The Book of Dreams

Chapter Fourteen

I spent the sea journey to the Breton March lying on a pile of nets in the dank, foul-smelling hold of a Vascon fishing boat. The vessel pitched and rolled, and every time a wave crashed on deck above me the water dripped down through the deck planks. In the whirling darkness I dry-retched until I wished I would die.

The wali had warned that the voyage would be uncomfortable but he had understated the case.

‘The mountain Vascons are tough,’ he’d said, ‘but for sheer hardiness they are exceeded by the sea Vascons. They’ll set out from port in any weather if there’s profit in the trip.’ He should have added that he had paid the crew handsomely because the Bay of the Vascons, which we had to cross, is notorious for sudden storms and raging seas.

Husayn also arranged my travel across the Vascon lands which bordered Zaragoza. The guide who brought me to the ship took me through Pamplona, the region’s capital. The place showed all the scars of a fought-over frontier town with a battered city wall, stumps of broken towers like damaged teeth, and gates that had been repaired time and again. Conscientiously I made notes of these facts because I still regarded myself as a spy for Alcuin.

At voyage’s end, the Vascon fishermen set me ashore, wrapped in a sodden cloak, in a small, unnamed and deserted inlet on the Breton shore. They explained with gestures that I was to walk along the beach and around a headland to my left. It was a damp, drizzly morning, less than an hour after daybreak. Curtains of heavy mist drifted in from the sea, coating everything on land with a glistening wet sheen. Despite the dreary surroundings, I was very thankful to be finally off the ship, which hoisted sail and disappeared into the mist. I waited until the ground stopped tilting and swaying beneath me and then I set out in the direction they had indicated, slipping and sliding on the shingle, clutching the satchel, which contained the original Book of Dreams, my translation, and the purse of silver dinars the wali had pressed on me. All my other possessions, including my bow and sword, I had left behind with Osric and I had made him a present of the bay gelding.

I trudged round the headland, and there, immediately ahead of me, was a line of small boats hauled up on the shore and left upside down on wooden rollers to keep the rain out. Beyond them stood a row of fisherman’s shacks.

‘Piv oc’h?’ said a voice suspiciously.

A man dressed in a shapeless knee-length smock and a broad brim hat stepped out from behind one of the boats. He was short and broad shouldered. On his feet he wore thick wooden clogs. ‘Piv oc’h?’ he repeated, staring at me. He had eyes the same dull colour as the pebbles on the beach, and his face showed a week’s stubble. Drops of rain hung on his hat brim and ran in trickles off his smock. I realized that all his garments had been soaked in fish oil.

‘I am trying to get to the headquarters of Margrave Hroudland,’ I said in Latin.

The man regarded me warily, suspicion mingling with distaste showing on his face. I was not understood.

‘Penaos oc’h deuet?’ he said.

‘A Vascon vessel set me ashore, around that headland,’ I explained uselessly, pointing back toward the cliff.

The man jerked his head for me to follow him and led me towards the largest of the huts. He pushed open the rain-streaked plank door, and I found myself inside a single, cramped room, dark and smelling of wood smoke, dirt and fish. A woman, her tangled hair streaked with grey and wearing a grimy shawl, was seated on a stool before the hearth and stirring the contents of an iron pot. Three young children — all boys — looked at me curiously, their eyes teary and red-rimmed from smoke. They were barefoot and their clothes were little more than rags, though they looked sturdy and well-nourished.

The man spoke briefly in his own language to the woman. I presumed she was his wife. She rose to her feet and wiped her hands on her heavy skirt. I noticed a small wooden cross threaded on a leather lace around her neck.

‘My husband asks who are you and where are you from?’ she asked in Frankish, speaking slowly and with a heavy accent.

I chose to distort the truth.

‘I serve Alcuin of Aachen. He sent me to obtain a most holy book from the Saracens. I am bringing it to him for the new royal chapel.’ I unlaced my satchel and pulled out the Book of Dreams, handling it with great reverence.

The woman eyed the volume respectfully and crossed herself, though I noticed that her husband was more interested in trying to see what else was in the satchel.

‘I would be grateful for a guide and horses to take me as far as the headquarters of Margrave Hroudland. I can pay.’

A glint of avarice competed with the veneration.

‘How much?’ the woman asked.

I groped in the satchel, keeping the flap half-closed, until my fingers found the wali’s purse. I extracted three silver dinars and held them out on the palm of my hand. Like the stab of a heron’s beak, the woman’s hand darted out and scooped up the coins. She looked at them closely and for a moment I feared that the sight of the Arab script on them would make her suspicious. However, she dropped them into a pocket in her skirt.

‘My man will show you the way on foot. His name is Gallmau. We have no horses,’ she said flatly. She gave her husband his instructions, and then turned back to stirring the pot, ignoring everything else except to snap at her oldest boy when he made as if to accompany us.

I followed Gallmau out of the hut and into the fine, penetrating rain that had replaced the earlier drizzle. The breeze had also picked up. Small, white-capped waves were now rolling in and breaking along the beach where the boats were drawn up. I guessed that Gallmau would not be losing any fishing that day. He picked up a stout wooden staff that had been propped against his hut, and called to two small shaggy brown dogs crouched in the lee of a pile of driftwood. They jumped up and bounded over, their ears flopping. Gallmau started up the muddy path that led inland along the rocky course of a small stream that flowed down from the high ground behind the village. Ahead, the two dogs scampered enthusiastically, splattering mud, as indifferent as their master to the wet weather.

I followed, pulling up the hood of my cloak. The rain had soaked through the cloth and was dripping down my neck and under my collar. Fortunately I had acquired stout new boots of greased leather while in Zaragoza and, while not watertight, they kept out most of the water as we tramped our way through the puddles.

We walked steadily uphill for at least an hour, following the line of a narrow glen until the track brought us out onto level moorland. Huddled inside my hood, I paid little attention to our surroundings. When I did raise my eyes, it was to note that we had climbed to where the mist had turned to low cloud and was even thicker. I could see no more than thirty paces in any direction, a bleak vista of rock, heather and low scrub. Everything was dripping wet. I presumed that there was only one track leading inland, and wondered just how far we would have to go before we reached the next settlement. It was useless to ask Gallmau. He spoke only his own language and showed no interest in trying to communicate with me. Also, I was growing increasingly uneasy about being on the moor alone with him. He could easily knock me down with his heavy staff, steal my money and disappear into the mist.

I was plodding along, head down and looking where I was putting my feet when all of a sudden the two dogs rushed away from the footpath. They were barking excitedly, doubtless chasing a rabbit or a hare. Gallmau roared at them so fiercely to come to heel that I glanced up to see the reason for his anger. The sight that greeted me made my skin prickle. Our way lay between two rows of huge grey stones. They were set at intervals, some fifteen paces apart, and a little way back from the track. Each stone was its natural shape, a massive boulder longer than it was broad and weighing many tons. It must have taken unimaginable labour to drag each one of them into its right place. Then, by some feat of ingenuity, they had been tilted and set on end so that they resembled gigantic tombstones. In the half-light of the overcast day they were eerie and mysterious, as if not of this world.

Gallmau treated them with great respect. After the two dogs had returned obediently to their master, he used the tip of his staff to mark some sort of shape in the turf, before bowing his head and dropping down to one knee as though to pay homage to the great stones.

The mist grew even denser as we proceeded, until I could barely make out the looming shape of the nearest stone on either side. As we moved through this silent, opaque world I became aware that we were not alone. Someone had joined us. It was just a fleeting impression at first, a shadowy figure a short distance ahead of Gallmau, someone walking along the path in the same direction as us. The figure was indistinct, appearing and then disappearing as the thickness of the mist varied. Gallmau was striding along ahead of me and the track was too narrow for me to overtake him to investigate. Besides, I had no wish to intercept the stranger. Only after several minutes did I realize there was something familiar about our new companion. He was dressed like me, in a long cloak. He had the hood pulled up so I could see only his general shape. It was the manner of his walking and the way he held his shoulders that was familiar. Finally I realized who it was: my twin brother. His fetch was travelling with us, leading the way. I wondered if Gallmau could also see him, but the fisherman gave no sign of it. Only the two dogs reacted. They ran forward along the path and I watched them investigate the distant wraith, sniffing at its heels, wagging their tails, and then padding back to their master. The confidence of the dogs reassured me. I knew I could not attract my brother’s attention. The otherworld pays no heed to mortals, and if he wished to speak to me, he would do so. Yet I half-hoped that he would stop and turn to greet me. But he kept walking forward through the mist, and I tramped along behind him, strangely comforted by his presence. I was certain that as long as my twin brother was with me on my journey, no harm would come to me.

After some hours the path finally began to descend. We left the high moorland and emerged from the worst of the mist. About that time my brother’s fetch vanished. He disappeared in much the same manner as he had first arrived, showing himself indistinctly for a few moments, then vanishing, only to reappear for another brief glimpse. When he did not show himself for several long minutes, I knew that I would not see him again that day.

We had reached a fold in the land, which sheltered a hamlet of a dozen small cottages. The two dogs ran ahead of us, straight to one of the buildings, and scratched at the door. A voice called out and when Gallmau answered, the door was opened by a bald, very overweight man of middle age. He had a round head, a neck that spilled over his collar in folds of fat, and his small sharp eyes looked as if they had been set in a pudding. His gaze travelled slowly over me, and then to Gallmau before he gestured at us to enter. We stepped into a room starkly furnished with a wooden table, a bench and three stools. There was a door to an inner room, a fire burning in the hearth and several farm tools propped in a corner. Gallmau’s two dogs promptly ran to the hearth and lay down on the earth floor as if they owned the place. Soon the room filled with the smell of drying dog.

Gallmau spoke briefly to the fat man, who then turned to me.

‘You travel to the king’s palace at Aachen?’ he enquired. He spoke far better Frankish than Gallmau’s wife.

‘I carry a sacred book for the library of the new chapel,’ I said. I was uneasy. Something about the fat man made me distrust him.

He waved a chubby hand towards the bench by the table.

‘Take a seat. It’s a long walk from the coast, and you must be tired. I’ll get something for you and Gallmau to eat and drink.’

He waddled out of the room and I went across to the bench, removed my cloak and sat down heavily. It was true. I was exhausted. I was also aware of Gallmau’s interest in my satchel so I placed it on the bench beside me, trying not to make it obvious that I was keeping it very close.

Gallmau removed his dripping hat and took his seat on a stool opposite me.

We sat in strained silence, waiting for our host to return. Surreptitiously I scanned the room hoping to see some sign of another person living in the house — a wife, children. There was nothing. The fat man lived by himself, and I began to wonder if I should get up and leave while I still could. I was alone, a stranger in an unknown house and an easy target for a robbery, if not worse. Yet I had not seen anyone else in the hamlet as we arrived, and I knew that country people were clannish. There was no certainty that I would find a better reception elsewhere.

The fat man came back into the room. He was carrying three scuffed, leather tankards in one hand, and in the other a large earthenware jug. He put them down on the scarred table top and, wheezing slightly, pulled up a stool and sat down. His flabby bulk overflowed the stool. He tipped a stream of some pale straw-coloured liquid from the jug into each of our tankards. I sniffed it suspiciously. It smelled of apples, pears and honey. A quick taste confirmed that it was mead mixed with fermented apple and pear juice, something that had been my father’s favourite. I took a long draught. It had been months since I had tasted strong drink. The tiny bubbles tickled the back of my throat as I swallowed. The sweet heady liquid was delicious.

The fat man was eyeing me speculatively. He reminded me of a large boar inspecting its next meal. He put down his tankard and licked his lips, about to speak. I forestalled him.

‘Those big boulders up on the moor, what are they?’ I began.

He blinked.

‘Menhirs, the long stones.’ He sounded as if he did not want to talk about them.

‘Who put them there?’

‘No one knows. They’ve always been there.’

‘And do they have a purpose?’ I asked.

He shrugged fleshy, round shoulders.

‘Some believe that they are grave markers of giants.’

‘Not only giants,’ I said in a solemn voice. He looked at me curiously. I took another drink from my tankard and set it down carefully on the table. I had not eaten all day and could sense the strong drink taking effect. My tongue felt slightly thick and I knew I was already getting tipsy.

‘I saw my twin brother at the menhirs this afternoon,’ I said.

His piggy eyes opened wide in surprise.

‘Your brother?’ he asked.

‘He walked with us for a while. The dogs saw him.’ I nodded towards the two animals now asleep in front of the fire.

The fat man muttered something to Gallmau who shook his head, then looked flustered and ill at ease.

‘Are you sure it was your brother?’ asked the fat man.

‘Of course. I haven’t seen him for more than a week. He doesn’t visit me that often,’ I said, trying to sound casual.

The fat man’s eyes flicked towards the satchel.

‘Are you not a Christian?’ he asked.

I belched softly. Judging by the aftertaste, the mead had been brewed with clover honey.

‘My being a Christian has nothing to do with it. My brother visits me as often as he wishes,’ I said. ‘He drowned when we were youngsters.’

The fat man’s eyes darted nervously around the room. A bead of sweat broke out on his scalp.

‘Will he call on us tonight?’ he asked.

I shrugged.

‘Who knows.’

My host got up from his stool.

‘Then we must not be found wanting,’ he muttered, and shuffled his way out of the room.

In a short while he came back with four wooden plates, a loaf of stale-looking bread and some cheese, and an extra tankard. He set four places on the table, and we began to eat. Each time there was a sound outside, both my companions started. We hurried through our meal, and when I had finished, I drained my third tankard of the cider-mead and reached up and removed my eye patch. Then I turned to face my companions, staring straight at them for a long moment, unblinking so they could not help but notice the mismatched colours of my eyes.

‘Leave my brother’s place at the table as it is,’ I said, ‘in case he joins us later.’

Without asking, I stretched myself out on the bench, with my satchel as a pillow and allowed myself to drift off to sleep, confident that neither of them would dare harm someone who bore the Devil’s mark and was the twin brother of a fetch.

A low growling awoke me, followed by a thud as a heavy boot kicked the front door, making it rattle in its frame.

‘Wake up you tub of lard,’ shouted a voice.

I sat up. I was still on the bench and had spent a quiet night. My brother’s wooden plate and tankard sat on the table untouched.

The boot thumped into the door again. Gallmau was climbing to his feet from where he had been sleeping on the floor. The two dogs were barking furiously and dancing round the door, which shook to another heavy blow. The fat man was nowhere to be seen.

I put on my eye patch and went across to the door and pulled it open. Outside stood a thick-set, scowling man with a short, neatly trimmed beard and the weather-beaten skin of someone who spent his days in the open air. Behind him I saw two men-at-arms with spears. Further down the street, the faces of villagers were peering out from their front doors.

‘Who are you?’ demanded the bearded man aggressively. He spoke in good Frankish.

‘Sigwulf, a royal servant,’ I answered.

The man narrowed his eyes.

‘Royal? Don’t waste my time!’ he growled.

I knew that I made an unimpressive spectacle, with a patch on one eye, travel-stained and unwashed.

‘I am on my way to see Margrave Hroudland,’ I said.

‘And is the margrave expecting you?’ jeered my interrogator.

I was feeling grouchy and hungover, and lost my temper.

‘No, he is not,’ I snapped, ‘but he will be very pleased to see me, and I shall make it my business to report on your conduct.’

My sharp manner penetrated the man’s disbelief. He gave me a calculating look.

‘What do you want to see the margrave about?’ he asked, a little less derisively.

‘I’m bringing him a book.’ Once again I slid the Book of Dreams out of the satchel.

The display had its effect. The man might have never seen a book before, but he knew that they were rare and valuable.

‘Very well, you come with me and tell your story to the head steward,’ he said.

He looked past me at Gallmau who had both hands full, holding back the two dogs that were eager to attack the stranger.

‘Where’s Maonirn?’ he asked.

Gullmau stared back stonily without replying.

‘He doesn’t speak Frankish,’ I said. ‘He’s a fisherman from the coast.’

‘Smuggler, too, if he keeps company with Maonirn. I expect that grease bucket slipped off to the moors when he heard us coming. No chance to find him now.’

He turned on his heel and I followed him out of the cottage and past the waiting men at arms.

I had encountered a bailiff, as it turned out. He had planned to arrest Maonirn, a known rogue, for the theft of some cattle. Instead he brought me before the head steward of the local landowner. He, in turn, was persuaded as to my honest character and provided me with a pony and directions to the town Hroudland had chosen for his headquarters as Margrave of the Breton March.

It was not much of a place.

A few hundred modest houses clustered on the floor of a shallow valley where the river made a loop around a low hill. The dwellings were a depressing sight under a dull winter sky, with their drab walls of mud and wattle, and roof thatch of grey reeds. There was a watermill on the river bank, a scattering of leafless orchards and vegetable patches, and a log palisade to enclose the hilltop. Just visible above this palisade was the roof of a great hall. The miserable weather was keeping the townsfolk indoors, and the only activity was in what looked like a soldiers’ camp on the water meadows. Tents had been set up in orderly lines, smoke was rising from cooking fires, and numbers of armed men were moving about.

It had taken me two full days to ride there and I guided my tired pony through the town’s muddy, deserted streets and headed straight for the gate in the palisade. It stood open and I rode in without being challenged. There I halted, overcome by a reminder of the past.

Hroudland’s great hall recalled my memories of my father’s house, the home I had grown up in, except that it was much, much larger and intended to impress the visitor. The ridge of its enormous roof stood two-storeys high. The roof itself was covered with thousands upon thousands of wooden shakes and sloped down to side walls of heavy planks set upright and closely fitted. Every vertical surface had been brightly painted. Red and white squares alternated with diamond shapes in green and blue. There were stripes and whorls. Flowers, animal shapes, and human grotesques had been carved into the projecting ends of the beams and cross timbers and the door surrounds. These carvings, too, were picked out in vivid colours: orange, purple and yellow. Flags flew from poles at each corner of the building, and a long banner with a picture of a bull’s head hung down above the double entrance doors. It was a spectacle of unrestrained and gaudy ostentation.

There was much bustle around the building. An impatient-looking foreman was supervising a team of workmen as they unloaded trestle tables and benches from a cart, and then carried them indoors. Servants were wheeling out barrows heaped with cinders and soiled rushes; others were taking in bundles of fresh reeds. A man on a ladder was topping up the oil in the metal cressets attached to the huge doorposts.

‘Where’s Count Hroudland?’ I asked a porter. He was shouldering a yoke from which hung two water buckets and was on his way towards what looked like the kitchen building attached to the side of the great hall. Smoke was rising from its double chimney.

‘You’ll not find him here. He’s down by the army camp.’

I turned my pony and rode back down the slope towards the water meadows. I was scarcely halfway there when I heard a sound that made my heart lift: a full-throated whoop of triumph. It was the yell that my friend let loose every time he scored a direct hit with javelin or lance, and it came from my right, just beyond the soldiers’ tents. I kicked my pony into a faster walk and a moment later emerged onto a familiar scene. A couple of dozen cavalry men were fighting a mock battle. Watched by a ring of spectators, the opposing sides were a milling mob of armoured men on horseback chopping and thrusting with wooden swords and blunt lances, deflecting blows with their shields. I spotted Hroudland at once. He was riding his roan stallion with the distinctive white patches and he had a cluster of black feathers fastened to his helmet. A closer look showed that several of the other riders were wearing black feathers while their opponents sported sprigs of green leaves. Above the hoarse shouts, the thud of blows and the general grunting tussle of horses and riders, I again heard Hroudland’s triumphant cry. He had barged forward with the roan, knocked his opponent’s horse off balance, and then delivered a downward blow to the man’s head. As I watched, he thrust his shield into his opponent’s face so that he toppled backwards out of his saddle and crashed to the ground.

Hroudland straightened up and looked around, seeking his next victim. His eye fell on me where I sat on my pony looking over the heads of the spectators. His face lit up with a broad smile. Ignoring the chaos around him he spurred his stallion through the fighting and came towards me at a lumbering trot. The crowd in front of me scattered, dodging the great hooves as the horse came to a halt.

‘Patch! Welcome home!’ the count shouted. He was out of breath, the sweat pouring down his face. He tossed aside his wooden sword, slung his shield on to his back, dropped the reins and swung himself out of the saddle. I dismounted from my pony. Hroudland came forward, threw his arms around me and swept me up in a powerful bear hug. I was crushed uncomfortably against his chain-mail shirt, and had to duck to avoid the rim of his helmet.

‘It’s good to see you!’ he said.

I became aware that another horse and rider had joined us. Looking up, I saw Berenger’s cheerful face grinning down at me. He had taken off his helmet and his curly hair was plastered with sweat.

‘Patch, where did you spring from?’ he called down.

I disentangled myself from the count’s embrace.

‘From Hispania by way of the Bay of the Vascons,’ I said. ‘I’ve important news.’

Hroudland’s unattended stallion was edging sideways, tossing its head and irritably stamping the soft ground. The nearest onlookers were scrambling back out of the way.

‘Patch, I’ll see you up at the great hall later,’ said the count, hurriedly stepping back to gather up the reins. ‘You could not have come at a better time. There’s to be a banquet. My seneschal will look after you.’ He vaulted easily up into the saddle. Someone handed back his wooden sword and he waved it above his head in salute, and then plunged back into the fray, Berenger riding at his side.

Hroudland’s seneschal made no attempt to conceal his irritation at being distracted from the preparations for the banquet. He bawled at a groom to take my pony to the stables, then beckoned to a lad loitering nearby and told him gruffly to show me to the margrave’s personal quarters. There he was to hand me over to the margrave’s manservant. I followed the youngster into the great hall. The interior was as resplendent as the outside of the building. Painted in stripes of white and red, Hroudland’s household colours, a double line of wooden pillars, each thicker than a man’s waist, soared upward as piers for the great roof. Bolted to each pillar were brackets for dozens of torches. Although it was scarcely noon, many of these lamps were already lit, and their flames made the shadows dance and flicker in the rafters high above us. The trestle tables and benches I had seen earlier were already erected in the spaces between the pillars, and there were enough to accommodate more than a hundred guests. A team of servants was setting out wooden trenchers and glass beakers. The kindling in the fire pit was well alight, and the blaze had spread into the stack of fresh logs. I smelled pine smoke and somewhere in the background was the sound of a musician tuning up a stringed instrument. My guide took me the length of the great hall and past the high table, still bare except for a fine, linen table cloth. I presumed that the more valuable tableware would be brought out later. At the far end of the hall I was shown through a heavy door into what amounted to a large arms store. The walls of mortared stone had narrow slits for windows. Cressets added to the weak light, which shone on racks of spears and javelins, war axes and iron bound chests. Along one wall was a display of shields. All of them were painted with the margrave’s red and white.

My young guide led me on and up a wooden staircase that brought us into an upper room furnished for comfortable living. There were rugs on the floor, and wall hangings embroidered with scenes from the chase and the classical tales. To my surprise I noticed that one of the wall hangings depicted the siege of Troy. I recognized the figures of Troilus and Achilles, whose story I had told in the presence of Carolus at the banquet where I was poisoned. Ironwork braziers kept out the chill and damp, and there was a large and comfortable-looking bed with a mattress, as well as the usual stools and chairs. Here the windows were glazed and larger than on the ground floor, allowing in extra daylight. Nevertheless racks of expensive wax candles, some of them scented, were already burning. I found myself wondering how Hroudland could afford such luxury.

A manservant took me in charge and, after a condescending appraisal of what I was wearing, drew back a curtain to an alcove. Expensive clothes hung on pegs. There were fine shirts of silk and linen, jackets and leggings, fur-trimmed cloaks, tunics with silver and gold thread woven into the fabric, a selection of fashionable hats and bonnets. Lower down, shelves displayed an array of footwear; boots, slippers and shoes of all colours and styles. I was told that I could select whatever clothes I wanted, and that hot water would be brought up from the kitchens so I could wash and change.

The count himself arrived two hours later. I heard his footsteps thudding on the wooden stair and a moment later he came bounding into the room, his face flecked with mud and his eyes alive with energy.

‘Patch, Patch! It’s been far too long!’ he exclaimed, and I received another exuberant bear hug. Then he held me at arm’s length and gazed into my face. ‘You’re tanned and look well. Hispania must have suited you.’

‘Being Warden of the March has suited you. Your great hall is magnificent,’ I complimented him.

He pulled a face.

‘It’s to make up for this miserable climate and its equally miserable people. You have no idea what it is like to live among such sullen, dour blockheads. They don’t know the meaning of what it is to enjoy oneself. We have to create our own amusements.’ He brightened. ‘But tonight there’ll be good food and conversation and my steward will provide some decent wine. Also, I’ve arranged a special entertainment for you.’

His words tumbled out at such a pace and with so much fervour that I examined my friend more closely. I noticed the slight bags under his eyes and the broken veins on his face. He seemed overwrought and anxious. It was not how I remembered him. I wondered if Hroudland had been living a little too lavishly.

‘I abandoned my mission to Hispania because I have to warn you of a plot against you,’ I began.

But the count had already turned away, almost as though he was unable to keep still. He strode across to the bed and pulled off his shirt. His body was still as slim and athletic as before, the muscles sculpted under the pale skin. If my friend had been indulging in too much fine living, it had not affected his physique. The manservant reappeared with a basin of water, which he placed on a stand, and Hroudland began to wash his face and arms.

‘Ganelon is plotting against you,’ I said loudly, trying to get his full attention.

‘That’s nothing new,’ answered the count dismissively. He did not bother to raise his face from the bowl.

‘This time he may succeed,’ I insisted. ‘He wants to have you disgraced as a traitor.’ I failed to suppress the note of irritation in my voice but I was frustrated that my friend should be taking my warning so casually after I had made so great an effort to reach him.

‘Tell me about it,’ said the count, straightening up. He began towelling his head and shoulders.

Point by point, I explained how Ganelon had obtained Husayn’s signed promise to pay me five hundred dinars so he could use it as false proof of Hroudland’s treachery.

When I had finished, the count threw back his head and laughed scornfully.

‘Is that the best that Ganelon can do? It won’t get him very far,’ he scoffed.

I thought I detected a note of hysteria in my friend’s response and I pressed on.

‘You must contact the king. Tell him what is happening. Warn him against Ganelon.’

Hroudland came across to me and punched me lightly on the arm.

‘Patch, my friend, I’ll do better than that. I’ll fight so well in Hispania that Carolus will have no doubt of my loyalty.’

‘What do you mean? Is there to be a war in Hispania?’

Again Hroudland laughed.

‘Of course!’

‘But I was sent with Ganelon and Gerin to investigate whether or not the Saracens’ request for military help was genuine.’

The count gave me a wicked smile.

‘Carolus decided on war in Hispania long ago, well before the Saracens showed up to ask for his help. Despatching you and the other two to make a report was just a ruse, a way of concealing his intentions.’

From somewhere outside came the sound of a horn. The margrave’s guests were being summoned to their places in the great hall. I heard someone else coming up the wooden stairs and Berenger appeared in the room with the words, ‘Time to get ready.’

‘Patch, any more trouble with people trying to kill you?’ Hroudland asked.

I would have preferred if his enquiry had sounded less casual.

‘There was an attempt when I was travelling through the mountains,’ I said and told him about the Vascon slinger.

‘Sounds like Ganelon at work,’ said Hroudland. ‘Berenger, what do you think?’

‘Just like him,’ replied Berenger, who was helping the count get his arms into a fresh shirt.

‘Well, Patch,’ said my friend, as he selected a belt studded with semi-precious stones from his wardrobe in the alcove, ‘at least you don’t have to worry about being poisoned at today’s banquet. The cook and every scullion are on my staff.’ He buckled on the belt, picked up a short cloak of white silk with a crimson lining and threw it over his shoulder. It was time to descend into the great hall and begin the banquet.

I was seated in the place of honour on Hroudland’s right, while Berenger was on his left. The rest of the high table was occupied by senior members of Hroudland’s entourage. Some of them I recognized from the mock battle earlier. There were no women. All of us sat facing down the hall so that the guests could look up and see us and their overlord. The table setting was as ostentatious as I now knew to expect from the margrave; plates and ewers of silver, drinking vessels of horn banded with gold and silver or made of coloured glass, candle holders with gold inlay or decorations of semi-precious stones. The food, by contrast, was disappointing. Pottage, lumpy and bland, was served with root vegetables. The bread was coarse and gritty. Hroudland grumbled to me that the local farmers were unable to grow good wheat due to the climate and poor soil. He was drinking heavily, right from the start of the meal, and Berenger and the others at the table kept pace with him. As more and more wine and beer was consumed, their raised voices and shouted conversations drowned out the efforts of a small group of musicians who were trying to keep us entertained. From the packed hall in front of us rose the steady babble of conversation as the margrave’s less exalted guests ate their way stolidly through the meal. More than once I found myself having to stifle a yawn.

All of a sudden, Hroudland banged the handle of his knife down on the table, hard enough to make the nearest plates jump. Immediately everyone fell silent, looking to him. By now my friend was well and truly drunk.

‘I want you all to meet my good and excellent friend, Patch,’ he announced in a slightly slurred voice.

There was a tipsy nodding of heads around the high table. One or two of the more sober guests caught my eye and smiled at me tentatively.

‘Some of you will have heard how he corrected the royal bard in Aachen when he was telling a story during a banquet in front of the king.’ The count raised his voice so he could be heard the length of the great hall. ‘Tonight I have arranged for one of the greatest bards of the Bretons to entertain us so Patch will know that we have storytellers the equal of any in the kingdom.’

There was a scatter of applause, and from behind one of the great pillars stepped a stooped, bony man of middle age. He was dressed in a plain, brown robe and a close-fitting skull cap. In one hand he held a small harp. The other hand rested on the shoulder of a lad no more than ten years old. They walked slowly into the open space in front of the high table, and the boy put down a small three-legged stool he was carrying. The bard took his seat and placed the harp on his lap, ready to begin.

‘Tell us what tale you are going to sing,’ called Hroudland.

The boy leaned forward and spoke quietly to the older man. Not only was the skald blind, but also he did not speak Frankish.

The boy looked up and in his high voice he said, ‘With your permission, my lord, my father will tell a local story; the tale of Yvain.’

My neighbour on my right, a stocky red-faced Frankish stalwart whose sour breath stank of ale, leaned closer and whispered in my ear, ‘Let’s hope this doesn’t go on for too long.’

Hroudland was beckoning to the lad.

‘Come up here,’ he ordered. ‘I want you to translate for my guest.’

Unembarrassed, the boy stepped up on to the dais, came round the end of the table, and stood behind Hroudland and myself.

Without any preamble the blind storyteller plucked a single note on his harp and launched into his tale, speaking in a language that I presumed was the local Breton tongue. He had a fine, strong voice and it carried clearly. On the high table most of the count’s entourage looked bored, but the audience in the hall stayed silent, either out of courtesy or for fear of Hroudland’s displeasure.

The lad was a competent interpreter. The bard would pause between each verse and the boy swiftly summarized the lines in Frankish, speaking quietly in my ear.

The tale itself was a strange one: Yvain, a nobleman, leaves the court of his king to go in search of a magical fountain, deep within a forest. Beside the fountain stands a boulder studded with gems, and a golden cup hangs from the branch of a nearby tree. Directed to the spot by a hideous giant, the nobleman pours water from the cup on the boulder. Immediately a great storm arises, tearing the leaves from the trees. When the storm ceases, flocks of birds descend from the sky, singing and settling on the branches. At that moment an armoured man mounted on a horse appears and proclaims himself the guardian of the fountain. He and Yvain fight until the mysterious stranger is wounded, turning his horse and fleeing, with Yvain in pursuit.

‘Surely Yvain took with him the golden cup? It was his prize,’ Hroudland called out rudely. I had not realized quite how drunk he was.

The skald broke off his recital, offended by the interruption.

Hroudland turned to me, his face flushed.

‘That’s what would have happened at the siege of Troy, wouldn’t it, Patch? To the victor the spoils.’

‘It’s a legend, a fantasy,’ I said, trying to humour him and calm him down.

‘No, my lord, it is how it happened,’ the lad behind us spoke up.

Surprised by his boldness, I turned round to get a good look at him. He was standing with his hands clenched at his side, looking pale and upset.

‘Nonsense,’ snapped Hroudland. He was ready to pick an argument, even with a youngster. ‘The entire yarn is a fabrication.’

‘The fountain is there. You can see for yourself. At Barenton in the forest of Broceliande,’ insisted the lad.

I feared that Hroudland was drunk enough to hit the boy so I waved the youngster away. He turned on his heel and stalked back to his father, his back stiff with anger.

Hroudland’s mood had plummeted. He was aggressive and angry. He picked up his goblet unsteadily and took a long fumbling drink. A trickle of wine ran down his chin. Then he slammed the goblet down and slurred truculently, ‘Patch, tomorrow you and I will search out that fountain and prove there is no magic to it.’

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that the bard had risen from his stool, and he and his son were leaving the hall. The song had not been a success.

Next morning I hoped that Hroudland would have forgotten the episode. But a servant came to the guest chamber where I spent the night and woke me just after dawn to say that the margrave was waiting for me at the stables. Leaving aside my borrowed finery, I pulled on my travelling clothes and joined Hroudland. He seemed little affected by the evening’s carousing and I wondered if he had grown so accustomed to regular drinking bouts that he no longer suffered from hangovers.

‘Patch, I’m told that the magic fountain is no more than a three-hour ride from here,’ my friend said brightly. ‘We can get there and back in daylight.’

A stable-hand led forward two sturdy riding horses, and we rode out of the palisade gate, followed by an escort of four mounted troopers. The morning was dank and misty and beads of condensation glistened on my horse’s mane as we made our way down the hill and through the streets of the little town, deserted except for an occasional thin cur scavenging for scraps.

‘You have no idea how glad I am that soon we will be off to war in Hispania,’ Hroudland confided to me as we rode side by side.

‘In search of glory?’ I asked mockingly.

He turned a serious face towards me.

‘I need money badly. You’d be shocked to know how costly it is to maintain a great hall and its entire staff.’

I could have pointed out that he could save money by not being so lavish, but instead said, ‘I thought the local taxes provided funds for your office as Warden of the March.’

‘Nothing like enough.’

‘Then you should ask the king to relieve you of your post. Go back to court.’

Hroudland shook his head.

‘That would be to admit failure. In any case, being Warden of the March has given me a taste of what it is like to make my own decisions.’

‘So it’s plunder rather than renown that you want from Hispania.’

‘I hope to win both,’ he answered bluntly.

We made good progress along a rutted highway, which took us across low round hills covered with scrubby woodland. The only travellers we saw were on foot, walking between the small hamlets. Often they would deliberately leave the road, vanishing into the bushes, avoiding us. Eventually we overtook a family of father and mother and three small children trudging slowly along. One of our escorts spoke enough Breton to glean from them that the fountain at Barenton lay some distance off to our right.

The low cloud was thinning and a watery sun had begun to show itself as we left the main road and turned into an area of true forest. The ancient oaks intermingled with beech reminded me of the place the mysterious archer had tried to kill me while out hunting with the king. But here the trees were less majestic; they were gnarled and stunted, and the space between their thick, mossy trunks was choked with undergrowth. Little by little, the track narrowed until it became no more than a footpath, and the branches above the height of a man’s head reached out and scratched our faces as we pushed our horses forward.

‘Can’t be much further now,’ said Hroudland, finally dismounting when progress on horseback became too difficult. He handed the reins to our escort and told them to wait. Stiffly I got down from my horse and followed the count as he strode briskly onward. The forest smelled of earth and wet leaves, and — oddly — there was no sound of wildlife, no birdsong, not even the faint rustling of a breeze in the stagnant, still air. It was eerie, and I grew uneasy.

Hroudland did not appear to notice the silence. He drew his sword and, when the path became very overgrown, slashed back the undergrowth.

‘If the legend was true, this is where we should encounter an ugly giant,’ he joked to me over his shoulder. ‘Someone to show us on our way.’

But we saw no one, though I thought I detected the occasional faint trace of a footprint on the muddy track we were following.

Eventually, just as I was about to suggest that we turn back, we emerged into a clearing. It was no more than twenty paces across and open to the sky. It had the serene, tranquil air of an ancient place. In the centre stood a great upright stone. The boulder was similar to the menhirs I had seen on the moors in the mist, but here it stood alone, its rough grey sides speckled with pale circular patches of lichen growth. Close to the foot of the boulder was a shallow pool, little more than a large puddle. In the stillness of the glade the only movement was a faint ripple disturbing the water’s surface. A spring was bubbling out of the ground. My spine prickled.

‘This must be the place,’ said Hroudland confidently. He sheathed his sword and looked around at the bushes. ‘But I don’t see a golden cup hanging from a branch.’

He crossed to the stone and examined it more closely. ‘Nor is it studded with gems,’ he added with a derisive snort. ‘Another fable.’

I walked across to join him. A small trickle of water overflowed from the pool and drained out of the glade to where it was soon lost under some bushes. Something caught my eye, a small shadow under the surface of the rill, a dark patch that came and went as the water washed over it. I leaned in closer. Lying on its side, submerged in the water, was a metal beaker. Reaching in, I picked it up tentatively. I knew instinctively that it was extremely old. It was the size and shape of a small tankard or a large cup without a handle. I shook off the drops of water and turned it this way and that, searching for distinguishing marks in the dull surface. The cup was made seamlessly from a single sheet of metal, without joints or rivets; there were only patterns of dots, pecked into the surface with a pointed instrument. They swirled around it in mysterious whorls.

‘What have you got there?’ demanded Hroudland. He strode across, taking the cup from my grasp. ‘Probably a drinking cup dropped here by a woodsman.’

‘My guess is that it’s bronze,’ I said.

My friend pulled out a dagger from his belt and scratched the surface of the cup with the tip of the blade. It left no mark.

‘It’s not Yvain’s cup of gold, that’s for sure. Far too hard.’

He grinned at me mischievously.

‘Let’s see if it will work its magic as it did for Yvain.’

Hroudland knelt down by the little pool and filled the cup with water. Walking across to the great boulder, he tossed the contents over the grey rock, stood back, and looked up at a sky still covered with its thin veil of cloud through which the disc of the sun could just be seen.

Nothing happened. The forest around us remained completely still and silent, the air pressed down on us, heavy and clammy.

‘There you are, Patch,’ Hroudland declared. ‘It can’t even summon up a storm.’

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when, without any warning, there came a hard pattering noise all around us. It was the sound of a myriad of fat, heavy rain drops striking the branches and bushes, splattering on the soggy carpet of dead leaves. There was not a breath of wind so the rain fell straight, as if tipped directly from the sky. The freakish shower lasted only a few minutes, five at most. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the downpour stopped. The eerie silence returned.

Hroudland looked down at the bronze cup in his hand and gave a nervous laugh.

‘Coincidence, Patch. What about the gale? The story of Yvain says that when he poured the water on the stone, a great gale arose and ripped the leaves from the trees.’

‘There are no leaves. It’s winter,’ I pointed out.

We looked at one another, both silent for a moment.

And into that silence came another sound, a hollow rushing noise. It filled the air, coming closer and louder though it happened so quickly and without warning that there was no time to say from which direction the sound was coming. Then my skin crawled as a shadow passed across me, momentarily darkening the sky above the glade.

I looked up. A great flock of birds, thousands of them, was swirling over the clearing. We were hearing the beating of their wings, a noise that rose and fell as the flock circled twice and then came spiralling around our heads to land on the boughs and twigs of the trees and bushes around us. There were so many birds that it was impossible to count their number. They settled on every possible perch until the thinner branches began to sway and sag under their weight. I had never before seen birds like them. They were the size of thrushes, brownish-black and with short yellow beaks. They clung on their perches, seeking to keep their balance, occasionally shifting to get a firmer grip with their feet or to allow yet another bird to land beside them, but never settling on the ground. Then a faint, subdued chatter arose, and the entire circle of the glade seethed with birdlife.

Hroudland and I stood motionless for the few moments it took for the vast flock to rest. Then, just as abruptly as they had arrived, the birds took wing. They leapt from the branches and twigs in a great rustling and flutter of feathers, and a moment later they were climbing up into the air and streaming away over the tree tops like a thick plume of dark smoke.

Hroudland gave a short, staccato laugh.

‘They knew about the pool. They probably came wanting to drink, but our presence frightened them away,’ he said.

‘There were far too many to drink at that tiny pool. And there must be other pools and lakes all over the forest.’

Hroudland looked down at the cup still in his hand.

‘Can you imagine anything more pointless? Even if this thing does summon rain and storms, it would be far more valuable to this soggy country if it caused the clouds to roll away and the sun to shine.’

He tossed the cup into the air, and caught it as it spun back down to his hand.

‘I think I’ll keep this, and wave it under the nose of the next fool who tries to tell me that there is truth in the childish tales of these Bretons.’

‘Perhaps we should leave the cup where we found it,’ I said, trying hard not to sound craven. ‘It may be nothing more than superstition, but the cup was there for a purpose.’

But Hroudland ignored my feeble protest. He turned on his heel and headed back down the way we had come. I started to follow him, but before I left the glade I turned for one last look, and stopped with a jolt.

My brother’s fetch was standing by the stone, watching me silently.

A chill came over me. Hroudland had made a terrible error. The cup should remain where we had found it. For a long moment my brother just stood there and I could find neither anger nor reproach in his face, only regret. Then I heard Hroudland call my name, shouting that we should hurry if we were to get back to the great hall before dark. I had no wish to be left alone in that ominous, supernatural place, so I dropped my gaze and stumbled away, fearful that what I had allowed to happen would have calamitous results, yet knowing that nothing I could say would deflect Hroudland from his chosen course. What had happened at the fountain of Barenton was another step along the path that Fate had chosen for him.

It was only when our little group was back on the main road that I had the chance to ask Hroudland the question that had been troubling me.

‘Why did we go to the trouble of visiting the fountain?’ I asked. ‘What’s so important about disproving an ancient folk tale?’

We were riding at a brisk trot. Hroudland pulled on the reins to slow his horse to a walk so that he did not have to shout. He threw a glance over his shoulder to make sure our escort was out of earshot.

‘As Warden of the Breton March it is my duty to defend the frontier and maintain the king’s authority,’ he said.

‘What has that got to do with a tale told by a blind bard?’

My friend’s face clouded for a moment.

‘The Bretons expect the Franks to be driven from this land.’

I laughed out loud.

‘By whom? They can only dream.’

‘That is precisely my problem — their dreams.’

I looked at him in surprise. I had never told him about the Oneirokritikon or my own dreams. But he had something else in mind.

‘Patch, the Bretons await the return of a war leader who will restore their independence. As long as they think like that, the March is not secure.’

‘What’s the name of this saviour warrior?’ I enquired with more than a hint of disbelief.

‘They know him as Artorius.’

Something stirred in my memory, something that I had heard as a child. My teacher had spoken of an Artorius, a king who had led the resistance against my own people when they first came to settle in Britain.

‘If it’s the same person I’m thinking of, you don’t need to worry,’ I said. ‘Artorius has been dead for a couple of hundred years.’

Hroudland threw me a sharp glance.

‘What do you know about him?’

‘He fought my Saxon ancestors and was mortally wounded in battle. His followers set his corpse adrift in a boat.’

Hroudland’s mouth was set in a grim line.

‘Exactly the same story is told here. Bretons and Britons share a common history. They claim that the boat drifted on to our coast and Artorius was buried with a great boulder as his tombstone, a stone like the one we saw by the fountain. They say he will rise and lead them to victory.’

I had to chuckle.

‘That can’t please their Christian priests. It’s too much like their own story about their risen saviour.’

Hroudland frowned at me. He was impatient that I would not take him seriously.

‘You’re wrong. The priests are adding fuel to the fire. They’ve begun using this Artorius as an example of a good Christian ruler. They say he did good deeds and encouraged his very best men to track down the holiest relics from the time of Christ himself.’

‘And did they find any?’

The count reached into his saddlebag, drew out the cup he had stolen from the fountain and held it up.

‘If they did, maybe they looked something like this.’

At last I understood.

‘So you went to the fountain intending to discredit the stories about Artorius. You knew that there would be neither a gem-studded stone nor a golden cup. They were as fanciful as the legend of Yvain himself, and as he was supposed to be one of Artorius’s men, then he and his lord were both make-believe.’

Hroudland casually tossed the cup into the air and caught it again. ‘You hoped to show that the gem-studded stone and golden cup did not exist. Yvain was one of his men.’

‘And I found that the famous gold cup is nothing but a small, bronze beaker. I think I’ll put it on display in the great hall or I might even drink from it at my next banquet. That will make both the priests and the pagan stone-worshippers think again about the truth in the wonderful adventure of Yvain.’

‘What about the strange shower of rain, and the flock of birds?’

He shrugged.

‘There are natural explanations for both of them, but neither you nor I need mention them.’

I was silent for several moments as I thought over his reply.

‘And if the story had been true? If we had found a cup of gold and a stone studded with gems?’

He showed his teeth in a wolfish grin.

‘That would have been even better. I would have prised out the gems with my knife and brought them and the gold cup back with me as plunder. As I said, I need the money badly.’

He spurred his horse into a canter, cramming the bronze cup back into his saddlebag.