The Song of Charlemagne: A Chanson De Gestes - Book Three: the Island of Destiny

By Marvin Paracuelles, Dennis J. Carlile and Thomas F. Motter

During the period in history known as The Dark Ages, the general populace was illiterate. The only way for people to find out what was going on in the rest of the world was from traveling Jongeleurs or what most of us know as the troubadour. The king had his own, well-funded troubadour, who traveled the land putting his masters spin on how lucky his subjects were to have him for their sovereign. The Chansons de Gestes or, translated, Songs of Deeds grew out of this practice in France. Over the years they grew from a recounting of actual events sung by the troubadour to the peasantry from one village to the next that, over millennia, morphed into exaggerated tales, so preposterous that no one could take them for anything more than folk fairy tales. However, when placed under the microscope of scholarly historical research, one comes to discover that underlying every folktale is a grain of historical truth more fascinating than the folklore cover. In The Island of Destiny, which would originally have been related in song and verse, the troubadour brings the reader to an understanding of the roots of Honor, Romance and Chivalry as well as how King Charles of the Franks came to be known and addressed in his own lifetime as Charlemagne.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499009170

Marvin Paracuelles

Making her debut as a children’s book author with “Time with My Uncle,” Lori Marchand finds comfort and inspiration watching her great nephew, Mason, during his interactions with those who love him. Searching her local book stores and finding no “uncle and nephew” books that sufficiently conveyed their strong bond that blossomed before her eyes, she was inspired to write this one. This is a tribute to all uncles and nephews who share that special bond. Lori lives in Austintown, Ohio, with her husband, Rick. She enjoys reading, writing, and spending time with her family.

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Copyright © 2014 by Thomas F. Motter KCSJ.

ISBN:            Softcover                        978-1-4990-0915-6

                      eBook                            978-1-4990-0917-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 05/06/2014

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

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Prologue

I          Homeward Bound

II        Taken

III      Vain Intent

IV      The Hidden Palace

V       A Wedding

VI     The Game

VII    Siege

VIII    Clandestine Correspondence

IX      The Island of Destiny

X       Consummation

Epilogue

For my children:

Eric, Christina, Heidi and Corbin

Her Guardian

Always

He defends her

But care or notice, she does not.

Gaily, she trips along

Through a life her unsuspecting audience

Sees as charmed.

And all the while,

He watches

Ever vigilant from afar.

Silent,

Undetected,

He banishes all barriers, obstacles, dangers

To save her blissful innocence.

Still and always, she lingers

There,

Always in his heart,

Heavy on his mind,

The shadow on his soul.

Relentless,

He clears a way

For her,

That promises assurance

She will never know the pain

Of a heart abandoned

Or the aching burn of the hunger,

That dwells

Deep

In the soul’s abyss

Of love unrequited . . .

TFM

Prologue

T he August sun was low in the sky as the troubadour made his return from the stream where he’d just taken a long, cool drink of Pyrenees snowmelt. He’d talked all morning and then, after lunching on an apple, gone on with his story throughout the afternoon. It was now late evening and he still had more to tell as the bumble bees, (ironically, symbols of the old Merovingian dynasty) melted back into the forest at gloaming.

It was warm that mid-August evening in the year of our Lord, 1100. The troubadour was en route from the Holy Land to his home in Lorraine—more specifically, Castle Brabant, where he served as Court Troubadour to his master, Godfrois de Bouillon; recent conqueror and now, King of Jerusalem. After appointing his brother, Baldwin, Regent, Godfrois intended to follow after his troubadour and make his own return home in the succeeding month.

He took something from his haversack and held it forth. It was an apple he’d just picked off the lone, apple tree standing in the middle of the meandering, poppy-dotted meadow where he’d camped the night before. He smiled as he offered the apple, at the same time taking another from the haversack for himself. The huge boulder that had furnished shade through the heat of the day now seemed almost like an old friend—a captive eavesdropper, unable to avoid listening in on the troubadour’s tale. Before retaking his seat, Courtenay de Troyes gathered twigs, bark, dry leaves and dead limbs that were strewn about and with his flint, built a fire; for the darkness of night would soon be closing in.

"Well, I see you’re still here, so I guess my story, thus far, hasn’t been all that boring! I must confess though, I had no idea when I commenced my tale this morning, that it would take so long to recount. I’d not intended to camp in this particular place, in the Pass of Roncesvalles, as the Spaniards call it, for more than one night. But I’m glad to spend one more in order to impart the history and significance of this hallowed ground, so sacred to we French."

Courtenay took a bite from his apple, chewed ravenously and swallowed. Now let’s see. Where was I? he asked rhetorically as he took his seat on the log along with another bite from his apple. Ah, yes! It was 326 years ago in the year of our Lord 774. Charlemagne and his army had gone to turn back the Infidels at Aspromonte. Although Roland had been ordered by Charlemagne to remain at Carcassonne and placed under house arrest, he and his new-won love, Lady Alda, (Aude in the old Frankish tongue) along with Charlemagne’s daughter, Princess Melesinda, his loyal page, Mitaine and his squire, Ferractus the Moor, had managed, (thanks to the girls!) to escape their captivity and follow the army. The little band had presented itself to Roland’s father, Duke Milon, just before the battle. The girls had then been left in the safe keeping of Ferractus, Mitaine and my great grandpere, Henri de Troyes, while Roland had gone off to engage the Saracens with his friend, Count Gautier and his father.

The troubadour paused. Putting his fingers to the front of his scalp, he ran them back through his hair as he knitted his brows in an apparent effort to assemble in his head all the events of his story in their proper order and, at the same time, not exclude anything important. He took a last bite from his apple and tossed the core against the boulder, after which his countenance became relaxed, reflecting a confidence that at last, he had everything right in his mind. He continued.

Charlemagne had given the Moorish soldon one last chance to withdraw his forces, which was refused out of hand. The battle was then joined and fiercely contested on all fronts. Many deeds of valor were observed by Henri and the girls as they’d watched from their vantage high above the battlefield. Melesinda’s husband, Count Guyferros, slew the Moorish Emir, Suli, in single combat. Rinaldo, in turn, smote the Moorish Vizier, Ali bin Balant.

The excitement in the troubadour’s voice and his accelerated tempo suddenly became accentuated. Just as Charlemagne was about to be slain by the soldon’s son, Prince Helmont, a blinding flash of light rendered our king momentarily sightless. In that same moment, the ‘Hard Goddess’ (Dur Ange De’labre’) had appeared to Charlemagne as an apparition and spoke to him; or so it’s always been told!

Courtenay paused as if he was caught up in the vision created by his own telling of the tale. Presently, he realized he’d stopped talking and continued. As quickly as she’d appeared, she was gone. After she vanished, Charlemagne’s vision quickly recovered. Only then could he see that the flash, which had momentarily blinded him had originated from Roland’s having blocked the prince’s sword blow with ‘Durandel’—the same sword ostensibly given Charlemagne years earlier by the same, mysterious Goddess during another battle under similar desperate circumstances which, at that time, had also saved his life and after whom the sword was named.

Suddenly, Courtenay’s voice became melancholy and his tempo slowed back down. In the mean time, Roland’s father, Duke Milon, had dispatched Agolant, the Moorish Soldon in single combat. Milon’s erstwhile friend, the wickedly deceitful Duke Ganelon, had betrayed his trust and murdered the valiant duke with a dagger stab in the back while out of sight of the others as part of his grand scheme to steal Charlemagne’s kingdom. Milon had lingered, dying in Roland’s arms before he could disclose the identity of the culprit responsible for his demise; thus ensuring the secrecy of Gan’s sinister plot.

The troubadour sighed then went on as he threw another stick of wood on the fire and stoked it with the dirk he always carried. Sparks flew up into the darkness, briefly illuminating his face as if it were an opalescent, talking mask suspended in the darkness.

"In thanks for saving his life, Charlemagne had formally knighted Roland in the presence of Alda, (his lady-fair and now betrothed) and all the paladins the following morning on the field of the recent battle. Now, all were packing up and breaking camp at Aspromonte in preparation for the long journey home."

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Homeward Bound

I t was nearing the noon hour in the pass at Aspromonte. The Franks had finished burying their dead from the previous day’s battle, but at Archbishop Turpin’s insistence, had left the Saracen’s where they’d fallen. The fighting Archbishop of Reims was a fervent seminarian and eccleastic pupil of all religions. As such, he was well aware of every hadith including the Muslim requirement that their dead be interred within one full day. He viewed leaving them to rot, (thus, providing carrion for the scavenging animals of the forest) as a golden opportunity to send all Islam a message.

The archbishop reasoned that such a brazen act of blatant disrespect would serve as an overt demonstration of Francia’s contempt for everything the Koran stood for. Further, it would provide all Islam with a seminal historic event for serious consideration should the hubris of a One-World-Caliphate cross the minds of its leaders ever again.

Charlois had been reluctant to lend his royal sanction, fearing the ramifications and possible, long-term repercussions. But, he wished to show his appreciation for the esprit that Turpin had instilled in the hearts of his men preceding the historic engagement. He’d therefore acquiesced to the idea. His instincts were good, however. He would live to regret it.

The buzzards circling lazily overhead seemed somehow juxtaposed—a paradox; out of place on such a calm, fresh and shimmering, Summer morning, pulsating with the full flower of life in its prime. All members of the massive, ninety-thousand-man army (over ten thousand had perished in the battle) had been hard at work since before the break of day, packing up and assembling their order-of-march in preparation for the long journey home.

At about the mid-day hour, their two-league-long column was ready to move. Ogier the Dane was always at the head of the great defile and as such, was now almost four miles distant from the encampment’s original center. There he awaited the clarion call of the king’s great ivory horn, Oliphant; the which would be his signal to lead out.

Roland had not allowed his father, Duke Milon, to be buried with the others. He meant to return his remains to his mother in Carcassonne for a proper Christian burial in the shadow of his beloved castle near his boyhood, cottage home. To that end, they’d carefully wrapped the body in multiple, wet blankets in an attempt to preserve it for as long as possible and had then loaded it into its own separate, two-wheeled, armory cart.

Roland and his party were just finishing up and were standing around casually discussing the logistics of the journey back to their homeland.

Alda and Melesinda were there. Also near at hand was Roland’s page, Mitaine and her brother, Count Guy de Berenger. Melesinda’s husband, Count Guyferros was also with the little group as was Roland’s squire, Ferractus the Moor and Roland’s great friend, Count Gautier, Constable of Languedoc and Greater Septimania

While the little gathering was discussing its options for the return, Duke Ganelon approached accompanied by his cousin, Pinabel of Mayence.

It was obvious he intended to speak with Roland. Recognizing the fact, Roland halted his discussion with the others and awaited the duke’s address.

Ganelon managed a forced smile, which he masterfully made to look genuine. As he did so, he reached out and squeezed Roland’s arm. Roland, I want to tell you one more time how truly sorry I am about the loss of your father.

Assuming his sincerity, Roland managed a sad smile and replied, Thanks, Duke. Your kind words are appreciated.

Ganelon continued. I’ve been talking it over with my constable here, and we both agree that if your father’s remains are to be returned in any kind of fit condition to your mother in Carcassonne, they simply must be rushed there in all haste.

Roland nodded and looked to the ground with a fixed stare reflecting remorseful resignation as he replied. Yes and there isn’t much hope of that, I’m afraid.

Well, if the cart was driven night and day with two extra horses trailing, which could be rotated out, it could be done! exclaimed the duke.

True, Roland nodded, but with the ladies and my squire, who’s still recovering from his wounds in tow, it’s just not possible.

The Duke’s drooping bedroom eyes widened as he lifted their sagging lids high. With a grin on razor-thin lips that accentuated the narrowness of his hawk-like nose against a dark, bony face framed by long, scraggly locks of oily dark red hair, he spoke in his most empathetic tone. Roland, as arguably your family’s closest friend and ally; I, along with my cousin Pinabel here, would like to ask a favor.

Roland was taken aback, but at the same time, owing to the current circumstance, found himself in a relatively generous mood. I’ll gladly help you if I can. What is it you need?

Ganelon was delighted with himself. The young Count had taken the bait. Now all he had to do was reel him in!

Only that we’d consider it a privilege and an honor if you’d allow us to drive on ahead with the wagon bearing your father’s remains so they can be saved and properly prepared for interment. If we travel night and day, one sleeping, while the other drives, we can make it back to Carcassonne in seven days. Otherwise, you’ll be nearer three weeks getting there.

Roland was elated. You’d do that for me?

Ganelon reveled in the opportunity to show off what a kind and generous soul he was in front of the others looking on. His plan to further ingratiate himself to the unsuspecting count was working like a charm. He had everyone standing within earshot fooled. Pinabel was amazed and in a state of his usual awe at how effortless his master could manipulate others. To him, it seemed that in this department, his cousin had no peer.

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I’m asking you, am I not? It’s not just for you though, Roland. I’d hoped you’d consent to allow me to do it for your father and mother too. They’ve been my closest neighbors and allies for so many years.

Roland reached out and took the duke’s hand while placing his other on the duke’s shoulder. Solemnly and with the greatest sincerity, he looked the duke in the eye and spoke. I don’t know what to say. I can’t thank you enough.

Roland’s response, of course, was not unanticipated. Nonetheless, Ganelon responded with gracious subtlety, as if he were a bit surprised and relieved. Pinabel and I are glad to do it. Then, with a note of glee, he exclaimed, Some day, but not too soon I hope, you might do the same for me!

The two had already hitched their horses to the back of the cart and were climbing into its seat as Roland responded. You may count on it!

Before any could speak another word, Ganelon had taken up the cart’s reins and whipped the horse attached to them. Looking back over his shoulder as they pulled away he shouted, Well, adieu then all! We’ll see you in Carcassonne in a few weeks for the funeral!

Roland waved and shouted. Two weeks! And tell my mother not to worry and that I’ll be there soon! With those words, he and the rest watched as the two passed hurriedly alongside the long column and disappeared from view in a cloud of dust.

While all were still watching in the direction from whence the two had passed from sight, Charlois rode up on Tencendor. His presence immediately arrested the little group from continuing their preparations. All looked to him, waiting for his words, which he directed to Roland.

Are you ready to move out with your father’s remains and the rest of the trains?

Roland looked about his little group. Looking to the women he replied, I think our party will stay over one more night so we can avoid having to eat dust all the way back.

The king squinted. But, what about your father?

Duke Ganelon and Count Pinabel are driving ahead with his body night and day so we can bring the women back in as much safety and comfort as possible, Roland explained.

Charlois seemed delighted. What a noble gesture! But, it’s only what I’d expect from the duke. Now he looked past Roland to his daughter. And Melesinda, what about you? Coming home to Aachen with me?

No thanks, Father. The princess smiled as she looked over at her long-time governess and now, best friend. I have a funeral I must attend for my closest friend.

Her father looked at Alda, whose gaze, as usual, was fixed on the ground in bashful embarrassment. He smiled and nodded. I understand. Go with my blessing and give your aunt my kindest regards when you see her again too.

He shifted his attention to the constable of Languedoc. Gautier! As the constable jumped to attention and stepped forward, Charlois continued. As Constable for Duke Milon, I assume you understand you must accompany me with the Septimanian contingent and, in Milon’s absence, lead that element alongside me against Ethelwulf.

Gautier returned a smart head bow along with his answer. I do, M’lord!

Roland stepped up next to him. And I’m sending my squire, Ferractus, to act in my stead ’til I can catch up with you from my father’s funeral.

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The king looked over at the huge Moor and smiled while nodding his head and added, And I have no doubt, he’ll do you proud in your absence.

Flattered by the king’s recognition, Ferractus smiled and returned his own head-bow. I thank Your Highness! was all he could think to say.

As Charlois was about