Orlando in Love, Episode 43: The Battle of Montalban. When trumpets in the thick of war rouse fell sport, when they call to arms, a fine horse proudly lifts its head, it scrapes its hooves, seems all of flame; it stirs a storm, it shakes its mane, its nostrils snort impatiently. In that way, each high lordly deed that one recounts of chivalry will always please the noble mind as if it were involved itself; A manly heart is manifest in each one of its predilections; So I detect _your_ daring spirit, because you listen with delight. Should /I/ not, therefore, try my best to please a courtly audience? I must. I _will_. I won't resist; I'll pick up right where I left off. King Rodomont, of far Algiers, has come to France with fire and sword. He's met up with some Spaniards, fierce Ferra'u and bold King Marsile. Their armies now advance on France, besieging Castle Montalban. But news was brought to Charlemagne, who rides now to the castle's aid. King Charles swept through the field. He'd come~bringing the flower of Christendom. The strongest two among his court, Rinaldo and Orlando bold, now ride with him, but these two~have been quarreling among themselves. Each loved the fair Angelica; and they had come to blows on this. King Charles, bound to conciliate Rinaldo and Orlando both, promised that he would terminate~their argument to such effect that everyone would surely judge his legal balance true and just. He called Rinaldo, [gestures throughout] and he swore~he would not give the Count the maid -- on one condition: if he showed -- once and for all now, with his sword -- he, not the Count, deserved her more. That done, he called Orlando over, telling him surreptitiously Rinaldo'd never have that maid if he (the Count) fought well that day. That day, each of these men decided to prove himself the better knight. Ah, what unlucky Saracens -- what ruin is, soon, to befall them! -- King Charles the Great arranged his troops~precisely, with regard to rank. They kick up dust clouds as they ride~to _pounce_ upon the pagan camp. King Marsile had sent Balugant to hold those charging barons off -- for a while -- so his many troops would have a moment to regroup. -- The trumpets played. The storm was large~when both sides yelled and both sides charged with bridles loose and lances set: with great commotion, both sides met. Fragments of thick spears flew sky-high and shields and armor _crashed_ together when with cruel thrustings both sides *smashed*. At first the shining arms and crests made it all seem a spectacle, and each horse was a fine sight still decked in its fine caparisons. But.after the.knights _joined_ that great fray, the pleasant sight grew hideous. Horses and barons, cut and killed, incarnadined the bloody field. Uncrested helms and broken armor made it a melancholy sight. The badly-torn caparisons, the soldiers caked with blood and dust, the great turmoil of tumbling knights would have amazed a devil's eyes. -- The pagans had strength, valor, men (in numbers, they're superior); our army should have had the worst, and, truly, they were turning tail. When he saw this, King Charlemagne, sent Oliver, Ogier the Dane,~Namo and Ganelon, to aid. King Charles called Bradamante aside -- the flower of knightly strength, that maid -- and he spoke to her in this way: {old, but deep; royal strength} "You see the hill before us? Hide~there in the forest with your troops. Do not come out till I send word. I want to hold you in reserve." -- Now that strong pagan Balugant killed a young count most cruelly. Ogier saw Balugant's fell deed. The Dane showed bitter anger, and~he spurred his charger after him. He hit his crest -- an elephant's~tusk -- breached it, broke his basinet, and if his stroke had fallen straight it would have cleft him through his chin. But.Ogier's sword fell a bit askew, and so it grazed his cheek and beard, @ and landed on his shoulder, where~it passed through heavy plate and mail. That deep wound was so bad, so wide, that afterward he almost died. But Balugant now wheeled his steed, rapidly kicking his spurred heels, till he stood facing King Marsile: Of this, I'll say more in a while. -- /Grandonio/, now -- that fiery soul~who's not yet had a chance to act -- now sets a lance along his thigh and charges after Duke Namo. Grandonio, with his lowered spear, knocked the duke backwards to the field. Grandonio of Volterna seemed, to Oliver, to stand alone, he beat so many in the field; he was blood-splattered head to toe. Oliver said, "Eternal God! {upright knight} Surely I -- as I should! -- defend your holy faith and sacred laws, so give me _strength_ against this _pagan._" He had another lance prepared~as he was speaking, and with spirit~he boldly spurred his horse to charge. I can't say if he /would/ have won for _Ganelon_, just then, arrived and struck the pagan on his side (perhaps he did not see him coming) stretching him, unhorsed, on the field. -- Don't ask me if Grandonio chewed~his bridle bit when he was beaten. Quickly up, he reset his shield~and swung -- @ though barely on his feet -- But Ganelon most quickly wheeled~his charger and he jabbed his heels. Grandonio, then, retrieved his steed and leaped astride it, his sword sheathed. Once he'd climbed back up on his horse, in that thick crowd he swung his sword. He killed some; others he knocked down. But soon, bold Oliver returned, and those two traded giant strokes. That treacherous dog had greater strength, but Oliver, the greater skill. Both of those barons had been hurt, they sprinkled blood along the plain, but neither gave an inch of earth, and each swing added fuel to flame. -- Now whoops and raucous voices swell; more pagans yet come down the hill. A greater force than came before. The crowd of men is so colossal, it seems the mountain tumbles down. King Charles thought, when he saw so many, how _great_ would be his victory. He now sent word to Bradamante~to move -- /hidden/ if possible -- around the mountain and attack~the Saracens from their rear flank. -- He called Rinaldo and Orlando~and said, "My sons, this is your day, for which the _world_ will honor you. This is the one I've waited for, to find out who's the better man. You both were knighted by my hand. I don't know _who_ I hope will win. "To battle now! The foe is here! Make me a pathway through those troops, and make the world remember you. I hold them worth no more than straw when I see faces such as yours. Your looks tell me my enemies~are dead, that they have lost already." Those barons do not hesitate once Charlemagne has finished speaking. Like two _bolts_ from the wildest sky or two contrary winds at sea, like horses raging -- thus they fly. Luckless and sad that Saracen~who faces bold Rinaldo, and~no better off, Orlando's man. -- Now I must turn to Balugant, who, wasted by the massacre, reported in to King Marsile. His jaw gaped, and his head was split, @ his shield was lost, his shoulder cut, and swaying in his saddle, he~looked like he was about to die. Though he could hardly speak from pain, with all his might he called out, "Aid!~Send aid! Send aid! {deep, in pain} King Charles the Great~smashed all your men along the plain. When he hears that, proud King Marsile~batters his face with both his hands, @ and loudly curses his Macon, flashing two figs, fists joined, on high. @ -- He orders all to saddle up; Madly the huge brigade descends. They seem a thousand million men. (I don't mean that they really are, but when you see your enemies, their numbers look superior.) I say, they sweep down to the plain, and there, it seems the _world_ falls in. Disordered and confused they go, sent by the desperate King Marsile. Their _ladies_ stare and groan and weep. All of the ladies and the queens, who wait together, clap their hands~and call out to their men, "Today,~for our love, show that you are brave! {high; mild accent} In your hands -- as you well can see -- Macon has put our liberty. "Go charge, O valiant cavaliers, and fight against our enemies! Fight so those dogs don't capture us and lead us to eternal shame. You'll win our bodies, hearts, and souls, as well as honor for yourselves." No knight or king went to the field who wasn't stirred by what they said, but more than others, _Rodomont_~could not have borne to stay behind. Quite soon he has the leave to go: for King Marsile had sent to say that he and Ferra'u should come~and join him with no more delay. This brace of barons led the rest~by a bow's shot across that plain. -- Charles saw them on the slope -- that is,~the Saracens and King Marsile -- though not yet certain who they were; Still, he provided plans at once. He quickly formed a large brigade of good troops and bold cavaliers; Charlemagne leads this company. Marsile comes from the other side, but, as I've said, before him ride bold Ferra'u and Rodomont. Now two of our men charge those two; Count Ganelon and Otachier. But Rodomont attacks them first, strikes Count Ganelon's firm shield -- the lofty pagan rips it wide -- and stabs his hauberk and his side. Turpin, my source as I recite, says Satan kept Ganelon alive. No doubt he did that service then to save his soul for later torment. Ferra'u -- expert cavalier -- quickly disposed of Otachier, ripping his shield and hauberk, running~his lance a _yard_ beyond his back. Both Christians fell in pain, but one~was half alive, the other slain. The pagan pair left them on earth and galloped to attack our men. -- Now who will help me to recount the vicious, cruel war those two wage? I don't think I can narrate all their bloody swings and fierce assaults. A tongue of iron, a _cannon's_ voice would be required to tell this tale because the sky seems bolts of flame, lit by the fire of flashing blades, and though our men are strong and brave, they can't stop those two Saracens: It seems that heaven dooms King Charles and all his court to death today. -- Charlemagne puts his trust in God and marvels, as the rest do, lost, though he anticipates, gives orders; So strident are the awful screams~of dying men, so loud that war~nobody hears the emperor. Each man runs where he thinks it right -- runs desperately -- to join the fight. God watches over Charles, I say, or the king would have died that day, since each lord on the field is sliced, and Rodomont and Ferra'u take even common soldier's lives. Rodomont leaves them on the ground and slaughters more men, heedlessly. Ferra'u's not less bold than he, performing wondrous feats of strength. Our army fled across the plain. Of such strokes, _who'd_ not be afraid? -- Now comes Marsile with his great troop: King Charles did not know what to do. There's no Rinaldo, no Orlando, no Oliver, nor Ogier the Dane. _They_ are engaged throughout the field, each hard beset -- one here, one there -- so when the good king gazes round and sees no count or cavalier~still facing toward his enemies, he makes a cross, hefts his strong shield,~and says, @ "O God, _you_ won't abandon~someone who has pure faith in you, as now my /cavaliers/ do me. They leave their leader in the field! Better to die and dwell among~the blest than live on earth disgraced. Lord, give me courage, make me bold. I trust just you -- you're my sole hope." -- He sets a thick spear as he talks. He calls celestial God for help, and where the battle rages most~he spurs his steed -- at Ferra'u. He hits his head, between the eyes. Ferra'u /almost/ topples, but~that savage baron has such force his power keeps him on his horse. Loudly the lance cracked; pieces flew; and Ferra'u, who'd been hit, who~had never been hit harder, burned~with rage and violence. He turned,~struck -- on his helm -- @ the emperor,~and sent him sprawling on the ground. -- All who watched thought that he was slain. Our men felt torment and dismay. More than the rest, brave Balduin, though he's of Ganelon's false clan, weeps and proclaims his misery; He rides away without delay to find the paladin, Orlando. _Ugetto_ of Dardona leaves when /he/ sees Ferra'u's fell deed: _He_ speeds away to find Rinaldo. -- But King Marsile now joins the fray as horns and drums and trumpets play, and so loud does his rabble yell it seems that heaven falls to hell. Our soldiers scatter everyplace, with Saracens pursuing them, who cut them into chunks and pieces. Those who /can/ flee forsake the field. -- Balduin's found Orlando now, who'd reddened all the plain around as if a fountain flowed with blood, Balduin told of King Charles: how~he'd fallen, *dead!* or else so hurt~he'd die _soon_, Balduin was sure. Orlando's stricken by those words, but then he turned as red as flame, and in a fury gnashed his teeth. From Balduin, he learned the place where Charlemagne, the emperor, lay~beaten, and.there that fierce soul raced. Everyone willingly made way. Those who are slow to move repent. He swings (he gives no warning sign)~his sword, @ [fast!] so hot, so _violent,_ he scarcely sorts his friends from foes. He slaughters many as he goes. -- But back now to Ugetto, of~Dardona, who searched high and low to find the paladin Rinaldo. He did not /know/ him, so much blood~covered his suit of arms and shield. When finally he did, he told,~in tears, of the calamity, the manner of the grievous deed, and how King Charlemagne was beaten -- his life uncertain -- in the field... /Unless.../ _Orlando'd_ rescued him, for as he'd searched, he'd seen him pass with Balduin bravely by his side, who'd doubtless told him all this, since~he, too, had been close to King Charles. -- Rinaldo, when he heard his words,~wept loudly, saying, "Poor me! Ah,~if what this man has said is true, {deep-, arrogant, fierce} I've _lost_ the fair Angelica. I know Charles will reward /Orlando/ if he arrives before I do. "I'll be left out, as usual! Disgraced! Rejected! Miserable! At least you could have _trotted_ here -- I saw you plainly and you _walked!_ Not /one hair/ on your horse shows sweat." "I galloped here, I used my spurs," {young, sincere knight} Ugetto said, "it's _you_ who waits. What do /you/ know? Orlando may~_not_ be there, due to some delay. You ought to try your luck. Complain~about it /after/ you have failed. Your steed, Baiardo, has such speed~you'll _still_ be first, it seems to me." -- Rinaldo thinks he speaks the truth, so quickly he began his course; He gallops and he spurs his horse. That paladin creates a fracas, and anyone who blocks his path, a Christian /or/ a Saracen,~regardless, he knocks with his sword to.the.ground and continues forward. He played his sword. He sent heads flying,~and human arms sailed through the sky: I can say, he made his path wide. -- Before him now, he sees a crowd but can't discern who stands inside. A crowd of Saracens, who ring~King Charles, about to do him in; They form a dense throng, layer on layer: hemming him in, preventing movement, so that they /might/ have killed him, though~Charles fights back and his face is bold. Rinaldo, on Baiardo spurs~forward, not knowing what occurs~within that ring, and _when_ he sees ~- he takes it all in instantly -- I tell you, _then_ he shows his strength; And King Charles, who knows him at once,~cries out, "Help! Rescue me, my son! God has sent you to my assistance!" As King Charles spoke, he used his shield~for cover @ and he swung his blade. _Truly_ he had need of aid, so many men surrounded him. -- Here, from Corrdova, came a count and he made great attempts to slay~Charles and would not let him escape. _Caught_ by /Rinaldo/ unawares, he'd no defense, and he was scared. No matter how I tell it, this~battle can only have one finish: Rinaldo hit his helm, @ and split~his face and chin and neck and chest. Then instantly he seized his horse since the one Charles rode had been lost, and he sustained himself so well, while navigating through the mob, that King Charles mounted it _despite_~the efforts of the Saracens. And he was saddled none too soon since he was barely on the horse when the strong pagan Ferra'u and King Marsile came back in view. -- Those pagans rode without regard~for anyone, and used both hands~to hammer at the running troops. They rode; they swung; their reins hung loose. Our men do not stand still but flee~before them, routed, terrified. Some have their faces -- some chests -- cleaved: Such panic never has been seen. But now Charles and his cavaliers turn daringly upon that field, and those who flee become more valiant, seeing Rinaldo on Baiardo. The trumpets blew. The cries renewed. The battle flamed and gathered life. All those around King Charles grew bold: These men -- were they the ones who /fled?/ -- now turned to seek _redress_ instead. King Marsile, who had sped tow'rd them, and Ferra'u, across the field, seeing this, slowed their horses down. They rein their chargers in and sit, for neither /fears/ those drawing near, and then they ride for that spot -- quickly -- where their opponents crowd most thickly. -- They say it's God who fashions men, and men who set themselves in pairs: Here Ferra'u battles with Rinaldo, and King Charles takes on King Marsile. King Marsile and the emperor~I'll leave -- I don't rate high their worth -- to show the great force of the others -- those two who've reached the _peak_ of ardor. -- Beginning this song daunts my heart: How will I end? How can I _start_? Two _flowers_ of strength, two hearts of *flame,* battle each other on the plain. They undertook their bitter fight clamorously, destructively, as if they /hadn't/, since _first_ light, battled until the _sun_ declined, And each of them resolved to stay, not to retreat _one_ step away. Each with such _fury_ swung, they made~the hearts of those who watched them _quake._ Ferra'u felt Rinaldo smash~his forehead. @R If not charmed, his helm~would have been shattered to small pieces. The Saracen responds. @L He flays~Rinaldo's helmet in this game. It throws off sparks of fire and flame, but can't be cut, it's so well made. He doesn't stop, but swings again @L and hits his helmet from the side. /Imagine/ if he has great force. Rinaldo almost falls to earth; struggling, he.hardly keeps his seat; he's lost his wits and he can't see. Baiardo bears him off; he bounds; All who observe say, "Look, he's down!" {deep, scornful} -- But he revived. He saw the danger~that he'd.faced, heard of his disgrace, and his face turned a vivid shade~of red. "What /pagan/ -- of *me* -- prates?" ~he said, "I must avenge myself~or die. I'll send my soul to hell, my body to the dogs, before~I'm /talked about/ by _Saracens!_" He did not pause while speaking, but -- rankled -- he swung at Ferra'u, and gave that head an awful clout that stretched him on his saddle, _out_. -- Now I must leave off /this/ account: the tale's reins turn me toward the _Count._ Orlando rode behind Rinaldo because his horse /was/ slower, so~the Count arrived a little late. _When_ he came and saw Charlemagne~was sitting in his saddle, safe, and fighting now with King Marsile, whom he had wounded in three places, And when he saw how bold Rinaldo was beating Ferra'u so hard -- when he saw this, Orlando wailed, "Alas! There's nothing left for me! {deep+, knight, silly-} From what I see, the posts are taken -- curse Balduin's false treachery! He's kin to Ganelon truly, for~no clan is worse in all the world. "Because of him, _I_ am *destroyed!* _Lost_ is my hope for love. My joy~and my fair paradise now fade because he brought me word... _too late!_ "But *you*, curs'd pagan people, /you/~will have to bear the punishment. My vengeance will descend on _you_~since -- if I have to _wreck_ the *world* -- I'll /match/ Rinaldo's deeds today or *never* face King Charlemagne." -- Just as a deep dark tempest comes, winding and howling through the sky, and some sad peasant hears its sound~and weeps, distraught at what he sees -- it comes, it comes, the winds precede, and.the.storm _beats_ down plants and trees -- so came, his sword held in both hands, the _Count Orlando_, *fierce* to see. No Saracen was mettlesome~enough to dare stay on that field. All in a mob, they rushed to flee. -- Soon, _Rodomont_, who now was far~away and making mighty war, heard the news of the danger faced by King Marsile and Ferra'u. Quickly he turned his steed towards them. The farther that he goes, the more~men he hurls down, the more he hurts. Wherever that bold Saracen~passes, he kills and batters men. He charges forward ruinously, discovering a bloody field and then a *mountain* made of /hacked/~horses and soldiers -- _dead_, in heaps, left from Orlando's fierce attacks. Now cries and great laments and screams from where Orlando battles sound. That cavalier is _drenched_ in blood, and swings his _ruinous_ sword around. -- If I have ever sought fierce verses, _orgulous_ rhymes, to tell.about~horrendous deeds, I need them now, Because at this point I've been led~to battle by two cavaliers who'd wreck _this world_ and /then/ the _next._ Most boldly those two cavaliers without a _moment's_ thought attacked. They flung their strokes with such great force, everyone who remained to watch~could hardly draw a breath, they were~so frightened by those giant swings. When their swords met, it seemed the _sky_~opened, and *thunderbolts* collided. -- King Rodomont burned, hot, to go~to Ferra'u and King Marsile; He feared that if he stayed _here_ long he would arrive too late to help. So, with a double-handed grip, @ he struck the Count's shield at the top: He split it right down to the bottom and through Orlando's saddle ripped. After Orlando feels the force~of that attack, his rage and scorn~grow strong, his anger multiplies. With two hands -- gruesome, dark -- @ he strikes~the shield with his destructive sword, throws more than half down to the plain, and does not pause. Backhand -- and hard -- @ he catches Rodomont's cheek-guard. That fearful swing so passed belief the pagan was beside himself and on the verge of falling down. His hand had dropped his bridle reins; @L His sword, bound to his wrist with chain, @R dragged after him along the ground. When soul and spirit were restored, he'd never been so fierce before and quickly he sought his revenge: He gave Orlando _such_ a smash, his visor *flew* away, so far~and high, it was invisible. I don't think that it's on this planet. The helmet _proper_ was so strong, it truly saved Orlando's life, although, that wallop sent the knight practically to the doors of death. His steel sword tumbled from his hand, @L though a chain bound it to his wrist. His feet fell from the stirrups, and he folded as if he would drop. -- The pagans standing 'round to watch [talking among themselves] had much to say about that swing. Then -- suddenly -- they hollered, "Save us!~Save us!" and turned and ran away, for they had seen a _swarm_ of soldiers bearing down on them from behind, _Bradamante_, warrior maid, in front. When she'd had word from Charlemagne, she'd ridden from her hiding place, leading ten thousand daring knights all fresh; none of them battle-worn. Before the others by.a.bowshot,~along the field that fierce girl rides so stern, so arrogant in looks, just _seeing_ her is frightening. This banner here, that standard there,~she throws down, @R/L seeking no one else~but _Rodomont_ upon the plain, urged by the memory of /past shame/. He'd killed her charger in Provence~and massacred her forces then. Determined _now_ to get revenge,~she searches for him without end, despising every other knight, and passes through the Saracens~as if she _doesn't notice_ them, although her sword's in constant motion. She makes the pagan bands retreat, scattering now those ranks, now these, @L/R and where she's been is easily~discerned, a trail that all can see, a trail that's thick with hands and feet~and legs and chests and arms and heads. The men who follow in her wake are covered and oppressed by blood. Her duel with Rodomont, that fight~of _epic_ scope, of *awesome* might, requires _all_ my skill, my *best*, [crescendo on these lines] and so, for now, I'll take my rest: My friends, I have no wish to bore, another time, I'll tell you more.