation of the emissary’s arrival, had already drawn up their portcullis and opened their gate’s doors. As the little group reached the gate to the overlord’s inner sanctum, Oliver stepped into view and raised a hand signaling all to halt. He looked curiously at the stranger and waited.
“I bear with me a message for Duke Gerard under this flag of truce.” Roland announced, as if it wasn’t already apparent.
Oliver had already lowered his hand and nodded to the horse-guards. “Let him pass.”
Roland rode on through and slid down off Veillantif’s back. He turned to Oliver, who he assumed must be the captain of the guard and stared.
Oliver was impatient. “And so, what’s your message for the duke?
Roland was not about to disclose his message to a mere member of the duke’s staff. “It’s from the king himself and I was directed to deliver it in person to no one else.”
Oliver wasn’t impressed. He shrugged. “Very well, follow me.”
Roland was a little confused by the absence of protocol as well as the casual nature of this ancillary staff person who was leading him, will-nilly, into and through the castle’s passages without any sort of introduction or announcement. It seemed extreme—a departure from normal protocol, to be sure. But, he reasoned, this was war and under such stressful conditions, perhaps dispensing with standard peacetime procedures was a necessity. He followed the household staff-member quietly.
The two ascended an elegant winding staircase and continued on down a long hall to a grand salon with two guards posted at the door. The guards came to attention as the staff person acting as his usher led him on past.
There within, at a huge table, sat an elderly gray-haired gentleman. He was bent over the table and deep in concentration studying the maps that were spread before him. Gathered about him were counselors and military staff personnel, who looked over his shoulder, pointing and commenting. The grey haired gentleman looked up at the individual who had ushered Roland into his presence and stared, waiting for an explanation.
“Father, I have here with me a messenger from the king.”
“Father!” Roland blurted. The words hit Roland like a torrent of ice-water splashed on a sleeping face. He was humiliated and embarrassed. It shown immediately on his reddened visage. The Duke recognized the emissary’s surprise at having, just then, made the connection between himself and his son, due to the apparent omission of an initial introduction. Duke Gerard smiled as a little chuckle escaped his lips.
At the same moment, Oliver turned back to the messenger and asked, almost defensively, “Yes, what of it?”
Rattled, Roland returned Oliver a curt bow of the head and answered, “I meant nothing by it, Count. It’s just that I’m the one to whom your sister’s betrothed.”
The rest in the room gasped. Duke Gerard grinned with obvious delight and, as was his garrulous nature, jumped to his feet and moved quickly across the room with arms outstretched. “Roland!” he exclaimed enthusiastically. He threw his arms around his young visitor, hugging him as if he were a long lost son. Roland was caught off-guard and rather startled, to say the least, but managed to maintain his composure. Afterward, Duke Gerard held the young paladin at arm’s length and looked him up and down, grinning with pleasure.
The duke was thrilled. “So you’re the Roland my Alda is always talking about so endlessly with such high praise!”
Oliver, who’d been standing by quietly watching what was apparently some kind of reunion was bewildered. “Roland?” he remarked, obviously confused. “I never heard of any Roland. And you say he’s Alda’s fiancé?” Completely confounded, he looked at Roland, then to his father and exclaimed, “He’s not any older than I am! Is this some kind of mean comedy you’ve concocted, for what purpose I know not, at my expense?”
At that precise moment, Alda, who’d overheard the commotion from her mother’s nearby bed-chamber, appeared at the doorway. Knowing her father was in the room and expecting to see him there, she looked past the others paying them no notice. “Father, what’s all the fuss?” she asked.
He motioned toward Roland but before he could get a word out, Alda’s eyes had glanced ahead. “Roland!” she screamed, practically terrorizing the startled staff officers, who’d been a captive audience to the strange goings on. She literally ran into the room, threw her arms around him and commenced hugging and kissing him shamelessly in front of everyone.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity to those watching, but which was, in reality, only a dozen seconds or so, she came up for air. “Oh God! It’s you! It’s really you!” She hugged him again; then, with tears welling in her eyes and in her continuing state of mild hysteria, went on. “I thought I’d never see you or hold you in my arms again!”
At this point, Agnes appeared at the doorway. As soon as she saw and realized what was afoot, a demure smile crossed her face. She stood silently and watched with a look of happy satisfaction. In spite of everything else that still remained unresolved; she could at least and at last finally derive some small amount of contentment.
Still in a state of shocked disbelief, Alda continued her frantic banter. “I told God that if you weren’t with me by tonight I’d never believe in Him again! And now, this!”
There passed over the room, at this point, a short silence. Oliver broke it with a sarcastic summation as he looked around at the others, who were standing silent, eyeing the pair. “Well, obviously, it’s not a comedy.” His mild interjection of comic relief drew a few low snickers and polite chuckles from the Duke’s entourage.
Agnes stepped on into the room as his comment ended and followed on quickly with one of her own. Walking straight to Alda, she looked her in the eye and with an air of smug satisfaction exclaimed triumphantly, “Yes, indeed! Just look what’s come to pass!”
The duchess then turned to Roland, took both his hands in hers and while smiling at him gleefully, directed a question to her daughter. “So, tell me, dear; is this really your God’s Gift to Womankind that you’ve been bragging to me about so relentlessly these last few months?”
Her mother’s goading remark in front of so many bystanders was humiliating. Alda blushed with embarrassment and looked bashfully to the floor. “Mother. Please! Now, stop that! I don’t need for you to chide and scold me. I’ll do penance and never doubt God again!”
Agnes continued to look at Roland grinning all the while. “Penance? I’d rather you introduced me first!”
Alda let out a modest gasp and her face reddened even more as she looked back up. “Oh, my! Heavens yes! Mother, Father, Oliver; this is Count Roland of Languedoc and Briton—nephew to King Charlois and my husband-to-be.”
Oliver was completely stymied. “Husband-to-be?”
Duke Gerard didn’t hesitate at all. He took Roland by the arm and shook his hand vigorously. “Welcome, Son! Welcome! You’re going to stay tonight and dine with us! We were just about to meet in the dining hall for the evening’s repast and would consider it an honor if you’d share our table!”
Roland smiled and replied humbly, “It’s I who would consider it an honor, Lord Gerard.”
“Then follow us!” he replied as he took the duchess by the hand and commenced leading them all from the room.
Alda looked back at Roland. “Oh, Roland!” she exclaimed giddily, “Let me hold your hand and walk with you!” (As if she needed to ask!)
Roland laughed. “I wouldn’t have it any other way!”
Oliver looked at the duke’s perplexed staff officers, shrugged, turned and followed the rest out. As his family preceded him down the hall, he hesitated and tried to make sense of what he’d just learned as well as what it all meant. At last, he decided it was useless without additional information and so continued on into the grand dining hall.
Upon arriving there, he saw that everyone else was already seated around the end of one of the long tables. His father was at the head of the table with Agnes to his left and Alda seated to his right across from her mother. Roland was seated next to Alda. The kitchen staff was hurrying in and about pouring drinks, carving and serving swan and dishing up cut green beans along with stewed apples.
Those at the table were attempting small talk with some degree of awkwardness when Oliver took his seat next to his mother, opposite Roland. His presence immediately brought to a halt what little conversation was in progress.
He looked at Roland inquisitively. “So, how did you happen to meet my sister?”
“Oliver!” Agnes exclaimed, feeling the question was presumptuous, premature and generally just out of order.
Roland raised his hand up and smiled. “No, it’s all right.” Looking back to Oliver, he replied dispassionately, “I happened upon her in the forest in a moment of some discomfort to her person and was able to help her.” He looked down at his plate and took up a piece of bread with a slice of meat. He bit into the fare and commenced chewing in polite silence.
“Roland!” Alda objected, turning to him with a surprised look on her face. “You’re much too modest! Tell him what happened!” she urged.
Roland eyed Oliver and smiled uncomfortably. “I think your brother can understand.”
Alda was indignant. “Well, I don’t! If you won’t tell him any more than that, then I will!” While the others continued to eat and listen, Alda launched into her recounting of the seminal incident that had brought the two together. (Of course, her mother and father had already heard the story, but were happy to hear it again while they ate.)
“Melesinda liked to swing at a swing in a little glade by the river in Carcassonne, where we always spent the summer months. None of us knew it was Roland’s swing that his father had made for him when he was a little boy. To us, it was just an old, abandoned swing. We were there one day, chaperoned as always by Archbishop Turpin when we were attacked by a band of four marauding brigands who knocked the archbishop unconscious at the start and fell upon us with malicious intent.”
Oliver interrupted. “Four-to-one odds!” He looked to Roland, raised a brow and smiled, “Very impressive!”
“You haven’t heard the half of it! Now, don’t interrupt!” she scolded, assuming the role of Big Sister—which of course, she was!
“The biggest lout of the bunch had me on the ground with my shirt torn off while the others with him surrounded us laughing. I could hardly breathe but I continued attempting to scream for help. It seemed my attempts to break free were futile and my cries for help useless. Just as I’d abandoned all hope of rescue and resigned myself to a painful, ugly end, Roland stepped into the middle of them all from out of nowhere, sword in hand!”