Marsiglio. Here amongst the mountains the King and his people still
held to their idols, worshipped "Mahommed, Apollo, and Termagaunt,"
and looked forward with horror to a day when the mighty Charlemagne
might, by the power of the sword, thrust upon them the worship of the
crucified Christ. Ere Charlemagne had returned to his own land,
Marsile held a council with his peers. To believe that the great
conqueror would rest content with Saragossa still unconquered was too
much to hope for. Surely he would return to force his religion upon
them. What, then, was it best to do? A very wily emir was Blancandrin,
brave in war, and wise in counsel, and on his advice Marsile sent
ambassadors to Charlemagne to ask of him upon what conditions he would
be allowed to retain his kingdom in peace and to continue to worship
the gods of his fathers. Mounted on white mules, with silver saddles,
and with reins of gold, and bearing olive branches in their hands,
Blancandrin and the ten messengers sent by Marsile arrived at Cordova,
where Charlemagne rested with his army. Fifteen thousand tried
veterans were with him there, and his "Douzeperes"--his Twelve
Peers--who were to him what the Knights of the Round Table were to
King Arthur of Britain. He held his court in an orchard, and under a
great pine tree from which the wild honeysuckle hung like a fragrant
canopy, the mighty king and emperor sat on a throne of gold.
The messengers of Marsile saw a man of much more than ordinary stature
and with the commanding presence of one who might indeed conquer
kingdoms, but his sword was laid aside and he watched contentedly the
contests between the older of his knights who played chess under the
shade of the fruit trees, and the fencing bouts of the younger
warriors. Very dear to him were all his Douzeperes, yet dearest of all
was his own nephew, Roland. In him he saw his own youth again, his own
imperiousness, his reckless gallantry, his utter fearlessness--all
those qualities which endeared him to the hearts of other men. Roland
was his sister's son, and it was an evil day for the fair Bertha when
she told her brother that, in spite of his anger and scorn, she had
disobeyed his commands and had wed the man she loved, Milon, a poor
young knight.
No longer would Charlemagne recognise her as sister, and in obscurity
and poverty Roland was born. He was still a very tiny lad when his
father, in attempting to ford a flooded river, was swept down-stream
and drowned, and Bertha had no one left to fend for her and for her
child. Soon they had no food left, and the little Roland watched with
amazed eyes his famished mother growing so weak that she could not
rise from the bed where she lay, nor answer him when he pulled her by
the hand and tried to make her come with him to seek his father and to
find something to eat. And when he saw that it was hopeless, the child
knew that he must take his father's place and get food for the mother
who lay so pale, and so very still. Into a great hall where
Charlemagne and his lords were banqueting Roland strayed. Here was
food in plenty! Savoury smelling, delicious to his little empty
stomach were the daintily cooked meats which the Emperor and his court
ate from off their silver platters. Only one plateful of food such as
this must, of a surety, make his dear mother strong and well once
more. Not for a moment did Roland hesitate. Even as a tiny sparrow
darts into a lion's cage and picks up a scrap almost out of the
monarch's hungry jaws, so acted Roland. A plateful of food stood
beside the King. At this Roland sprang, seized it with both hands, and
joyfully ran off with his prey. When the serving men would have caught
him, Charlemagne, laughing, bade them desist.
"A hungry one this," he said, "and very bold."
So the meal went on, and when Roland had fed his mother with some
pieces of the rich food and had seen her gradually revive, yet another
thought came to his baby mind.
"My father gave her wine," he thought. "They were drinking wine in
that great hall. It will make her white cheeks red again."
Thus he ran back, as fast as his legs could carry him, and Charlemagne
smiled yet more when he saw the beautiful child, who knew no fear,
return to the place where he had thieved. Right up to the King's chair
he came, solemnly measured with his eye the cups of wine that the
great company quaffed, saw that the cup of Charlemagne was the most
beautiful and the fullest of the purple-red wine, stretched out a
daring little hand, grasped the cup, and prepared to go off again,
like a marauding bright-eyed bird. Then the King seized in his own
hand the hand that held the cup.
"No! no! bold thief," he said, "I cannot have my golden cup stolen
from me, be it done by ever so sturdy a robber. Tell me, who sent thee
out to steal?"
And Roland, an erect, gallant, little figure, his hand still in the
iron grip of the King, fearlessly and proudly gazed back into the eyes
of Charlemagne.
"No one sent me," he said. "My mother lay very cold and still and
would not speak, and she had said my father would come back no more,
so there was none but me to seek her food. Give me the wine, I say!
for she is so cold and so very, very white"--and the child struggled
to free his hand that still held the cup.
"Who art thou, then?" asked Charlemagne.
"My name is Roland--let me go, I pray thee," and again he tried to
drag himself free. And Charlemagne mockingly said:
"Roland, I fear thy father and mother have taught thee to be a clever
thief."
Then anger blazed in Roland's eyes.
"My mother is a lady of high degree!" he cried, "and I am her page,
her cupbearer, her knight! I do not speak false words!"--and he would
have struck the King for very rage.
Then Charlemagne turned to his lords and asked--"Who is this child?"
And one made answer: "He is the son of thy sister Bertha, and of Milon
the knight, who was drowned these three weeks agone."
Then the heart of Charlemagne grew heavy with remorse when he found
that his sister had so nearly died of want, and from that day she
never knew aught but kindness and tenderness from him, while Roland
was dear to him as his own child.
He was a Douzepere now, and when the envoys from Saragossa had
delivered their message to Charlemagne, he was one of those who helped
to do them honour at a great feast that was held for them in a
pavilion raised in the orchard.
Early in the morning Charlemagne heard mass, and then, on his golden
throne under the great pine, he sat and took counsel with his
Douzeperes. Not one of them trusted Marsile, but Ganelon, who had
married the widowed Bertha and who had a jealous hatred for his
step-son--so beloved by his mother, so loved and honoured by the
King--was ever ready to oppose the counsel of Roland. Thus did he
persuade Charlemagne to send a messenger to Marsile, commanding him to
deliver up the keys of Saragossa, in all haste to become a Christian,
and in person to come and, with all humility, pay homage as vassal to
Charlemagne.
Then arose the question as to which of the peers should bear the
arrogant message. Roland, ever greedy for the post of danger,
impetuously asked that he might be chosen. But Charlemagne would have
neither him nor his dear friend and fellow-knight, Oliver--he who was
the Jonathan of Roland's David--nor would he have Naismes de Baviere,
nor Turpin, "the chivalrous and undaunted Bishop of Rheims." He could
not afford to risk their lives, and Marsile was known to be
treacherous. Then he said to his peers:
"Choose ye for me whom I shall send. Let it be one who is wise;
brave, yet not over-rash, and who will defend mine honour valiantly."
Then Roland, who never knew an ungenerous thought, quickly said:
"Then, indeed, it must be Ganelon who goes, for if he goes, or if he
stays, you have none better than he."
And all the other peers applauded the choice, and Charlemagne said to
Ganelon:
"Come hither, Ganelon, and receive my staff and glove, which the voice
of all the Franks have given to thee."
But the honour which all the others coveted was not held to be an
honour by Ganelon. In furious rage he turned upon Roland:
"You and your friends have sent me to my death!" he cried. "But if by
a miracle I should return, look you to yourself, Roland, for assuredly
I shall be revenged!"
And Roland grew red, then very white, and said:
"I had taken thee for another man, Ganelon. Gladly will I take thy
place. Wilt give me the honour to bear thy staff and glove to
Saragossa, sire?" And eagerly he looked Charlemagne in the face--eager
as, when a child, he had craved the cup of wine for his mother's sake.
But Charlemagne, with darkened brow, shook his head.
"Ganelon must go," he said, "for so have I commanded. Go! for the
honour of Jesus Christ, and for your Emperor."
Thus, sullenly and unwillingly, and with burning hatred against
Roland in his heart, Ganelon accompanied the Saracens back to
Saragossa. A hate so bitter was not easy to hide, and as he rode
beside him the wily Blancandrin was not long in laying a probing
finger on this festering sore. Soon he saw that Ganelon would pay even
the price of his honour to revenge himself upon Roland and on the
other Douzeperes whose lives were more precious than his in the eyes
of Charlemagne. Yet, when Saragossa was reached, like a brave man and
a true did Ganelon deliver the insulting message that his own brain
had conceived and that the Emperor, with magnificent arrogance, had
bidden him deliver. And this he did, although he knew his life hung
but by a thread while Marsile and the Saracen lords listened to his
words. But Marsile kept his anger under, thinking with comfort of what
Blancandrin had told him of his discovery by the way. And very soon he
had shown Ganelon how he might be avenged on Roland and on the friends
of Roland, and in a manner which his treachery need never be known,
and very rich were the bribes that he offered to the faithless knight.
Thus it came about that Ganelon sold his honour, and bargained with
the Saracens to betray Roland and his companions into their hands in
their passage of the narrow defiles of Roncesvalles. For more than
fifty pieces of silver Marsile purchased the soul of Ganelon, and when
this Judas of the Douzeperes returned in safety to Cordova, bringing
with him princely gifts for Charlemagne, the keys of Saragossa, and
the promise that in sixteen days Marsile would repair to France to do
homage and to embrace the Christian faith, the Emperor was happy
indeed. All had fallen out as he desired. Ganelon, who had gone forth
in wrath, had returned calm and gallant, and had carried himself
throughout his difficult embassy as a wise statesman and a brave and
loyal soldier.
"Thou hast done well, Ganelon," said the king. "I give thanks to my
God and to thee. Thou shalt be well rewarded."
The order then was speedily given for a return to France, and for ten
miles the great army marched before they halted and encamped for the
night. But when Charlemagne slept, instead of dreams of peace he had
two dreams which disturbed him greatly. In the first, Ganelon roughly
seized the imperial spear of tough ash-wood and it broke into
splinters in his hand. In the next, Charlemagne saw himself attacked
by a leopard and a bear, which tore off his right arm, and as a
greyhound darted to his aid he awoke, and rose from his couch heavy at
heart because of those dreams of evil omen.
In the morning he held a council and reminded his knights of the
dangers of the lonely pass of Roncesvalles. It was a small oval plain,
shut in all round, save on the south where the river found its outlet,
by precipitous mountain ridges densely covered with beech woods.
Mountains ran sheer up to the sky above it, precipices rushed sheer
down below, and the path that crossed the crest of the Pyrenees and
led to it was so narrow that it must be traversed in single file. The
dangers for the rearguard naturally seemed to Charlemagne to be the
greatest, and to his Douzeperes he turned, as before, for counsel.
"Who, then, shall command the rearguard?" he asked. And quickly
Ganelon answered, "Who but Roland? Ever would he seek the post where
danger lies."
And Charlemagne, feeling he owed much to Ganelon, gave way to his
counsel, though with heavy forebodings in his heart. Then all the
other Douzeperes, save Ganelon, said that for love of Roland they
would go with him and see him safely through the dangers of the way.
Loudly they vaunted his bravery:
"_For dred of dethe, he hid neuer his hed._"
Leaving them behind with twenty thousand men, and with Ganelon
commanding the vanguard, Charlemagne started.
"Christ keep you!" he said on parting with Roland--"_I betak you to
Crist._"
And Roland, clad in his shining armour, his lordly helmet on his head,
his sword Durendala by his side, his horn Olifant slung round him, and
his flower-painted shield on his arm, mounted his good steed
Veillantif, and, holding his bright lance with its white pennon and
golden fringe in his hand, led the way for his fellow-knights and for
the other Franks who so dearly loved him.
Not far from the pass of Roncesvalles he saw, gleaming against the
dark side of the purple mountain, the spears of the Saracens. Ten
thousand men, under Sir Gautier, were sent by Roland to reconnoitre,
but from every side the heathen pressed upon them, and every one of
the ten thousand were slain--hurled into the valley far down below.
Gautier alone, sorely wounded, returned to Roland, to tell him, ere
his life ebbed away, of the betrayal by Ganelon, and to warn him of
the ambush. Yet even then they were at Roncesvalles, and the warning
came too late. Afar off, amongst the beech trees, and coming down
amongst the lonely passes of the mountains, the Franks could see the
gleam of silver armour, and Oliver, well knowing that not even the
most dauntless valour could withstand such a host as the one that came
against them, besought Roland to blow a blast on his magic horn that
Charlemagne might hear and return to aid him. And all the other
Douzeperes begged of him that thus he would call for help. But Roland
would not listen to them.
"I will fight with them that us hathe sought
And or I se my brest blod throughe my harnes ryn
Blow never horn for no help then."
Through the night they knew their enemies were coming ever nearer,
hemming them in, but there were no night alarms, and day broke fair
and still. There was no wind, there was dew on the grass; "dew dymmd
the floures," and amongst the trees the birds sang merrily. At
daybreak the good Bishop Turpin celebrated Mass and blessed them, and
even as his voice ceased they beheld the Saracen host close upon them.
Then Roland spoke brave words of cheer to his army and commended their
souls and his own to Christ, "who suffrid for us paynes sore," and
for whose sake they had to fight the enemies of the Cross. Behind
every tree and rock a Saracen seemed to be hidden, and in a moment the
whole pass was alive with men in mortal strife.
Surely never in any fight were greater prodigies of valour performed
than those of Roland and his comrades. Twelve Saracen kings fell
before their mighty swords, and many a Saracen warrior was hurled down
the cliffs to pay for the lives of the men of France whom they had
trapped to their death. Never before, in one day, did one man slay so
many as did Roland and Oliver his friend--"A Roland for an Oliver" was
no good exchange, and yet a very fair one, as the heathen quickly
learned.
"Red was Roland, red with bloodshed;
Red his corselet, red his shoulders,
Red his arm, and red his charger."
In the thickest of the fight he and Oliver came together, and Roland
saw that his friend was using for weapon and dealing death-blows with
the truncheon of a spear.
"'Friend, what hast thou there?' cried Roland.
'In this game 'tis not a distaff,
But a blade of steel thou needest.
Where is now Hauteclaire, thy good sword,
Golden-hilted, crystal-pommelled?'
'Here,' said Oliver; 'so fight I
That I have not time to draw it.'
'Friend,' quoth Roland, 'more I love thee
Ever henceforth than a brother.'"
When the sun set on that welter of blood, not a single Saracen was
left, and those of the Frankish rearguard who still lived were very
weary men.
Then Roland called on his men to give thanks to God, and Bishop
Turpin, whose stout arm had fought well on that bloody day, offered up
thanks for the army, though in sorry plight were they, almost none
unwounded, their swords and lances broken, and their hauberks rent and
blood-stained. Gladly they laid themselves down to rest beside the
comrades whose eyes never more would open on the fair land of France,
but even as Roland was about to take his rest he saw descending upon
him and his little band a host of Saracens, led by Marsile himself.
A hundred thousand men, untired, and fiercely thirsting for revenge,
came against the handful of wearied, wounded heroes. Yet with
unwavering courage the Franks responded to their leaders' call.
The war-cry of the soldiers of France--"Montjoie! Montjoie!"--rang
clear above the fierce sound of the trumpets of the Saracen army.
"'Soldiers of the Lord,' cried Turpin,
'Be ye valiant and steadfast,
For this day shall crowns be given you
Midst the flowers of Paradise.
In the name of God our Saviour,
Be ye not dismayed nor frighted,
Lest of you be shameful legends
Chanted by the tongues of minstrels.
Rather let us die victorious,
Since this eve shall see us lifeless!--
Heaven has no room for cowards!
Knights, who nobly fight, and vainly,
Ye shall sit among the holy
In the blessed fields of Heaven.
On then, Friends of God, to glory!'"
Marsile fell, the first victim to a blow from the sword of Roland,
and even more fiercely than the one that had preceded it, waged this
terrible fight.
And now it seemed as though the Powers of Good and of Evil also took
part in the fray, for a storm swept down from the mountains, thick
darkness fell, and the rumble of thunder and the rush of heavy rain
dulled the shouts of those who fought and the clash and clang of their
weapons. When a blood-red cloud came up, its lurid light showed the
trampled ground strewn with dead and dying. At that piteous sight
Roland proposed to send a messenger to Charlemagne to ask him for aid,
but it was then too late.
When only sixty Franks remained, the pride of Roland gave way to pity
for the men whom he had led to death, and he took the magic horn
Olifant in his hand, that he might blow on it a blast that would bring
Charlemagne, his mighty army behind him, to wipe out the Saracen host
that had done him such evil. But Oliver bitterly protested. Earlier in
the day, when he had willed it, Roland had refused to call for help.
Now the day was done. The twilight of death--Death the inevitable--was
closing in upon them. Why, then, call now for Charlemagne, when nor he
nor any other could help them? But Turpin with all his force backed
the wish of Roland.
"The blast of thy horn cannot bring back the dead to life," he said.
"Yet if our Emperor return he can save our corpses and weep over them
and bear them reverently to la belle France. And there shall they lie
in sanctuary, and not in a Paynim land where the wild beasts devour
them and croaking wretches with foul beaks tear our flesh and leave
our bones dishonoured."
"That is well said," quoth Roland and Oliver.
Then did Roland blow three mighty blasts upon his horn, and so great
was the third that a blood-vessel burst, and the red drops trickled
from his mouth.
For days on end Charlemagne had been alarmed at the delay of his
rearguard, but ever the false Ganelon had reassured him.
"Why shouldst thou fear, sire?" he asked. "Roland has surely gone
after some wild boar or deer, so fond is he of the chase."
But when Roland blew the blast that broke his mighty heart,
Charlemagne heard it clearly, and no longer had any doubt of the
meaning of its call. He knew that his dreams had come true, and at
once he set his face towards the dire pass of Roncesvalles that he
might, even at the eleventh hour, save Roland and his men.
Long ere Charlemagne could reach the children of his soul who stood in
such dire need, the uncle of Marsile had reached the place of battle
with a force of fifty thousand men. Pierced from behind by a cowardly
lance, Oliver was sobbing out his life's blood. Yet ever he cried,
"Montjoie! Montjoie!" and each time his voice formed the words, a
thrust from his sword, or from the lances of his men, drove a soul
down to Hades. And when he was breathing his last, and lay on the
earth, humbly confessing his sins and begging God to grant him rest in
Paradise, he asked God's blessing upon Charlemagne, his lord the
king, and upon his fair land of France, and, above all other men, to
keep free from scathe his heart's true brother and comrade, Roland,
the gallant knight. Then did he gently sigh his last little measure of
life away, and as Roland bent over him he felt that half of the
glamour of living was gone. Yet still so dearly did he love Aude the
Fair, the sister of Oliver, who was to be his bride, that his muscles
grew taut as he gripped his sword, and his courage was the dauntless
courage of a furious wave that faces all the cliffs of a rocky coast
in a winter storm, when again, he faced the Saracen host.
Of all the Douzeperes, only Gautier and Turpin and Roland now
remained, and with them a poor little handful of maimed men-at-arms.
Soon a Saracen arrow drove through the heart of Gautier, and Turpin,
wounded by four lances, stood alone by Roland's side. But for each
lance thrust he slew a hundred men, and when at length he fell,
Roland, himself sorely wounded, seized once more his horn and blew
upon it a piercing blast:
"... a blast of that dread horn,
On Fontarabian echoes borne,
That to King Charles did come,
When Rowland brave, and Olivier,
And every paladin and peer,
On Roncesvalles died."
Sir Walter Scott.
[Illustration: ROLAND SEIZED ONCE MORE HIS HORN]
That blast pierced right into the heart of Charlemagne, and
straightway he turned his army towards the pass of Roncesvalles that
he might succour Roland, whom he so greatly loved. Yet then it was too
late. Turpin was nearly dead. Roland knew himself to be dying.
Veillantif, Roland's faithful warhorse, was enduring agonies from
wounds of the Paynim arrows, and him Roland slew with a shrewd blow
from his well-tried sword. From far, far away the hero could hear the
blare of the trumpets of the Frankish army, and, at the sound, what
was left of the Saracen host fled in terror. He made his way, blindly,
painfully, to where Turpin lay, and with fumbling fingers took off his
hauberk and unlaced his golden helmet. With what poor skill was left
to him, he strove to bind up his terrible wounds with strips of his
own tunic, and he dragged him, as gently as he could, to a spot under
the beech trees where the fresh moss still was green.
"'Ah, gentle lord,' said Roland, 'give me leave
To carry here our comrades who are dead,
Whom we so dearly loved; they must not lie
Unblest; but I will bring their corpses here
And thou shalt bless them, and me, ere thou die.'
'Go,' said the dying priest, 'but soon return.
Thank God! the victory is yours and mine!'"
With exquisite pain Roland carried the bodies of Oliver and of the
rest of the Douzeperes from the places where they had died to where
Turpin, their dear bishop, lay a-dying. Each step that he took cost
him a pang of agony; each step took from him a toll of blood. Yet
faithfully he performed his task, until they all lay around Turpin,
who gladly blessed them and absolved them all. And then the agony of
soul and of heart and body that Roland had endured grew overmuch for
him to bear, and he gave a great cry, like the last sigh of a mighty
tree that the woodcutters fell, and dropped down, stiff and chill, in
a deathly swoon. Then the dying bishop dragged himself towards him and
lifted the horn Olifant, and with it in his hand he struggled, inch by
inch, with very great pain and labour, to a little stream that
trickled down the dark ravine, that he might fetch some water to
revive the hero that he and all men loved. But ere he could reach the
stream, the mists of death had veiled his eyes. He joined his hands in
prayer, though each movement meant a pang, and gave his soul to
Christ, his Saviour and his Captain. And so passed away the soul of a
mighty warrior and a stainless priest.
Thus was Roland alone amongst the dead when consciousness came back to
him. With feeble hands he unlaced his helmet and tended to himself as
best he might. And, as Turpin had done, so also did he painfully crawl
towards the stream. There he found Turpin, the horn Olifant by his
side, and knew that it was in trying to fetch him water that the brave
bishop had died, and for tenderness and pity the hero wept.
"Alas! brave priest, fair lord of noble birth,
Thy soul I give to the great King of Heaven!
* * * * *
May thy fair soul escape the pains of Hell,
And Paradise receive thee in its bowers!"