CHAPTER 5 – THE BATTLE OF MANTRYBLE BRIDGE

The sudden arrival of one of the missing Paladins – grimy, bedraggled and exhausted as he was – set every heart to racing. “Good baron,” asked the King eagerly, “how is it with you? What has become of my nephew Roland and my other Peers? Have you come alone? Are they alive or dead? Tell me, I pray you.”

The excitement grew as his tale spun out. “Sir Emperor, Roland and the others were whole and in good point when I departed from them, though besieged in the strong Tower of Aygremore by Balan, the Admiral of Spain. More than a hundred thousand Saracens ring them tightly. It was a miracle that I escaped with our plea for aid. The Admiral, who I assure you is a fierce and terrible man, has sworn by his gods Mahon and Termagant that he shall never depart from the siege until those trapped in the Tower are hanged by the neck.

With your knights are Floripas, the courteous daughter of the Admiral and the fairest maid in all the world, and twenty of her ladies. These have all sent you word by me begging for your aid – and if it pleases you to grant that aid, offering their powers that you may more quickly conquer both the country of Spain and all the lands beyond.”

“Good Duke, your words bring me a greater joy than you can imagine. Enough discussion! Let all men of courage now ride, for Roland, my nephew awaits!”

Whatever may have hid in his heart, Ganelon raised as lusty a cry as the rest and joined the streaming barons as they raced to gather their men. Only Richard of Normandy tarried behind to catch the King for a final word.

“If you please Sire, I must speak with you of Mantryble. It is a dread fortress and unlikely to fall by storm. Nevertheless, I have a thought . . .”

*  *  *

Galafer, the giant warden of the Mantryble Bridge, scowled down at the band of five hundred wealthy merchants, and especially their gray-bearded leader. “Vassal!” he boomed, “what is your name and what is the purpose that brings you here?”

“Sir,” said Duke Richard, for it was he in disguise that stood before the giant, “I and my comrades are merchants from Tarragon who bear a great quantity of cloth and draperies. By the aid of Mahon, we hope to sell these goods at the faires by Aygremore. Too, we bring precious gifts for the Admiral. What counsel can you grant us to further this venture?”

Galafer was suspicious, but even though he stood alone he felt no fear. The man before him was clearly old and past the days of adventure. He was also less than half of Galafer’s size, unarmored, and the bridge that the giant defended was as invincibly strong as any the mind of man had ever conceived. The roadway of the Mantryble Bridge was wide enough for twenty knights to ride abreast but the points of entry at either end, both here at the river’s edge and across the way at Mantryble City, were contained by marvelously strong towers and huge drawbridges equipped with heavy iron chains. Golden eagles flamed proudly in the morning sun at the top of each Tower. In between were thirty strong, marble arches to support the bridge, all of which had iron bars that defenders could drop at need.

“You may not pass,” Galafer bellowed. “The Admiral has forbidden it.

“Not long since there passed hereby twelve ruffians and rogues of France, who were messengers of the Emperor Charles. They promised me a great tribute for their passage and have yet to pay. My lord the Admiral now keeps them in prison – all except one who escaped the other day, skulking like a thief, on the best horse I ever saw. He passed over the River after slaying my cousin, King Clarion, for whom I greatly mourn. Would that Mahon, my god, would bring him here again to this bridge . . .! I would cleave the dastard to his belly without mercy or pity.

“Since that escape the Admiral has great fear of treason, the more so because his son Fierabras has renounced Mahon to become Christian. He has therefore commanded me three times to deny passage to any person, be he lord, knight or servant; and further that I should search well all who come to be sure of their condition. Therefore I would know more of who and what ye be.”

Richard bowed his head and struggled to think of some way to continue his deception.

Meanwhile, three of the Duke’s most loyal retainers, Godwin, Graedwyn and their ward, young Leonard, walked softly over the way and crept toward the Tower gate. When Galafer saw them he was outraged. “What is this? I said that none shall pass!”

He immediately stepped to a gigantic wheel and drew up the drawbridge, cutting off the rest of their party. Faced with only four men he had no fear.

“You are over bold to enter without my command. You shall be set in prison for this, along with any of your party that follows, and tomorrow I shall send you as prisoners to the Admiral for judgment. Now take off your cloaks, for you seem to me an evil sort and I would see what you hide beneath.”

He grasped Godwin by the cloak and pulled sharply, spinning the unfortunate knight around four times.

“By God,” said the hot-blooded Leonard with all the outrage of his beardless years, “You can’t treat my cousin like that!” He threw off his cloak, drew his sword, and smote with all his strength at Galafer’s side. The giant was armored with the hide of an old Serpent, however, and the cut glanced aside. Leonard followed quickly with a second blow, and then a third, but they too skittered off.

Encumbered by Godwin’s dangling form, Galafer reacted slowly at first. Once he’d caught his balance, however, he immediately grabbed with his free hand for the boy who yapped and snapped about his knees like an annoying puppy. Leonard threw a desperate stroke at the tree-sized arm. The armor rejected the blow again, but this the blade glanced up. Purely by chance, the tip reached in and snicked off a bit of the giant’s ear.

Galafer roared with fury and threw Godwin into the younger man. Both went sprawling to the roadway. Before he could take advantage, however, Duke Richard and the other Norman, Graedwyn Oddfist, charged in from the other side. The giant roared again, and swept them aside with two swift cuffs. Then he stepped to the tower door and retrieved his man-sized, steel-headed axe. Twirling it lightly, he laughed at his four puny foes.

“Now you die!” he thundered.

The knights attacked as one. Galafer smote down at Leonard, in the lead. The boy stumbled aside just in time. The huge blade passed him with a wind that pulled at his hair and clothes like a storm, and crashed deep into the stone floor.

The other Normans launched a flurry of cuts, but none could pierce the Serpent-hide armor. Galafer ignored them, and wrenched the axe free in a shower of flying rock that sent the Frenchmen diving for cover.

‘This is madness,’ muttered Duke Richard from behind a pile of firewood. ‘How can we fight or even grieve this monster if we can not cut through his armor?’ As another blow of the axe sent knights tumbling about, he sheathed his sword and grasped the heaviest log from the pile. Crying “God and the King!” he ran forward and crashed it down on the giant’s armored cap.

This new attack rocked the brute so much that he bellowed for aid. The city gate opened and belched ten thousand men upon the Bridge, all of whom raced to support their lord.

*  *  *

Duke Richard ran to the huge wheel that raised and lowered the drawbridge. It was built for creatures of Galafer’s size and terribly hard to move. He strained desperately at the task while Graedwyn, Godwin and Leonard hung on the giant’s limbs like little Norman terriers besieging a bear. ‘Never mind the enemy,’ Richard told himself fiercely, ‘just move the wheel. Don’t look. Just lower the bridge.’

The wheel turned slowly, maddeningly, as the sound of heathen war cries came closer and closer. Richard labored until his arms were as hard as the marble walls and his heart pounded in his ears, but the wheel refused to move any faster. The Saracen footsteps drummed on the road, growing louder with every beat. Any moment, he knew, they’d arrive and overwhelm him. He strained even harder, until his world disappeared in a reddish fog of effort.

The sound of feet grew louder – then vanished in the deafening thunder of hooves, as the five hundred knights of Richard’s command galloped over the drawbridge and dove at the enemy foot.

The heathens staggered back at the shock, firmed, and then continued to slowly retreat as the French pushed forward. Broad though it was, the Bridge was too narrow to bypass the Saracen hoard; the cavalry had no choice but the long, slow work of smashing through disciplined troops.

The battle edged away from the Tower gate and toward the first marble arch. Each side landed many grievous and mortal strokes. Duke Richard stood at the forefront, driving the enemy back with slashing blows. He had no armor, however, for his disguise as a wealthy merchant had forbidden the wearing of mail. Bit by bit the nicks and cuts began to mount.

Behind him Galafer had shrugged off his opponents and was reaping havoc with his monstrous axe. Knights and mounts fell to the great strokes with disturbing regularity. Ahead lay the stubborn mass of heathen troops.

Richard was weighing whether the giant or the army posed a greater threat, when a fresh roar came from the city. The gates opened and a second army poured to the Bridge, this one mounted and armed to match the French.

‘I must get word to the King!’

The Duke fell back behind his men, dodged the chaos that surrounded the giant, and ran to a door inside the tower. He wrenched it open and flew up the stairs. When he reached the roof, he sounded three sharp blasts on his horn, the signal to summon King Charles. The French army reacted immediately, racing from the woods like greyhounds released from the slips.

From his high vantage Richard could see both sets of reinforcements converging on the vicious melee beneath. Everything now depended on speed, and he judged that the heathen had a narrow edge. If the French could move no faster, the new force of Saracens would push his men into the foaming river, raise the drawbridge, and reduce the King’s hopes to dust. Richard blew another triple blast, this one so urgent that the horn shattered on his lips.

From the center came Ganelon of Mayence. With his flag unfurled, he set spurs to his charger, hurtled ahead of the army, and plunged into the press. A traitor he may have been in later days but on this one he proved his worth. His reckless courage smashed the Saracen front and sent men fleeing back into the arriving city troops.

Richard cheered wildly and leapt for the stairs to rejoin the fight. Ganelon’s effort had bought the French twenty yards of road. That would be just enough.

*  *  *

The Saracen and French reinforcements collided with a thunderous crash that shook the earth. Duke Richard grasped a sconce for dear life to keep from being flung off the stairs. Many in the fray were less lucky. Soldiers from both sides fell by the dozens into the hungry, churning waters.

Charlemagne fought at the center, where the press was particularly hot and furious. His famous blade Joyeuse smote rudely about, slaying whomever he faced. Ganelon and Richard fought at his side, and likewise did well their desire.

The slaughter continued for hours without pause. Bit by bit, however, the valiance of the French began to tell. Step by step they advanced.

The shadows had begun to lengthen toward evening, carving the scene in sharp relief, when Charlemagne first caught sight of the city gate. Galafer, who was organizing the resistance, saw the waiving Oriflamme approach and brandished his massive axe in defiance.

“By Mahon, you dotard, you’d have been wiser to hide in Paris than to search for your doom by coming here! I shall take you to the Admiral, who has no mercy. He will flay you alive, piece by piece – and I will be there to watch!”

“You will see nothing villain!” answered Charles in a fury, “for I shall have your head before this day is done!”

The King set spurs to his stallion, urging him to one more charge through the enemy lines. Saracens clutched and grabbed at him like ticks at a dog, but Joyeuse was a thing alive. The shining blade struck off the offending hands like so many stalks of grain. Ganelon, Duke Richard, and those of their folk who’d managed to stay together struggled to follow in his wake.

Galafer met the King with a monstrous blow of his axe, even as Charlemagne leapt from the saddle and struck at the giant’s arm. Joyeuse glanced harmlessly from the serpent’s scales that protected the heathen’s body. Not so the giant axe. It missed the elusive King but continued down toward where he’d been. The great steel head cut Charlemagne’s abandoned horse completely in half and came out dripping from the other side.

“My lord,” cried Richard as Charlemagne struggled away from another stroke of the man-sized axe, “strike for a gap! The armor can not be pierced.”

The fury of the battle drowned his words completely. Instead of searching for a tiny hole, the King rushed in with a flurry of cuts. Such was the weight of Charlemagne’s hand that the giant stumbled backward, even though none of the blows could reach his flesh. Richard tried to call again, then ground his teeth with frustration.

So long as Galafer remained on his feet, there was no unarmored spot for the King to reach, even if he knew to try. The heathen was simply too tall. They needed another plan.

Galafer recovered his balance and spun around before the Duke could find any ideas. He was amazingly fast for so huge a creature. The flat and haft of the axe shot out with stunning speed. Charlemagne caught a glancing blow that threw him down at the giant’s feet. The heathen chortled and raised his weapon for the final stroke, but inspiration fell faster than his hand.

The same maneuver that surprised the King had turned Galafer’s back to the Duke. Richard dove from the stirrups, drove his shoulder into the back of the giant’s knees, and grabbed the enormous ankles. Galafer tottered, the killing stroke forgotten. Then Richard tightened his grip and stood.

“What . . .?!” The giant stumbled to his hands and knees.

Charlemagne allowed him no chance for further words. Joyeuse cut down at the exposed neck and clove it like a melon.

“God and the King!” called Richard triumphantly.

“God and the King!” cheered the French. They surged forward and the defenders broke at last, their courage fled with their champion’s life. Saracens by the thousands began to flee for the safety of the high city gates and walls.

*  *  *

Duke Richard helped the King to his feet, Joyeuse still dripping with Galafer’s blood. “That was nobly done, your Majesty. Nobly indeed!”

“My thanks, good Duke. In the end it took two. But we have no time for this. We must take the gatehouse, and soon, while their panic continues. All it would take is one Saracen with a steady head and they’ll have the drawbridge up and the portcullis down. The Bridge is nothing if we don’t win the City as well. We must press on!”

“I have just the men for the task, your Majesty. My engineers Godwin and Geoffrey could build a tower to the moon with rusty nails and glue. If anyone can master the enemy’s works it is they.” He waved his sword and shouted, “Normans, to me! God and the King! Geoffrey, come to the front.”

His men hurried forward with Duke Reyner, Oliver’s father, who’d been fighting at their side. Together with the King and Duke Richard, the little band dove, blades singing, into the Saracen throng. Sheer determination brought them to the gatehouse. Duke Richard and his wonder-working engineers went in. The King, Duke Reyner and the remaining Normans stayed to hold the door.

Charles stood behind the line with Reyner and marveled at the bravery of Richard’s folk. At one end stood Graedwyn Oddfist, proving how he’d earned his name. Though a dart had pierced one foot and his shield was shattered and lost, he held the corner nevertheless with his sword in one hand and a broken lance in the other. The Saracens who faced him seemed more confused than frightened, but they died nevertheless.

Two other Normans in identical armor, Gavin and Duncan, held the center. They had locked their iron shields together and seemed like something more than human, with eyes that saw in every direction and swords that sang of death. A pile of shattered skulls and brains was already mounting before them.

The boy Leonard held the other corner. He flashed out and back, whippet-like and tireless, his point dancing from eyeslit to eyeslit with reckless abandon. The King shook his head in wonder. “That boy will make a fine baron some day,” he said to Reyner, “if his own courage doesn’t kill him first.” Then the Saracens organized a charge and both King and Duke were forced to add their hands to the other defenders.

The weight of numbers forced them steadily back into the gatehouse. Charlemagne finally rose up to his full height and yelled furiously over the attacking foes, “Frenchmen! Succor and aid! You must hurry!” Then the Saracens pushed forward again and drove him inside with the others, away and out of view.

*  *  *

Ganelon heard the King’s cry and immediately realized the stakes. ‘If we don’t relieve him at once they’ll be cut off!’ He raised his horn to summon more men, but a hand shot out and knocked it aside. He spun in his saddle and saw Aloys, his cousin.

“Don’t be a fool,” said Aloys. “We have fought and bled enough this day. Let others suffer the torments to come. What is it to us if Charles is trapped within? God forbid he ever departs! We shall thus have vengeance on him and Reyner both for the opposition they have given us. And when they are gone, yea, upon their subjects as well.”

“God forbid I should ever do such treason to my rightful Lord!” said Ganelon. “We hold from him our lands and titles. False and faithless would I be named if I did as you suggest.”

Aloys glanced at the hoard of seething Saracens and again leaned close. “You are a fool! Who could strip us of lands or titles when the King and his Barons are dead? With Reyner and Richard joining the King, the crown would be ours for the taking – yours, most likely. Let us depart, I say!”

Ganelon angrily shrugged off the restraining hand. “Never would I do such treason. Leaving the King in such peril would be the same as raising my hand against him. I’d rather be torn asunder than be guilty of such a deed.”

Aloys was ill content at these words and would have made a heated reply had Fierabras not come upon them in good array and great point. “Where is the King?” he demanded.

Ganelon spared a bitter look at his cousin and said, “Sir, we shall never see him again. He is enclosed within the gatehouse and dead by now, I suppose.”

“You ‘suppose?’ You do not know and yet you tarry here? A man could name you traitor for this, and fairly!” His voice was full of angry reproach.

Ganelon wordlessly raised his horn and blew a loud summons. As he did, Fierabras stood in his stirrups so that he towered above all heads, and pointed his sword toward the gatehouse. “Behold!” he roared. “The drawbridge is yet unraised and the King holds it with his life. To his aid, you French! On for the glory of Charles!”

“For Charles!” they answered. “On for the King!”

With Fierabras at the front and Ganelon at his side the French army swept past all resistance. The Saracens fought like famished wolves but fell nevertheless. Such rivers of blood poured down the streets that men marveled to see it.

Aloys waited with his men outside the gate until he could see the battle was won. Then he hurried them in to the gatehouse and up the stairs. They took the last, desperate Saracens from the rear and hewed them down like so many sheaves of wheat.

“Sire,” said Aloys, kneeling before the bloody and exhausted King, “through blood and pain, always will I ride to your aid.”

Charles clapped a hand on Aloys shoulder and said, “Well done.” He looked around the room at the Dukes Reyner and Richard, the Normans staggering from their wounds, and the kneeling men on the stairs behind the Mayencer noble. “All of you, well done.”

*  *  *

It was soon discovered that Mantryble held great riches, for the Admiral Balan had deemed it so strong and secure that he’d stored there a great part of his wealth. For three days, as the army rested as the King busily granted praise and rewards to all his subjects according to their station, quality and deeds. As always, he distributed so wisely that all his men, both great and small, were well content.

Men with lesser duties spent the time sporting in the River Flagot and enjoying the gentle days, for May and the season of flowers were upon them. Soon enough, however, Charlemagne called his peers in to council.

“My lords and barons,” he said, “my heart is light with the smells of victory and Spring, but clouded nevertheless with fear for our special barons that lie yet imprisoned. Pleasant as this city may be, we must not tarry.”

Duke Reyner stood and said, “Sire, my counsel is this. Your Baron Sir Raoul of Nantes was wounded in the side during the battle. Let him remain here with the other wounded and five thousand healthy men to hold the town and bridge. The rest of us can ride in the morning.”

“Sire,” added Raoul, “this is a task I would willingly accept for my wounds would, in truth, make it difficult to ride to Aygremore.”

Hearing no dissent, the King agreed.

Thus it came to pass that the next morning Charlemagne stood on a little hill outside the city with certain of his barons at his side. He watched proudly as the troops marched in good array from the site of one desperate battle to another that promised to be even worse. One of the men saw him and raised a cheer that spread up and down the miles-long line.

Tears filled the King’s eyes. He looked up toward heaven and quietly said, “Nothing I have done could be enough to earn this grace. To command so mighty a people as this . . . ! With all my heart I give thanks and praise for the honor.”