CHAPTER XX
Lest they fare thither
With whistling spears,
War to wake 'gainst the king.
SONG OF ATLI.
From their camp among the beech and chestnut woods of Roncesvalles, the invaders directed their march across the mountain spurs and down the valley of the Zubiri, between hills clad to the summit with beech and ash. The land was grandly beautiful; yet, with all its magnificence, even the vikings hailed with joy the distant walls and towers of Pampeluna.
Word was passed back along the great serpent line of warriors winding down out of the mountains, and all pressed forward with renewed vigor, that they might pitch camp near the burg of the Navarrese. The rearguard had need of haste to win this end, for the sun was already half down the sky when Hardrat's horsemen deployed on the bank of the Arga, opposite Pampeluna.
Close at the heels of the horse came the royal guard of vikings, whose long limbs kept them with ease in the wake of the riders. They did not halt upon the river's bank, but followed the king and his retinue across the stream to the foot of the height upon which rose the walls of the burg.
The battlements were crowded with a swarm of Christian townfolk, interspersed with groups of swarthy warriors, whose chain-mail and wide turbans told of the Saracen domination. All were gazing across at the ingathering host of Northerners,--the dreaded Franks, famed alike among Christian Navarrese and Moslem Moors for rapacity and fierceness. It was as though the sheep had called in the wolf-pack against the shepherd. In profound silence the townfolk stared at the horde of their skin-clad allies, and from the depths of their hearts sent up a wordless prayer that the peril might pass them by.
Karl gazed up steadily at the closed gate of the burg and at the silent watchers above.