The Book of Dreams

Chapter Twelve

‘Ganelon! That devious reptile!’ Hroudland let out a string of oaths. ‘The king must be out of his mind sending him with the Saracens. There’ll be double-dealing and lies. The only person who will come out of it unscathed will be Ganelon, that slimy bastard.’

My friend was falling-down drunk when I finally located him and told him my news. It was late afternoon and he was lolling with Berenger on a bench in the changing room of the thermae. The water in the pool was pleasantly warm even in mid-winter, and the count sometimes went there to swim and then carouse with his close companions. The baths, being some distance from the main palace, were a place to go for heavy drinking sessions as the king was known to discourage drunkenness.

Hroudland waved his cup, slopping the contents.

‘Patch, you couldn’t have a worse travelling companion,’ he announced, slurring his words.

‘He can’t be that bad,’ I protested.

Even intoxicated, Hroudland still had the look and manner of the handsome aristocrat despite the flushed face and owlish expression.

‘Don’t you believe it. Ganelon will always try to save his own skin. He tried to get the king to send me with the Saracens. Serve him right that he’s been given the job instead.’

‘I don’t understand.’ The sight of Hroudland helpless and groggy made me uncomfortable.

‘The journey to Barcelona could prove to be a suicide mission. The Saracens turn against you, and you’re done for.’ Hroudland drew his finger across his throat and made a gurgling sound. He swayed on the bench and would have slipped off it if Berenger had not caught him and held him upright.

Hroudland belched and rose to his feet. He staggered forward and threw an arm around my shoulders and hugged me to him. Judging by the smell of his breath he was drinking hot red wine flavoured with blackthorn berries.

‘Poor Patch, this may be the last time I see you. You will come to visit me in Brittany, won’t you?’

Embarrassed, I pushed him away.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Berenger, who was more sober, explained: ‘The king has appointed Hroudland to be the new Margrave of the Breton March. He leaves next week to take up his post.’

‘So, Patch, you ride off to the sunshine, and I’ll be heading for the rain and drizzle of the west,’ said Hroudland.

My friend’s melancholy was contagious. All of a sudden I felt depressed. I knew I would miss Hroudland. I valued him as a confidant and comrade.

‘I’ll have Gerin for company. He’s being sent to Hispania as well,’ I said.

Hroudland swayed back and hiccupped.

‘Pity the king didn’t think to send him to Brittany with me. Gerin gave Offa a hand with sorting out his neighbours.’

It was the first time that I had heard any reference to link Gerin to Offa since Osric had told me that one of Gerin’s servants was curious whether I had ever been at Offa’s court. But I had no chance to ask any questions because Hroudland had begun taking off his clothes.

‘Come on, Berenger! Time for another swim,’ he said with another drunken hiccup. ‘We won’t have thermae in Brittany. Let’s make the most of it.’

I turned away dejectedly. I had not got over my dread of the murky green waters of the pool, and I had to go and find Osric and tell him to be ready to leave early next morning.

That night was my last in Aachen for many months and it was filled with foreboding. I had great difficulty in falling asleep, and when I did so I dreamed that I was on the side of a strange and barren mountain. It was in near-darkness and Hroudland was with me. Together we scrambled down the steep slope, descending at breakneck speed, careering off rough boulders, bruising hands and knees as we slipped and fell, then getting back to our feet and hurtling onward. Dragons with armoured scales flew around our heads and from clefts in the rocks sprang loathsome creatures that snarled and showed their fangs. I awoke drenched in sweat and wondering if the Book of Dreams could explain such grotesque fantasies.

One thing was certain: I would take the Oneirokritikon with me to Hispania so that Osric and I could finish the translation. I needed Artimedorus’s writings to help me to spy into the minds of the Saracens as King Carolus had instructed.

A raw wind was lifting little spirals of powdered snow, sending them spinning across the frozen ground in front of the great hall as I joined the other members of Carolus’s delegation to Hispania assembling on horseback. The icy blast was making my eyes stream and, although I was wearing heavy gauntlets, I had already lost all feeling in my fingers. It was only an hour after sunrise and Osric had brought my bay gelding from the stable and was riding a rangy-looking chestnut mare. He held a laden pack animal on a lead rope, and I noted a long package which I guessed contained my bow and sword. I had packed the Book of Dreams in my saddlebags, together with pages of the translation I had made so far. All around me the other riders were bundled up in thick clothes. I recognized Ganelon by the glimpse of a black beard poking out from the hood of his heavy jacket, and Gerin by the red shield slung across his back. The Saracens had not yet mounted but were holding their horses by the reins; there seemed to be some sort of problem.

An official emerged from the portico of the great hall and hurried across to Ganelon and said something to him. I saw Ganelon jerk the reins in an angry gesture, then wheel his horse round and come trotting across to shout to Gerin.

‘The Saracens are refusing to leave until we have more horses,’ he called.

‘What’s the matter with them?’ asked Gerin. He sounded grumpy.

‘They say we need to bring spare mounts, or we’ll slow them down. They’ve already refused a cavalry escort for the same reason.’

I looked across at the Saracens. They wore heavy riding cloaks and soft boots, and carried short whips. Their small horses were no longer decked out in the finery of their arrival. Manes and tails were neatly plaited and tied up. Bridles and saddles were workmanlike, and when one of the Saracens picked up his horse’s hoof to check, I saw a half hoop of metal armed with short spikes. I had never seen a horseshoe before. A Saracen was talking with a palace official and pointing with his whip towards the king’s residence. The official set off at a run.

‘What’s going on?’ demanded Ganelon. His horse was skittish. It stamped and snorted, edging sideways.

‘They are insisting you bring couriers’ horses as remounts,’ the official called out, heading towards the outbuilding that housed the horses kept ready for the king’s messengers.

‘Impudence,’ growled Gerin. He leaned forward and patted the neck of his tall stallion. With its shaggy winter coat, the animal looked even more powerful than when he rode it during our fighting practice.

Ganelon shifted in his saddle to make himself more comfortable. Apart from one slight nod, he had ignored me entirely.

‘No point in making a fuss,’ he said quietly to Gerin. ‘We’ll be in one another’s company for a long time.’

After a short delay, a gang of palace ostlers appeared, leading a string of horses from the couriers’ stables. They distributed the animals among us, handing out the lead ropes, and at last we were ready to set out.

We formed up in a ragged column, two royal heralds in the lead. Immediately behind them were the Saracens. Discreetly I took up my place towards the rear, just ahead of the grooms and servants. Osric was at my side and glancing at him I could see the resemblance to the Saracens in the embassy. His face had the same sharply defined features and dark complexion.

‘Did you ever hear anything more about Gerin’s time at King Offa’s court?’ I asked.

Osric’s eyes flicked to where Gerin rode ahead of us.

‘No, but his servant is travelling with us. I’ll see what I can find out,’ he replied.

‘I had a strange dream last night. When we have a chance I want us to see if there is some meaning to it.’

Osric turned his brown eyes towards me.

‘So you are beginning to have faith in the book?’

‘I am, but it would be better if we kept quiet about it, at least for now.’

There was a shouted command from the front of the column. One of the heralds blew a short blast on a horn, and we began to move. I twisted in my saddle and looked back towards the king’s residence, wondering if Bertha was watching us leave. I doubted it. There had been no opportunity to say farewell to her, and my goodbye to Hroudland had been less than satisfactory. The newly appointed Margrave of the Breton March had been stretched out on his bed with his head under a pillow, suffering a bad hangover. He had groaned and with a muffled voice told me to go to the Devil.

The brisk pace of the Saracen riders came as an unwelcome surprise. Their horses moved with short, rapid steps, covering the ground with a smooth, measured beat while their riders sat at ease in their deep, comfortable saddles. To keep up with them the rest of us had to either trot or canter, and this tested our heavier mounts. Soon the muscles in my legs and back were aching and I felt my bay gelding beginning to flag. The groans and muttered curses from other riders told me that they too were suffering. From time to time someone would break the torment by pulling out of line and going up ahead at a gallop. But then his horse would tire and slow to a walk, and not long afterwards the Saracen cavalcade came stepping by at the same brisk rate, apparently unflagging. By the time we stopped for a brief midday break, most of our riders had already changed horses, glad that remounts were available. When we finally halted for the night and slid painfully down from our saddles, we had covered the same distance Arnulf’s eel cart would have travelled in a week.

So it continued, relentlessly, day after day. We rose in the dark, set out on the road in half-light of dawn and often did not reach our day’s destination until well after sunset. Many of our horses broke down or went lame. If they were not immediately replaced, their riders were left behind. Our group steadily dwindled until we numbered less than a score of riders in addition to the Saracens. Not one of them fell by the way. We had no need of guides because our path was along the old Roman roadways. Sometimes the original paving remained, the stone slabs cracked and scored with grooves left by cartwheels over the centuries. Elsewhere the surface had deteriorated into a rutted gravel track that followed the lines of ancient causeways over marsh and bogland, bringing us to sturdy Roman bridges whose solid stone arches still crossed the rivers. During the first week of our journey many of the smaller streams were frozen solid so that we could ride across on the ice. The Saracen horses went ahead on their spiked shoes, while the rest of us dismounted and cautiously crept across, leading our nervous mounts.

The scenery changed very slowly. Our route avoided high ground, as everywhere was in the grip of winter. The trees in the vast forest tracts were leafless and stark, as were the orchards outside the villages. The ploughed fields were bleak expanses of bare soil. Nothing moved. The country people were keeping indoors close to their fires and if no smoke rose from the chimneys we knew they shared their hovels with their cattle, huddling together for warmth. We passed quickly through the towns, having no need to buy supplies or seek lodgings. The king owned royal farms all along our route, some so vast that they rivalled my father’s little kingdom in acreage. Every steward on them was obliged to feed us from his stores and give us shelter. If no royal demesne was convenient, the dukes and counts, who held their lands from the king, provided all we needed. Our progress was so swift and unhampered that I was able to measure it by the way the weather changed. We left Aachen under skies so dull and overcast that it was impossible to tell the direction of the sunrise, and in the evening the daylight ebbed seamlessly into night. Three weeks later we were riding in sunshine so bright that it hurt the eyes, and the night sky was so clear that the stars glittered in the bitter cold with an intensity that I had never seen before. By then we were already within sight of the jagged crests of the snow-covered mountains marking the limit of the king’s realm.

Here, taking us unawares, the Saracens abruptly announced one morning that they would be going their different ways. Suleyman al Arabi, the Wali of Barcelona, was to continue straight ahead, taking the coast road direct to his own country. The governor of Heusca would accompany him. Husayn, the Wali of Zaragoza, intended to turn aside and use a different route home through a mountain pass further west.

We had spent the night in the hamlet that had sprung up at the fork in the road. It was a poverty-stricken place of small houses built of loose unmortared stone, their wooden roof tiles held down with heavy rocks. Ganelon, Gerin and I hurriedly met in a disused building on the central square to discuss the change of plan. Judging by the smell and the droppings underfoot, the place was used as a sheep shed.

‘We have to decide whether to stay together or divide,’ Ganelon announced.

‘We should stay with Suleyman. He’s their leader,’ said Gerin. Throughout the journey he had been his usual taciturn self and had barely exchanged a dozen gruff sentences with me.

Ganelon turned to me.

‘What do you think?’ he asked.

I was surprised to be consulted. Ganelon had treated me as some sort of unwanted addition to the embassy ever since we had set off from Aachen. I recalled my instructions from Alcuin that I was to gather information on the possible routes for an army to enter Hispania.

‘What do we know about the different roads the Saracens will take?’

‘The coast road to Barcelona is well travelled. I have not heard anything about the road through the mountains which Husayn proposes,’ Ganelon told me.

‘Then I will go with Husayn,’ I said promptly. Ganelon studied me for a long moment, his eyes watchful, and I wondered if he knew or had guessed the reason for my choice.

‘I’m for Barcelona,’ Gerin confirmed.

There was a sudden burst of some foreign language from outside. The words sounded angry. One of the Saracens was shouting, probably chasing away a villager who had got too close to their panniers and saddlebags. The Saracens were likely to set out at any moment.

Ganelon came to a quick decision.

‘If Sigwulf is prepared to accompany Husayn to Zaragoza, he can rejoin us in Barcelona in, say, three weeks’ time. I’ll check with the Saracens that they agree to this arrangement.’

As we hurried out into the village square, Osric was standing beside the stone water trough in the centre of the village, talking with Gerin’s servant.

‘Ganelon and Gerin are accompanying Governor Suleyman to Barcelona, and we’ll be taking the road through the mountains with Husayn, direct to Zaragoza,’ I told him.

Osric waited until Gerin’s servant was safely out of earshot before replying.

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he said softly.

I gave him a sharp look. There had been no hint of trouble on the journey. No one had attempted to harm me. I was beginning to think that the mushroom poisoning and the attack in the forest were unrelated accidents, or that whoever wished to hurt me had been left far behind.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘I’ve learned a little more about Gerin.’

‘He has no reason to do away with me,’ I said.

‘He sells his sword to whoever pays him. King Offa hired him during a border quarrel with the Welsh. Gerin served as leader of a war band.’

I recalled Gerin’s expertise with lance and javelin.

‘How long ago was that?’

‘Maybe five or six years ago.’

‘Poison is not his style; an arrow in the back, maybe.’

‘Gerin was present at the hunt and also at the banquet,’ Osric reminded me.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ganelon walking across the square to where the Saracens were clustered. They were tightening their saddle girths, getting ready to depart.

‘There’s something more. Ganelon has already had a private meeting with Husayn,’ he said.

That startled me.

‘Do you know what was discussed?’

‘No, Gerin’s servant was up early, tending to a horse with saddle sores. He saw Ganelon go and return. The meeting lasted less than an hour.’

There was a flurry of activity on the far side of the square. The Saracens were mounting up. A gaggle of villagers surrounded them, some begging, others holding up lumps of hard cheese and strips of dried mutton, hoping for a sale. Now we were in the borderlands, we were having to purchase our own supplies.

‘Everything’s arranged,’ Ganelon shouted at me. ‘I’ll see you in Barcelona in three weeks’ time! Go with God!’ He hurried to where Gerin and the rest of our group were already mounted and circling their animals, preparing to head off. Osric and I had to grab the reins of our own horses and hold them back to prevent them joining the others. After three weeks on the road our animals had become used to travelling together.

I watched my comrades clatter out of the village at a trot. Gerin still rode like a cavalryman on campaign. He sat square and upright in the saddle, his plain red shield bouncing against his horse’s flank, with his long heavy sword slung across his back. The handle projected above his left shoulder like a cross.

Deep in thought, I turned my attention to the Saracens who had stayed behind. Four of them were sitting quietly on their horses on the far side of the square, the hoods of their riding cloaks pulled up against the chill air. They were waiting for Osric and me to join them.

‘Greetings, fellow travellers,’ said the nearest Saracen in good Latin as we approached. He was a little older than me, perhaps in his early twenties, plump and expensively dressed. From his air of confidence I presumed that I was being addressed by Husayn, Wali of Zaragoza. This was the first time I had seen him close up and face to face. He had a clear olive skin and large dark eyes made even darker by the application of black dye around them. He had also painted his small, delicate mouth. His lips were a striking shade of pink. If I had not known that he had just ridden across Frankia in less than three weeks, I would have mistaken him as being effeminate.

‘Ambassador Ganelon tells me that you wish to accompany me to Zaragoza. I look forward to your company, so let us be friends,’ he said.

‘Your Excellency is to be congratulated on his excellent command of my language,’ I answered diplomatically. I was thinking that Husayn’s Latin was so fluent that Ganelon would not have required an interpreter at their private discussion.

The wali smiled delicately, showing small, even white teeth.

‘Then we shall be able to converse as we ride.’

‘Does Your Excellency know how long the journey will take?’ I asked.

‘A week at the most. We are fortunate there is so little snow this year.’

Husayn, his curiosity evident, turned his gaze on Osric.

‘Your Excellency. This is Osric, my servant. He has been with me for many years,’ I explained.

Abruptly the wali switched into what must have been the Saracen tongue and asked Osric a direct question.

There was an awkward pause as Osric looked across at me. I nodded.

When Osric had finished his reply, the wali treated me to another of his engaging smiles.

‘Now it is you who must be congratulated. Your servant tells me that you are a good master, and he is happy to serve you. Come, let us get started!’

Thankfully, riding in company with Husayn was less gruelling than what had gone before. The young wali rode at a steady walk so that I could match the pace of my gelding to his mount and he encouraged me to ride by his side. He asked many questions about my life and later, when I ran out of answers, we continued together in companionable silence, the white-capped mountains gradually coming closer and the land wilder and less inhabited. Recalling Hroudland’s comment that the Saracens could turn nasty and cut my throat, it occurred to me that no one would be any the wiser if it happened in these remote borderlands. Yet I sensed no threat from the Wali of Zaragoza. Husayn was courteous and friendly and, as it turned out, also very devout. Whenever we stopped for him and his people to say their prayers, they took a long time. This gave me a chance to dismount and wander away from our little group under the pretence that I needed to stretch my legs. Then, privately, I wrote down my observations for Alcuin.

Our route continued westward for two days before turning south and beginning to climb steadily through the foothills. The landscape was a dreary succession of barren hills slashed by steep-sided ravines. Watering sources were few, forage non-existent and, in many places, the road narrowed to a single track difficult for carts. The inhabitants were a sturdy, taciturn people living in small, scattered settlements located on spurs of high ground. They provided food and shelter for us and our animals in return for generous payments in silver coins from a heavy purse carried by one of Husayn’s attendants, but they showed no interest in who we were or where we were going.

On the fourth day of our journey, we passed above the snow line. Now the mountain slopes were speckled with boulders poking up through the snow crust. But the track itself was almost clear. It was another cold, crisp day of bright sunshine, and we had not seen a living soul since setting out that morning. I judged that we were approaching the crest of the pass itself and I could see that Husayn was pleased with our progress.

‘Normally I would be worried that snow would block the road. But tomorrow we will be over the worst and our path will begin to slope downhill,’ he said cheerfully. For the past mile he had been glancing up at the sun to determine when to halt and recite the Saracen prayers that are said just after noonday. I waited patiently. I had slipped behind in writing up my notes and this was the most crucial stage of the road through the mountains.

At length we came to a narrow defile, warmed by the sun but sheltered from the wind.

‘This is a good place to halt,’ Husayn announced. ‘After prayers, we can take some food and rest the horses.’

I dismounted stiffly and handed the reins of the bay gelding to Osric.

‘I think I’ll go for a stroll,’ I said.

‘Stay close,’ warned Husayn. ‘There are bears in these mountains, and wolves. They have been known to attack travellers.’

I laughed.

‘I haven’t seen a bear or a wolf since we began our journey.’

‘Then at least take a weapon with you, just in case,’ Husayn insisted.

Dutifully, I unstrapped my bow case from the packhorse and took out the weapon and a couple of arrows. I noticed the look of mild interest on Husayn’s face when he saw the type of bow I was using.

Leaving the others, I walked off, picking my way carefully over the loose rocks. Behind me I could hear the sounds of the Saracens unsaddling their horses. From past experience I expected we would halt for at least an hour.

The bare hillside was open and exposed, and I was obliged to walk a little distance to find somewhere to sit privately and write my notes. I angled up the slope until I could no longer be seen from the defile. There, I found myself a patch of ground free of snow in the lee of a large boulder. I laid down my bow and arrows, sat down and took the flat box containing my writing materials from the inner pocket of my coat.

I had just slipped off my gloves and taken up the stylus when a movement caught my eye. A bird, the size and colour of a crow, was flying in low swooping arcs across the hillside. Occasionally it stopped and landed on a boulder. It was the only living creature in the immense, frozen landscape, and I wondered what it found to feed on. I watched the bird come closer until it settled on a rocky outcrop below me. I turned my attention back to the work in hand and began to scratch out a diagram of our route for the past three days. The wax tablet had hardened in the cold and the metal point of the stylus skidded on the brittle glazed surface. I pressed harder, the wax chipping and flaking. I engraved the main line of the route then started to mark the location of the mountain villages I had seen and the distance between them. The air was so still and the silence of the mountains so absolute that I clearly heard the sound of claws scrabbling on rock as the bird settled on the crest of a boulder, not six feet from me. It cawed loudly. Its voice came back as an echo from the far mountainside.

I ignored the bird and worked on, head down. I was anxious to finish my work before the Saracens thought I was overdue and came looking for me. After a short while I heard the soft flap of wings as the bird flew away. Then came a tiny clink, the sharp sound of a pebble falling on rock. I vaguely thought that the sun melting the snow must have released a stone lying on the crust.

I was concentrating so fiercely on my work that I was shocked by the loud crack as something smashed into the boulder close to my head. I jerked back and felt a sharp sting on my cheek. A round pebble, the size of a hen’s egg, fell to the ground beside me.

I dropped my writing materials and sprang to my feet. Fifty yards away and slightly up the slope a shaggily dressed man was standing and whirling a strap around his head. I recognized a slinger and threw myself to the ground just as he released his second missile. I heard it whirr overhead. If it had struck me in the head the blow would have split my skull.

Seeing that he had missed, my attacker turned and began to run, dodging from rock to rock up the hillside.

A cold rage seized me. This attack was too similar to the murderous assault in the forest to be a coincidence. This time I would not let my assailant get away. I picked up my bow, nocked an arrow to the string, and then turned to judge the distance to my target. The slinger had not gone far. He had chosen to run directly uphill, thinking no doubt that he could outdistance any pursuit, and his decision had slowed him down. Evidently he had not noticed my bow lying on the ground beside me. He was running straight, not bothering to weave from side to side. He was an easy target.

Taking a deep, slow breath, I took up the tension on the bow and waited. It was like one of the archery exercises that Osric had made me repeat so often in the royal park of Aachen. My target was a dark, shapeless figure, bundled in heavy fur clothing, moving steadily and predictably up the slope away from me. In another few yards he would cross an undisturbed patch of snow. I waited until he was halfway across the white background and clearly outlined. Then, in a single controlled movement that concentrated all my rage, I drew the bow to full extent, aimed and released, watching the arrow fly up the hill.

The arrow struck the slinger squarely in the back. He pitched face forward into the slope. There was a moment’s pause as though he was embracing the mountain, then his body slithered back down a few feet in the snow and came to rest.

I put the bow down. My hands shook for the first time as I collected up the writing tablet and stylus, put them away in their wooden box, and then hid them safely out of sight inside my coat. I retrieved the bow and the second of the two arrows, though I knew it would not be needed. Then I began climbing towards the man I had struck down.

There was a shout from the hillside below me. One of the Saracens was calling my name. I did not answer but kept heading upwards, taking deep deliberate breaths, each step breaking through the crust of snow.

I reached my victim. He was still lying face down, the feathered shaft of my arrow protruding a hand’s span from the grimy fabric of his heavy wolfskin jacket. I had struck him square between his shoulder blades. Callously I put the toe of my boot beneath him and turned him so he lay on his side. He was a man of middle age, his face gaunt with hunger and burned dark by the sun. A few strands of dirty grey hair straggled out from under a tight-fitting cap, also of wolfskin. A long scar, perhaps the result of a sword cut, ran from his left ear to the side of his mouth. He was breathing but only just. I had never seen him before.

I kicked him hard in the ribs.

‘Who sent you?’ I snarled.

His eyes opened, revealing dark brown irises, and he mumbled something in a strange, spiky-sounding language.

I kicked him again, more viciously.

‘Who sent you?’ I demanded.

He had not long to live. My arrow, large and heavy enough to have brought down a bear, had transfixed the man. The bloody head, three fingers’ width of sharp iron, emerged from the front of his coat which he had wrapped tight around his chest, using his sling as a belt.

I felt a hand on my elbow and turned to see Husayn. He looked shocked, staring down at the dying man for several moments before turning to face me.

‘Are you hurt?’ he asked. I put up my hand to my cheek. It came away streaked with blood. The first slingstone must have knocked a chip off the rock where I was sitting, and the flying shard had cut my face.

‘Who is this wretch?’ I asked angrily.

The wali bent down and asked the man a question, speaking in the Saracen tongue.

He got a faint reply, again in that strange-sounding language. Then there was a choking sound. A grimace of pain passed across the battered face, the eyes were now shut in agony.

‘What did he say?’ I demanded.

Husayn straightened up.

‘He’s a Vascon. I recognize the language but he is too far gone for me to make out the words.’

‘Search the bastard,’ I growled. ‘Maybe we will find a clue about who sent him.’

By now Osric had reached us. He knelt down and began to rummage through the man’s garments. He found only a pouch containing half a dozen sling stones, a lump of hard cheese in one pocket, and a knife with a short stubby blade in a wooden sheath. By the time he had finished, the man had stopped breathing, choking on his own blood.

‘A brigand, surely,’ said Husayn.

‘Then he was a foolish one. He was on his own,’ I pointed out.

Osric looked to me for instructions.

‘What do you want done with the body?’

‘Leave it for his friends, the bears and wolves,’ I said sourly and began making my way down the slope back towards our horses. I did not want to stay a moment longer in that grim place and I needed to puzzle out who could have arranged the attack. Ganelon and Gerin were many miles away. My immediate suspect was Husayn, though the wali seemed genuinely shocked by what had occurred.

Husayn said little for the rest of that day’s ride. The incident had delayed us and we were obliged to push our horses hard to reach our destination that night, a smoky shepherd’s hut that doubled as a way-station for travellers. Fortunately the shepherd was there, and he lit a fire and prepared a pot of mutton broth for his visitors. With hot food inside me, I asked Husayn to tell the shepherd that we had left a dead man in the pass. I hoped that it might lead to some information.

Husayn relayed the information and the shepherd gave me a sideways look, furtive and mistrustful. Then his face closed and, without a word, he got up and left the hut and did not return.

‘Is he a Vascon, too?’ I asked Husayn.

‘He belongs to one of their mountain clans.’

‘And you speak their language, as well as Latin? I’m impressed.’

Husayn shrugged.

‘I have to. My lands border with the Vascon territory. Sometimes they see me as their protector.’

‘So they’re not all a bunch of cut-throat robbers.’

Husayn looked mildly unhappy at my bluntness.

‘They are an ancient people. They were here even before the Romans came.’

‘It’s a pity that the shepherd did not see you as his protector.’

The wali grimaced.

‘His clan has no need for protection. If attacked, they can retreat into their citadel. It’s set on a mountain peak and impregnable. From there they laugh at their opponents until they lose interest and go away.’ Husayn made a sweeping gesture, encompassing the mountains. ‘For generations the mountain Vascons have hovered around these passes, extracting treasure from travellers, by force or by guile. This clan’s citadel is said to contain a great hoard of raw bullion, as well as plates and cups of solid gold, bowls studded with gems, loose jewels and precious fabrics.’ He gave a bleak smile, adding, ‘Naturally no outsider has ever seen such marvels with their own eyes.’

‘So no excuse for murdering a lone traveller for his money,’ I said bitterly.

The wali stared straight at me. His large intense eyes under their dark painted lids glittered in the firelight.

‘You might have been attacked for something equally valuable.’

I looked back at him coolly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Words on a page.’

I felt a cold lurch in my guts. Husayn knew that I was a spy for Alcuin. Either he had seen me making notes during the journey or perhaps Ganelon had told him.

Husayn’s next words came as a surprise.

‘I understand that you interpret dreams. With the aid of a book?’

Shakily, I recovered my poise.

‘That is something I prefer to keep to myself. Some people regard it as devil’s work.’

Husayn nodded gravely.

‘They are wrong. The messenger of God — may the peace and blessings of God be upon him — was also an interpreter of dreams. God spoke to him through them.’

I let out a slow breath.

‘So you know about the Oneirokritikon.’

‘It is famous. My people know how it was lost, left behind in the hands of the infidels.’

‘And someone told you that I have the Book of Dreams?’ With a sudden surge of anger, I guessed Ganelon had passed on the information.

Once again, Husayn surprised me with his answer.

‘I knew that Count Gerard’s family had possession of the book. When I was in Aachen, I offered to buy it from him for a great price. But he told me that it was no longer in his keeping.’

‘Did he say he had given it to me?’

‘No. But one of your king’s daughters was heard to boast that you had foretold the coming of our embassy to Aachen. So I guessed that the Book of Dreams had passed into your hands.’

‘I may have left it behind in Aachen,’ I pointed out.

The wali treated me to a veiled look.

‘I don’t think so. No one would leave behind such a precious object, least of all someone who travels with a servant who can help him read it.’ Husayn leaned forward and laid a hand gently on my arm. ‘I respect your ownership of the dream book. I would not take it from you by force. But should you ever wish to sell it, I would pay a great price.’