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THE SONG OF CHARLEMAGNE
BOOK ONE THE GRAIL REVELATION
By Thomas F. Motter
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2011 Thomas F Motter KSJ
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4567-2188-6
Chapter One
RETURN OF THE KING
It was hot. The ancient flagstones used to pave the road from Rome to Narbonne by Pompe's army nine hundred years earlier in order to keep Carthage from attacking by way of Spain ever again, (as Hannibal had done so successfully) were now, in the blistering May sun of the year 774, scorching the bare feet of many of the infantry yeomen comprising the eleven league defile of Charlemagne's returning army.
The mounted contingent at the head of the long and winding column was not affected. It was, in fact, oblivious to the travails of the valiant stragglers just now halting to sit and cool their feet in the He'rault River. This lead element included Charlois on his midnight-black, Frisian stallion, "Tencendor". Riding at his side or close behind were the paladins. The elite group of peers was currently passing below the crenellated ramparts of the great walled citadel of Narbonne with its lofty watch-tower.
The tower had originally been built to a height of eighty feet in order to detect Carthaginians approaching Rome from Spain. In 714, the Saracens had invaded greater Septimania capturing and occupying key cities throughout the Languedoc including Narbonne and Carcassonne. Their ultimate intent had been to use the castle-fortress towns as bases from which to overtake and conquer all of Francia.
Much later, in 732, after Charlois' Grandpere, Charles Martel, "The Hammer" defeated the fearsome Emir, Abderrahman, at Tours and then again with brutal finality near Narbonne, the Moors still held Carcassonne and Narbonne along with Avignon and Arles. This situation had left Islam yet in control of access to the Mediterranean; thus, the trade lanes to Byzantium and the East. It was left to Martel's son, Pepin the Short, (Charlois' father) to retake Carcassonne, Narbonne, Avignon and Arles, which he did in 759, driving Islam out of Septimania, across the Pyrenees and back into Spain.
Afterward, Pepin had had the tower raised another thirty feet. This had been done so that any attempt at Moorish invasion from the Italian peninsula could be detected a day in advance. Such was possible because the paving stones of the old Roman road ended many feet before and after the He'rault river ford. As a result, during the war season, so much dust was raised there by an approaching army that the tower's sentry could easily detect the Paynim and sound the alarm to initiate a counterattack before he could complete the river crossing.
Now, Charlois (as Charlemagne was called in those days) was passing below the walls of Narbonne. As he did so, the entire city waved and cheered from the ramparts. He looked up and waved back. His tanned face glowed with pride as he passed by the bronze plaque fastened to the tower at eye-level for any horseman to see. It had been placed there by his father after he'd retaken the fortress-town. It was engraved with words in Arabic for all Islam to read: "This Far, And No Further". The words were especially meaningful this day, for his army was on return from Tuscany in triumph, having only ten days earlier defeated the Lombard / Moor confederation led by King Desiderius.
Normally, he would now halt for the night and allow the trailing end of the column to catch up. In the morning, he would have then turned north toward his home in Aachen. But this was not a normal return. His favorite and most admired noble, Duke Ganelon of Gasgogne, had distinguished himself in the recent victory. Having done so, he was entitled to a boon and, as was customary, was entitled to have it bestowed in the presence of those who served him directly in the name of the king.
The duke was a key player in those days. His home fiefdom of Gasgogne coupled with his fiefdom of Languedoc comprised the southern boundary of the Frankish empire. Taken together, they served as the bulwark against any foreign incursion from Moorish Spain and were accordingly of the utmost strategic importance to the kingdom's security. And so, the king would not turn the army north, but instead detour a day and stay on the road headed west.
Thus, this day, Charlois and the other peers rode together in a small vanguard at the head of the long column. There was Duke Ganelon of Gasgogne and his cousin, Count Pinabel of Mayence. Behind them came the king's most devoted comrade-in-arms, Ogier the Dane; Ogier, who had fled succession to the throne of Denmark in order to escape foul treachery from a conniving stepmother. Now, proudly, he rode at the side of Charlois, who'd given him sanctuary in his hour of need.
There was Charlois' Uncle Richard, Duke of Burgundy with his son, Count Guy de Berenger. Along with them rode Count Huon, Seneschal of Bordeaux alongside Count Rinaldo who was on his famous, white destrier, "Bayard". The two rode ahead of Rinaldo's older brothers; Alard, Ricard and Guichard, who were in the company of their cousin, Maugus-the Magician and their father Duke Aymon.
Next came King Yon of Asturias, Charlois' youngest uncle, most trusted ally and keenest admirer. Alongside him rode Count Gautier, the Constable of Languedoc. Behind them came the knights Oton, Samson, Gerin, Gerers and the king's son-in-law, Count Guyferros.
After them came the king's high counselor and uncle of Ogier, Lord Naimon. Naimon could be seen conversing with the knight riding next to him, Count Thierry of Toulouse, a distant cousin of the king and his aide de camp.
Bringing up the rear of the exclusive contingent was the king's secretary general, Lord Eginhard, (called Einhard by the Saxons) who rode next to Count Geoffrey of Anjou, Charlois' standard bearer and brother of his beloved Queen Hilde. Trailing them all was the king's chronicler and troubadour of the kingdom, my great grandpere, Henri de Troyes. The entire contingent passed by Narbonne and its inhabitants without hesitation, as if in review; for Charlois was intent on reaching Ganelon's castle headquarters at Carcassonne in the Languedoc by mid afternoon of the following day.
The duke had sent word ahead for all the castle-fortress town's inhabitants to prepare a grand fete in celebration of the army's Tuscan victory. Additionally, the event would serve to honor the king as well as his court, which had already been summoned from Aachen. Queen Hilde and the king's mother, "Goosefoot" had departed Aachen as soon as they'd received word of the victory and the accompanying summons the week prior. They, along with the Queen's personally assigned knights, Anseis, Engeler, Rousillon, and her cousins, the identical twins, Yvonne and Yvoire, were already at the castle anxiously awaiting the king's arrival.
The king's youngest daughter, Melesinda, along with her governess, Lady Alda of Normandy, always spent the summer months at Carcassonne. Consequently, they were already there anyway, as was Archbishop Turpin of Reims. The Archbishop, at the king's request, oversaw their welfare during the summer months when not on campaign with the army. He'd reluctantly stayed back this time to watch over the girls.
The only family members not in attendance were the other children of the king and queen. There was their eldest son, Pepin the hunchback, who'd been born terribly deformed. He'd been placed in the care of the monks and at the age of twenty-four remained in the cloister. Next was their eldest daughter, Rotruda, now twenty-three. She was quite beautiful and intelligent. To her parent's dismay, she'd insisted on entering the service of the church full-time and was, at present, living the sparest of existences in the House of God at Lourdes.
Last were their two youngest sons, Charlot, twenty-two and Louis, twenty-one. Both were in the monastery at Monte Cassino learning to read and write Latin as well as master mathematics at the insistence of their father. He was adamant that if they were ever to reign, they must be able to read and write (unlike himself) on their coronation day in Reims Cathedral. He'd always regretted being illiterate at the start of his reign and had worked hard to correct the deficiency.
The king and queen had not seen one another for over twelve weeks. After twenty-five years of marriage, they were still madly in love and mutually hungered for one another's physical as well as spiritual affections. Missing them for a day was almost unbearable; for a week, unthinkable — for twelve weeks, it had truly been sheer torture. Now, that ordeal and the worst part of the campaign, (as far as the king was concerned!) was almost at an end.
Meanwhile, a day's march further up the road in Carcassonne, all was excitement and consternation. The old Roman road passed just to the south of the double-walled, castle- fortress town on its way to the old Visigoth capitol of Toulouse. Its lumbering silhouette could be seen for miles around.
It was situated atop a mildly sloping plateau protected by a dry moat on three sides that was spanned by a drawbridge at its east entrance. A narrow, single-lane, switchback road, hewn into the cliff-side comprising the west wall wound its way back and forth until finally ending at the main gate. The gate, framed by looming guard-towers, overlooked an emerald green valley through which ran a year-round river lined and hidden by ancient oaks.
The river was only about forty feet wide and just a few hands deep by summer's end, which made it very wadeable. However, at this time of year, (late spring) it was always somewhat of a raging torrent with two feet of the sweetest tasting snow-melt one could imagine. Its crystalline waters raced tumbling and splashing down from the snowcapped Pyrenees as they made their passage through the little valley en route to the Mediterranean Sea.
Consequently, any who wished to cross over the river's rather modest, yet tumultuous expanse, in order to access the peasant village on its opposite bank, had to use a sturdy little bridge. The bridge, though small, was formidable. It had been carefully assembled from rough-hewn, oaken planks; long ago cut and carved from the ancient groves sprinkled here and there along the river's banks.
This day, Carcassonne's little peasant village, laying just half a league from the castle-fortress town on the river's opposite bank was the picture of bustling activity. Peasants had ventured out to their fields early with their oxen. All were busily plowing, planting, hoeing and weeding in hopes of finishing early so they might participate in the holiday on the morrow. Some women sat on stools milking goats and cows. Others churned butter. Younger boys chased down the chickens, ducks and swine that usually were safe to wander the road and scavenge the cooking leftovers. On the day to follow, many would dress the king's table.
Still other women could be found at washboards next to fires boiling wash-water. They scrubbed tattered clothing with lye soap made from tallow and wood ash. Little girls rinsed everything in tubs of cold water, then wrung the rude garments out by hand and hung them to dry on hemp clothes-lines strung between oak poles.
Older girls carried more water in wooden buckets from the river. The washer women threw the used laundry water into the road to hold down the dust as was the rule. The young boys helping catch the fowl also gathered and fetched firewood for all the activities requiring heat.
Near the river's edge, village elders could be seen slaughtering all manner of livestock and hanging them up with blocks and tackles from tree limbs to skin and butcher. The carcasses were quartered with iron cleavers, then attached to large, iron hooks and placed in eddies at the rivers bank to keep them cool; thus ensuring freshness.
At the far end of the village was the mill house. From its shed, boys hauled forth sacks of grain and poured them out onto a granite millstone that was turned by the river's force on the great wheel that dipped into a deepened edge of the river.
Close by, more girls and women kneaded slabs of dough at a long, oak table. On another table close by, the finished slabs were placed to rest while the yeast did its work, slowly puffing them up to twice their original size. From there, they were placed in domed, clay ovens half the size of a man, seated on granite pedestals.
The baking was monitored by keen eyes from the oven's open fronts. When the internally fluffed and steamy loaves were ripe with the golden glow of a crisp crust the thickness of gossamer wings, they were quickly shoveled out with wooden spatulas and carried to a series of long picnic tables in a nearby grove. There, they were set in the shade and left to cool.
At the other end of the village, more villagers and passers-by were to be seen bartering and trading their wares. Many were in spirited, highly animated discussions with the local tradesmen and merchants. To say the scene was frenetic would have been an understatement.
The river was life. It was everything to the inhabitants of the Carcassonne valley. It provided the means to farm, feed livestock, and maintain a reasonable level of hygiene, (thus health) and on and on. But in those days, it had no name. It was just "the river".
Today, we know it as the river Aude; old Frankish for our modern version of the girl's name "Alda". How it happened to finally acquire that name is a mystery to many ... but not all.
Further down the river from the peasant village on the opposite bank but equidistant from the castle town in another grove of ancient French oaks was a rustic and quite modest, wood-cutter's cottage. Its northern wall was covered in star jasmine. Wistaria encased the remaining three walls with their flowerlet-laden racemes hanging down like the drooping tails of purple foxes. A footbridge across the river connected it to the edge of a sizeable oak forest on which the village and the castle inhabitants could rely for winter fuel thanks to the woodcutter.
On this day, two of the cottage's inhabitants were to be found in a small clearing fronting the humble abode. One was a man clad in peasant garb, yet comely; not really rugged or weathered looking enough to be of peasant stock. He was handsome with a neatly trimmed beard and mustache; unable to conceal the air of an aristocrat in the way he carried and groomed himself. He was in the company of a young man of about fifteen years of age. The youth was fair of face and slight but nicely built. Clothed almost in rags, he exhibited no sign of self-consciousness.
The two were practicing sword-play, moving and jumping, ducking and swaying as the elder shouted, "Parry! Riposte! Now Sixte! Now Quarte! And now, away! Over the head! At the back! And slash! And block with the free hand! Now turn! Jump! And lunge! And ballestra! And again! Parry! Riposte! Lunge!"
The elder now held up his hand to halt the proceedings while panting for air. "Good! Good, my boy! At this rate, you'll soon be the envy of all Christendom with the blade and the finest soldier in all of France!"
The boy's steel-blue eyes widened but on his brow was a melancholy frown of skepticism. "Really, Father? Do you really think so?"
The boys Father answered as he patted his son on the shoulder, "Without a doubt! And I'm one to know!"
"Oh come, Father! I know you're only jesting. I don't care that you're only the village wood-cutter and that we're lowly born. It matters not to me."
"Son, you needn't dwell on that. It makes no difference. It's merit in Charlois' France that matters and brings recognition and reward."
"I don't understand." the boy answered.
"You will." his father assured him. "It's all to do with talent, Roland. Like sweet cream, it rises to the top and no man or force of nature can hold it down."
"But if talent is all that counts and I have it, as you say, then where is the recognition and reward from those who matter?"
Now, Roland's father paused. This time it was his brow that was raised, as a winsomely sly smile hinted on his lips. "Your mother and father don't matter?"
Flustered and frustrated the boy could only blurt, "Tsk! You know what I mean!"
His father smiled. "My boy, talent is fundamental ... God-given, but fundamental. Many men are blessed with it but it takes another indispensable element to make it work." He paused and allowed silence to give the boy time to reflect.
Finally, the boy asked sarcastically, "Well, are you going to let me in on the secret or just have me spend the rest of my life trying to discover what it is?"
"No!" his father responded emphatically. "The answer is hard work! Most men blessed with talent, for whatever reason, seem to feel they're somehow entitled. The number of them who end up on the scrapheap of history's unknowns is myriad."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from THE SONG OF CHARLEMAGNE by Thomas F. Motter Copyright © 2011 by Thomas F Motter KSJ. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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