Work in Progress: The Lady and the Sword, week ten

So close!!!

The Lady and the Sword
Swords of Charlemagne, Book 2

 Halfway point by Wednesday, at the latest.  I’ve had a couple of really good writing days this past week, and I hope to keep that up next week.

This weekend was also the Circlet Press Author Retreat up in Boston. I’ve never been to one, although I want to go one of these years. However, this year they did some livestreaming of discussions, so my usual vicarious participation via Twitter turned into actual participation via Google Hangouts. And, for the first time ever since our working partnership started in 2009… I got to see what a Jen Blackmore looks like.  Maybe next year, I’ll get to meet her in realspace!

All right. Let’s have an excerpt. If you know anything at all about The Song of Roland, you know that Ganelon de Ponthieu, Roland’s stepfather, is a prick of the first order. I mean, anyone who sets his stepson up to die is not going to win Father of the Year, right? This, by the way, is totally not a spoiler. The real Roland died at Roncevaux in 778AD. Like the sinking of the Titanic, some things in history just can’t be considered spoilers anymore.

Here’s an example of Ganelon being a bastard:

***

The camp was alight with torches and men running, rushing to put together supplies and saddle Turpin and Olivier’s horses. Turpin waited near the king’s tent, his hand on his sword hilt, his mind ranging, searching for any trace of Roland. How far had they gotten before they’d stopped for the night? And what road had they taken? Would he be able to find them, in the dark?

“They’re riding out now? Alone?”

Turpin winced. Ganelon’s piercing voice carried clearly out of the tent in the still night air. Turpin turned his back to the tent. He did not want to deal with Ganelon now. Not while he was still raw, still frightened to his bones about what Roland’s frantic call might have meant. It hadn’t been a death call — of that he was certain. But he was also certain that wherever the camp had been, it was far outside Roland’s mental range. How had he reached so far?

“Charles, I told you he shouldn’t have been sent,” Ganelon continued.

“Ganelon, you do your son a disservice,” Charles said, his voice close enough to a growl that Turpin immediately went on guard. “He’s one of my finest—”

“One of your finest?” Ganelon scoffed. “Finest what?”

“I’m not having this, Ganelon,” Charles said. “Not now. He’s a fine warrior and you know it.”

“He’s a fine, filthy little whore, and everyone knows it!” Ganelon snapped. “He should have been sent from court in disgrace years ago.”

“He is your son, Ganelon!”

“He’s none of mine. He’s Berta’s excess baggage and Turpin’s bedwarmer.”

Turpin spun on his heel and walked into the tent. “I heard my name?” he said mildly. Ganelon paled.

“I— Archbishop—”

“Oh, I rate my title to my face, but not when I’m not around?” Turpin interrupted. “And I wonder… you seemed so eager to have me remove Roland from my side and from my tutelage earlier today, and replace him with your Baudoin.”

“Baudoin is worth ten of Roland!” Ganelon snapped. “He’s no better than his whore of a mother—”

Turpin never saw Charles move. Instead, he felt the flare of Charles’ seldom used magic as the king grabbed Ganelon by the front of his tunic and lifted the man bodily into the air. Charles was a powerfully built, physically imposing man, taller than Turpin by a handspan, taller than Ganelon by perhaps half that. Ganelon let out a frightened squeak and grabbed onto Charles’ wrist.

“You forget yourself, Ponthieu,” Charles growled. “Or do you forget that Berta was my sister?”

Ganelon gaped at him like a landed fish, and Turpin stepped forward. “Charles, put him down,” he said, reinforcing it with a mental repeat of the command.

Charles glared at him, but set Ganelon on his feet. He did not, however, release the man’s tunic. “I granted your lands and titles to you when you took Berta to wife, so that my sister and her son would never again know deprivation,” he said. “You swore to hold her son as your own. If you are now deciding to break that vow and repudiate Roland, I’m certain that I could find someone more worthy of holding those lands.” He smiled and released Ganelon’s tunic. “Roland himself, perhaps. He’s more than capable. Or had you missed the fine work he’s done on the Breton March?”

Ganelon paled, smoothing the front of his tunic. “I…”

“You are dismissed, Pontheiu,” Charles interrupted. “And when we return to Francia, it would be best of you saw to your own lands personally, until such time as you are recalled to my presence.”

“Sire, I—”

“I said dismissed, Pontheiu,” Charles growled. Ganelon’s mouth snapped shut, and he bolted like a frightened rabbit. Charles scowled after him, then looked at Turpin.

“No, you didn’t go too far,” Turpin answered the question before it was asked. “But if I may be so bold—”

“You’ll do it anyway,” Charles answered, in a voice that was closer to his usual humor.

“You should be paying closer attention to Roland and his relationship with Ganelon. The man treats him like dirt. That’s part of the reason that he took so many bed partners, I think.”

Charles frowned. “Trying to replace a father’s love with physical lust?” He sighed. “I should have paid more attention, when he was younger. But now?” He rested his hand on Turpin’s shoulder. “He has real love now, doesn’t he?”

Turpin nodded once, feeling the fear surging back. “Charles—”

“Go on. Go find him. Find them. Bring them home.”

***

In other news, I haven’t done too much with the Elemental thing this week. It’s still in the back of my brain, percolating.  I did get some answers for another thing, though. There will perhaps be an announcement this week.

Until then!