The drizzle, which had fallen for several days without end, stopped just before dark.
A horse's hooves thud against the wet earth and moss.
Dense branches obscure the sky. Occasionally, pheasants and turtledoves swoop across the trail ahead—this is Paimpont Forest.
Arriving here means their trip is nearing its end.
Ganelon: Company, halt—we'll make camp here today.
Ganelon: According to the dictates of our order, there is no need to fast today. The deer that Sir Roland hunted can be taken out and roasted.
Happy cheers arise from all sides. Only in one corner is there deep silence—there, a figure sits squat.
It is Sir Roland, the leader of their band and His Majesty Charlemagne's most trusted defender—soon to be named the Margrave of Brittany to serve as their paramount lord and ruler.
Ganelon: Sir Roland, we expect to arrive at the castle on the morrow … But sire, if you worry about an ambush, we might continue under the cover of darkness in order to arrive earlier.
Ganelon: You know—in the eyes of many in Brittany, your head is now worth more than its weight in gold.
The seemingly downcast youth rises to his feet.
Roland: No, Sir Ganelon, you mistake me.
Roland: I'm thinking—
Roland: What should I say if were to find a deer without any eyes?
The question alarms Ganelon, who shakes his head slowly.
Roland: I have no-eye deer.
Ganelon: …
Ganelon: Sire, enough of these jokes of yours.
Ganelon: As for deer, the buck you hunted will soon be prepared.
Ganelon: Unless you wish to continue eating only bread and beans, I suggest you join us and have some.
Dusk is falling.
The knights cut down a few cedars near their camp—in the damp weather, only their dry and oily heartwood is sufficient for starting a fire.
Flames leap up, casting a warm orange glow. A young knight in their company brings over the prepared venison.
Knight I: I've marinated the meat as best I could in our circumstances. If we had fennel and cardamom, we might sprinkle some on while it roasts. The heat would bring out the flavors nicely.
Knight I: Of course, the best spices would be black pepper and cumin …
Knight I: But such extravagance ... We'll probably only taste the likes of those spices again when His Majesty deigns to celebrate with us.
The knights skewer the meat at an angle over the fire pit.
The buck's fat is rich and heavy. As time passes, it melts in the heat, releasing a wonderful aroma.
*Rumble—*
Knight I: My lord, look at how the fat is dripping.
Knight II: I can't even remember the last time I had fresh meat.
Roland: This morning.
Knight II: This morning?
Roland: Did our Lord not transform bread and wine into flesh and blood?
Roland: Tis true. Our morning meal was not the Holy Communion, but if unleavened bread can serve as a fitting vessel for our Lord, it must surely be the equal of any venison.
A brief, eerie silence follows, only to be broken with a scoff.
Knight II: Shall I laugh now, or wait until after the cardinal has your head on a pike?
Roland: If I have offended, then I beg your pardon.
Roland: But let me ask a new question.
Knight II: Yes, my Lord Margrave?
Roland: I've told not less than thirteen jokes today, and I must imagine that at least one of them was clever.
Roland: Tell me then, why has no one laughed?
Knight I: Sir Roland, I swear, that pun about the deer was the wittiest I've heard in some time! It was only that in the moment, I forgot to laugh.
Knight I: But I'm afraid I didn't quite catch the meaning of the joke you made about "unleavened bread"?
Roland: Is that so? The cardinal will be busy indeed, young sir. Have you forgotten that the bread of our Communion becomes flesh? So then, our bit of bread this morning could well become meat, if our Lord deigned it so. It is ... a little blasphemous, I must admit.
Knight I: Hahahaha!
Knight II: …
Ganelon: …
Ganelon: The devil take you, Roland. These jokes of yours are—Not—Funny!
Ganelon: A lie repeated a thousand times still yet does not become the truth—even if you told forty jokes, not a one would be funny!
Roland: Ganelon, I think you must not understand the word "diligence."
Roland: As the proverb says, "Practice makes perfect." Anything, if pursued persistently enough, will surely lead to success.
Ganelon: Rather than discussing the definition of diligence, I would prefer you not turn yourself into a joke.
Ganelon: "Many small streams make a river." Knights, is there anyone here capable of telling some half-wise decent jokes to our Lord Roland?
Knight II: I have one!
…
This was to be the very first instance of the "Comic Knight Festival."
Born on a night in the 8th century, as feast among a band of true companions.
Each among them had come from different backgrounds and held various positions, but there was no doubt they could serve as excellent judges.
After all, a sense of humor doesn't need to be taught. It precedes any rules and structure—the only truth is humor is what makes one laugh.
As one knight finishes his joke.
Another starts the next.
And on it goes until, at last, a sprinkle of fennel is scattered over the venison, forming a mouth-watering aroma of citrus and pine gum.
Knight I: The meal is ready.
The edges of the meat are charred brown and sizzling with grease.
The young knight turns chef for the evening and smears fresh wild honey on the meat.
Knight I: My turn.
Knight I: Oh, but if only we had a pound of Roquefort cheese …
Yet the savory aroma of roasted meat serves as more than enough. He swallows his piece with a satisfied gulp.
Knight I: Unlike the rest of you, I will tell a proper joke with some theatrical flair, where I shall take on the dramatis personae of one among us.
Knight I: Though this joke may not be to everyone's tastes, I would use it to express admiration and praise for a worthy hero …
Then, in a booming practiced voice, he begins his joke.
Knight I: There once was a knight both true and faithful, whose great deeds much envy provokes! But where others would boast, his friends were most grateful, that the worst of his faults were his jokes!
Knight I: I speak, of course, of myself! Roland, your liege on the eve of our arrival in Brittany, for soon I will be named—
Knight I: That is this very day, I …
*whoosh*
Roland: …!
—An arrow.
Knight I: Ah—
An arrow has pierced through the young knight's throat. The light fades from his eyes as he falls to the ground.
Ganelon: We're under attack!
Roland: Knights, to your swords! Avenge our comrade!
