Lord of the March

Neustria Spring, AD 801

Thick clouds leaked gray mist into the air, chilling the bones of the dour folk laboring to prepare the fields for the season's crops. Thick-sinewed men guided plows drawn by stout Frank horses to turn over last year's rutted furrows before nightfall as their wives and children scattered handfuls of seed in their wake.

A crude track ran through the patchwork, reaching from the distant choppy sea to a motte-and-bailey keep built atop earthen ramparts overlooking the hinterlands. Over the main gate, two pennants dueled in the desultory breeze. The first, a brilliant white banner emblazoned with a crimson wolf, sign of the late William, former count of Breton March, snapped defiantly. The other bore a white lily on a blue field, the personal standard of Ganelon, count of Tournai and, by order of the king, master of the march since William's death.

Within the wooden bastions rose the clang and clatter of freemen training for the call to arms, whether to repel roving sea-wolves in their low-slung wooden longships or renegades who ventured across the ill-defined borders of the Bretons. The men of the march drilled even this late in the day with oval shield and sword, working shield-to-shield in tight formations or training alone with wooden wasters against a battered stump sticking up from the earth.

At the rear of the courtyard, considerably different sounds drifted through the spring air from the optimistically named great hall — a mixture of laughter, clanking mugs, and barking of errant dogs begging for scraps. Smoke poured from the chimney of the adjoining kitchen where serving girls in woolen skirts and jackets crowded the open door to collect skins of dark Frank wine and platters filled with meat. Those waiting their turn warmed hands by the ovens and chattered about the young nobles carousing inside the hall until they could rush back to the celebration laden with the spoils of nobility — steaming joints of venison and boar, local-grown leeks and onions, and chunks of crusty bread.

Once back in the hall's torch-lit interior, the chaotic cacophony broke over them like crashing waves of a turbulent sea. Young men reveled with laughter and tussled one with another to impress both their fellows and the girls refilling their plates and cups. Broken strains of music fought to be heard over the noisome chorus from musicians plucking on well-worn instruments and singing in ragged voices that thumbed their noses at harmony. But no one cared, for the drink flowed and the food steamed from the kitchen. Thus the musicians were left to pursue their obscure tunes from unknown taverns without regard for anyone's standards of artistic merit.

A larger table stood at the center of the hall, crowded with young bravos dressed in their finest peacock and jostling for attention from the vibrant young man who sat at the head. This youth tore at a joint with strong teeth and then washed it down with a draught from his cup. His cheeks were flushed, his strong-jawed face framed in a wild thicket of dirty blond locks. Over his fine linen shirt he wore a wine-stained woolen surcoat bearing the crimson wolf. One after another, the young nobles shouted bawdy jokes, and he lifted a cup in recognition to each in turn, his ready smile breaking into willing laughter. A fresh-faced serving girl feigned outrage at the humor until he turned his keen northern blue eyes on her. She took notice and leaned close so that her bodice opened to view. He pulled her onto his lap. The wineskin in her hands sloshed when she settled against him. She dropped it onto the table and raked her hands playfully through his tousled hair.

In the doorway, a figure outlined in fading sunlight shook out a long cloak. He was a tall youth who bore a sober look that was out of place in the festivities, his face framed by dark hair trimmed short for wear beneath a helmet. His traveling clothes were of a fine cut, but mud clung to them, particularly from his boots to his knees. The serious bearing on his tanned face dissolved when his eyes rested on the young man at the head of the table still playfully tugging at the servant girl amid the chaos.

"Roland!" he shouted. He threw his cloak over a stool and strode across the room, dodging servants and carousing nobles alike.

"Oliver, come in!" the blond youth replied. "Have a drink! Fill your belly!" With a pinch of the girl squirming on his lap, he continued, "You've just arrived?"

"Oh, yes," Oliver said, planting a foot on the adjoining chair. "See? I still wear the mud from the road." He swiped a cleaner stool from under another reveler and swung it next to Roland at the table. "And how is our fair Eleanor today?"

The girl flashed Oliver a smile and pursed her lips flirtatiously.

"I've been missing you, of course," she said, tossing her flaxen locks.

Oliver winked in response. "Of course you have, my dear. It's been too long since I've visited. Do you mind if I take a moment with Roland?" Eleanor pouted, her lips moist and red, but she wriggled free from Roland and kissed Oliver on the cheek.

"Of course," she said. "Brothers in arms first!"

As she sauntered away, her hips moving to a seductive rhythm with each step, Roland leaned over to Oliver and whispered conspiratorially, "It seems you only attract virtuous kisses, my friend."

"Oh, you're just jealous because she'll be thinking of me long into the night," Oliver replied, reaching across the table to grab a cup and a dripping joint of meat.

Roland slapped Oliver on the back.

"Honestly, I don't care who she's thinking of as long as I'm the one in her bed!"

Oliver tore at the meat with his teeth. "You know," he said around a mouthful of venison, "I've ridden all this way, and you still haven't told me what you're celebrating."

"It's my birthday, of course!" Roland replied.

"It's not your birthday."

"But it will be. Someday."

Oliver pushed Roland in friendly exasperation, unsettling his friend's wobbly stool and making him jostle the arm of another youth. Wine splattered over the other man's gold-trimmed tunic.

"Hey! Have a care!" he growled, shoving back. Then the young man plucked a wineskin off a passing tray and poured the dark liquid into Roland's lap.

"Scoundrel!" Roland cried. "Is that any way to treat your host?"

He launched himself from his chair, toppling the other youth onto the table. They locked into a wrestler's embrace amid the platters of meat and pastries and kicked food on the other revelers as they struggled for advantage. They rolled off the table and into the rushes on the floor. Within moments, others, both human and canine, were joining the fracas in a flailing mass of limbs and tails.

In an open doorway, Gisela, Roland's mother and sister to King Charles, paused in shock, slender hand raised to her mouth. She was elegant and beautiful in a way that being great with child only enhanced, and normally carried herself with unshakable poise — but not now. Color rose to her cheeks, for, even knowing her son's habits, the scene before her was extreme. Ganelon, her husband, stepped from behind her into the doorway, his hawkish eyes quickly taking stock of the room and his thin-lipped mouth tightening in anger. He was a lean man of two score and ten summers, yet the close-cropped beard on his angular and stern face was dark like a...