INTRODUCTION

This book came from of an old French Chanson de Geste (“Song of Deeds”) and relates an episode from the Carolingian (“Charlemagne”) story cycle.[1] It is an adaptation, not a translation.

That is a wonderfully plastic distinction that can cover a multitude of sins. This section outlines some of the larger ones and why I chose to commit them. The Afterword has some more specific notes but don’t peek ahead – some of the discussion would give away parts of the plot.

My first aim has always been to tell this story in a way that would entertain the modern reader. If I’ve done my job at all, you’ll walk away happy. My goal was to do so with a story that “felt” like the original work. If I’ve really nailed it you’ll laugh, tremble, worry and exult at the same places and in the same ways that William Marshal did in the time of Stephen and Maude.

In service to this goal I have deleted, added and edited without compunction. If a story won’t flow to the modern ear, it also won’t work for the modern heart. It’s as simple (and far reaching) as that. I have done my best to maintain the essential elements and structure, but nothing in Caxton was Sacred Writ. Anything that might clash in the modern ear was deleted or changed to fix the problem.

I removed, for example, a good bit of material that dealt with pedigrees, most of the over-lengthy physical descriptions, and similar bits of detail that a medieval audience might have loved, but which drove me crazy.

I also removed the “excessive” religious bigotry; defined as “More than what was needed to convey the characters’ attitudes, motives and beliefs.” For example: neither Mohammed nor modern Islam has any tolerance for idolatry, let alone polytheism. How ironic that Caxton charges the “enemy” religion with sins of which it is actually less guilty than the Christianity he supports![2] But that point of view is essential to the story, and so it had to stay.[3] I also know that words such as “Pagan,” “Heathen,” “Saracen,” “Moor” and “Turk” all have specific meanings, and only an ignorant, linguistic criminal would use them as interchangeable synonyms for “bad guy.” Blame Caxton, not me.

Besides, deleting too many of the religious/cultural inaccuracies could have backlashed into a product that was more offensive rather than less. It’s easier to forgive a truly profound ignorance than one with elements of truth

The Carolingian Cycle; A Land of Old Friends

The term “cycle stories” refers to the families of interrelated tales, poems and songs that permeated the Middle Ages. The two most famous cycles center around Charlemagne and King Arthur. Each cycle has many dozen (probably hundreds) of individual pieces. They aren’t really “episodes” because each one stands alone. They’re more akin to a long series of sequels and prequels; with the proviso that no one mind created them all or even bothered to edit them for inconsistencies. For example, Roland’s origin varies in different stories from a bastard love-child born in a cave (that’s my favorite), to the son of the Duke of Milan.

On the other hand, Roland is always referred to as Charlemagne’s nephew, and every version specifies that he knew Oliver as a boy. The reason why the stories are so consistent on that detail explains a lot about the nature of cycle stories in general.

One of the most famous episodes in the Carolingian cycle is usually called “A Roland for an Oliver.” It tells about a war between Charlemagne and his rebellious Duke of Vienne, a city on the Rhone River in southeast France.

The rulers agreed to settle their dispute in a duel of champions. Charlemagne sent Roland and the Duke of Vienne sent Oliver. Neither combatant knew who the other was because they both wore face-covering great helms. The epic struggle lasted for at least nine hours, until Oliver’s sword shattered as Roland’s simultaneously caught in a crack of Oliver’s shield. The heroes then fell to wrestling until their helms popped off, once again at the exact same moment, and each man saw the other’s face.

They recognized each other instantly and fell to hugging and tears instead of blows. Taught by this example, the King and the Duke made their peace and turned their efforts to the common foe. But that’s a tale for another day . . .

Everybody knew some version of “A Roland for an Oliver,” just as everyone knew the pair became inseparable comrades, and that they died together in the “Song of Roland” as victims of Ganelon’s treason. A storyteller had some wiggle room when it came to more obscure events like how the pair came to be friends in their youth, but his audience wouldn’t permit anything that changed the fixed poles of the cycle itself.[4]

I would guess that the Carolingian cycle probably has twenty or more unchangeable “facts” of this type. There was no editor, but this external restraint was enough to tie the tales into a “cycle.” And it was a lot of tales.

The experts seem to agree that there are more stories in Carolingian cycle than the Arthurian, despite the fact that Camelot has a much greater penetration into the modern culture. In some ways the two cycles are very similar. Both center on grand arcs of triumph and tragedy, albeit with different flavors. The treason of Ganelon is a central theme in the Charlemagne stories, for example, while the love triangle of Arthur, Guinevere, and Lancelot is essential to Camelot.

The difference is both deeper and subtler. The Arthurian tales have always struck me as relatively serious Literature, while the Carolingian cycle tastes like medieval light fiction. Dickens versus Sherlock Holmes.[5]

Dickens you read once and never forget, but Holmes you’ll read again and again. Why would that be? After all, in the end they’re mere “whodunits” and you already know the answer.

The answer is simple. We don’t go back for the plot, or themes, or some “deep meaning” that changed our life; we simply go to visit. Holmes, Watson, Lestrade, and the rest are like comfortable old friends. They don’t have to do something new; they just have to be who they are.

The Arthurian Cycle rests on eternal themes like the famous love triangle, the quest to make a better world, and the interaction of savagery and civilization. The Carolingian Cycle is about old friends. [6]

I find it very telling that every one of the famous Paladins has separate stories (sometimes more than one) that tell about his birth and death.[7]

Some Brief Character Sketches

ROLAND comes first, of course. Passionate, headstrong, loyal, and blunt, he’s also so arrogant that he’d have died long ago if he wasn’t in a class of his own. Roland’s the sort who would happily charge a thousand foes when everyone (except him) is sure it’s suicide. The heck of it is, he’s right.

When the enemy sees him coming they start to think, “He wouldn’t do this if he didn’t have some edge.” That makes them hesitate until he’s close enough for sword work. Bad Mistake. Durandal in hand, he plunges into the mass and the heads start flying “like quail rising up from a field.” Before long, the 950 who still remain start to figure, “Maybe I’ll let someone else do the work.” When Oliver hits from another side, their panic and doom are writ in the stars. “For never did the sparrow flee from the hawk like the heathen ran from Roland.”

Roland’s inseparable comrade is OLIVER. He is all that Roland is not, and all that we hope to be; the purified essence of Chivalry. He’s also the conscience that keeps Roland human. It’s no coincidence that Roland didn’t die of wounds at Roncevalles; he died of a broken heart when he discovered that he’d managed to get Oliver killed.

To this day OGIER THE DANE is the national hero of Denmark. His evil stepmother delivered him as a hostage to Charlemagne’s court, and then caused his father to break an oath. Even as a boy, however, Ogier’s character shown like a shooting star. Wise Duke Naymon intervened with the King and took the boy under his wing.[8] The tale of Ogier and Charlemagne came to a tragic end, but that’s a tale for another day. He ended up ruling at home and is the Danish version of ‘The King Who Will Come Again.’

Ogier’s wasn’t the only story where DUKE NAYMON was the voice of reason. The King may speak with God, but it’s Naymon who sees through the cloudy world of men. He is Charlemagne’s best friend and truest advisor, the only one who can say what the King doesn’t want to hear and have him pay attention. But that’s not his only worth. Naymon may be old and gray, but he’s still a man among men.

As for CHARLEMAGNE, “King of the Franks and Emperor of the West,” it’s an odd fact that in many ways history treats him better than story. The real Charlemagne earned the title of “great.” The one in the stories is harder to rate. Indeed, he does so much wrong and so much right that it’s almost an impossible task.[9]

He wounds those who love him uncountable times, but he’s great enough to heal them; he swears rash oaths but he’s great enough to keep them; he does rash, impulsive things that turn out to be essential for the achieving of God’s greater goals; his strengths are so great they became his flaws, but he draws (and can trust) men of so high a caliber that his flaws are concealed; and his vision is so clear and so long that we know it endured to inspire an Age.

A less well-known character is ALOYS, the evil cousin whose scheming caused Ganelon’s fall. Here is the real villain of the piece, a scoundrel we can really love to hate. It’s no coincidence that he appears in the later adventures as the bosom friend of Charlemagne’s unworthy son.

Finally there’s GANELON THE TRAITOR, who planned the doom of so many heroes and prevented the conquest of Spain. But . . . It is a truth of life that treason never hurts unless the traitor is loved, and worthily loved as well. Like Benedict Arnold in later days, Ganelon began as a hero. He earned the trust he betrayed. In this adventure we see him before the Fall, and it’s as poignant as anyone could wish. He’s not just a Paladin, he’s a great Paladin. At one point in this story, his feats bring even Roland to tears and move Oliver to say, “May God preserve him, brother, I praise the man with all my heart. Save you and Charles, there’s none I love any better.”

Great as he may be, though, we know what happens in the end. Ganelon’s name meant treason for the better part of a thousand years. Neither “Charles the Great” nor “Ganelon the Traitor” can ever escape the verdict that goes with their names.

In fact, the looming shadow of the “Song of Roland” pervades a great many of the cycle stories, this one included.[10] The clues are sprinkled with a heavy hand; the seeds of treason all too clear to see. Ganelon never hears of Oliver’s words, for example, far less of Roland’s tears. If only he’d known how they felt . . . In another scene Aloys insists they leave the King for dead. “Who would ever know?” Ganelon refuses contemptuously, and ends up leading the charge that saved Charles’ life. But he never reveals what Aloys’ wanted, and he did pause to listen . . .

Above all, we see at work the acid that will ultimately wear the stone away: He resents the way Charles overlooks him, takes him for granted, and heaps all the praise on Roland. Make no mistake – the King is wrong in this. Ganelon earned that praise, and the King is supposed to give it. There are many reasons he fails to do so; some we can even understand. But the fact remains that it doesn’t get done. All it would take is a timely word – we know that – but the end is known, the fate is sealed, and we can’t reach inside to make it right. That’s why they call it “tragedy”.

Of Language, Spoken and Spelled

I embarked on this project with a terrible fear that I’d be forced to more or less learn a whole new language. After all, Caxton predates Shakespeare by a hundred years. What a pleasure to find I was wrong! Caxton’s English is surprisingly easy to penetrate.[11] So much so that I could even lift turns of phrase in some places. Moreover, the language was clear enough to have a discernible style, which I did my best to respect in the parts I chose to create.[12]

A more pervasive change came from the simple evolution of written English over the past 600 years. The unknown author of the Speculum Historiale transcribed an oral tale; i.e., he told the story out loud and then wrote down what he said. Caxton did the same thing. In both cases, this was the norm for the age. That norm has changed.

Written English now differs from the spoken in several important ways, and reading the oral version is jarring to say the least.[13] To the limits of my skill, and subject to a few exceptions, I’ve transformed the story to fit our literary conventions. The exceptions concern a number of (to us) archaic terms and structures. I kept some of these to maintain an “antique” feel.

In particular, I tried to more or less comply with the most important rule of modern fiction: “show, don’t tell.” Tell would be something like “Roland went inside, looked around, was ambushed by a Saracen, and ran the man through with his sword.” Show would walk you through his struggle with the lock; the suspense as he searched; the moment of surprise; and how the Saracen fell in two pieces when Roland cut him in half. Show is more immediate than tell.

In most cases I’ve tried to serve the dictate of “show, don’t tell” by inserting dialogue to make the action scenes more immediate. If I ever turn this into a true novel, the word count will grow by 40% when I finish attacking the background narrative as well.

[1] “Charlemagne” means “Charles the Great.” “Carolingian” comes from “Carolus,” the Latin form of Charles. I worked from William Caxton’s 1485 translation of the 13th century text Speculum Historiale. The one remaining copy of Caxton’s work, a folio volume with 96 leaves, is kept in the King’s Library of the British Museum, Press–mark C. 10 b. 9. My source is the 1880–1881 copy published in the Early English Text Society Extra Series (xxxvi – xxxvii) under the title Lyf of the Great and Crysten Prince Charles the Great (reprinted as one volume 1967). The editor’s notes to the Caxton text indicate that two copies of the Speculum Historiale remain in existence. Caxton apparently did a fairly close translation. Since the unknown author of the Speculum Historiale transcribed an oral tale, the book you are holding is, technically, an adaptation of a translation of a transcription. How often do you get to say that?

A different author/translator than Caxton told a somewhat less readable version of the same story that was published under the title Sir Ferumbras in volume xxxiv of the EETS Extra Series Soon after I finished this adaptation I discovered that Caxton’s work is also available on line at http://charlemagne.celtic–twilight.com/caxton_ch/index.htm.

I can also recommend Alfred J. Church’s very readable version in STORIES OF CHARLEMAGNE AND THE TWELVE PEERS OF FRANCE (FROM THE OLD ROMANCES), pp. 127–229 (The Macmillan Company, 1902).

[2] In fact, there is a fascinating history of how the Greek and Roman Churches split on the issue of whether the Third Commandment forbade images such as Christ on the Cross. The issue may seem fine, but I understand that it led to innumerable deaths in the medieval period. Islam grew up on the fringes of Constantinople’s power and it makes sense that it naturally incorporated a version of the old Greek viewpoint that even the Cross constitutes a forbidden idol. Islamic tradition even forbids the painting of realistic images and portraits.

[3] Caxton’s mistakes and mischaracterizations also tell more about the medieval viewpoint than any corrections I might make.

[4] Consider a parallel from the Arthurian cycle. Imagine you were a medieval storyteller and wanted to tell of Lancelot’s youth. You’d have some room to wander, but only within the established “facts.” It has to be somewhere in France, he must end up as a prodigy of arms, and he must be the sort who would go to Camelot in service to Arthur’s dream.

[5] Or Perry Mason, Nero Wolfe, Remo Williams, Peter Parker, or any other of the characters that drive so many series.

[6] The plots can get downright silly, a scene–for–scene match for our light fiction. There’s a PhD thesis waiting out there for someone who wants to compare Roland to Wolverine and the other Paladins to rest of the X–Men.

[7] The Paladins, or “Twelve Peers” (“Dozperes”) are Charlemagne’s champions, his equivalent of Arthur’s knights of the round table. The various stories list far more than twelve, but that’s a solvable problem if you assume there were only twelve at any given time. Some of the stories seem to violate that rule as well, but C’est la vie. Let’s just assume they’re wrong.

[8] Shades of William Marshal, indeed! King Stephen took Young William as a hostage, but his father refused to treat for his life. “I can always make another son,” was the answer. The boy’s courage was so impressive, however, that Stephen hadn’t the heart to kill him. And the rest, as they say, is history. One can’t help but wonder if the tale of Ogier, which was certainly known to the King, didn’t play a part in Stephen’s decision. The eerie thing is, you could draw many more parallels if you chose to look.

[9] Another non–coincidence: the tale of Charlemagne’s death focuses on these same contradictions. It takes divine intervention to finally establish that he really was “right” after all.

[10] The Afterword contains a longer discussion of this.

[11] When in doubt, try reading the word aloud in an exaggerated English accent. It really works!

[12] A challenge, good reader: See if you can spot where it’s Caxton being corny and where I’m the one to blame. The one you won’t have to wonder about is, “If I’m to be civil to a Christian king, I must first slake my thirst for Christian blood!” For that I’ll take no blame.

[13] The simplest example is “passive” versus “active language; i.e., “He had many wonderful accomplishments” versus “He did great things.” We tend to speak in passive language and try to write in active.