That was why we talked about the things we did: not out of boastfulness, although a few of the younger ones among Robert’s knights were only too eager to impress us with tales of their feats of arms and their various conquests, which seemed to grow wilder with every passing hour. Rather, we talked to distract ourselves and each other from the task at hand and, in so doing, to keep those fears from entering our hearts for a few more hours. After a while some of the others went to seek distraction in the arms of their women, and later they returned to join us by the fire, sidling up close to one another and sharing in the meagre warmth. We talked and we laughed and we ate and we drank and we talked some more, and when there was nothing left to say and our sides were hurting and we had each eaten and drunk all that we could stomach and the fire had all but died and silence reigned, Eudo brought out his flute from his pack. He put the beaked end to his lips, closed his eyes and, after a deep intake of breath, began to play.
At first I didn’t recognise the song, which started soft and slow, as Eudo’s fingers stepped gently and with precision from one hole to the next, lingering on each note, adding from time to time a wistful flourish that spoke somehow, in a way that I couldn’t quite explain but simply felt deep within my soul, of faded glories, of yearning and of home. My thoughts turned to my manor at Earnford. I wondered how ?dda and Father Erchembald and Galfrid were faring, and everyone else I’d left there. And I thought of my Oswynn, a captive in some unknown, far-off place, and wondered if she were thinking of me too. What small hope I’d held out of ever finding her seemed even smaller now.
Before I could lose myself in self-pity, the tune erupted like a tree blossoming into colour. Eudo wove sharp flurries and trills in between the longer notes, his hands running up and down the length of the pipe, and suddenly from out of that cautious and brooding song emerged one more familiar, that even in those days was popular in the halls and palaces and castles of France, from farthest Gascony in the south to Normandy and Ponthieu and Flanders. It was a tale of noble deeds and fearless sacrifice, which gave inspiration to all, from the lowliest hearth-knight to the greatest of barons. At once I forgot everything troubling me and instead found myself smiling. Men began to clap their hands upon their knees, keeping time with the rhythm set by Eudo as it rose once more both in speed and in vigour, his brow furrowed in concentration, until abruptly he broke off and began to sing the words that were so familiar:
The king our emperor Charlemagne
Has battled for seven full years in Spain.
From highland to sea has he won the land;
His sword no city could withstand.
It was a lay that every Frenchman who lived by the sword knew well: the Song of Rollant, the knight who, some three hundred years before our time, had given his life in the service of his king, defending to his dying breath the narrow mountain pass that they called Rencesvals against the vengeful pagan hordes.
Keep and castle alike went down
Save Sarraguce, the mountain town.
The King Marsilius holds that place,
Who loves not God, nor seeks His grace:
He prays to Apollo, and serves Mahomet;
But they saved him not from the fate he met.
But for the difference of a few words, Eudo could have been singing of King Guillaume and his struggle against the rebels holding out on the Isle. But whether the court poets would praise our names and set out lays of our deeds three centuries hence, were we to prove victorious tomorrow, or even were we each to meet a death as noble as Rollant’s, I very much doubted. More likely our names would not go recorded in any chronicle or verse, and if we were remembered at all in the years to come, it would be merely for being the first unfortunates to have our blood spilt in this great folly. On such things I tried not to dwell. There was nothing more that could be done or said about the king’s strategy and our place within it. God had already chosen my destiny, whatever that might be, and I could not escape it. I would not run from this fight, nor would I abandon Robert, my lord. He needed me, as he needed all of us.
Thus tomorrow we would ride, to glory or to death. For good or for ill, tomorrow we would fight.
Eventually I managed to sleep, though by the time I did finally close my eyelids there could have been only a couple of hours until first light. In my dreams I was Rollant, gazing down from the mountain pass towards the plains where the enemy massed beneath their banners: a horde of snorting horseflesh, painted shield-faces and gleaming steel; thousands upon thousands of men, together raising a clamour loud enough to raise the dead from their graves. In my hand was Durendal, the sharpest sword in all of Christendom, and hanging at my side was the Olifant, the great gilded war-horn that Charlemagne himself had gifted me, carved from the tusk of an elephant. And then came the foe, marching in a single column up the winding and stony road, steadily growing nearer, until their conrois broke free, their riders raising a battle-cry to the heavens as they dug their heels in and couched their lance-hafts under their arms, with every stride gaining in speed, gaining in confidence—
I never found out what happened next, for at that moment I was brought from my dream by a voice at the opening to my tent. It was not yet day, but as the flaps parted I caught a glimpse of the skies outside, which already were turning from black to grey, and in that faint light I made out Robert’s face.