The Cross and the Dragon
provides another interpretation, this one inspired by a German legend in which
Hruodland survives the attack but his wife is told he died. In my story,
Hruodland is left comatose by the ambush. Believing death is imminent, the
scouting party leaves him at an abbey hospital to await Christian burial and
tells everyone that he perished. They want to spare his family some grief and prevent
his wife, Alda, from making a dangerous journey to see him. Instead, that
well-intentioned lie sends her into peril as Hruodland fights his way back to
health.
As a novelist, I could not resist
having my Hruodland comment on “The Song of Roland.” Here, he is letting the world
think he’s dead while he travels back home under an assumed name with two nuns
who cared for him at the hospital, Sisters Elisabeth and Illuna, and are
staying with Elisabeth’s brother, the archbishop of Bordeaux:
A few notes on the harp stirred
Hruodland from his thoughts.
“This song is about a hero in our time,
a man you spoke of a little while ago,” the singer began. “I speak of
Hruodland, prefect of the March of Brittany and nephew of the king. His story
is the ultimate tale of loyalty, courage, and sacrifice.”
Hruodland stared into the flames. He
was not sure if he wanted to hear this about himself. He took a gulp of wine
from a cup and passed it to Illuna, who patted his hand.
The man sang about the Saracens massing
on the field, breaking their promise of peace with the Franks. Hruodland and
other nobles in the rear guard stayed behind. Then the singer described how
Hruodland sliced ribs off his enemies’ bodies and burst their eyeballs.
Although defeat was imminent, Hruodland was proud and refused to blow on his
horn, until almost everyone around him was dead and needed a Christian burial.
Hruodland walked away from the fire for
a moment. He still had no memory of Roncevaux, except that he and the other
soldiers were marching through densely wooded, narrow mountain passes, but a
gut feeling told him the battle did not happen like this. For one thing, if he
were facing thousands of Saracens—or any other foe—on the battlefield as the
song described, sounding the horn would be the first thing he would have done
to summon help and perhaps scare the enemy.
From what the nuns told him about the
ambush by the Gascons, there had been no glory, not the way the singer was
portraying it. Hruodland mourned for Alfihar and the others all over again.
Anger burned in his belly. His friends and kinsmen had been slaughtered, and
here was this fool who had obviously never seen battle making it into a song.
When Hruodland turned toward the fire,
Elisabeth was staring at him, and Illuna was wringing her hands.
“Were you there?” Hruodland asked the
singer. He made no effort to disguise his ire.
“I would be dead if I was. I first
heard about what happened at Roncevaux when the king was here, and the song
just came to me.”
“I doubt the prefect of the March of
Brittany would be that stupid,” Hruodland growled.
“He was a gifted warrior,” the singer
said, “but he was proud.”
“Not to the point of idiocy!”
Elisabeth coughed to disguise a laugh,
and he knew what she was thinking. He had left the safety of the abbey with
only a knife, a dog, and the clothes on his back. He had neither horse nor food
nor even a wineskin.
“Not to the point of needlessly
endangering others,” Hruodland added, looking directly at Elisabeth.
“Did you know Hruodland?” the singer
asked.
Elisabeth and Illuna nervously glanced
at each other.
“My father is from the March of
Brittany,” Hruodland answered. “Hruodland was a good warrior and proud of his
scars, but he was not so proud that he would allow the slaughter of his fellows
without calling for aid. And the people who attacked the rear guard were the
Gascons, not the Saracens.”
“I don’t care who it was. The Saracens
are infidels and followers of Muhammad, and our king was there because they
threatened the Church.”
“We were there…” Hruodland stopped
himself, partly because he did not want to reveal himself, partly he could not
make sense of the war against the ruler of Cordova.
