Free Whited Sepulchres by C B Hanley

himself more comfortably on the end of the bench.
    Edwin looked at the minstrel with interest. He stood in the centre of the hall, in the space between the lower tables and the dais where the nobles sat. He was an average, plain-looking man at whom nobody would look twice if they saw him in the street, but he had a certain presence which Edwin couldn’t define; a hush descended as he swept off his hat and flourished a low bow towards the earl and his guests. Then he replaced his hat, picked up some kind of stringed musical instrument with a bow, and took a deep breath.
    The sound of his voice took Edwin by surprise, for it was huge, filling the room from the rushes to the rafters. Accompanied by a melodious sound from the instrument, he boomed out the first two lines of his performance:
    ‘ Carles li reis, nostre emperere magnes,
    Set anz tuz pleins ad estet en Espaigne .’
    Then he stopped as applause and a roar of approval swept the hall, bowing slightly and waiting for it to subside before he continued.
    Edwin was confused. Charles the king, our great emperor, had been in Spain for seven long years . What was so exciting about that?
    Brother William saw his bewilderment. ‘It’s The Song of Roland , the greatest poem of them all. It tells of the great emperor Charlemagne, his nephew Roland and their battles against the Saracens. Most of the older men here will have heard it before, but they’re cheering because they know what’s coming up.’
    Edwin nodded, still not quite sure why this should cause so much excitement, but he determined to listen. Of course, French wasn’t a native language for him as it was for the nobles, but he knew enough of it to be able to understand what was going on, as did all the other men in the hall – they wouldn’t be where they were now if they spoke only English. He concentrated on the minstrel’s words. The man’s performance was extraordinary; he declaimed his lines in a sing-song voice while accompanying himself on his instrument, and held every man in the hall in the palm of his hand. As his voice rose with the tension, all those listening held their breath, only letting it out when the minstrel suddenly dropped his tone to a more normal level. He recited the narrative, but also played all the parts of the men in it, putting on a different voice for each one, to suitable cheers or jeers from his audience. Edwin had never seen such a large group of people – and rough-house soldiers, many of them – so spellbound. But for the life of him he still couldn’t make out what all the fuss was about, as the text appeared to consist of nothing but talking: Charlemagne talked to his men, the Saracen king talked to his; they sent envoys to each other who talked some more. Why was this so exciting?
    The performance continued for about an hour, with the hall getting hotter and sweatier all the time, and Edwin wondered again if he could slip away without anyone noticing. But the atmosphere was changing: it was becoming tense, even angry, and he could see fierce expressions on the faces of the men who had obviously heard the tale before. Even the earl was leaning forward in anticipation. Edwin turned his attention back to the minstrel as his music and voice reached a climax. Ganelon, one of Charlemagne’s lords (and, as far as Edwin could make out, Roland’s father), had been sent as an envoy to the Saracens, but he was arranging to betray his lord. No wonder the men in the hall were snarling – in the eyes of the nobles there could be no greater sin. Edwin listened as the final words of the evening were proclaimed: upon the relics of his sword, he swore treason and swore his faith away.
    The minstrel fell silent. He was sweating profusely as he let his arms drop and lowered his head, his chest heaving. All around the hall men were cheering and banging on the tables in approval, and even Edwin could feel the surge of emotion.
    The earl stood and raised his hand, and the noise died