Kingdom of the Grail (28 page)

Yet unlike Ganelon, she bore no ancient evil in her. Roland would have staked his soul on that. Whoever she was, wherever she had gone, she was no servant of the Prince of Darkness.

CHAPTER 31

P
epin was not given to listening at tent walls. But he had seen the king's servants bring in the basin and the water and then depart, and he had seen Roland slip into the tent. With difficulty he extricated himself from a clinging mob of hangers-on. Time was, he thought, when he could slip away whenever he pleased; when no one cared what he did or where he went. He had grown past that, become more princely.

Prince or no, he could still, when he chose, make himself invisible. He crouched in the shadows and heard what there was to hear. It was not much, but its import struck him as large enough. The king played servant to the Breton count. Roland had Charles in his power—had won him, seduced him.

Pepin would see to it that the men knew. They had quieted overmuch since Saragossa; there had been too little hatred in them for one of their own, when they had all of Spain to hate.

Tomorrow Pepin would spread rumors again, stronger ones, words honed to a bitter edge. It did not matter what Ganelon said, or what he had commanded. Roland would not escape this time. This would begin his downfall, and the end of his power over the king.

The prospect made Pepin smile. But tonight he had
another errand. Ganelon needed his eyes once more, and perhaps more than that.

It was nearing midnight. Most of the army slept, all but the sentries walking the edges, slipping like shadows among the trees. Ganelon's tent was pitched in the dark away from firelight. It was strange, rather, that on this march Ganelon set himself full in the light before the king, but set his tent as far from it as he could.

Pepin found his way as he had been taught, with other senses than eyes: by the feeling in his bones, and by a scent like hot iron, that was the scent of sorcery. When he stretched out his hand, he touched the flap of a tent. He lifted it, releasing a shaft of sudden light.

Before his eyes had recovered from their dazzlement, he stood within. He blinked through tears of pain.

Slowly his sight cleared. The rest of his senses were reeling. Fragrance of surpassing sweetness, music beyond earthly beauty, air softer than silk, a taste on his tongue more potent than honey. Petals drifted about him, stroking his cheeks like soft fingers.

This was the garden he had seen before he came under Ganelon's tutelage, the magic he had yearned for since first he happened upon it. The close confines of the tent were gone. Lush greenery and great glowing banks of flowers lay all about him. Down paths of perfect smoothness he glimpsed blue distances, broad expanses of plain and forest, mountain and sky.

Close by was a greensward ringed in blossoming trees. A fountain played in its center, a marble extravagance such as he had seen in Rome: a dance of nymphs about a broad clear pool. They were painted as the old Roman images still sometimes were, given the hues and the texture of life. It even seemed that they breathed, their white breasts rising and falling, their eyes gleaming on him, promising rare delights.

Pepin yearned toward them, but Ganelon stood in his way. In this place he was never the plain old man whom Pepin had known. He was not young, but neither was he old. He was ageless, beyond years, honed and strong. And beautiful. The beauty of the swordblade as it drinks blood, of the wolf's fang as it sinks into the throat of its prey. So must the dark angel be, the Son of the Morning whose pride cast him into the pit.

Pepin was a king's son of the Franks. He did not bow to fallen angels. A prince of the hosts of heaven, perhaps. But not a prince who was cast down. And certainly not to a man who served such a creature, however ancient, however powerful he might be.

“Pride was the first sin,” Ganelon said, “greatest and most terrible.”

Even his voice was changed here: stronger, more beautiful. But his eyes were the same. He could not conceal those, no matter what shape he wore.

Pepin kept his head up and his gaze level. “Master,” he said. “You have need of me?”

“Attend me,” Ganelon said. “Say nothing except to me. If there is a question, I will answer it. If there is need of words, I will speak them. Do you understand?”

Pepin was not sure he did, but he nodded brusquely.

Ganelon saw through him; the dark eyes narrowed, perhaps with amusement, perhaps with contempt. But the sorcerer said nothing. He merely turned and walked down one of the paths that rayed out from the greensward like the spokes of a wheel.

They walked from blinding daylight into blind night. It was all Pepin could do not to stumble and fall. He had, ignominiously, to clutch at Ganelon's mantle, and so be guided through the darkness like a child at its mother's skirts.

Firelight glimmered at the end of the long path. Wind shrilled in stony heights. It was keen and rather cold.

They stood in a camp, but it was not that of the Franks. There were no trees here, only wind and stones. A rise of cliff sheltered ranks of tents that marched away into the gloom. Most of the fires were banked. One burned strongly in front of a tent no larger or more splendid than the others, but it was set as near the center as Pepin could tell. From the shadows beside it men emerged, armed and armored, clearly on guard.

Pepin's eyes widened at sight of them. He knew Gascon faces, and Gascon armor, too. These men bowed as Ganelon emerged into the light, bowed to the ground, and lifted the tent's flap for him.

There was a gathering of men within, half a dozen dark, sharp-faced sons of Gascony. Ganelon before them kept
somewhat of the power and beauty he had had in the garden. He wore wisdom like a mantle.

It was a pleasure to see the master in glory, accepting the Gascons' worship as his due. Pepin they seemed not to notice—which piqued him, for he was a prince, but pleased him somewhat, too. Everyone in Francia knew Pepin Crookback. Here, he was nothing to remark on; he was simply there. It was not a sensation he had known before.

Ganelon was given the place of honor, and offered food and drink, which he declined. Pepin would have welcomed a cup or two of wine, but a guardsman was not expected to suffer hunger or thirst.

He played the part because he had been asked, and because he was curious. For a while it seemed they would speak of nothing in particular, but that was the way of such gatherings. In time the chief of the Gascons said, “My lord, all is ready. Will you stay until morning, to see?”

“No need,” said Ganelon. “I have seen.”

“Then, my lord—if I may ask—”

“You may not,” said Ganelon, “but I will answer. I have no doubt that you will do as we agreed. I come to ask another thing.”

The Gascons leaned forward. There was a hungry air to them, like wolves in winter.

“When you do what we have agreed,” Ganelon said, “there is one whom I would have. Take him alive, but confine him closely. And beware! He has more arts and skills than the run of men.”

“Magic?” the chief of them asked.

Ganelon inclined his head. “He may not choose to be taken as a man. A stag, a wolf, a falcon—he may be any or all of those.”

“We'll net him like a fish, my lord,” said the Gascon.

“A net would do well,” Ganelon said. “He leads the rearguard—remember. There is a golden hawk on his shield. His horse is grey. His eyes, when you come close, are not a man's eyes.”

“Ah,” said the Gascon, nodding. “The Count of the Breton Marches. Yes, we know that one. We'll catch him for you.”

“That is well,” said Ganelon.

It was not well for Pepin, but he kept his tongue between his teeth. Ganelon did nothing on a whim. He had made Pepin privy to this for a reason. What it was, Pepin was not exactly sure. It was larger than Roland, he could tell that, but Roland was a notable part of it.

The Gascons glanced at one another. They were afraid of Ganelon: they shied from him, somewhat. Only their captain seemed brave enough to speak. “Lord,” he said, “the men ask a thing—not in return, but for their souls' sakes. They ask for protection—a prayer, a talisman, some simple thing—against the allies that will be called forth.”

Ganelon's brow rose. “You told them of that?”

The man blanched, but he held his ground. “My men fight with open eyes. They know the cause and the cost. They accept it. They only ask—”

“I will ward them,” Ganelon said, “when the time comes. Only let them do their part.”

“They will do it,” the Gascon said.

“Tell me you're not going to destroy my father,” Pepin said.

“And why would you think that?” Ganelon asked him.

They had returned through the bright garden to the tent that Pepin had known, walking down a path that rounded a corner into that small and priestly space. It seemed all the smaller and all the darker for the splendor that had been contained in it.

Pepin had learned much since Paderborn. He could summon his wits together, and think on what he must think on. He was stronger, he thought, for all those hours and days of scraping parchment, writing letters, learning languages that had long vanished from the earth. He had learned patience.

He had not learned to be less than proud, and he did not intend to. “Whatever you purpose,” he said, “it means ill to one of my father's favorites. That ill is to be done by a nation whom you yourself have called rebel. You are subtle, master, and that is a great gift. Will this grand design of yours bring harm to my father?”

“Your father has little to do with it,” Ganelon said.

“And I? What is my part in this?”

Ganelon did not smile. It was not his way. Yet he seemed amused. “You are my pupil,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because you wished to learn.”

Pepin bit his lip. Had he not called Ganelon subtle? This was the truth. Yet it could not be all of the truth. “You need my eyes,” he said. “Tonight you needed my presence. What more will you need of me?”

“That will come with time,” Ganelon said.

“I will not harm my father,” said Pepin.

“You will not be asked for such a thing,” Ganelon said. “He has his own destiny. What you are, what I need of you—you know, and will know. You will give yourself freely, as you always have. There will be no compulsion laid upon you.”

“Will you swear oath as to that?”

Pepin's heart beat hard. He trod very close to the edge of the unacceptable. But he was royal. He could ask such a thing, and be granted it.

Ganelon inclined his head, both regal and humble. The humility, Pepin thought, was a mask. The royalty was truth. “I swear,” he said, “that you will act of your own free will, whatever is required of you.”

Pepin was not satisfied, somehow, but that was all Ganelon would give him. He had to be content with it.

CHAPTER 32

T
he king's scouts, sent ahead of the army into the ever-ascending valleys, found nothing. The passes were clear, they said, and the mountains empty of enemies. They had come across a village of Basques, fierce secret people who spoke a tongue like none in the world; but those expressed no interest in the army marching past their borders.

Still Roland was ill at ease. On the second morning after Charles played the servant, he rode for a while with the king. Charles looked him over critically and said, “You're as twitchy as a cat.”

Roland shrugged. He was irritable, too, and that was not like him. This ran deeper than plain threat of ambush in the mountains. Forces moved just below his awareness. Things were in train that he could not quite grasp. His dreams, when he could sleep at all, were of drowning in deep water, and of reaching perpetually for a thing that eluded him: sometimes fruit on a tree, sometimes a sword suspended in air.

“We'll be out of the mountains soon,” Charles said, breaking in on his maundering. “There's the pass of Roncesvalles ahead of us, steep and narrow as it is. Past that the road grows easier. And then at last we'll be in Francia.”

“And possibly in a Gascon rebellion,” Roland said.

“If so,” said Charles, “we're prepared for it.”

Roland nodded—more of a twitch, if truth be told. “I don't like the pass,” he said. “It's narrow and steep, and the trees are thick clear to the top of its walls. We can't go round it, we can't go up it. We'll be rats in a trap.”

“Well then,” Charles said, not quite as if he indulged a fit of folly, “take the Companions and such of the others as you trust, and guard the rear. I'll see to the van. The quicker we're through, the better.”

“My thanks, sire,” Roland said.

“Listen, now,” said Charles, leaning over to tap the horn that Roland always carried at his saddlebow, the horn of the great aurochs, the last perhaps that had been in the world. “If you're in need, wind that. The sound will carry in these mountains. I'll hear it and come running.”

Roland bowed to that. Charles clapped him on the shoulder.

It was a dismissal. The Companions, who had been listening shamelessly, were already turning back toward the rear. Some of the others caught Roland's eye: a raised brow here, a quick grin there. They were not mocking him or reckoning him a fool. If they thought at all on the rumor of sorcery and worse, they did not let it trouble them.

Their regard warmed him even in his confusion of mind. They trusted him. They would fight for him if they were called to it.

He followed them back along the line. The rearguard was still in the remnants of the night's camp, as the baggage-train finished forming and began to move out. Oxen lowed and mules brayed. The drovers cursed: their morning song.

Olivier lounged in the saddle, finishing a breakfast of cheese and roast ox rolled in last night's bread. He broke it in thirds as Turpin rode up with Roland behind, and passed a portion to each. “That's a fair troop of champions the king's sent back with you. Who'd you leave to look after him?”

“The whole vanguard,” said Roland. And, he thought, Ganelon was well back toward the rear with the rest of the clerks—just ahead of the baggage. Roland could keep him in sight, and track him by the crawling under the skin.

“I expect,” said Turpin, “that if there is an attack, it will
go for the baggage. Every bandit in the Pyrenees must know by now that we're carrying Pamplona's gold.”

Olivier downed the last of his truncated breakfast and eyed the portion half-forgotten in Roland's hand. Roland passed it over with some relief. He was in no mood for breakfast, just then.

“Don't look so grim,” Olivier said. “The king must be safe enough if you've let him send his Companions back here. We'll make short work of any robber who tries to take the king's treasury.”

“A fight would be a pleasant diversion,” said Thibaut. He loosened his sword in its sheath and thumped his cousin Milun on the helmet. “Chin up, boy! We're moving out.”

Easily, lightly, laughing and mock-squabbling, they fell in behind the last of the rearguard. The troops were grinning. They found the Companions greatly entertaining.

Roland was glad that they could be so light of heart. It did not lessen their vigilance; and that was what mattered.

He rode last but for a pair of scouts that he had sent to range the rear and along the slopes as much as could be. That was not much, the farther they went. The way was steep, the valley dark, the mountains looming high above it.

The trees closed in. The road narrowed. The pack-mules scrambled up it well enough, but the wagons lurched and lumbered. A day never passed without at least one broken wheel, but today had a curse on it. The way was too narrow for a broken wagon to draw aside; if one failed, they all had to halt till it could be mended.

Some considerable distance up toward the pass, where many of the men had dismounted to clamber beside their horses, a wagon lurched over a stony ledge, caught and held. The drover urged the oxen forward. They threw themselves into the traces. The wagon groaned. The oxen lowed with the effort. The whip cracked over their heads. They scrambled on the hard stony ground overlaid with leafmold, slippery as ice in winter. One ox slipped and went to its knees. In the same instant, its yokemate surged forward.

The yoke twisted and snapped. The wagon wheel gave way. The heavy wagon overbalanced and slid down the slope, dragging the oxen with it.

The wagons behind had nowhere to go. Those directly in back of the fallen one caught and slid. “Brace!
Brace
, you sons of whores!” roared Olivier, nearest and quickest of wit. The rearmost wagons lumbered to a halt. Such as could turn broadside, made haste to do it, making a wall of sorts against the tangle of wagons and oxen.

It all ground to a halt somewhat short of the rearguard. Wheels were locked together, oxen down and caught in traces. Somewhere in the midst of it, a man was screaming.

Roland left Veillantif with the rearguard and pushed his way on foot to the edge of the confusion. Olivier had it in hand. Roland pulled a man out of the ranks. “Run ahead,” he said. “Bid the rest of the army wait. We'll be some little time unknotting this.”

The man nodded. He swung off his horse and struck upward through the trees, making his way doggedly along the slope.

Roland would have to hope that one messenger would be enough. There was a great deal to do here: wagons to untangle, oxen to sort out, wounded to tend. Of that last there were few, thank God. Worse was the damage to the wagons, and two oxen so badly hurt that they had to be destroyed.

“Roast ox for dinner again tonight,” said Olivier, smacking his lips, as he helped with the butchering and flaying.

The sun had lifted over the peaks by the time the column was in order again: a good part of the morning gone, and still the pass to ascend. At least, thought Roland, they would have honest daylight to do it in, however briefly, before the valley's walls cut off the sun again.

The baggage could move no faster than the oxen's slow and labored plod. No word came back from the center; Roland's messenger did not return. The scouts had not come back, either.

He caught himself wishing for Tarik, who could fly as a hawk and bear word to the king; but the
puca
was nowhere in evidence. Nor was Roland willing yet to spread his own wings. Not for a prickling between the shoulderblades. The wagon had fallen by sheer unhappy chance. No art or magic had caused it.

Had it? He had searched with more than eyes and ears,
found nothing. But there were powers that could conceal themselves from him.

He put the thought aside. What he could do, he had done. Both Companions and rearguard were watchful, weapons at the ready. They had all put on their helmets, though the sun beat into the deep cleft, reminding them fiercely that it was summer in Spain.

The great aurochs' horn shifted on his saddlebow, and he steadied it. He seldom blew it: it could smite men down with its power. If he raised its voice in these passes, not only Charles in the van would hear it. The great archangel at the gates of heaven might take umbrage, thinking that a mere mortal man had dared to call the dead to judgment.

Roland's lips twitched. It was a poor jest, and Turpin was not near enough to share it. But it lifted his spirits a little.