ONE
“I am not a mountain goat, Brother Lazare,” the rounder of the two priests complained as they skirted a wash of loose rock, detritus left in the wake of the ice and stone that had once flowed down the mountains into the valley behind them.
“Yes, Brother Crespin,” the first priest replied. “Much like last week when you informed me you were not a badger.” He paused, glancing back at his companion.
Crespin stopped several steps behind Lazare and leaned forward, one elbow on a knee, trying to catch his breath. They had been climbing for more than an hour now, and the camp below was small enough that it could be obscured with an outstretched hand. The bowl of the cirque was filled with a lush forest, and on their left, a silver cascade of water tumbled down. It flowed through the trees, emerging at the edge of the bowl—not far from where the Templars had set up their camp the previous night—and proceeded in a winding course down into Gascogne. On the other side of these mountains lay Aragon and Iberia.
“Is it not a magnificent view?” Lazare asked, his hands on his hips. “Were you indeed a mountain goat, you might be inured to the beauty of such an expanse, but how fortunate is it that you are not?”
Crespin turned slowly, placing his feet with care so that he didn’t step on a piece of shale that might slip beneath his weight. “My heart trembles to be the recipient of such fortune,” he said breathlessly.
Lazare skipped down the slope and clapped Crespin on the shoulders, startling the stouter man. “We congratulate ourselves with our ability to build churches, but what are they but hovels of mud and stick compared to the majesty of these mountains and the valley below us?”
“An observation you could have made an hour ago before we had started this climb,” Crespin said, glaring at Lazare.
“Yes, but you would have accepted my words on faith, Brother Crespin,” Lazare said. “Are they not imbued with much more gravitas now that you have seen God’s majesty for yourself?”
“’Tis a lesson I would not have minded skipping,” Crespin replied.
“And missed the opportunity to see what lies at the top?” Lazare shook his head. “Come now, Brother Crespin, we are almost there.” He clapped Crespin on the shoulder once more and resumed his climb.
From the valley below, the upper rim of the mountains was an unbroken ring of stone cliffs, impassable to a company that included horses and wagons. Nor had their guides suggested they try to cross the Pyrenees here. The valley—with its bouncing spring of glacial runoff, open fields, and verdant forests—was simply a good location for a camp, and the Templar commander, Helyssent de Verdelay, had meant to stay for several days to replenish stores. While the senior religious official accompanying the army was the archbishop of Toledo, the task of providing sermons fell to Abbot Arnaud Amairic, the master of the small group of Cistercians, and the abbot was a priest who took his role as orator very seriously. Lazare and Crespin had dutifully offered their services to the knights, but as the company had seen no combat, nor had it ridden hard, there was little for the small company of Cistercian priests to do.
During his morning prayer, Lazare had noticed the notch in the cliff, and when he had inquired of the local guides about it, he had learned that it was known as Roland’s Breach. From the valley floor, it did look like a cleft caused by a blade striking a stone.
And, of course, learning this, he had to climb up and take a closer look. Crespin hadn’t even tried to talk Lazare out of going; he knew that was a fool’s effort.
The first part of the climb was the most strenuous, and for the last hour, the route had been no steeper than walking from the outer wall to the abbey at Clairvaux. The mountain air was crisp, and Lazare enjoyed the feel of it in his mouth and throat as he breathed deeply during the hike. Much like the water from the stream that ran by the camp, the air seemed purer as if indicative of its proximity to Heaven.
Unlike he and Crespin. Their white habits were streaked with dust from the rocky climb. Filthy creatures scrambling up the aged bones of God’s creation.
As he reached the cleft, Lazare marveled at the precision of the cut through the rocky spur of the peak. While he waited for Crespin to catch up, Lazare paced off the width of the gap—just over twenty-six paces—and inspected the marbled wall of the cleft, running his hands over the rough stone.
Crespin reached the cleft and stood in the shade of the left-hand wall, looking at the mountain range the company of knights still had to cross before they reached Aragon. “Well,” he said after he had caught his breath. “Here we are. Is it as marvelous as you hoped?”
There were loose stones at the bottom of the cleft, shards that had fallen from the walls; on the left-hand side, a knob of stone protruded from the cleft-face like a pustule waiting to burst; at the top, the edges were straight and there was no overhanging stone lip. Lazare left his hand on the rock, feeling its texture under his calloused hands.
“The guide told me the story of this breach,” he said. “It was supposedly made by Roland when he tried to break his sword to keep it from falling into Moorish hands.”
Crespin glanced up at the walls of the cleft. “You have heard a different version than I,” he said. “I don’t recall Roland being a giant.”
“Of course, he wasn’t,” Lazare replied. “Looking at the stones of battlements and walls, haven’t you seen cuts like this and wondered what happens when steel meets stone?”
“I haven’t for I know that—in most instances—stone wins. Even if notches like this are made,” Crespin admitted, his mouth turning down as if he had sampled something sour. He looked up at the knob of rock above his head. “Is this why we came up here? For you to fondle the stone?”
“No one knows where his sword went,” Lazare said. “When the Saracens overran Charlemagne’s rear guard, Roland rallied the Christians with Oliphant and Durendal.”
“He had an elephant?”
“No,” Lazare laughed. “He had a hunting horn.”
“And he called it Oliphant?” Crespin frowned. “I suppose Durendal was the name of his sword.”
“Yes, it was. Supposedly its hilt contained relics that gave its wielder great powers.”
“But the Saracens killed him,” Crespin pointed out.
“It took a great number of Saracens,” Lazare responded. “Thousands.”
“Thousands,” Crespin repeated. His gaze roamed around the loose rock in the cleft between Gascogne and Aragon. “I don’t see it,” he said. “I fear the magic sword with a name isn’t here.”
“No,” Lazare said wistfully, “it isn’t. Nor did I find it in Rocamadour where the monks think it landed after Roland threw it.”
“Rocamadour,” Crespin said. “That’s quite far from here. Even for a giant, which he wasn’t.” He sighed and levered himself to his feet and approached the other priest. It was his turn to rest his hands on Lazare’s shoulders. “It’s just a sword, Brother Lazare, and one that was, most likely, of much lesser quality than the blades you have made. You shouldn’t trouble yourself so much with this obsession with magic swords. Magic isn’t what makes a sword strong. Faith is. Let your faith reside with God. God will guide your arm. God shows you how to make strong steel just as he directs my hand when I place the stones and raise my arches. We are His instruments.”
“You are right, Brother Crespin,” Lazare said, sighing. “It is just a sword.”
“Come then,” Crespin said, squeezing Lazare’s shoulder. “Let us make the much less arduous journey back to the camp. Perhaps the Templar commander has discovered a spot of rust on his blade and he will need you to clean it.”
“I am but a mere instrument of God’s,” Lazare said wryly. “It is my duty to serve.”
“Precisely.” Crespin idly knocked some of the dust from his robe as he started back down the trail. Behind him, he heard Brother Lazare mutter quietly, “Though, to name a sword…” Crespin shook his head as he kept walking.