La Chanson de Roland

A king has waged war for seven years in Spain, and the whole land has yielded to him, save Saragossa, save Marsile, save that mountain where they pray to Mahomet. Marsile, in his orchard, lying in the shade upon a block of blue marble, asks his men how to escape the scourge. Only one dares speak: Blancandrin, the wise, the cunning, he who knows that words can achieve what armies no longer can. Let bears, lions, seven hundred camels, a thousand goshawks, and wagons overflowing with gold be sent to Charles—and above all, promises: baptism, vassalage, the journey to Aix for the feast of Saint Michael. And hostages, yes, even the sons of lords, though they may lose their heads. Better the heads of children than the loss of Spain.

Charles is in an orchard as well, beneath a pine, beside a sweetbrier. His beard is white, his head in full flower, and around him knights play chess upon silk carpets. He listens to the messengers, bows his head, and falls deep into thought. His word is never hasty. Then he consults his barons, and there all hangs in the balance. Roland rises first: he recalls past treacheries, the two counts whose heads Marsile took below Haltilie. Let the siege be pressed, let the war be waged to the bitter end. But Ganelon stands, proud, and argues the contrary: let the fools be ignored, let them heed the wise. Naimes the old agrees with Ganelon. The Franks say the duke has spoken well.

Now a messenger must be chosen. Naimes offers himself; Charles refuses. Roland volunteers; Oliver holds him back. Turpin wishes to go; he is ordered to sit back down. Then Roland speaks the fatal word: it shall be Ganelon, my stepfather. Ganelon pales. He casts off his marten furs, standing in a silk tunic, his face terrible to behold, and promises Roland a wrath that will last his entire life. When he reaches for the emperor's glove, it falls to the earth. The Franks murmur: what omen is this?

Ganelon rides beneath tall olive trees with Blancandrin, and the two converse with great cunning. From sentence to sentence, the treason is woven. Ganelon surrenders the secret: as long as Roland lives, Charles will never weary of war. Let him be killed, and peace will be absolute. In Saragossa, before Marsile, Ganelon delivers Charles's message with an insolence that nearly earns him the strike of a javelin. But later, in the orchard, stepping aside, he negotiates the foul betrayal. He names the passes of Cize, the rearguard that Roland will command, the twenty thousand Franks who can be crushed in two assaults. Upon the relics within the hilt of his sword Murgleis, he swears the oath. They give him gold, swords, helms, and necklaces for his wife. He departs, burdened with riches and perjury.

Returning to the camp, Ganelon lies magnificently: the Algalife has fled across the sea, the storm has drowned him, Marsile will come to Aix to be baptized. Charles orders a thousand bugles sounded; the camp is struck, and they set out for sweet France. But when the time comes to name the rearguard, Ganelon speaks Roland's name. The emperor bows his head, strokes his beard, twists his mustache, and weeps. Roland accepts with the pride of his lineage: twenty thousand Franks will suffice him. He wants not half the army. Pass through the gates in all assurance, he says; you have nothing to fear while I live.

High are the mountains and dark the valleys, the rocks are grey, the defiles sinister. The Franks pass through them in great sorrow. When they catch sight of Gascony, they remember their fiefs, their wives, their daughters, and there is not one who does not weep. Charles hides his anguish beneath his cloak. In the night, he dreams: Ganelon shatters his lance between his fists, and the splinters fly toward heaven. He sleeps, he does not wake.

Meanwhile, through the broad valleys, the pagans ride, four hundred thousand waiting for the dawn. Before Marsile parade the Saracen champions, each swearing to kill Roland: Marsile's nephew Aelroth, Falsaron, Corsablix the sorcerer, Malprimis, Turgis of Tortelose, Margariz the handsome, with whom ladies fall in love, and Chernuble of Munigre, he whose land knows neither sun nor rain. Twelve pagan peers against twelve Frankish peers, and behind them a hundred thousand men beneath a pine grove, arming themselves in the clear light of day.

Oliver climbs a height. He sees the kingdom of Spain covered in blazing hauberks and helms. He cannot even number the battalions. He descends, he recounts it all. Roland, sound your horn, he says, Charles will hear it. Roland refuses. It would be madness; he would lose his renown in sweet France. Three times Oliver begs him. Three times Roland says no. May it not please the Lord God nor His angels that through him France should lose its worth. He would rather die than fall into shame. Roland is valiant and Oliver is wise, and both are of marvelous courage.

Archbishop Turpin blesses them. For penance, he commands them to strike. Then the armies clash, and the carnage begins. Roland skewers Aelroth, Marsile's nephew, laying open his chest, breaking his bones, splitting his spine. Oliver strikes down Falsaron. Turpin pierces Corsablix. Gerin, Gerier, Samson, Anseis, Engelier, Oton, Berengier—each strikes his blow. Durendal cleaves Chernuble from the crown of his head to the fork of his legs, through helm, coif, skull, hauberk, body, saddle, and the spine of his horse. The grass of the meadow runs bright with blood. In France, the earth trembles, lightning strikes thick and fast, walls rupture from Besançon to Wissant, and at high noon there is great darkness. Many say it is the end of the world. They do not know: it is the great mourning for the death of Roland.

Through the first assault, the Franks hold. Through the second, they hold still. By the fifth, only sixty men remain. Marsile unleashes his grand army, twenty battalions, seven thousand bugles. One by one the companions fall: Engelier run through, Samson slain, Anseis pierced by Malquiant the African. Roland severs Marsile's right hand, takes the head of his son. A hundred thousand pagans flee. But Marsile's uncle, Marganice, remains with fifty thousand black-skinned men with large noses and broad ears. Marganice strikes Oliver from behind; the spear drives through his chest and out the front.

Oliver feels he is struck unto death. He draws Hauteclaire, still hewing hands, feet, saddles, and spines. His eyes dim; he can no longer see. He strikes Roland upon the helm without recognizing him. Roland asks him gently, out of love: Sir companion, do you do this of your own will? It is I, Roland, who loves you so deeply. Oliver says: Now I hear your voice, but I do not see you. I have struck you, forgive me. Roland answers: I took no harm, I forgive you, here and before God. They bow to one another. And thus, in great love, they parted. Oliver dismounts, lies upon the earth, confesses his sins with hands joined toward heaven, prays for Charles, for sweet France, and above all men for Roland, his companion. His heart fails, his helm droops, his whole body collapses. The count is dead.

Roland speaks his farewell over him: We were together for years and days, never did you do me wrong, never did I do you wrong. Now that you are dead, it is a sorrow for me to live. Gautier of the Hum descends from the mountains, his lance broken, his shield pierced, his hauberk in tatters. Archbishop Turpin, pierced by four spears, staggers back to his feet: a valiant man, as long as he lives, does not surrender. He strikes a thousand blows and more, then falls in his turn. Roland remains alone. He goes to find the bodies of his companions, one by one, bringing them before the archbishop, laying them in a row. Then he finds Oliver, presses him against his chest, carries him on a shield. The archbishop blesses them and dies, his hands crossed over his heart.

Roland feels that his death is near. His brain spills out through his ears. He takes the olifant in one hand and Durendal in the other, and marches toward Spain, a little further than a crossbow shot. He climbs a mound where four marble blocks stand beneath a beautiful tree. A Saracen feigning death hurls himself upon him to take his sword. Roland opens his eyes, strikes him on the helm with the olifant, shatters his skull, and sends both his eyes flying from his head. Then he tries to break Durendal against the dark stone, so that it may not fall into pagan hands. The steel grates, it neither breaks nor chips. He strikes it ten times, twenty times, speaking to it as if to a living soul: by you I conquered Anjou and Brittany, Normandy, Provence, Bavaria, Constantinople, Scotland, England. The sword rebounds toward heaven, intact, indestructible.

Then Roland lies upon the green grass, face to the earth. Beneath him he places his sword and the olifant. He turns his head toward the pagan host, so that Charles may say he died a conqueror. Memories of many things come to him: of so many lands conquered, of sweet France, of the men of his lineage, of Charlemagne his lord who nurtured him. He weeps and sighs. He beats his breast, holds his right glove up to God. Saint Gabriel takes it from his hand. His head sinks upon his arm, and with joined hands, he goes to his end. God sends His angel Cherubin and Saint Michael of the Peril. They bear the count's soul to paradise.

Charles reaches Roncesvalles. There is not a foot of open ground where a Frank or pagan does not lie. He calls his men one by one, and not one answers. He tears at his beard, his barons weep, twenty thousand swoon upon the earth. But Naimes the wise points to the dust on the high roads: the Saracens are fleeing. Charles prays to God to halt the sun, and God works the miracle: the sun stands still. The Franks pursue the pagans unto the Ebro, where the heaviest sink to the bottom and the rest drown in great agony.

Then comes Baligant, the Emir of Babylon, the ancient who outlived Virgil and Homer, with his dromonds, his galleys, his carbuncles that light up the sea in the night. The battle resumes, immense, and Charlemagne slays Baligant with his own hand. The pagan army scatters, Saragossa falls, Bramimonde is led captive to France. Marsile dies of grief in his vaulted chamber. In Aix, Ganelon is put on trial. He pleads that his vengeance upon Roland was lawful, not treason. The barons hesitate. Pinabel, Ganelon's friend, threatens to fight anyone who condemns him. But one lone man, Thierry, stands and says that, since Roland was serving Charles when Ganelon struck him, it is indeed treason. God renders judgment by trial of arms: Thierry slays Pinabel. Ganelon is torn apart by four galloping horses, and thirty of his kin are hanged.

And Charles, the old emperor with the white beard, collapses into his bed. The angel Gabriel appears to him once more, commanding him to gather his armies and ride to war again, this time to the relief of a besieged Christian city. Charles weeps, tugs at his white beard, and says: God, how wearisome is my life. Thus ends the tale that Turoldus recounts.