CHAPTER 1

Olivier had won the toss for the girl. Turpin, who never played, and Roland, who often won, lingered for a while outside the tent. The rest of the king's Companions had wandered off in search of other amusement—and another woman, too, if that was to be had.

It was still broad daylight, though the shadows were lengthening. The warmth of early spring was giving way to a creeping chill. Turpin shivered. Roland tossed a new log on the fire, feeding it till it swelled to a respectable blaze. He stayed there on one knee while the sounds from the tent swelled to a crescendo. The girl, a strapping Saxon, was loudly enthusiastic.

Turpin opened his mouth to remark on it, but shut it again after a moment. Roland seemed lost in a dream, or in contemplation of something very far away from this royal assembly of the Franks. The fire cast ruddy light on his face and lost itself in his eyes. Such odd eyes, yellow as a hawk's. Sometimes he did not look human at all.

He raised a hand idly, slipping it in among the flames. They licked his fingers. He stroked them as a woman pets her cat. They purred as a cat purrs, leaping, curling about his hand, arching under his palm.

Turpin set his lips together carefully. Equally carefully, and with an effort, he turned his eyes away. Roland was not as other men were. All the Companions knew it; and none of them said a word. Roland was their brother, their comrade in arms. They would not betray him.

Roland came to himself all at once, and rose so quickly that Turpin started. Roland was still oblivious to the man beside him, or seemed to be, until he said, "Something's coming."

Turpin frowned. There were always people coming and going where the king was—and here, at Paderborn, in the forests of newly conquered Saxony, the whole might of the kingdom had gathered. People came from all over the world to speak with or present petitions or offer tribute or threaten war with the King of the Franks.

But Roland meant something else—something alarming, from the look of him. He was striding away already, aiming toward the middle of what was now little more than a camp; but in time it would be a fortress, a strong holding amid the Saxon forests.

The shape of the citadel was cleared, the line of its walls marked out. Most of the camp spread outside of it, but the king's tent stood in its center, and he sat in front of it, holding audience and judging disputes. Roland was well on his way there before Turpin mustered wits to follow.

Turpin's longer legs brought him level soon enough. Roland glanced at him and let slip the flicker of a smile. Turpin suppressed a sigh. People who said the Count of the Breton Marches was a witch did not know the half of it.

Jehan Turpin, Archbishop of Rheims, Companion and battle-brother of the King of the Franks, preferred not to ponder too many complexities when it came to his friends. If that made him a bad priest, then so be it. God would judge; and, Turpin hoped, be merciful.

He followed Roland in among the crowd that was always present where the king was. Roland was not a small man, but he was lighter built than Franks tended to be. He could slip through gaps too narrow for a man of Turpin's bulk, and make his way all but unnoticed to a place almost within reach of the king. Turpin had to push and thrust and trample toes to do the same.

Rank had its privileges—and episcopal garb cut short many a curse. Turpin smiled sweetly at the most irate, and stared down one idiot who would have drawn blade—here, in front of the king, where he could have his throat slit for thinking of it—and settled in some contentment just in back of Roland.

Charles the king sat in a chair that he had brought up last year from Rome: a very old chair, a curule chair, such as consuls had sat in when the Empire was alive. It was a chair with broad aspirations, which was fortunate, for Charles was a large man. A giant, the Romans had thought him, as tall as he was, and as broad, and as manifestly strong. Those shoulders could heft a whole ox, and those arms wield a great sword for half the day.

The late sun glimmered on his hair. Bright gold when he was a boy, it was early going silver. What gold was left in it matched the metal of his crown. He sat with chin on fist, frowning at the intricacies of a contention between a pair of freemen.

On another day Turpin might have listened, for he found the law fascinating, and the king's grasp of it was remarkable. But Roland was not watching the king or the petitioners. His eyes were on those who waited their turn, still a sizable company though it was nearing sunset. Most were Franks, and a small number of those were noblemen. A pair of king's envoys stood off to the side, with a small retinue at their backs.

Roland had come to court a hand of years ago, somewhat after Turpin had last seen these two of the king's messengers. They had been away whenever the Companions were in attendance, running the king's errands through the south and west of Francia. It was unusual to see them here in the far reaches of the realm; they must bring news that could not wait for the king to make his way into their own country.

Roland was watching them with peculiar, almost alarming fixity. He looked like a hawk hunting its prey.

The freemen ended their wrangling at last. Charles pondered briefly, nodded, said to one of them, "You take the cow. He takes the calf. And have a care! If you try to take the calf back, I will know of it, and demand an accounting."

Then they were dismissed, and his envoys from Aquitania had come forward, bowing low. Charles rose from his chair to greet them, pulling them erect, laughing and embracing them both. "Riquier! Father Ganelon! Well met, well met indeed! It's not bad news, I hope?"

"Not bad, sire," said Riquier, "so much as interesting."

"So?" said Charles. He laid an arm about the shoulders of each. "Here, let me finish here, then we'll eat. Then you can tell me everything."

Riquier grinned. He was a big florid man, very fond of his wine and his meat—and of a willing woman, too, by all accounts. Ganelon the priest beside him seemed a grey shadow: small, thin, frail, with pallid hair thinning round the tonsure. Only his eyes had any color or substance to them. They were long and dark, hooded under heavy lids. He leaned on the arm of a man whom Turpin recalled as a kinsman of his—brother or nephew—and rested within the protection of two more like the first. They were as gaunt as he, robed as monks, and their faces were empty of expression. As far as Turpin knew, none of the three had ever spoken a word.

Copyright © 2004 by Judith Tarr