The Book of Dreams

Chapter Fifteen

Next morning, having risen early and feeling in need of fresh air, I climbed the wooden ladder to the lookout platform on the palisade surrounding the great hall. The day had dawned cold and clear, and a shallow bank of fog pooled in the valley floor below me, obscuring the soldiers’ camp. Judging by the noise, the camp had grown in size in the short time that Hroudland and I were away investigating the fountain. From the fog rose a medley of sounds: shouted commands, ribald laughter, axes chopping into wood, the distinctive ring of a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil, the neighing of many horses. Shivering in the chill, I descended the ladder and fetched myself a breakfast of hot milk and bread from the kitchen beside the great hall. Then, loaf in hand, I strolled down the slope to get a closer view of the preparations for the expedition to Hispania.

Where the ground levelled out, I found myself walking between dimly seen rows of army tents. They stood empty, their door flaps fastened open and I could see the baggage of the occupants whom I supposed were now out and about on their duties. Occasionally the ghostly figure of a man appeared on foot leading a saddleless horse on halter, only to disappear into the mist without a word of greeting. When the smell of manure grew overpowering I knew I had reached the horse lines. The picket ropes to which the animals were tethered hung slack, but somewhere in the mist, a handful of horses was still being groomed. I heard the impatient stamping of hooves, the occasional vibrating fart of a horse breaking wind and the soothing sounds made by unseen ostlers, whistling between their teeth or murmuring soft nonsense as they attended to their animals. Finally I came to the river bank where the ground was churned to deep mud by the animals brought there to drink.

Here I turned to my left, intending to walk upriver. Before I had gone a couple of hundred paces a breeze sprang up and began to clear away the fog in slow-moving tendrils. I discovered that I had ventured on to a broad open expanse of turf and mud — the cavalry training ground. Men on foot were gathered in groups of about twenty, holding their horses’ reins while they listened to instructors. Compared to the escort of smart troopers that had greeted Wali Husayn when we had reached Zaragoza, the men were very scruffy. They wore an assortment of helmets and mailcoats, no two of them alike, and their mounts were shaggy in their winter coats.

The nearest instructor, a lean, grizzled fellow with a horseman’s bow legs, had his sword slung across his back. The handle protruding over his shoulder reminded me of the last time I had seen Gerin as he rode away with Ganelon in the company of the Wali of Barcelona. The instructor was standing with the reins of his horse looped over his arm and holding up a small iron hoop, about the size of his palm. One side of it was flattened.

‘Any of you know what this is?’ he was demanding of his listeners.

One or two members of his audience looked down at the ground and shifted awkwardly. No one made any reply. I guessed that many of them knew the answer but did not want to risk being singled out later.

‘It’s a stirrup,’ announced the instructor. ‘Now some of you think that stirrups are womanly, that a good rider doesn’t need them.’ He jabbed a stubby finger at a tall, rangy recruit in the front row who had removed his helmet to reveal a shock of red hair. ‘Carrot Top, you’re a big lad. Mount up and let me show why every one of you will have stirrups attached to his saddle by tomorrow morning.’

The red-headed recruit put on his helmet and vaulted on to his horse. He was an accomplished rider and sat easily in his saddle though I noticed that his legs hung down each side of the animal, without the benefit of stirrups.

By now the instructor was also on horseback. He drew his sword and nudged his mount forward until the two riders were facing one another, knee to knee.

‘Strike at me, lad!’ he commanded.

The redhead pulled out his own blade and aimed a halfhearted blow that the instructor easily blocked with his shield. Then the instructor rose in his stirrups until he was half a head taller than his opponent. Reversing his sword, he thumped the pommel down hard on his opponent’s helmet. Dazed, the redhead reeled in the saddle.

A hand clapped me on the shoulder, making me jump. Hroudland had walked up behind me.

‘Skulking on the sidelines, Patch, instead of training?’ he queried cheerfully.

‘Where are those men from?’ I asked.

‘They’re locals. I’ve stripped the March of men and animals. The king’s marshals want cavalry, not foot soldiers, for the expedition to Hispania.’ He turned to look at the recruits who were now lining up under their instructor’s eye, ready to tilt at a line of straw dummies. ‘Let’s hope this latest batch of levies are quick learners. We don’t have enough fodder to keep so many animals for more than a few weeks.’

‘If you want me to join them, I’ll need to borrow some armour from you, as well as a sword,’ I said.

‘What happened to the sword I selected for you from the royal armoury in Aachen?’ he demanded, his face suddenly serious.

‘I left it in Zaragoza with my servant Osric. He’s a free man now. I also gave him my horse.’

For a moment the count was lost for words. Then he snapped angrily, ‘You blockhead. That sword was something special. Have you forgotten that it is forbidden to export such weapons from Frankia?’

His outburst was so unexpected that it took me a moment to respond.

‘I’ll ask Osric for it back when we get to Zaragoza,’ I said.

The count scowled.

‘If Osric is still there, or hasn’t sold it.’

‘I’m sure he would keep it until I return,’ I said.

Hroudland drew a sharp breath, clearly annoyed.

‘I’d rather shatter the blade of my own Durendal than let it fall into the wrong hands.’ He swung round to face me and, in a sudden change of mood, treated me to an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry, Patch, I didn’t mean to be boorish. Of course, it was impractical for you to bring that sword back with you. The Vascon sailors would have cut your throat for it.’ He waved his hand towards the great hall on the crest of the hill. ‘Pick yourself a shield and helmet from my armoury and find yourself a mail coat that fits.’

With the prospect of real fighting in Hispania ahead of me, I did as Hroudland suggested: I devoted all my energy to becoming a skilful mounted warrior. There was no time to think of anything else. I pushed aside any thoughts of making contact with Bertha, for I was still wary of palace politics in Aachen. Besides, I suspected that she had long ago found other lovers. I was now the margrave’s man and I owed him my duty, and that meant following him unquestioningly wherever he might lead. After six weeks’ practice with lance and borrowed sword I was fit to accompany the margrave’s cavalry when they set out to join the main invasion force. We struck camp two weeks after the equinox and made an impressive spectacle, the mounted column splashing across the ford at the edge of the training ground in the pale spring sunshine. Hroudland himself took the lead, a stylish figure in a scarlet riding cloak trimmed with marten fur, bareheaded, with his long blonde hair falling to his shoulders. Immediately behind him came his standard bearer holding the staff with the bull’s head banner. Then followed the rest of his entourage — household servants in red and white livery, a groom leading the roan war horse, his councillors and his confidants, of which I was one.

Our supply carts had gone ahead and we followed them southward in easy stages. We were travelling across pleasant wooded countryside, the trees were bursting into leaf and the underbrush was full of small, flitting, rustling creatures and birdsong. The air had a rich, loamy smell of new growth and, except for the occasional heavy rain shower during the first week, the weather was kind to us. Day after day, the sun shone from a clear, pale-blue sky, disappearing only briefly behind the legions of puffy, white clouds that sailed overhead on a westerly wind, their shadows racing across our path and then over the open landscape to our left.

Frequently Hroudland invited me to ride beside him, in full view of the rest of the company, cementing my reputation as his close friend.

‘I’m not sorry to be leaving the Breton land,’ he confided to me on the fourth day of our journey. The road was taking us through a birch forest on the edge of a heathland. The greyish-white bark on the trees reminded me of my stay in Zaragoza. The bark was the same colour as the sheets of unknown writing material I had found in wali Husayn’s guest chamber.

‘Does the winter weather depress you?’ I asked.

‘That and the people. They keep their feelings so shuttered. I’d like to have their loyalty, not just have their sullen obedience. You never know what they are thinking.’ He nodded towards the forest around us. ‘Those birch trees, for example. To me, as a Frank, they are trees full of bright life, hope for the future. But, to the Breton, the birch is a tree that grows in the land of the dead.’

‘My father once told me that the birch is a symbol of a new beginning, a cleansing of the past. Perhaps that is what you need,’ I said.

Hroudland suddenly became very serious.

‘Patch, if I have anything to do with it, this new campaign will indeed provide me with a fresh start.’

I stole a quick sideways glance. His face was clouded.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘Remember our excursion to the forest of Broceliande to investigate the story of Yvain and the fountain and how it ended?’

‘The cup of gold turned out to be made of bronze. I saw it recently with the other tableware in your great hall.’

‘What if we had found a real gold cup?’

‘As I recall, you proposed to have it melted down and added to your treasury.’

‘But supposing the cup had been something of such extraordinary value that no one would ever think of destroying it.’

‘Now you are talking in riddles,’ I said to him.

‘Those Breton bards are always singing about something called a Graal, some sort of a bowl or a platter. It was the most precious object known to their mystical king Artorius.’

‘And what happened to it?’ I asked.

He did not answer my question directly but said, ‘Many of Artorius’s best men went looking for this Graal. Yet only a couple of them ever laid eyes on this mysterious object.’

‘I don’t see what this has got to do with our expedition to Hispania,’ I said to him. I was beginning to believe that Hroudland had spent far too many evenings swilling wine with his friends and boasting of exploits past and future.

He turned to face me and I saw that he was in complete earnest.

‘The Breton bards say this mysterious Graal is kept in a heavily guarded castle, a place difficult to reach because it is surrounded on all sides by mountains. They make it sound as if the castle is somewhere in the south.’

I had to scoff.

‘If you’re thinking that the Graal is to be found among the mountains on the way to Hispania, let me tell you there are few forests in that region. It’s a bleak and barren place where someone nearly knocked out my brains with a sling stone.’

Hroudland was not to be deflected.

‘A little danger won’t deter me from looking for the Graal there, no more than it stopped me from riding into the forest of Broceliande.’

I sighed with exasperation.

‘And what will you do, if you lay hands on this Graal? It could turn out to be like the little bronze cup, something you could buy for a penny in a market.’

The look Hroudland gave me was almost triumphant.

‘Don’t you see, Patch? It doesn’t matter whether this Graal is made of gold or brass or even wood. Imagine how the Bretons would respect the man who returned this treasure to them!’

I had to stop myself from shaking my head despairingly. Once Hroudland fastened on an idea, he was impossible to reason with.

‘And if there is no Graal and the whole thing is a myth?’

Sensing my misgivings, Hroudland laughed.

‘In that case this expedition is still my chance for a new beginning. As I’ve said before, I will serve with such distinction that when we have conquered our Saracen opponents, my uncle Carolus will make me Margrave of the new Spanish March.’ He leaned across from his horse and cuffed me affectionately across the head. ‘And then, Patch, you will come with me as my close advisor, and enjoy the sunshine instead of the Breton drizzle.’

He clapped his heels to the side of his horse and broke into a canter, clods of earth flying up from his horse’s hooves.

A week later we found ourselves looking down into a ruined valley. It was as if a great wind of destruction had swept across the land. Hedges and thickets were smashed into tatters. The young crops in the fields trampled and ruined. The ground was all torn up and wrecked. Not a tree or sapling was left standing in the coppices, and their stumps showed fresh axe marks. It was a truly dismal spectacle and I was astonished when Berenger gave a whoop of delight.

He began humming to himself as we rode side by side down the slope and into the scene of devastation.

‘What happened here?’ I asked.

‘An army,’ he retorted with a grin. ‘The ground will soon recover. Look at all that manure.’

Indeed there were piles of dung dotted here and there, as well as an ugly spew of rubbish — discarded sacking, traces of cooking fires, chicken feathers, gnawed bones, a broken earthenware pot, a split shoe that someone had tossed away. I pulled my horse aside before he stepped into what was obviously a pile of human excrement. It took me another moment to realize that all this squalor lay in a broad swathe leading along the bottom of the valley.

Hroudland was riding a little distance ahead of us. He swivelled in his saddle and called back, ‘Come on! They must be just over that hill crest!’ He put his horse into a fast trot and began to ascend the far slope.

Berenger and I followed, and as we crested the rise I pulled my mount to a halt and looked on in amazement. I knew now why my comrades always seemed so confident of the success of the Frankish army.

Along the bottom of the next valley crawled a huge serpent. It was formed of ox-drawn vehicles, creeping forward in a long line. There must have been four or five hundred of them. Most were substantial two-wheeled carts, though a few of the larger ones had four wheels similar to Arnulf’s eel wagon. All were tented and drawn by two animals, their drovers walking beside them or riding on bench seats in front of the canopies. Even from a distance I could hear the squealing and groaning of the huge solid wheels turning on wooden axles, and hear the occasional crack of a whip. Out on the flanks of the column were parties of foragers stripping the countryside of any vegetation that might provide food for the draught animals. Closer to us a great herd of cattle meandered along, eating every blade of grass or green leaf in its path.

‘Everything the army needs is down there,’ Berenger called out to me proudly. He waved his arm towards the wagons. ‘Tents, spare weapons, grain, cooking pots, trenching tools. That cattle herd is a moving larder of fresh meat.’

‘Where’s the king himself?’ I asked.

He pointed. At the head of the column, in the far distance, was a dark swarm of horsemen, the main body of the army. I could just make out some flapping banners and the occasional glint of sunlight reflected from a shield or spear point.

‘Sloppy of them not to have posted a rearguard,’ observed Hroudland tartly, interrupting us. He spurred his horse down the slope to join the army, and Berenger and I cantered along behind him.

We overtook the column and rode along beside it. Now I could hear the deep grunting breaths of the draught animals, saliva dripping from their mouths as they plodded forward. We came level with a company of infantry, tramping along stolidly, one of many such companies dotted along the column. This group were husky, well-built men, who shouldered short-handled axes. Their sergeant, a craggy figure with cropped hair and a great beak of a broken nose shouted out a question at us in a strange hoarse voice, in a language none of us could understand.

‘They’ll be some of Anseis’s Burgundians,’ Berenger explained. ‘Carolus has summoned troops from all over the kingdom. Each man is obliged to serve under arms for up to sixty days a year.’

‘Do they fight only with those axes?’

‘Their shields and spears will be somewhere in the wagons along with the rest of their gear. There’s no point in carrying an extra burden on the march.’

Ahead of us one of the ox carts pulled out of line. The right hand wheel was wobbling and it looked as if an axle pin had come loose.

Someone, a wheelwright probably, jumped off an ox wagon. Tools in hand, he was already on his way to repair the stranded cart. It appeared that the column was self-repairing.

‘What happens when the column needs to cross a river?’ I asked.

‘If there’s no bridge strong or big enough to take so many vehicles, the scouts find a ford. Provided the oxen can keep their footing, the army moves forward. Nothing should get wet. The carts and wagons are built like boats, to keep out river water as well as rain.’

I noticed that the wooden sides of the nearest cart were sealed with pitch, and the cover was made of greased leather. Nevertheless, something was missing. It was only after Berenger and I had ridden the entire length of the column and were approaching the mass of cavalry up ahead that I identified the flaw. Among all the hundreds of supply wagons and carts, mobile smithies and workshops of the army on the move, there was not a single large siege engine. If Carolus met with resistance from the walled cities of Hispania, he risked failure.

I thought of voicing my concern to Hroudland, but he had gone ahead to catch up with the leaders, and by the time I had a chance to speak to him privately, too much had happened to make me think that my opinion would be taken seriously.

In mid-afternoon the army halted on open ground. Nearby was a lake where the horses and oxen were led to be watered. The ox carts and wagons were parked in orderly lines, the infantry and cavalry set up their tents, camp fires were lit, and cattle selected from the accompanying herd were slaughtered and butchered. Soon so much smoke rose into the air from the cooking fires that a stranger would have thought he had stumbled on a small town.

Hroudland went to report to the official in charge of the practical arrangements for the campaign, a man named Eggihard who held the title of seneschal to the king. Meanwhile Berenger and I set off in search of the other paladins. We found them drinking wine and lounging around a camp fire close to an enormous square pavilion, striped in red, gold and blue with the royal standard flying from the centre pole. Several paladins I remembered from the winter in Aachen were there — Anseis of Burgundy, handsome and swaggering Engeler, and Gerer, Gerin’s friend. Old Gerard was missing and I was saddened to be told that he had never fully recovered from the poison he had eaten at the banquet. His agonizing stomach cramps had returned and his new doctor had advised him to chew laurel leaves, swallow the juice and then lay the wet leaves on his stomach. This treatment had been no more help than the prayers of the attendant priests, and a winter chill took him off while he was still in a weakened state.

Guiltily I wondered if I had been selfish to have taken Osric with me on the mission to Zaragoza. If Osric had stayed behind, perhaps his medical skill would have saved the old man. Now, even if I had wished to return the Book of Dreams, it was impossible.

‘Patch, Berenger! I want you to hear our orders from the king.’ Hroudland was standing at the entrance to the royal pavilion and summoning us. All thoughts of Gerard vanished from my mind. Inside the tent I might come face to face with Ganelon and he was a man best avoided. I had not seen him since he had gone off to Barcelona with Gerin. Even if Ganelon was not responsible for the attack by the Vascon slinger in the mountains and the earlier attempts on my life, he would see me as a threat to his plan to discredit Hroudland as a traitor in the pay of the Wali of Zaragoza.

So I stepped cautiously into the royal pavilion. The interior was more spacious than most houses. I caught a whiff of some sort of incense, and I guessed that the royal chaplain had recently been conducting a service inside. The evening light filtering through the canvas was strong enough to show a heavy curtain of purple velvet partitioned off the far end. Beyond it, I presumed, were the king’s private quarters. The rest of the pavilion was arranged as a council room. Wooden boards had been laid to make a temporary floor. In one corner two clerks sat at a portable desk with parchment and pens. A travelling throne of gilded, carved wood stood on a low plinth, and the centre of the room was entirely taken up by a familiar object — the great tile map that I had last seen in the Aachen chancery. It had been reassembled on trestle tables.

A dozen senior officers and court officials were already standing around the map, talking quietly among themselves. My heart was in my mouth as I scanned their faces, looking for Ganelon. But he was not there, nor among the outer circle of lesser attendants and advisors. I quietly joined them just as the velvet curtain was abruptly pulled aside and the king strode into the room. Carolus was bare-headed and dressed in his usual workday clothing, brown woollen tunic and hose with cross garters of plain leather, and he wore no badges of rank. Outside the tent one might have mistaken him for a common soldier; tall but unremarkable.

His glance swept round the assembled company and I could have sworn that it lingered for a moment on my face as he recalled who I was. Ignoring the wooden throne, he walked straight to the map table, and was straight down to business.

‘I have summoned this meeting so that you are all familiar with our plan for the campaign in Hispania,’ he announced in his strangely high, thin voice, so much in contrast with his air of authority. He gestured toward the map on the table beside him. ‘I want you to take careful note of our dispositions because tomorrow I propose to divide the army.’

All around me was a collective intake of breath. Men shifted uncomfortably, clearly disturbed by the royal decision.

Carolus was aware of the disquiet he had caused.

‘I know it is considered foolhardy to divide one’s forces, but now that my nephew Count Hroudland has arrived with his Breton cavalry we have sufficient numbers to do so.’ Again he indicated the map. ‘A wall of mountains lies between us and the Saracens in Hispania who seek our help, here at Barcelona, Huesca and Zaragoza.’

I was standing too far away to be sure, but I had the impression that he was pointing out the three cities on the map without reading their names on the tiles because he could not do so.

Carolus paused briefly while he looked at his senior officers. He had their full attention.

‘I myself will lead that part of the army — the larger part — that will go around the eastern end of the mountains. We head directly for Barcelona to meet with the wali there.’

There was complete silence in the room. No doubt many of his audience were silently wondering which units would be detached from the main force.

The king turned to face Eggihard.

‘You as seneschal will lead the western division that will go around the mountains and head for Zaragoza where the wali is expecting us. The margrave will be your second in command.’

I felt a glow of satisfaction. It meant that I was likely to see Osric again.

Carolus once again addressed his wider audience.

‘Our spies tell us that our entry into Hispania may encounter opposition. By entering Hispania from two directions we will crush our opponents between us like a nutcracker. That is why I divide the army.’

His audience relaxed. There were murmurs of approval.

The king held up a warning hand and the assembly immediately fell silent.

‘The success of my plan depends on both halves of the army acting in concert.’

‘Your Majesty, what about the supply train?’ asked Eggihard.

‘Allocate the vehicles by their size. The smaller, lighter carts will go with the western division as it has further to travel and must move more quickly. Those details I leave to you and my other captains to arrange.’

Amid the general shuffling and conversation which followed, I heard someone ask his neighbour, ‘Anyone know who we’re likely to be fighting?’

The questioner was a pear-shaped, rather worried-looking man with a strong accent. I guessed he was the commander of one of the contingents from the further reaches of the kingdom, possibly Lombardy.

I missed the answer because Carolus had disappeared behind the velvet curtain and Hroudland was beckoning to me and Berenger. We pushed our way through the press of people and caught up with the count as he was leaving the pavilion and heading in the direction of the tents allocated to the Breton cavalry. The count was in a foul mood and scowling.

‘Eggihard knows how to put pottage into soldier’s bellies and boots on their feet, but if it comes to a fight, he’ll be useless.’

It was obvious that Hroudland resented Eggihard’s appointment over him. I also wondered if the count would have preferred staying with the main army where he would have been more directly under his uncle’s eye to impress the king with his military prowess.

‘Maybe there won’t be any fighting,’ I suggested. ‘We are entering Hispania at the invitation of the Saracens.’

Hroudland gave a snort of disbelief.

‘The Falcon of Cordoba won’t stand by idly.’

‘Who’s he?’ I asked.

‘The most dangerous man in Hispania. He claims that he is rightful overlord of those three rebellious Saracen walis who have invited us to help them. The last time there was an uprising against him, he lined up a hundred of their leaders, kneeling on the ground, and had their heads chopped off.’

‘Then all the more renown for us when we defeat him,’ boasted Berenger.

This was dangerous vainglory, but I held my tongue. Besides, something was nagging at the back of my mind. We were walking past the horse lines and a tall, big-boned stallion had caught my attention. It had its head in a feed bag while a groom brushed its coat. I had seen that same horse on the day I had gone to hunt deer near Aachen; it was the horse that the king had ridden. The memory brought a shiver to my spine. The next animal in the line was another stallion, not as tall as its neighbour, but broader and more heavily muscled, a true war horse. There was something eerily familiar about it, too. I stared long and hard at the creature, wondering where I had seen it before. With a sudden lurch of recognition, I knew. It was the same animal I had seen in my nightmare many months ago, looming over me, one hoof raised. I had looked up in terror and seen blood seeping from the eyes of the rider. It was also the bronze horse of the statue Carolus had brought from Ravenna, the statue I had seen dragged across the sheet ice.

I came to an abrupt halt, unable to take another step. A strange prickling sensation had come over me, paralysing me from head to toe. Unaware of what was happening, Berenger and Hroudland walked away, leaving me behind. I remained rooted to the spot, unable to take my eyes off the war horse until a hand touched me on the elbow and I turned to see a messenger, dressed in royal livery. He was looking at me strangely, and I heard his words through a haze. He repeated them.

‘Follow me, please. The king wants to speak with you.’

I was so numb with shock that until my boots were echoing on the wooden flooring I did not realize that I had been led back inside the royal pavilion. A small group of courtiers was in the outer chamber and they eyed me curiously as I was taken straight past them and handed over to an attendant. He peeked in through the velvet curtain, and then held it aside just far enough for me to slip into Carolus’s private quarters. As I entered I caught a whiff of roast flesh.

The king was eating a late meal. Seated at a plain wooden table, he was gnawing the stringy flesh from the leg of a partially dismembered goose carcass. A manservant was hovering nearby with a jug of water and a napkin over his arm, ready to wash the grease off the royal fingers. The inevitable clerk lurked in a corner, wax tablet in hand, ready to take down notes. Otherwise the king was alone.

He gnawed a strip of meat from the bone. His teeth were big and strong, a match for his great size. When he raised his face towards me, I again saw the grey, watchful eyes. A morsel of food was trapped in his moustache.

‘Have you anything to report?’ he asked, not unkindly but with a simple directness.

My mind was in a whirl. The face of the king and the image of the man on the horse crying blood were overlapping as if in a waking nightmare. I blinked hard, feeling confused and nauseous.

‘Well, what have you to say?’ The tone was harder now. Carolus did not like to waste time.

‘Your Majesty, I returned from Hispania some two months ago, by sea. I have been with Count Hroudland,’ I stammered.

‘I know that,’ Carolus snapped. ‘Did you learn anything among the Saracens? Did you dream among them?’

Desperately I thought back to all that happened when I was with Husayn. All I could remember was the horrible dream of the snake lying across my lap.

‘Just once, Your Majesty. I dreamed of treachery.’

The king pointed the half-chewed goose bone at me as though it was a sceptre.

‘Tell me.’

I described my dream and how I had consulted the Book of Dreams to interpret its meaning.

Carolus listened in silence.

‘This happened when you were staying with Wali Husayn in Zaragoza?’ he asked when I finished.

I nodded.

‘Thank you. I shall be on my guard.’

I began to edge away towards the curtain. I was still deeply disturbed by my vision of the king on horseback, crying blood. I knew I should not speak about it, at least not until I knew what it might mean.

‘One moment!’ he commanded suddenly.

I froze, wondering if he was about to cross-examine me.

‘My nephew is headstrong. If there’s to be any fighting in Hispania, he’ll be in the thick of it.’ It was a flat statement of fact.

‘I am sure he will acquit himself nobly, Your Majesty,’ I answered diplomatically.

‘And you? Do you know how to wield a sword as well as you can manage a bow?’

It seemed that Carolus had not forgotten the day I killed two royal stags. I thought it wiser to say nothing and waited for his next remark.

‘I am very fond of my nephew. I hope that you and your companions among my paladins will see to it that his enthusiasm does not lead him astray.’

I bowed my head obediently. The king had already reached out and was twisting the second leg off the goose carcass. It was clear that my interview was over, and I slipped gratefully out of the room.

Hroudland’s poor opinion of Eggihard’s military leadership was to bring near-disaster on the western army and on me in particular. When we entered the foothills of the mountains marking the border with Hispania, the count persuaded Eggihard that a detachment of picked cavalry should scout in front of the main column. Naturally Hroudland put himself at the head of this detachment. He took Berenger, Anseis, Gerin and me with him, in effect creating his own roving command. His motive became clear within days. Simply put, our advance unit had first choice of any plunder that lay in the army’s path. We ranged across the countryside and helped ourselves to any valuables in the towns and villages. We met little or no resistance from our victims, and each evening gathered at our chosen campsite and piled up the booty we had found that day. Though the booty was meagre it reminded me of the scene when King Offa’s troops had sacked my father’s great hall. So, whenever possible, I waived my share of any loot. My comrades thought I was behaving strangely. To them the chance for plunder was a powerful reason to go to war, and Hroudland had an impatient, hungry look as he presided over the division of the spoils. He always kept a tenth for himself declaring that his expenses as Margrave of the Breton March had left him in debt.

Understandably the villagers and townsfolk were glad to see the back of us when we moved on. Quite how unpopular we made ourselves was made evident to me one bright day in mid-May. By then we were advancing around the end of the mountains, with their foothills to our left. That morning, as our unit prepared to fan out across the countryside, Hroudland asked me to take a couple of troopers and investigate a low range of hills in the distance. He believed there might be a rich village hidden somewhere in that direction.

I rode off as instructed, the two cavalrymen trotting behind me. We were so accustomed to lack of resistance that all three of us left behind our cumbersome lances and shields. Our only weapons were our cavalry swords and daggers. Very quickly we left the cultivated land and came into an area where the soil was too poor to sustain anything but thin, scrubby grass and clumps of small thorny trees. We came across an occasional cattle byre built of dry branches but saw neither cattle nor people, and resigned ourselves to a long ride as the hills were some distance away. Gradually the land sloped upward and, riding along reins slack, we allowed our horses to go at their own pace. By midday it was uncomfortably hot in the sunshine and when we stopped to water the horses at a small pool of tepid water I removed my brunia, the leather jacket covered with metal scales worn by every cavalryman, and tied it to my saddle. I had already taken off my metal helmet. The two troopers did the same.

We remounted and jogged along, following the faint trace of a path through the bushes. We reached the hills themselves and the land closed in around us as the path led higher. Here the ground was bare of vegetation, and the track grew more and more stony, twisting and turning around the spurs of the hills. After some time, one of the troopers called out to me that his horse had gone lame. The animal had stepped on a sharp stone; the sole of the hoof was bleeding. We were deep in the hills and I told the trooper to turn round and begin walking his horse back to where we had watered before. His companion and I would continue ahead for another hour and if we found nothing, as seemed likely, we would turn back and rejoin him.

We rode on. Soon the road dwindled to little more than a footpath, obliging us to walk our horses cautiously in single file. To our left the hillside rose very steeply, a bare slope of loose scree and shale. It climbed at least a hundred feet to a ridge whose jagged outline reminded me of a cock’s comb. On our right the ground fell away equally steeply, dropping into a dried-up river bed. Here, the slope was dotted with boulders of every size and shape. They had broken away from the crest and rolled down the hill. Some had come to rest part of the way down, but most had tumbled all the way into the ravine below.

My companion was the more accomplished horseman, and as the path grew even narrower, he offered to take the lead. My own horse, a chestnut mare, had a nervous disposition and was reluctant to proceed.

After some twenty minutes of slow progress she lost her nerve entirely. She came to a halt, shivering and sweating, and would go no further. I kicked her hard in the ribs and shouted at her. She put back her ears, stiffened her legs and refused to budge. I kicked again and shouted even louder. My shout came back to me as an echo from the steep slopes all around. As the sound faded I heard a gentle clatter. Looking up and to my left, I saw that a small section of hillside close to the path had come loose and was sliding downhill in a thin trickle of gravel. The flow halted, there was a final rattle of the last few pebbles, and a brief silence. Then a sharp, much louder crack sounded. I shifted my gaze higher up to the cock’s comb of the ridge above me just in time to see a moderate-sized boulder break free and slip downward a fraction. It was about the size a man could encircle with his arms. It hung motionless and time seemed to stand still. In a heartbeat it began to roll, tumbling end over end. It gathered speed, first making small leaps, and then as it struck a rocky ledge it was thrown outward, bounced, and flew with even greater force, hurtling downward in a series of destructive arcs.

I shouted a warning to my companion, less than ten paces ahead. He had already seen the danger and put heels to his horse’s flanks. The animal jumped forward, and this action saved them. The boulder went spinning past them and crashed on down the hill.

‘Are you all right?’ I called out. I was struggling to control my mare. The animal had been terrified into action and was scrabbling with its hooves, lunging from side to side. I feared we would slip off the loose surface of the path and plunge to our destruction.

‘A near miss,’ came back the call, and the trooper gave a confident wave to reassure me. ‘We’ll be on safer ground soon.’

Underneath me the mare was still shaking with fright so I nearly missed the same ominous warning, a sharp crack and then the first thud as another rock, slightly smaller than the first, broke away from the ridge line and began its lethal descent towards us.

‘Look out!’ I yelled.

Again the boulder was careering a deadly path down the slope.

By then I knew it was no accident. Someone on the crest was trying to kill us.

For a second time the boulder missed. It leaped through the gap between us, bounding down the slope with a great crashing. Shards of rock flew up whenever it struck another boulder.

I bellowed at the trooper to come back. He flung himself sideways from his saddle, landing on the slope above him. He had the reins in hand, hauling on them, trying by brute force to make his horse turn on the narrow path. The animal gave a whinny of protest and spun on its haunches, turning so that its front hooves were clawing on the loose gravel of the upper slope as it tried to find a purchase. At that moment the trooper himself lost his footing and, arms flailing, slid down under the belly of the horse.

The tangle proved fatal. A third rock came tumbling down. It was larger than the others, and halfway towards us it struck an outcrop of rock and split into two. The smaller part, no larger than a blacksmith’s anvil, bounced higher and higher until it struck the trooper squarely and with tremendous force. I felt the thud of the impact, and then the scream of the horse as in the same instant the collision smashed the beast over the edge of the path. The trooper, his hand still twisted in the reins, was dragged away with his mount. Beast and man went slithering down the slope in a sickening whirl of hooves, arms and legs, bouncing off the rocks as they followed the fatal boulder that had outstripped its victims. Finally they came to a rest in the bottom of the ravine. Neither could have survived that terrible fall.

Now the hidden enemy turned his attention on me. I was the only target remaining. I kicked my feet out of the stirrups and swung myself down from the saddle, stumbling as I landed on the broken ground. I made no attempt to make the mare turn but pushed past her flank, leaving her where she was as I ran for my life back the way we had come. The loose ground crunched and shifted beneath my boots, though thankfully not loudly enough to drown out the warning thud and clatter of the next boulder as it was launched down the slope. I looked up and judged its path. Then I dived to one side, flattening myself against the hillside, feeling the ground shudder beneath me as the rock careered off the rocks. It missed me by a yard or more, and then I was up and running, away down the path and around the next corner in terror.

I had gone perhaps twenty paces when, to my horror, I heard someone chasing down the track behind me. I dared not look over my shoulder and expected a lance point in my back at any moment. Then, to my relief, my panic-struck mare came slamming and barging past me, almost knocking me off the trail. The creature had managed to turn herself around unaided, and was bolting. I reached out, grabbed a stirrup with both hands as she pushed past me and clung on. I was bounced and dragged beside her down the path, and I feared she would run off the track and fall, taking us both down to our deaths. But somehow she managed to carry me, half running, half dragged, for more than a mile before she slowed enough for me to heave myself back into the saddle and gather up the reins.

By then we were well away from the ridge, and I rode on shakily until I caught up with the trooper walking his lame horse. By a stroke of luck we came across Hroudland very soon afterwards. He was out with a score of cavalrymen, checking on his patrols.

As soon as the count heard what had happened, he went galloping off at full tilt, hoping to catch the hidden attackers before they left the scene.

But it was too late. He returned some hours later, riding up to our camp at the head of his men, faces covered in dust, their horses lathered and weary. His first words were, ‘Patch, you were lucky. We found marks up on the ridge where a lever was used to dislodge the rocks. But the enemy was gone.’

‘What about the trooper who was knocked off the track?’ I asked.

‘A mangled corpse. One of my men clambered down to take a look. All blood and broken bones.’ He swung himself down from the saddle and walked over to the campfire, his face serious. ‘Tomorrow I’ll call the men together and warn them to be more on their guard.’

‘Any sign of a village where the attackers could have come from?’ asked Berenger, who had been scouting out on our left flank.

The count shook his head.

‘If there had been, I’d have got the truth out of them.’

Then I noticed something odd. One of Hroudland’s riders had come back with an extra brunia tied to his saddle which, I presumed, he had salvaged from the corpse of the dead man. A brunia was a costly piece of equipment and most of the mailed jackets worn by the men were on loan from the royal armoury; it seemed strange that the mysterious assailants had not stayed long enough to plunder their victim.