CHAPTER 2 – CAPTURES AND RESCUES
ierabras looked up at his conqueror and choked, “The day is yours, noble knight. I cry mercy and acknowledge that your God is the strongest. Take me to your camp, I beg you, so I may be yielded unto Charlemagne before I die.”
This speech stirred in Oliver such compassion that his eyes overflowed with tears. “That would please me greatly,” he said. “Only the one horse remains. I will ride for help.”
“Take me with you, I beg. My death is nigh, and now that I’ve become Christian I fear the terrors of hell which await should I die unbaptized.”
“I won’t leave you,” Oliver promised. With great care he helped Fierabras to mount before him. Then he chuckled. “But this horse may leave us both before he manages to carry our doubled weight.”
A rumble rose from the west before the stallion could take a single step. Fierabras looked stricken. “That must be my army. I left fifty thousand of my subjects in yonder wood this morning and bade them to wait until I returned from combat. They must have seen me fall, and now they ride to my rescue. You have done enough, Sir Oliver. Leave me here and flee for safety.”
Oliver blanched at this information but answered with a firm voice, “Sir King, where we go, we will go together.”
They urged the huge stallion to his utmost speed, but never stood a chance. One tired mount carrying two armored knights – and one of them a giant – has never in all of history outraced fifty thousand Arab steeds. The Saracens closed rapidly.
Again, Fierabras urged Oliver to save himself and again the Paladin refused. Instead, he reined in the horse and gently helped his former enemy down to rest against a stone. Then he pulled on Fierabras’ shield and helm, which were in far better shape than his own, grasped Hautclere in his hand and remounted for battle. Crying “God and King Charles!”, he spun the stallion about and charged into the oncoming hoard.
It was a charge the Saracens would long regret. Where rode the son of Reyner, no foe survived. His trail was a swath of death. Even courage has its limits, however. Hampered by his wounds and drowned in numbers, Oliver was soon overwhelmed and captured. Two Saracen Kings named Sortibrant and Brullant bound his arms and a fierce Moorish champion called Maradas tied a blindfold over his eyes.
Oliver called out for help – to Roland, Thierry and the King himself – but this only made Maradas laugh. “Whoever you are, Frenchman, you call in vain. I shall not eat before seeing you hanged in the Admiral’s court.” He gave the helpless, blindfolded knight a buffet and laughed again.
* * *
The French, seeing Oliver’s distress, quickly armed and rode out en masse to save him. They could see him being carried off – could hear his cries – but the press was so thick they had to fight for every inch.
Not a man among the French but slew a Saracen that day. Each of the Paladins slew dozens, at least. As for Roland, hundreds fell before him, for the foe held him in such terror that the mere sight of his red and white surcoat set all but the hardiest heathens to their heels, and those who stayed fell as quickly as those who fled. But all was for naught in the end. Sortibrant and Brullant took Oliver in charge and easily outdistanced the wrathful pursuit.
Charlemagne cried out to his army, “Would you abandon your friends? Ride! Ride for their lives!” The men answered with a roar and pressed forward with renewed vigor. Roland, ever in front, wielded Durandal like a bolt of silver lightning that stuck down foes by the score. Nevertheless, the sun was low when the Saracen lines finally shattered.
The French vanguard dashed forward, ripping a full five miles through the retreating enemy, but even this proved fruitless. Night fell and the men who’d ridden the furthest were suddenly attacked from ambush. When other captives began to be taken, the grudging King was finally forced to call off the chase.
Charlemagne returned from this disappointment to find the injured Fierabras where Oliver had left him, all but bled out. “I have good cause to hate you,” said the King, “Pagan that you are. You have cost me many good knights this day.”
Fierabras bowed his head and said, “Nevertheless, I thank God for your coming. Most noble King, I beg your mercy to let me be baptized so I may die without fear for my soul. If I live, I will do all that I can to advance your cause, and will serve you forever as my liege.”
When the King heard Fierabras speak so humbly, his anger drained to compassion. He agreed without demur and called for Bishop Turpin to perform the rite. So it came to pass that Fierabras, who eventually recovered from his wounds, was baptized as “Florin”, though men never ceased to call him by his original name.
In other times, this would have been enough to celebrate, and doubly so since the same day had seen a Saracen army routed from the field. On this night, however, not a man of the realm greeted that stars with joy. Oliver was gone and with him four other doughty knights: Geoffrey of Anjou, William the Scot, Duke Basyn of Bordeaux and Gerard of Montdidier, the son of Duke Thierry. Five of the Twelve Peers were lost.
* * *
The Saracens who had taken Oliver and the others rode without pause until they’d passed over the great Mantryble Bridge and come to Admiral’s rich city of Aygremore. There, Sortibrant and Brullant had the prisoners bound in chains and dragged to the Admiral’s palace.
Oliver spoke low to the others as they arrived. “Be cautious. If this Admiral should ever discover we are Peers of France, our lives would end in a minute.” They nodded.
Balan, the Admiral of Spain, came out upon the terrace. “Sortibrant! Brullant! My good friends. Do you come with tidings of how my son Fierabras has struck off the head of the Emperor Charles and put his Peers to flight?”
“Errr . . . Not exactly, your Excellency. Fierabras was vanquished in single combat by one of the King’s knights. We attacked at once, but Roland was there and our army was set to rout. Despite all this, however, we have captured the man who struck down your son, and also four knights of his company.”
The Admiral waxed exceedingly wroth as he heard the evil news. His face contorted, grew bright red, and so much spit flew out that he couldn’t speak a word. His arms trembled on the terrace rail. “Bring the devil forth!” he finally cried.
Despite his will, Balan found himself impressed at Oliver’s fairness of form and noble bearing. “What great Baron of France are you, to bring low the greatest knight in all of Spain?”
“No Baron am I,” said Oliver, “nor any man who follows me. We are but poor, bachelor knights who joined the King in hope of booty and fame.”
“What? I thought I had Peers of France! Five keys, as it were, to the heart of the Court. These are useless. Tie them to a tree and bring me my bow. I will use their bodies for practice.”
Sortibrant hurried forward. “Excellency, it is too late to do proper justice now. Let us wait until tomorrow, when you can think of some more appropriate way to dispose of the captives.”
“Very well. Send them to the Pit.”
* * *
The five captive knights were straight away taken and cast into the pit that served as the Admiral’s dungeon. This was a hideous place that nourished toads, rats, insects and serpents of all kinds. Worse, it filled with seawater as the tide rose, which would have drowned the captives but for two fifteen-foot tall pillars on which they could climb for safety.
Oliver suffered from this greatly. The fatigue of the day’s battle had settled on him and the saltwater made his wounds smart beyond bearing. Had it not been for Gerard of Montdidier, who supported him on the stone, he would surely have drowned. Even so, the pain was such that he could neither hear nor speak, and his fellow knights were consumed with worry that he would perish there before them.
Oliver was in no condition to remember it, but Fierabras had mentioned that the Admiral of Spain had a daughter named Floripas, and had named her the most beautiful maiden in all the world. If her brother had exaggerated it was not by much, for she was a very fair damsel indeed. With a waist so tiny that a man might encircle it completely with his hands, hair of rich gold, fine, straight eyebrows, a slender nose, soft cheeks blushed with pink, a mouth that hinted of cherry and plum, and a high, generous curve to her proud bosom, men said she was “bright as a rose in May,” and it was true. She was, moreover, wise in the ways of herbs and magic, and the owner of a magic girdle that enhanced her beauty so much that a man who’d fasted for three or four days could be sated just by glimpsing her across the room.
Up in her chamber, Floripas could hear both the Admiral’s laments and the cries of the captives beneath. Moved with pity, she went to the hall with twelve of her ladies to discover the cause. On hearing that her brother had been vanquished and taken prisoner her moans outstripped all the rest, but after a time her grief softened. She went, alone, to the jailer and asked the identity of the men whose suffering could be heard so clear.
“My lady, they are men from the army of Charles, the very same who vanquished your brother Fierabras. One, though sore injured, is as comely a knight as I have ever seen. They say it was he who did the evil deed.”
“Open the door. I wish to see them.”
“My lady, you must not. It is too evil a place for gentle eyes, filled with snakes, toads and vermin of all sorts. Moreover, your father the Admiral has commanded that no one may lay eyes on the captives until morning, and most especially not a woman. ‘Always remember,’ he told me, ‘that women are changeable, inconstant, and not to be trusted in such affairs, and bear in mind how many men have been led astray by their doings.’ I can not let you pass.”
Floripas paled with rage. “You beast! How dare you speak such words to me!”
She wrenched the heavy keys from his belt and beat him over the head until only a corpse lay in her path. “Not to be trusted . . . Hmmph!” Then she opened the door and called down into the pit.
“Who are you that defeated my brother, the mighty Fierabras?”
The knights, amazed to hear a gentle voice, nevertheless responded politely. “We are knights of France, good lady, cast into this hideous dungeon by the Admiral of Spain. Would that we could only die cleanly in battle instead of lingering in this horrible place!”
Floripas could be moved by courteous speech even though she was a heathen. Her heart softened. “It may be that I can provide you with that chance, but first you must promise to aid me in gaining my desire.”
“Lady,” they said quickly, “if you free us and arm us, we will serve you however we may.”
“Then come,” she said.
Floripas let down a rope so the knights might climb to the door where she stood, then motioned them to follow her silently by a secret way up to her rooms. “Do you know a knight of your land named Guy of Burgundy?” she whispered to Oliver, the knight who was nearest by.
“Indeed I do,” he answered, “as fine a knight as any in the realm. He is a cousin of Roland and was newly made a Paladin of the King.”
“Know then that I have loved him since the first moment I saw him over the battlements of Rome. We have never met, but he holds my heart more surely than anyone else ever could.”
“You may rest assured, good lady,” said Oliver. “If ever we make our way to Guy, I will plead your suit with all the powers at my command.”
* * *
At about this time the group finally arrived at Floripas’ chambers. The Admiral’s stronghold was a mighty tower, five hundred feet high, which stood on a rise outside of the city. The rear of the tower edged up against a sheer cliff that overlooked the sea, while a broad moat, spanned by a single, heavily fortified, solid iron drawbridge, made the front equally impregnable. Several private alcoves extended from the tower, including one especially fair and gracious suite that belonged to Floripas. It was to this private haven that she took the five knights.
Floripas’ maid, Maragonde, met her Lady and the knights as they entered her chamber. This maid, who had once lived in Rome but betrayed her faith when the Admiral sacked the city, took one look at the knights and began to tremble. She drew Floripas aside and whispered anxiously, “My lady! Do you know who stands there beside you? I recognize them. The fair one is Oliver, Roland’s friend. Beside him is Gerard of Montdidier, and William the Scot, and . . .. My lady, I must find your father the Admiral and tell him of this! No doubt he’ll give me a great reward!”
“Indeed?” said Floripas. “I had no idea. You must tell him with all speed. But wait – I hear my father through yon window. We can call down to him from there.”
Maragonde hurried to the window and looked out. “My lady, it is too dark. I can’t see him.”
“You just need to look closer,” said Floripas. She put a soft hand on Maragonde’s shoulder and pushed. The traitorous maid flew out the window and down to the sea. “There. Now you have the reward you deserve.”
From that day on, Floripas hid the five knights in a secret room. She let it out that they’d been drowned and dragged off by the beasts of the pit, a rumor which people readily accepted. It had happened before, and besides: since escape was impossible, there could be no other answer. The jailer’s body went swimming with the maid’s. No one ever noticed or wondered where either one had gone.
* * *
Charlemagne had not rested idle with so many good knights taken captive. As Duke Reyner poured out tears for his missing son, the King paced back and forth in his tent, furious at the loss of the others almost as much as Oliver. Finally he turned to Roland.
“Good nephew. I pray thee: mount thy horse and take a message for me to Admiral Balan. Tell him that if he does not return my knights, swear fealty for his lands, abandon his false gods and consent to be baptized, I shall come to him at Aygremore and there hang him by his neck before all his people.”
“Sire, you must reconsider!” said Roland. “If I deliver such a message you will never see me again.”
“You will do as I command this time, or I will hang you myself! Naymon, what do you think of this?”
“That if you command him to bring such a message, you will never see him alive again.”
“Then you can go with him. Ogier, what is your opinion?”
“The same as Duke Naymon’s.”
“That makes three.”
So it went until seven of the Peers were chosen: Count Roland, Duke Naymon, Ogier the Dane, Duke Richard of Normandy, Duke Thierry of Ardennes, Aubrey of Bordeaux, who was the son of the captured Duke Basyn, and Roland’s younger cousin, Guy of Burgundy. The knights confessed themselves as men going to death and then rode off to the general lamentation of the army. A sudden fear struck the King as he watched them pass to the West, but his word had been given and his word could not be changed.
“There’s nothing to do now but put your faith in God,” said Ganelon, his glee well hidden. No less worried than the King, Bishop Turpin could do nothing but agree with these words; albeit sincerely.
* * *
Earlier that day the Admiral had likewise determined to rescue his son, Fierabras, and had summoned a force of twenty kings and princes to bear his terms to Charles. Brullant and Maradas, the great Moorish champion, were to lead the party.
“What message shall we deliver?” asked Brullant.
“Tell Charles that if he does not return my son, swear fealty for his lands, abandon his God and swear to serve Mahon, I shall come to him at Paris and there hang him by his neck before all his people.”
Brullant was not well pleased to carry such a message, and Sortibrant supported him. “Sire, this is an ill-thought plan. You should listen to Brullant. He and I are like old dogs. If you stick by the tail of an old dog, you’ll never go astray.”
The Admiral scowled, “Do you question me?”
Doubt as they might, none of the kings or princes would meet his ruler’s eye, so all twenty rode out soon after. They crossed the river Flagot late that morning, at Mantryble, and continued on their way toward the enemy camp. Halfway there, a group of seven French knights rode into view from the opposite direction. The Heathens didn’t know it, but these were the Paladins bearing the message of Charles.
Maradas reined up short. “If I’m to be civil to a Christian king, I must first slake my thirst for Christian blood,” he declared. There being general agreement to this sentiment, the Saracen party halted. The others watched in good cheer as their hero rode forth and began to call insults at the approaching French.
Roland never dealt well with insults. When he understood the Saracen’s words, Durandal, his famous sword, leapt to his hand with the speed of thought, and his horse rose smoothly to a run.
It must be said that Maradas was a very great champion of the heathen folk, the victor in more than two hundred duels. His hand was so heavy that more than a few doughty soldiers swore oaths by his strength. The stroke he laid upon Roland shocked the French knight with its power. It even drove down the corner of his shield. Roland answered, however, with a blow that snaked around Maradas’ guard like a living thing. Durandal crushed the Saracen’s helmet like cloth and hurled him to the ground in a heap of scattered brains.
The Heathen kings roared in shock and dismay, and charged at the smaller group of French. This was no ordinary band, however, and for once the Saracens had laid no ambush. The Paladins tore through them like a scythe. Before long, all the Saracen Kings but Brullant lay dead on the field, and he was flying with all his speed for Aygremore.
The Peers rested for a while, then Duke Naymon stood to address the company. “My lords, I counsel that we return now to Charles and tell him what we have done. I’ve no doubt that a triumph such as this will content him well, and he shall release us from this madness upon which we’ve been sent.”
“How can you speak of returning?” demanded Roland, leaping to his feet. “Speak of it not. So long as Durandal hangs by my side and I have a hand to hold her, I’ll have no thought but to deliver this message to Admiral Balan, damned be he and all his kind! No, let us do this instead. Let us each take one of these Saracen heads and present them to the Admiral as our gift.”
“Sir Roland, you must be out of your wits!” said Naymon. “If we do as you counsel, the Admiral would have us slain before the message could even be given.”
Thierry and the others agreed with Roland, however, so it ended with each man taking up a head and riding forth on their way. Before long they came to the town of Mantryble. This town lay on one of the mightiest torrents in the world, the Flagot, a river so wide, deep and fast that a man caught in its waters would fly downstream faster than a bolt from a crossbow. The only way across for days in any direction was the great Mantryble Bridge, about which Ogier the Dane had a frightening intelligence.
“The bridge is wide enough for twenty knights to ride abreast, and is built on thirty great arches of marble. All are strong, well spaced, broad, and equipped with bars of iron that may be dropped at need. The road is sealed with cement and lead, and at either end is a great drawbridge that may be raised with ten heavy iron chains. The drawbridge works are housed in towers of marvelous strength, each forty feet tall and topped with a resplendent gold eagle that glows like a flame. Finally, the warden of the bridge is a huge giant, as fierce as any I’ve ever seen. Men say his name is Galafer and he bears a man-sized, steel-headed axe to destroy those who oppose his will.”
The messengers were much dismayed at this news and would have turned back but for Roland. “Never fear, my friends,” he said. “With Durandal in my hand I value no pagan ever born at more than a penny, whatsoever his size may be.”
Duke Naymon disagreed. “Sir Roland, it helps us not at all to give one stroke only to receive fifteen. Let me take care of this and, God willing, we will pass by without danger.”
This displeased Roland, but the others agreed to the plan. The group rode on with its white bearded elder in the lead.
* * *
The warden of the Mantryble Bridge was a giant named Galafer who was even larger than Fierabras. Backed by a hundred soldiers armed with heavy glaives, he stopped the company before they could even set foot on the bridge. “Whither go you, old man, and on what business?” he thundered down at Duke Naymon.
“Giant, we are heralds of King Charles who bear a message to the Admiral Balan. More, your Admiral owes us a service, for just this morning we came across twenty villains on the road that would have done us ill. Here, take you their heads and dispose of them properly to your dogs.”
With that, Naymon and the others tossed the heads of seven Saracen kings to the ground.
Galafer recognized the dead faces rolling around his feet and went almost out of his wits with anger. “Vassal, understand me,” he boomed at Duke Naymon, “you will go nowhere unless you pay my bridge toll first.”
“Demand what ye ought to have, Porter, and we will content you.”
“It is no light toll. You must pay me thirty couples of hounds, trained to the hunt; one hundred maidens, chaste and of good manners; one hundred falcons, ready to fly; one hundred steeds, trained for war; and for every wing and foot, a mark of gold with horses and wagons to carry it. Only then may you pass. And if you do not make such payment, you will die where you stand.”
Naymon knew that the Porter had no thought but for their death, for this was an impossible toll, but he affected not to care. Waiving a hand he said, “Is that all you require? If so, you shall be content before midday tomorrow. Our baggage comes closely behind us with more than a hundred thousand laden horses, maidens as fair as any, and hawks and hounds in great abundance. Too, there are hauberks, helms and shields without number. Take of them such as shall please you.”
So saying, Naymon led the other knights out and over the bridge. Galafer stepped aside. In truth, he was so occupied with counting his forthcoming treasure that he barely saw them pass.
“Truly, Sir Duke,” said Roland, “your strategy is proven. By your words we have passed this bridge without danger.”
A lone Saracen came by as he spoke, headed the other way. Without hesitation Roland stepped down from his horse, picked the man up and hurled him over the side of the bridge into the torrential River Flagot. “Praise God,” he said, “now all things have turned out well indeed.”
Naymon saw the pagan fall and flushed with anger. He muttered through tight lips, “Lord God of Heaven, guard us well. This Count has no patience, and I fear his temper shall one day lead us all to a villainous death! At least we’re rid of those damned heads.”
The company rode on past Mantryble and then settled down to sleep in a clearing off the road.
* * *
By riding hard through the night, Brullant managed to arrive at the Admiral’s city of Aygremore just as his lord rose from the morning meal. “What are you doing here?” cried the Admiral from his terrace. “Where are Maradas and the others?”
“Slain, one and all,” said Brullant. “We came across a troop of seven Frenchmen who killed everyone but me. I barely escaped with my life to bring you this news.”
Balan trembled at the tidings, and then began to turn colors, stutter and drool. He finally grew so wroth that he turned on one of the guards and threw him over a railing into the moat, cursing the man the whole way down.
When his liege had at last calmed down, Sortibrant stepped up next to Brullant and said, “Next time, your Majesty, you would do better to heed our counsel. Stick close to the tail of an old dog and you’ll never go astray.”
With tears in his eyes, the Admiral bowed his head and nodded.
* * *
The seven Paladins arrived that afternoon and immediately demanded an audience with the Admiral to deliver their message. Brullant leaned over the Admiral’s shoulder and whispered, “These are the men who slew your Kings and Princes! Guard them well.”
Sortibrant added, “Yes. Guard them well, but first let us hear what the French King has to say.”
Nodding, Admiral Balan stood to greet the embassy.
Duke Naymon put an arm across Roland’s chest. “I will speak first. Your tongue would have us all dead before the rest of us could say a word.”
Though ill content, Roland bowed his head in agreement. Naymon stepped forward and spoke in a clear, strong voice.
“God keep the noble King Charlemagne, puissant, strong and wise Emperor, Roland, Oliver and the other peers of France, and confound, from the top of the head to the bottom of the feet, the Admiral here present, inasmuch as his subjects were just yesterday on a mission of evil purpose beyond the Mantryble Bridge. We found twenty scoundrels on the field who would have taken our horses, but, God be thanked, they paid for this a heavy price.”
When he understood this speech, the Admiral began to rage. His face turned red, then white, then red again, and foam formed at his lips. Brullant, who had been the one to escape the day before, calmed him from acting too rashly. “Let us discover their errand before delivering judgment.”
The Admiral nodded, and then said to Naymon, “Continue your message.”
“The great and noble King of France commands that you abandon your false gods, consent to be baptized, swear fealty for your lands, render to him the stolen treasures and relics for which he has taken such great pains, and deliver up his knights whom you now hold foolishly in prison. If you fail to do as I have described, Charles shall cause you to be hanged by the neck on a gibbet and strangled villainously before your people.”
The Admiral answered, “You have greatly defiled me with this outrage, but I have listened patiently. Go and stand by yonder pillar until I have heard these others. May my god Mahomet give me an evil death if I either eat or drink until I see your head separated from your shoulders.”
Then came Richard of Normandy, who repeated the message as Duke Naymon had given it. “You remind me of Richard of Normandy,” said the Admiral, “who slew my uncle Corsuble. Would that Richard was indeed here; he would die an even quicker death than the rest of you. Go and stand by your ancient friend.”
Ogier delivered the message proudly in his deep, booming voice, as was his wont. After him came Guy of Burgundy, Aubrey of Bordeaux and Duke Thierry, whose visage was so fierce and awful that the Admiral recoiled and made gestures as one might against a demon. All spoke just as Naymon had until Roland. He came last and added, “But as for me, I care little whether you obey this command or not, for I count you lower than the carcass of a dog that lies rotting in the summer sun.”
At this the Admiral’s eyes almost popped from his head, but he choked down his rage and turned to Sortibrant and Brullant. “Very well, then. What do you advise?”
Sortibrant said, “Sire, let these miscreants be cut to pieces here before our eyes.”
Brullant added, “And then let you take an army and conquer this Charles from whom these words came first.”
The Admiral liked both of these suggestions, but before he could act his daughter intervened.
