CHARLEMAGNE AND THE ADMIRAL OF SPAIN

THE BATTLE OF AYGREMORE

The knights in the Tower rejoiced with tears and words of thanksgiving. An evening ago the enemy had pressed them to the limits of exhaustion and reached the very portal of their final redoubt. Then Charlemagne had arrived with his army, made camp in the Vale of Joshua on the other side of the city, and the heathen Admiral of Spain had recalled his troops to prepare a hasty defense.

Not everyone in the heathen camp was pleased with that decision. King Brullant wore a stubborn look halfway between determination and despair. “I say again, Sire; those men in the Tower are like the serpent’s tooth. Pluck out the fang and the snake will pose no threat.”

“And for the final time, I answer that I’ll not send a thousand men against ten when an army waits in the other direction!”

King Sortibrant put a gentling hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Besides, Brullant, our gods will surely aid us more if we oppose a Christian king than merely chase his men. It is They who decide matters in the end.”

Defeated but unconvinced, Brullant said, “Then by your leave, Sire, give me command of our rightmost wing. That shall place the Tower in my charge and let me ensure that the fang stays idle. Besides, I see some possibilities in the land . . .”

“You have my entire trust,” said the Admiral. “Sortibrant, you shall command the left. Let us go and prepare.”

*  *  *

The French camp enjoyed considerably more order. Poised and eager as a racehorse, the army waited anxiously for the battle to start. At last they would bring the enemy to grips! On the heart of Charlemagne, however, there lay a cloud; worry for a knight named Fierabras.

“Dear friend,” he said, “you know how well I’ve come to love you. It ill pleases me to think of harming your kin. For your sake I am willing to give your father, the Admiral, a final chance. If he will consent to be baptized, forsake his heathen gods, and agree to be Our friend, I shall love him as I have come to love you. Not a penny of all his goods will I take, nor even an inch of land. But if he will not do these things, a battle can’t be avoided, and I can promise no mercy thereafter.”

“Sir Emperor, send to my father a messenger bearing these terms and I shall be content. The sin will be on his own head if he denies you, and I shall neither pray for nor give him any pity, even if I see him hewn and dead on the ground.”

Charles turned to the Dukes Reyner and Richard, who were at that time his chief counselors, and asked, “Who would you suggest to bear this message? My thought turns to Ganelon. He is well-spoken, a noble man, and you know how well he proved his prowess in the battle for Mantryble Bridge.”

The two men quickly agreed. “Truly Sire,” said Duke Richard, “Ganelon above all men would deliver your words in the tone and manner you’d like, with silver atop and iron beneath. But I mistrust this Admiral of Spain despite his being a good knight’s father. ‘Twould be a hazardous embassy to bear.”

“I’ll not command him, only ask,” agreed the King. When Ganelon learned of the mission, however, he immediately volunteered.

“Sire, your hope commands me as sternly as your words. I am your man entirely, in all things, and would willingly set my life in the hazard to see even your whim fulfilled. But in this matter there is Fierabras to consider as well.

“If these are the last words I speak in your court, let them be words of praise. He is a knight to admire and respect; valiant, honest, courageous, and true. What counts more to a man than family? What risk is too great to save and protect our kin? I would undertake this mission for his sake alone, his and his filial honor, even if you’d not asked.”

Fierabras embraced him with teary eyes and kissed him on both cheeks. Ganelon returned his kind words and the pair left arm in arm. With Fierabras playing his squire, the Paladin was armed and ready within minutes. He rode off with a jaunty wave, his helm glittering on his head and his lion-painted shield hung round his neck. His tall steed, Gascon, rose to a gallop and flew across the field.

Twenty Turks came out to meet him. He spoke proudly. “I bear a message from Charles the Great, King of the Franks and Emperor of the West. Lead me to your Admiral.”

*  *  *

Balan held court in a giant scarlet and purple pavilion, sitting on a platform that raised him above all heads. Ganelon stood before him with a lordly mien, one hand holding Gascon’s halter and the other gesturing gracefully as he spoke.

“Saracen, take heed and understand that I am a messenger of the noble Charles, mighty King and Emperor. He sends word by me that if you forsake Mahon and your other diabolical gods, and consent to be baptized in the One True Faith, he shall entirely spare your life, lands and goods; and too, those of your subjects and people. You shall also have his fullest love, and that of Fierabras, your son. A man who could sire so worthy a knight deserves to have this chance.

“But if you will not accept this offer, know that the Emperor shall defy you and bring you down, and with you your lands and subjects. You would be wiser in that case to flee than to fight, for if taken you would go to a dangerous death; your subjects would be dismembered and slain; and your lands and riches he would give to his servants. Take good counsel, therefore, before you give your answer.”

The Admiral grew angrier and angrier as Ganelon’s words went on, and by the end of this speech was so consumed with fury that he could only sputter. He pounded the arm of his throne in rage, then snatched up a stave and brandished it as if to strike the French messenger. “Wretch!” he finally spat. “Brigand! Your words condemn you. Charles can bear you but little love to send you to me thus. Your head will be my answer.”

King Brullant stepped forward and cried, “Guards, seize him!”

Ganelon reacted before they could move. He swept his sword from its scabbard, heavy and sharp, and struck Brullant through the chest. The Saracen king staggered and collapsed at his Admiral’s feet.

As Sortibrant ran from the tent calling, “Guards! Guards!” Ganelon struck down two more men who sought to restrain him, leapt to his saddle, and whirled away into the dawn. Thousands of Turks took up the chase, pursuing the fleeing knight across the Vale of Joshua. He evaded them all, spurring his horse in a desperate push for freedom.

Up in the Tower Duke Naymon watched from a window. He called for Roland and Oliver. “My old eyes fail me. Who is that man that causes so great a tumult in the Saracens’ camp?”

“A Christian to be sure,” said Oliver, peering out. “It must be Ganelon. That would be my choice to bear a message if I were the Emperor Charles.”

“God grant him safe deliverance,” said Roland. “Look at him ride! There is a puissant man and a knight who earns his fame.”

Ganelon labored on against the insuperable odds, struggling through thousands of foes for the safety of Charlemagne’s camp. Up in the Tower the Paladins crowded the windows and cheered lustily as he spurred back and forth like a hind fleeing the pack. Their voices dimmed for a moment when it seemed the enemy had caught him at last, surrounded on all sides at the top of a little hill; then roared with joy as he drew Murgall, his sword, and cut his way out. One man fell from a blow to the helm. A second he cleft through the breast. Then he came on Tenebres, the brother of king Sortibrant, and slew him too before breaking into the clear once again.

Roland and Oliver clutched each other and wept. “Oh valiant Baron!” cried Oliver. “May God preserve him, brother, I love the man with all my heart. Save you and Charles, there’s none I love any better. Would that I rode by his side; a great martyrdom would I make among these pagans!”

All Ganelon’s feats made barely a dint in the numbers that pursued, however. The heathen closed in from all sides, howling like hungry wolves and eager for the kill. Ganelon made less and less progress with each sally. One after another, they cut off his lines of escape. Twenty men had circled him round with spears, when the air began to shiver like the ocean before an angry storm. The Vale of Joshua shook and trembled to the sound of approaching thunder.

The foe scattered like hares, for Charlemagne had come in wrath.

*  *  *

Ganelon knelt before the King to deliver the news of his embassy. Charles listened closely and immediately began to issue orders in a clear, crisp voice. “We shall advance in ten divisions. Richard and the Normans will lead the van. Reyner, you shall have the left. Ganelon, you take the right. Beware the hill on your flank. Aloys shall keep the fourth division to support your own.”

After disposing the other troops he finished by saying, “I will command our reserve from the heights. I adjure you all to heed Our messengers, for the land is full of hills and vales and you’ll have no sight beyond your own piece of the battle.”

The news of Ganelon’s deliverance reached the Admiral’s tent at about the same time. It was met with considerably less aplomb.

King Sortibrant burst into tears, wailing and brandishing his sword. “You have slain my brother, Charles, and for that I will have your head!”

This vow greatly pleased the Admiral. He laughed as Sortibrant hacked the silk hangings to shreds. No plans were made. Brullant was missed already.

Sortibrant was still raging when word arrived that the Emperor Charles had begun his assault. The Admiral embraced his councilor and said, “Take a hundred thousand men and meet the French on the field. I will hold a like amount in reserve. But if you come upon Charles or Fierabras, slay them not; bring them to me instead.”

*  *  *

The armies met before the Vale of Joshua with a gigantic clash that shook the stones of Aygremore’s walls. The French trumpets sounded high and clear above the fray, commanding men to shift this way and that within the swirling confusion of the battle. The Saracens also surged forward, but lacking the same discipline were far less effective. As a result, though the numbers of men on the field were roughly even, all the French remained engaged while thousands of the enemy milled around looking for someone to fight. Still, it was a great battle and many things rested on chance. And, of course, the Admiral lay in reserve with an army larger than either on the field.

At one point Sortibrant came with twenty thousand men near to where Charlemagne gave commands. “Where is the Emperor Charles?” he cried. “Where is the Bandit King? You were a fool to ever cross into Spain. You’ll have no time to repent it, though, for this day your life will end. Come and face me you dotard!”

The Saracen’s words enflamed the King’s heart with rage. He lowered his long spear and charged. The defiant heathen rode to meet him.

Charlemagne’s point took Sortibrant on the shield with such force that sundry bits of his armor flew high in the air and he sagged in the saddle, stunned and confused. He never had a chance to recover. The Emperor drew his great sword Joyeuse and struck over and over until his enemy fell dead on the field.

Meanwhile, at the center of the lines a Turkish chieftain named Coldroe stormed through the French troops, slaying many fair men. He shattered the shield of Sir Jehan de Bretagne, then smote him through the body. He likewise robbed the lives of the good Earls Huon and Guernyer of Milan, and set a great pall of fear on the French who stood before him. With a sneer he rose in his stirrups and cried out, “Weak and helpless I name you all! Who is the next that wants to die?”

Richard of Normandy, who commanded that part of the line, drew his sword and answered with a wordless fury. Coldroe met him with a heavy blow to the shield, but the Paladin rocked back to avoid its force.

The Saracen had thrown all his strength in that initial blow. When it slid past without resistance, that same power contrived to pull him forward, off balance. A little tug by Richard almost tumbled him from his seat, and only a desperate grab at his saddle kept him from falling beneath the milling hooves. He might have been better off on the ground.

As Coldroe struggled to recover his balance, Richard raised his blade and gave a subtle command that caused his horse to rear. When Coldroe finally sat up, the steed came down, and with him Richard’s sword. The combination cost the Turk his boastful head.

On the far right of the field Ganelon and his troops made a great slaughter among the enemy. Fierabras rode at his side and personally accounted for more than fifty men. The Saracens broke before them like still water being cut by the prow of a mighty ship. They were on the brink of rout when fortune struck a blow in their favor.

A crossbow bolt flew out of nowhere and crashed on Fierabras’ helm with a resounding clang! louder than any church bell. The giant knight sagged and would have fallen from the saddle had Ganelon not caught his reins and brought him back to safety. With the two French champions gone the enemy managed to stiffen and re-form.

Fierabras recovered soon enough, however. When the pair rejoined the fray their swords took up right where they’d left off. It wasn’t long before heathen soldiers once again began looking to the rear as much as the front, weighing their chance of escape.

By this combination of discipline, organization and valor the French slowly began to dominate the field. Admiral Balan saw the balance shifting and deemed the time ripe to advance with the hundred thousand fresh troops he’d held in reserve. That made the odds two to one. Undaunted, Charlemagne committed the last of his meager reserves and rode to battle at their head.

*  *  *

Up in the Tower the Paladins watched the field in bitter frustration as good men fought and died. The battle had slowed to the pace of two monstrous beasts locked in a death grip. One was larger, stronger and heavier; the other nobler, braver and better skilled. Whichever gave ground first would pay the ultimate price. They longed to help, but five thousand Saracens guarded the door and pinned their band in place.

For all his faults the Admiral was the mightiest of all the Saracen knights, and his arrival on the field made devastating inroads among the French. He slew by the dozens and the French lines trembled before him. Afire with the chance of victory, Balan waved his bloody sword over his head and cried, “To me! Men of Mahon, ride to me now! Great rewards will I give to those who help me to finish this adventure!”

That cry was his undoing. Consumed with visions of promised gold, the guards around the Tower abandoned their watch and hurried to respond.

Roland was grinding his teeth and banging his fist on the stone sill of the window when the force of jailers rode off. “Look there!” he cried to his fellows. They gathered by the window, unbelieving.

The thought arrived to all of them at about the same time, but as usual it was Duke Naymon who gave it voice. “There are horses free on the field. Let us partake of the plenty.”

*  *  *

The final Saracen reserves, twenty thousand men of the city militia, cheered lustily as their Admiral led the way to victory. His puissance was unstoppable. They danced with joy as the French trembled and broke before him.

Then death arrived from behind.

The fiends from the Tower were free! And at their head was the devil incarnate, the one called Roland who wore the red and white. Heads flew up around him like quail fleeing from a monstrous hound. At his side the other demons took nearly as heavy a toll. The band swept through the militia like a mower’s scythe. Horrified to senseless panic, the militia fled.

Fortune had favored the heathen once. Now she turned her face. The Paladins had come from behind; to escape, the reserves had to go forward.

Twenty thousand shrieking men poured squarely into the rear of the Saracen lines. Fear spread like flames in a room of hay, with the charging Paladins a burning coal at the heart.

The Admiral quickly realized that the battle was lost if he didn’t succeed in a desperate chance. ‘If Charlemagne dies,’ he said to himself, ‘the foe will crumble. He is the head of the snake.’ He circled the knots of fighting men until the King’s standard, the Oriflamme, rose before him. ‘Perfect!’ The Admiral covered himself with the cloak of a fallen French knight and crept closer, to a spot directly behind the King.

The Paladins from the Tower had likewise spotted the Oriflamme. Naymon, Ogier and Thierry split off to bring news of their release to the Emperor, while the younger knights continued to wreak their unique brand of havoc. Charles waved jubilantly to the oncoming barons, his attention completely focused on the joy of seeing them alive. It was Ogier who saw the giant knight in a French cloak rear up behind the King and prepare a treacherous stroke.

The noble Dane spurred his horse forward and leapt headfirst from the saddle, flying past the King and driving the threat to the ground. Enraged by what he thought to be treason, Ogier ripped the helm off the man beneath him and struck him unconscious with an angry blow from his fist. It was only then that he realized who he’d tackled and felled.

The Saracens knew immediately, however. With the fall of the Admiral the last of their courage collapsed. Shaky lines dissolved into a disorganized mass of frightened men. All that remained was the harvest.

*  *  *

When Fierabras and Ganelon broke through the foe a few minutes later, they found the battle all but done, and the King embracing his nephew with tears of joy. “Roland,” he cried, “you have saved us yet again! Without you our valor is as naught.”

“So that is Roland,” said Fierabras, a little wistfully. “He doesn’t look half so fierce as rumor would make him seem. I regret that we’ll have no chance to cross swords in honorable combat.”

Ganelon merely shook his head. “I do not. You are my friend and I prefer my friends with their necks firmly attached.”

Fierabras gave him an odd look, and Ganelon continued. “Roland is like the arm of fate. No one man could face him, not even you. Nor any ten. Nor tens of tens. No one will ever slay Roland but Roland himself. I suppose that might be contrived, but the plan would take some thought . . .”

Fierabras began to reply, but the arrival of another rider diverted his attention. “Look! It’s Oliver!” He set spurs to his horse and bounced forward.

As Ganelon shook his head again, his cousin Aloys rode up to take Fierabras’ place at his side. “Well Cuz, yet again you’ve almost managed to win the prize. This morning you were the toast of France. Now you’re just another moon to Roland’s sun.”

“Say not so,” said Ganelon. “He earns his fame.”

“And you do not? Roland’s glory blinds the King to all others. What reward will you have for the day’s work? A hearty ‘Well done’ and the chance to do it again?”

Aloys backed away as Ganelon’s face turned angry. “Be that as it may,” the younger man continued, “if I want even that much reward I’d best go harvest a few heads of my own. There’s still some fighting to do, you know. Will you join me?”

Ganelon wordlessly pulled down on his helmet, drew his bloody sword, and spurred toward the last few pockets of resistance. Aloys laughed and followed.

Thus the day was won and the first great conquest of Spain begun.

*  *  *

Despite numerous chances and a sermon from the King’s own lips, the Admiral stayed resolved to his heathen gods. He spat in the font prepared for his baptism, and would have murdered the bishop with his own hands had Ogier not intervened. Finally even Fierabras had to admit the man was beyond redemption. The King had him beheaded, together with everyone else who would not convert.

In his place Charles set Guy of Burgundy, newly wed to the beautiful Floripas. They ruled together long and well.

Fierabras also received vast estates. These he held from Guy, though more in name than substance. Over the years the brothers by marriage grew closer than many tied by blood.

As for the wealth of the Admiral’s treasury, this was distributed among the army with Charlemagne’s customary wisdom and generosity. Not a man went back to France with less in his pouch than would buy an acre of land.

All of this took the rest of the summer to settle, and the harvest had almost arrived, even to sunny Spain, when the last farewells were made. Cheers filled the air as Charles the Great, King of France and Emperor of the West, savored the scent of triumph and rode toward home with all twelve Peers at his side.

 
THE END

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