The Cross and the Dragon (24 page)

Alda swallowed. She decided not to tell him of her premonition again, but she could not just lie there and pretend to be cheerful. She had to do something to protect him, even if it meant leaving herself vulnerable to the Bretons or the thieves in the forest or Bishop Luc. What mattered most was that he came back.

“Husband, there is something I want you to take,” Alda said.

She rose from the bed, letting the blankets fall from her body, and swung her feet over the edge. Shivering, she drew back the curtain. A thick night candle on a table next to the bed illuminated the solar and sleeping women. What she wanted lay next to the candle.

She picked up her iron dragon and retreated to the warmth of the blankets. The curtain was still drawn back and allowed candlelight to enter. She draped the chain that held the amulet on Hruodland's neck.

“This will protect you,” she said.

Hruodland held it and stared at it in the candlelight. “But dearling,” he stammered, “this is a gift from your father. I cannot take this from you.”

“Husband, please,” she insisted, pressing it into his hand. “It will ease my fears if you take it.”

He gave her a tender smile. “I will give it back to you when I return.”

“The stone comes from the mountain where Siegfried slew the dragon,” she said.

The dragon’s blood had made Siegfried invulnerable, almost, except for where the linden leaf fell on his shoulder.

Chapter 17

August 778

The Pyrenees

King Charles paced, waiting for the rear guard and baggage train to come to the rendezvous in the green foothills on Francia’s side of the border. The Pyrenees mountain passes had forced the retreating Franks to march north in a long, narrow column, something they were not accustomed to. Since they had arrived at the rendezvous the previous day, they had waited all night and most of the day. Still was no sign.

“Where are they?” the king muttered as the light began to wane. “Something is wrong.”

Gerard approached the king and bowed. Like the others, he had not bathed or shaved for weeks. “Your Excellence,” he began in Latin, partly because he could speak it better than Frankish, partly because only a few counts understood Latin, “I have just heard rumors from the soldiers.”

“And?” the king asked in Latin.

“Some soldiers have been talking of an ambush at twilight by men in light armor, an ambush so quick that no one could come to the rear guard’s aid.” Gerard’s brow creased. “They might need medicine and prayers. If you appoint a scouting party, I would like for myself and my servants to be part of it. Hruodland is in the rear guard.”

Halting his steps, Charles cursed under his breath. His frown deepened. “We need a scouting party. Count Beringar,” the king called in Frankish, “you and your men will be part of a party to aid our rear guard and baggage train.”

“I, too, would like to accompany the party with my servants,” Leonhard said. “Our sister’s son is in the rear guard with Hruodland. And I have a good physician with a cartload of potions and herbs.”

Ganelon took a step toward the king and bowed. “May I and my men accompany the party?” he asked. “In case the rear guard needs more fighting men?”

The king looked at Beringar. Beringar shrugged his broad shoulders and nodded. “Count Ganelon’s assistance is welcome.”

“Very well,” the king said. “While you find out what happened to the rear guard, we will take the army to Bordeaux and then go to Périgueux.”

“We shall need to be quick,” Leonhard said, “and we shall need horses instead of oxen.”

“Borrow all the horses and carts you need,” the king said.

Beringar selected the largest horses and the lightest carts for the steep mountain roads as narrow as paths. The men packed the carts with food and supplies.

Ganelon clapped his hands and called to his men, “Make haste, you dogs. The wounded will need our aid.”

As the count of Dormagen gave profanity-laden orders, Gerard leaned toward Leonhard and said in Latin, “I wish Beringar had not agreed to let Ganelon join our party. He is as insufferable as ever.”

“Can you not forget the feud for a moment?” Leonhard said. “We are all Franks here.”

Gerard grudgingly admired Ganelon’s efficiency as his men did indeed make haste. He couldn’t tell whom the soldiers feared more: the enemy or their own pale-haired master.

* * * * *

After sunrise prayers, the scouting party started to retrace their steps from the retreat through the mountains.
A retreat that was barely more than a disgrace
, Leonhard thought as they made their way along the narrow road among pines clawing the gray, stony, steep slopes and small flowers growing from the rocks. The horses strained to climb the terrain. Leonhard’s alb, once white, was dingy from the dust of the road.

When they reached a clearing in the forest, Leonhard looked up. Like the Alps, some of the mountains were snow capped, even in summer. “This whole thing has been a disaster,” he muttered to himself.

“Speaking such a thing is treason,” Ganelon said with a look of incredulity.

“But it is true,” Leonhard shot back. “I said at the assembly in Paderborn that this was not our fight, and unfortunately, I was right. Name one city that Francia has gained in this conquest.”

“But every city and castle fell before us. We have gained much booty and many hostages.”

“And destroyed one of the few Christian cities in Hispania.”

“Pamplona was not a true Christian city.” Ganelon clenched his free hand into a fist. “Damned Gascons! If they were true Christians, they would have cheered when they saw our king come to free them from the infidels. They preferred the infidels. They deserved their fate.”

“Some of those infidels were our allies,” Leonhard said.

“They lied to us! The Saracens in Zaragoza prefer their evil ruler to our godly king!”

“You are right about one thing, Leonhard,” Gerard said in Frankish that was still not perfect. “We were right to, uh, leave Zaragoza. Zaragoza is not Pavia. This war was not for protection of His Holiness. It was not worth a long siege and having our men miss a harvest in addition to this one. Our king made right decision to come home.”

Leonhard remembered how sickness and the summer heat at Zaragoza had crushed the soldiers in their heavy armor. The sun had burned and peeled their faces. Some of the men fainted. Some of them stripped off armor and helmet — their faces, hair, and tunics drenched. The pennyroyal oil to repel insects melted from their skin and mixed with the odor of sweat. Soldiers were arguing over the smallest things as their food and beer ran low. Leonhard had become worried about not having enough beer in that heat and had been glad when the Saracens’ offer of gold, hostages, and a vow not to invade Francia convinced King Charles to withdraw, with the main army followed by the baggage train and the rear guard.

Ganelon’s voice brought Leonhard back to the present, back to the narrow mountain passes in the Pyrenees, where he saw one of the goat-like animals run behind a beech in the forest.

“Did the Saracens decide to attack our retreating forces?” Ganelon wondered. “The rear guard surely would have made short work of them had they come from the south.”

Leonhard pursed his parched lips. He wished he knew.

* * * * *

The party found their answer shortly after midday at the Pass of Roncevaux, in a forest so dense that only needles of sunlight broke through the leaves overhead. They smelled it before they saw it, a rotting stench in the thin air.

Descending into the valley, Leonhard gasped at what he beheld as large, bald-headed raptors flapped away. Bodies. Everywhere, bodies. All the soldiers in the rear guard and baggage train were dead, stabbed, beheaded, shot with arrows. The monks and a bishop shared the same fate as the soldiers. The soldiers’ doxies lay with their dresses hiked above their hips, their throats slashed. The dogs’ skulls had been crushed; some of the horses were pierced with arrows.

For a moment, the only sound was the buzzing of flies. Then, Leonhard heard Gerard vomit and one of the soldiers stifle a sob.

Leonhard could not stop staring. Along with the large birds, ravens, rats, and other beasts had eaten the bodies. Whoever attacked them looted the bodies of everything of value: shoes, boots, swords, armor, helmets, jewelry, cloaks. The carts from the baggage train were gone, and Leonhard suspected the attackers had stolen the surviving animals.

A wolfhound suddenly appeared in the midst of the carnage. He approached them trembling and whining, his tail between his legs.

“Dirty Saracens,” Ganelon growled. “Broke their oath.”

“It was not the Saracens,” Beringar said. He dismounted and picked up a spearhead on a broken shaft. “This is not a Saracen weapon. It’s Gascon.” Beringar spat on the ground. “An ambush is just like the Gascons.”

“Perhaps, this is the ambush you heard of, Lord Gerard,” Leonhard said.

“The baggage train would have passed here at twilight,” Beringar said. “In these thick woods, the Gascons would have been almost invisible. They could have attacked from the top of a nearby mountain.”

Leonhard spotted a disembodied muscled arm with a short Gascon sleeve of light leather armor over a longer sleeve of wool.
Easy enough to run away
. A grim smile curled his lips.
Apparently, this one did not run fast enough.

Beringar threw down the spearhead. “Between the Gascons’ knowledge of their native land and our heavy armor, we stood no chance, especially with our men expecting an attack from the Saracens. They made perfect prey.”

“Revenge!” Ganelon cried, raising a fist. “Cut them to a pulp!”

“How?” Leonhard asked. “We don’t know where they went, and we are but a few. We will have vengeance later. Now we must give our men a Christian burial. Ganelon, Beringar, have your men bring the shovels and axes.”

While the men retrieved wooden shovels and stone axes, Leonhard dismounted and prayed the Pater Noster, yet he thought,
Why, God, did You allow this to happen?

Gerard dismounted. Staggering, he called out, “Hruodland!”

He tripped over a body, fell to his knees and buried his pale face in his hands. At that moment, Gerard looked small and vulnerable.

Leonhard swallowed, approached Gerard, and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Do not weep,” he whispered in Latin. “The souls will linger in this world if they know people will miss them.”

“My… my brother, he was ri-riding with this party.” Gerard dried his eyes and stood and looked about.

“Alfihar was with them as well,” Leonhard said, grimacing. “We must pray for them.”

Leonhard saw the physician wander among the bodies and shake his head. The wolfhound strolled among the soldiers who had just arrived and nudged their hands to pet him. One of the soldiers, barely out of boyhood, gave the dog a morsel of meat.

Ganelon took three steps and slapped the boy, who was much shorter and thinner than his master. “Are you here to coddle a dog, you lazy worm?” he shouted.

“Ganelon!” Leonhard cried, his voice harsher than he intended. “The dog may be of some use.”

“That is my man,” he yelled, pointing to the cowering boy. “It is my duty to discipline him.” Ganelon smacked the boy on the back of the head. “Get to work,” he growled, and then called him an obscenity. Ganelon looked at the bodies and made the sign of the cross. “The sooner we are out of this grave, the better.”

“On that, we agree,” Leonhard said sadly.

As he heard Beringar call for Alfihar, Leonhard stepped over the bodies and found a flat spot near the road. His eyes scanned the ground, but Alfihar was not among them. Leonhard did not want to find his nephew. He did not want to believe that Alfihar was dead.

Do not tarry
, he told himself.
You have a duty to the dead.

Leonhard sprinkled holy water on the ground, removed his gold cross from his neck and placed it in the earth.

“I need four more crosses,” he called, “so I can consecrate this ground for their graves.”