The Moon Worshippers (24 page)

“We bring you death. We bring you death.

Death, death, death.”

As the Basque warriors took up the chant, Roland saw the entrance to the pass, filled with warriors. All along the tops of the gorge, warriors appeared. Roland looked at them coldly. They were dark, tall, thick set mountain men armed with short spears, small round shields, swords and battleaxes. Roland surveyed his foe carefully. This enemy was new to him and he looked carefully for weaknesses. He quickly came to the conclusions that these were not men who would offer or give quarter. The fight would be to the end. He looked around him and smiled. He was trapped like a cork in a jug. He could not charge. The bodies of dead men blocked the way. He could not retreat down the gorge. It was too narrow. Rocks and arrows would cut down his men. His only chance was to stand and fight. He cursed under his breath. On open ground his cavalry would have cut them to pieces, but here the enemy had all the advantages. They had chosen well, these mountain men. Still, he had a few ploys left to him. He ordered his men to dismount and sent the horses to his rear. He ordered the men to form a tight square with a wall of shields all around it. The Franks knew the manoeuvre well. It was called the wall of ice. It was cold impenetrable iron, with sharp pointed spears protruding between the shields. Some years earlier Charlemagne had used the same tactic against the Moors in a week-long battle outside Tours. He had drawn his army into a tight square and the Moors had destroyed themselves against this wall of ice cold iron. Roland stood amongst his men, and raised his sword by the blade so that the hilt formed a raised cross above his men.

He spoke firmly. “My Lord God gives us victory, but we who are about to die commend our souls into your keeping by your good grace. May those who survive sing your praise and honour our names.”

His men were better and more heavily armed, but in this tight space and uneven ground, he knew that the lighter armed Basques had the advantage. Olabarri finished chanting with a yell. He raised his short sword and gave the battle cry of the Basques. A thousand voices answered and the Basque warriors on the summits of the gorge’s side let loose a barrage of rocks. The Franks closed ranks and raised their shields above their heads. Some of the rocks were so large that they crushed the men under their shields. Gaps began to appear in their ranks. The Basques continued the bombardment for what seemed like an eternity to the Franks. Finally, the Basques in the gorge charged. Ten paces from the Franks front rank they let fly with their spears and battleaxes. Several of the Franks in the front rank were killed outright. Through these gaps, the Basques charged into the midst of the Franks with their long knives and short swords. Bloody hand-to-hand fighting ensued. As Roland had predicted, the lighter armed Basques with no armour, with their short swords, long knives and battleaxes had the advantage in close combat. The Franks’ heavy leather coats, covered in iron and heavy long iron swords, made them sluggish in comparison. They had been pushed tightly together and could not swing their heavy swords or use their long spears. Many had dropped them and drawn their daggers to defend themselves against the Basques. As Roland had known, neither side asked for or gave any quarter. The blood ran like a river down the gorge. As the sun began to fall from its zenith and to lose its power, Roland and all his men lay dead or dying. The Basque warriors moved up the gorge. As they picked their way over the Franks, they put to the sword any wounded they came across. In a little over four hours they had killed 600 men and destroyed Charlemagne’s best cavalry.

Roland’s heroic rearguard action had allowed Charlemagne to travel half the length of the pass. More importantly, he had drawn many of the Basques stationed along the pass towards him. Warriors had been drawn to the fighting and joined in. This had left large gaps of undefended summits and had allowed Charlemagne to escape largely unscathed towards France. Only Inaki, Leizaola and Zumalacarrequi remained between him and France. These three final Basques captains commanded, at the most, around 200 warriors.

Below them were 3000 Franks. Inaki looked at the young face of Leizaola. Leizaola smiled and spoke softly.

“Now it is our turn, little brother.”

“Are you still set on killing Charlemagne?” Inaki said in a low voice.

“That I am little brother.”

“But there are too many of them, Leizaola. I have never seen so much iron. You will be killed!”

Leizaola placed a firm hand on his shoulder.

“That,” he said, “is in the hands of the Gods. If I succeed, just think of the glory I will bring to my clan.”

With that he turned and ran along the top of the gorge in order to get closer to Charlemagne. His men followed. Inaki watched in amazement as Leizaola and his hundred men placed themselves above Charlemagne. With a savage cry, Leizaola leapt into the air and fell twenty paces into the midst of Charlemagne’s troops, who had been drawn together by the sides of the gorge. His men followed in ones and twos. An endless cascade of bodies rained down on the Franks. They landed on the riders, the force of their fall often sending rider and horse to the ground. For a time all was chaos. There followed an eerie silence. All the Basques lay dead at the foot of the gorge, together with as many Franks. Down the gorge came Charlemagne, with the remains of his escort, shaken but alive. Thal, the captain of Charlemagne’s well trained bodyguard, had formed his men into a protective screen around his king. The remaining Basques rained every rock, spear and arrow that they had left down on him as he passed and although they killed or injured many, Charlemagne remained unscathed and escaped out of the pass and into France. Inaki and Zumalacarrequi looked at the back of Charlemagne disappearing into the distance. Most of his army had escaped with him. They estimated that Charlemagne had lost at least 700 men and 500 horses. There were many, many, wounded but it still left his army largely intact even though they had made a significant hole in it and killed many times their own number of dead.

“He won’t be back in a hurry,” Zumalacarrequi, the senior captain said, matter-of-factly.

“Do you think we have sent him away forever?” said Inaki.

“No, all we have done is singed his beard.”

Inaki looked down the gorge. It was littered with bodies. Wounded men were helping each other out of the gorge. He could hear the groans of the dying. Could it be possible that Charlemagne would come back for more of this? The thought made him shuddered and although it had been a blazing hot day, he felt cold, so very, very cold.

*

It was getting dark as they collected their dead, stripped the Franks of their weapons and killed any wounded that had been overlooked. Basques never left any seriously wounded, not even their own. At the entrance to the pass, huge funeral pyres were built and there dead Basques were burnt all through the night. The Franks were left to rot, as a testament to their defeat, and as a warning to others not to antagonise the Basques. The Nagusis gathered and performed the ritual that helped the dead spirits reach their destinies. Those that had distinguished themselves in battle were guided to the Oak trees of their village to become part of the spirit of the tree. Others joined the spirits of birds, plants, trees, mountains or creatures of the sea. All were given resting places to go to and in the incarnation of that plant or creature they would have a new life. Olabarri, who had died of his wounds that night, and Leizaola, the two great captains, were put on litters made of captured spears and shields and carried away by their clansmen. They would be buried within their provinces of Vizcaya and Gipuzcoa. The next day, when all rites and rituals had been properly carried out, the weapons, armour and goods, were loaded from the captured baggage train, onto captured horses and mules. Then the Basques sent off for their various provinces and homes with their booty.

Chapter Seventeen

The Royal Summons

On Christmas Day in the year 800 AD, in the monastery above Roncesvalles, the old warrior had died. As Brother Ignatius covered the old warrior’s face, his mind was deeply troubled. The importance of this old warrior’s tale had not been lost on him. As the old man had approached his death, speculation about him had grown amongst the monks of the monastery. The monastery was alive with rumours, but the Abbot had given strict instructions that only he and the monk were to attend him. On the first day of his arrival, Brother Ignatius had spoken to the Abbot; the old warrior had been moved out of the infirmary and placed in a small cell. Only two or three especially selected monks had been allowed to attend him. This, if anything, had caused even more speculation and the whole of the monastery was convinced that they harboured, if not a very important guest, at the very least a nobleman! The monk left the cell and locked the door. He made his way to the Abbot’s chambers. The old man had definitively told the whole story of the Battle of Roncesvalles, which had already, in the last two years, passed into legend and ballad before his death.

The old man’s eyewitness account of the battle was irrefutable and even more damaging to Charlemagne than the legend. A bunch of mountain tribes had defeated Charlemagne. They were unknown and not a fit opponent for such a king as Charlemagne. They had not only destroyed part of his army, but planned the most audacious assassination in living memory and what was more had almost succeeded but for the grace of God. He shuddered.
Pagans, by the sweet blood of Christ, may He save us from them.
The whole thing was unthinkable. As he reached the Abbot’s chambers he knocked and entered. The Abbot was preparing for midday Mass. It was a cold Christmas Day, in that year 800 AD.

“Is he dead?” he asked in a tired voice.

“Yes, My Lord Abbot.”

“Do you think he told us the truth?”

“Dying men seldom lie and he knew things that only an eyewitness could know. There was too much detail. And then there is the Nagusi.”

“I know,” said the Abbot. “That’s what troubles me.”

The Abbot thought deeply for a few moments. He had kept vigil over the old warrior, personally, for the last three days and was very tired. He gave a small involuntary shake and then gave a number of short instructions to the monk.

“You will see to it personally that the body is burnt. I want no trace of our visitor. You will tell the Brothers that he was a traveller who died of a contagious fever and that is why he had to be cremated. There must be nothing left to show that our visitor was here. Burn everything including his clothes. On the table you will find a report that you will copy in secret and hide in the library. The original you will return to me. Is all this clearly understood?”

“Yes, My Lord Abbot.”

“Good, then see that it is done. I have been summoned to Aix-la-Chapelle and leave tomorrow.”

Twenty-five days after the old man died, Angel Garai, Abbot of Roncesvalles was, by royal command, at Aix-la-Chapelle, Charlemagne’s royal palace. He arrived in late January 801 AD, after a long and tiring journey. With him he brought a number of documents, some of which had been given to him on his journey to Aix-la-Chapelle by the monasteries at which he had stayed on his way there. One of the documents was the final report on the old warrior and this he handed in on his arrival to Charlemagne’s personal secretariat. After a few days he was summoned to the Great Map Room. He gave his name and rank to the guards at the door and after a short wait he was shown into the room. At a long table covered with a few maps and other documents were seated several men. At the head of the table sat Charlemagne. Angel bowed deeply. Charlemagne beckoned him to the foot of the table. Angel advanced and stood, arms folded inside the sleeves of his cassock and waited. As he waited to be spoken to, he looked at the men seated around Charlemagne. To his right sat three Black Monks, two of whom he recognised by repute. One, the closest to Charlemagne, was Alcuin, a monk from Britannia and Charlemagne’s closest adviser. Next to him was Einhard, a monk and the emperor’s confessor and head of intelligence. The other monk was unknown to Angel Garai, but he had to be important to be in the room. Then there were two scribes with their quills and parchments. To Charlemagne’s left were five noblemen of high rank, and then Ludovic, Charlemagne’s son. The other nobles he did not recognise. He smiled inwardly to himself, Charlemagne, a man who it was rumoured could neither read nor write, was surrounded by some of the greatest scholars of the time!

It was Alcuin who spoke first. A scholar and a man of great intellect, he wasted few words and came straight to the point.

“Do you know why you have been summoned?”

“No, My Lord,” replied Angel Garai.

“Our Lord Charlemagne is about to embark on another campaign into northern Iberia and this time it must be successful.”

Alcuin paused.

“Your report has caused us great pain and distress. First, we wish you to address two points; one, its authenticity, then its account of Lord Roland’s death.”

Angel cleared his throat and began.

“I believe the report to be accurate in every detail.”

“Why do you believe this? How can you be so sure?” asked Alcuin.

“For two reasons. First because of its detail and two, because of the identity of its author.”

“Who was?” interrupted Alcuin again.

“The old man was Zumalacarrequi, warrior and leader of the Guipuzcoans. The largest of the Basques tribes and the chief strategic planner of the Battle of Roncesvalles,” Angel paused.