The Book of Dreams

Chapter Eighteen

I had no time to brood. Someone was shouting my name. I peered out of the tent flap, expecting I was being called to supervise the unloading of the ransom from the mule train and its transfer into the army’s ox carts, but the royal messenger who had been sent to fetch me announced that I was to attend the count. The matter was urgent.

‘The bad news came while you were away,’ the messenger told me as he waited for me to put away the Oneirokritikon safely. ‘The Saxons have assembled a huge raiding force in the northern forests and are threatening to invade across the Rhine. The king has called a meeting of the army council.’

As we hurried through the gathering dark I wondered why I should be needed at such a high level conference. I entered the royal pavilion to find it lit by clusters of candles on tall, metal stands. The air in the tent was stifling, and there was a tense atmosphere among the dozen or so people gathered around the map table. One of them was Carolus, and beside him was Hroudland. To my relief there was no sign of Ganelon.

Hroudland saw me enter and beckoned to me to approach.

‘The king wants to know about the route you took through the mountains when you first came to Zaragoza,’ Hroudland told me.

I felt the colour rising in my face.

‘Alcuin asked me to make notes,’ I stammered, ‘but I never got round to sending them to him. I don’t have them with me now.’

The king ignored my embarrassment.

‘Tell me what you can remember.’

I swallowed nervously.

‘The road is very narrow in places but an army would be able to use it.’

‘Show me exactly where the route goes.’ Carolus was briskly efficient.

I reached out to touch the map, and then checked myself. The rough tiles had once pricked my finger and drawn blood.

‘From this side the road climbs through the foothills in easy stages. There’s a narrow pass just here.’ My finger was quivering slightly as I pointed out the exact route. ‘Once you’re over the pass, the descent on the far slope is awkward but should present little difficulty.’

‘Is the track passable for ox carts?’ Eggihard the seneschal asked. I recalled that he was in charge of supplies and stores.

‘In single file, and taken slowly,’ I said.

‘Water? Pasture? Food supplies?’ Carolus demanded more detail.

‘There are only rocks and bare slopes in the higher sections, Your Majesty. But there are several springs and wells along the route, though not in the throat of the pass itself. Beyond that, the nearest water would be a day’s travel on the far side.’

Carolus grunted. He was deep in thought. I had been forgotten. After some moments he turned to Hroudland.

‘We must get the army north urgently. That route will save us three or four days.’

The count leaned forward, and the shadow of his arm fell across the map as he pointed to a spot close to where he stood.

‘Our flank will be dangerously exposed if we don’t deal with this place,’ he said.

I looked to see what he meant. He was indicating the Vascon city of Pamplona. I was puzzled. Pamplona was too far away to be a serious threat, and though the Vascons were hostile, they were unlikely to launch a full scale attack on a large army. They would keep out of the way, glad to see the Franks retreat over the mountains. Then I remembered the count’s intense dislike of the Vascons and the ambush that had killed one of his troopers. I stole a quick glance at Eggihard. He had restrained Hroudland from attacking Pamplona during our advance into Hispania. The result had been a bitter falling-out between the two men. But now Eggihard, even if he guessed what Hroudland had in mind, said nothing. I supposed it was because he knew the count was high in the king’s favour after his stratagem to extract a ransom for the Wali of Barcelona.

Carolus accepted his warning without any questions.

‘Go with your cavalry and deal with Pamplona. Then catch up with the army. Eggihard can take command of the rearguard and cover the withdrawal through the mountains.’

I saw Hroudland’s mouth set in a grim line as he nodded, acknowledging his uncle’s instructions. There was something chilling in his reaction. My presence was no longer needed and I stepped back from the map table. Already I was trying to think of how I could avoid riding against Pamplona with the count. I had no quarrel with the people in the city. They had treated me fairly when I passed through on my way to Brittany. After what had just happened in Zaragoza, I feared that if I was again swept up in Hroudland’s plans I would only add to my sense of guilt.

Hroudland raised no objection when I told him that I preferred to remain with the main army as a guide. He rode off for his raid on Pamplona taking Berenger, Gerin and five hundred picked troopers with him. I did not see him again for two weeks. By then I was high in the mountains and our leading units had already crossed the pass and begun to descend the other side. Behind them straggled a disjointed, weary line of foot soldiers, transport drivers and camp followers. Saracen mounted archers were harassing our rear. Whether they were the Falcon’s men or soldiers from Zaragoza, it was impossible to tell. They would appear at first light and skulk around, sending arrows at long range. Eggihard organized sorties to ride out to drive them off. But the Saracens would simply melt away and return the following morning.

On the afternoon Hroudland got back, I was camped beside a shepherd’s hut close to the pass where the road ran between high cliffs in a narrow defile. It was the same hut where Wali Husayn and I had discussed the slinger who had attacked me in the mountains. I had gone there with Eggihard to investigate an accident with the baggage train. An ox cart had smashed a wheel at a narrow section of the track and was blocking the roadway. Fortunately the damaged cart was one of the last transports in the column, and there were only three more carts behind it. Alarmingly we discovered that the stranded vehicles carried the ransom money from Zaragoza though they should have been in the well-protected centre of the column. The group of four carts was becoming increasingly isolated, and Eggihard decided that we should stay with them until the wheel was repaired, and the order of march could be rearranged.

So we greeted Hroudland’s arrival with relief. He came clattering up the rock-strewn trail at the head of his troops and immediately agreed to detach fifty men to stand guard over the stranded vehicles. The remainder would ride on and rejoin the main force. Their horses were lathered and exhausted and their riders seemed reluctant to talk about the raid on Pamplona.

Hroudland’s unkempt appearance was shocking. His eyes were raw and red-rimmed, staring from a face where every line was engrained with soot. His yellow hair, normally clean and lustrous, was streaked with ash. When he passed a hand across his face to rub away the dirt, I saw that the nails were jagged and grimy. In his sweat-stained and crumpled clothes he looked nothing like the handsome nobleman who had ridden out so jauntily to win his wardenship of the Spanish March. The only fine thing about him was the splendid hunting horn of carved ivory. He wore it like a badge of conquest, slung from a silk cord across his chest.

His companions were even worse for wear. A rough bandage on Gerin’s left arm partially covered a painful looking burn that extended from his elbow to his wrist. Berenger had lost most of his eyebrows. They had been scorched away and only the stubble remained. Their clothes reeked of smoke and there were holes where sparks or hot cinders had landed.

The sun had dropped behind the mountain ridge and the air was turning so chilly that Eggihard suggested we discuss the next day’s plans in front of the hearth in the shepherd’s hut.

‘We wondered why the Saracen skirmishers disappeared this morning,’ said Eggihard, as we took our places on the rickety benches. He was eyeing the oliphant horn with more than a touch of envy. ‘They must have known you were coming up behind them.’

Hroudland had found himself a wineskin. He held it up to his face and squirted out a long draught into his mouth before wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

‘If they return,’ he growled, ‘we’ll soon see them off.’

Eggihard bridled at Hroudland’s bluntness.

‘I take it, then, that you’ve also disposed of the Vascon threat?’ The simmering antagonism between the two men was close to boiling over.

The count gave a bitter laugh.

‘Pamplona will no longer bother us.’

There was an awkward pause, and then Berenger broke the silence.

‘Pamplona has been taught its lesson.’

Eggihard turned towards him, eyebrows raised.

‘Or have you only succeeded in rousing the citizens against us?’ His voice was waspish.

‘There’s not much left to rouse,’ Berenger answered. ‘Their fault for neglecting the walls. We were charging down the streets before they could put together a defence.’

‘And then?’

‘Some idiot set the place on fire. The blaze spread too fast.’

‘Too fast for what?’

‘For us to sack the place properly.’

Eggihard smirked. I wondered if he was pleased that his earlier caution about attacking Pamplona had been proved right.

‘Poorly handled, then. A pity.’

Hroudland flared.

‘Better handled than this botched withdrawal. If we hadn’t got here today, you might have lost the Zaragoza ransom, taken back by the Saracens.’

The two men bristled at one another, and then out-faced by Hroudland and his comrades, Eggihard got to his feet and stalked out of the hut.

Hroudland shot me a resentful glance.

‘Can’t see how you put up with that incompetent fool,’ he said.

I kept silent. I was reminded of my father’s bad temper, quarrelsome and tetchy, when he came back from an unsuccessful day out hunting.

Hroudland squeezed another drink from the wineskin, and then spat into the flames of the fire.

‘The loot we took from Pamplona wouldn’t pay a month’s expenses.’

‘Thankfully you can look forward to your share of Wali Husayn’s ransom money,’ I ventured.

He raised his chin and glared at me.

‘When we charged into Pamplona, the place had already been emptied out. Most of the treasure had been carried away to safety.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure,’ he snapped. ‘We got into the cathedral before it burned. Nothing there. All the church plate gone. The same story with the merchant houses. We found just a few baubles.’

He turned his bloodshot eyes towards me.

‘And now there’s a far greater prize.’

I looked at him baffled.

‘What prize?’

The count leaned forward and tugged a length of firewood clear of the hearth. The end was smouldering. The count blew on it until the first flames began to flicker.

‘Patch, think back to your earlier trip through these mountains. We spoke about it when we were riding south. You told me then that the people of these mountains are an ancient race who have lived in their mountain strongholds for centuries.’

‘It was how Wali Husayn described them to me,’ I said.

‘And didn’t he say that they demanded tolls from the people who used the passes, or robbed them if they did not pay?’

I was growing uneasy with the line of questioning.

When Hroudland next spoke, it was in a dreamy tone as if he was far away. He was staring at the flames on the firebrand in a half-trance.

‘A priest in Pamplona gloated to me, even as his cathedral burned around his ears. He crowed that their greatest treasure was worthless to us.’ With a sudden fierce gesture, the count jabbed the end of the piece of wood back into the fire, and left it there deep among the glowing embers. ‘The priest should have kept his mouth shut. But he was too intent on having his paltry victory — the church’s spiritual value outweighs any wordly price was how he put it. I asked him what he meant, and he said that their greatest treasure was a chalice fashioned from stone. It came from the Holy Land.’

I felt the hairs on my neck prickle for now I knew why Hroudland had ridden up into the mountains with such haste.

The count turned to face me. It was as though he was seeing me for the first time.

‘I asked the priest why the chalice was so special. He informed me that Christ had used this very same chalice at the Last Supper.’

‘I suppose he even told you where to find it?’ I forced as much disbelief as possible into my voice, but Hroudland ignored my scepticism.

‘It took a little persuasion. The chalice doesn’t belong to the cathedral but is brought there for special feast days. For the rest of the year it is kept in a mountain refuge.’ He reached out and caught me by the sleeve. ‘Don’t you see, Patch. Everything fits. The castle in the mountain, the ancient guardians, the chalice from the Holy Land. This has to be the Graal. Somehow the Vascons got hold of it from a group of travellers who were on their way through the pass. If I bring it back to the Bretons, I will become more than just a margrave.’

I made another attempt to deflect him.

‘Everyone knows that Vascon mountain refuges are impregnable.’

‘How about robbery by stealth?’ he said, suddenly sly. ‘Less than five miles from here a stronghold matches the description we extracted from the Pamplona priest. It’s worth a look.’ He gave my sleeve a slight shake to emphasize his words. ‘Patch, tomorrow I’m going to see what I can find there. I want you to come with me.’ He called across to Berenger. ‘Fetch in that prisoner.’

Berenger left the hut and came back moments later, pushing ahead of him a short, wiry man with a weather-beaten look. The side of his face was cut and bruised. Someone had beaten him up badly. A faint memory stirred. He was the Vascon shepherd in whose hut we were sitting.

‘We caught this fellow spying on us from the side of the track as we came up the road,’ said Berenger. He kicked the shepherd’s feet from under him so that the man fell heavily to the ground.

‘This hut is where the man lives,’ I said defensively.

‘Then he must know the mountains as well as anyone. He’ll tell us where we want to go,’ said Hroudland. There was a more ruthless edge to his voice than I had ever heard before.

I should have refused at that moment, or at very least I should have made another effort to convince Hroudland that the Graal was a fantasy. Yet there was something so intense about his conviction that I knew my words would have no effect. It was the same stubborn, self-obsessed Hroudland that I had seen before. Once he had decided on a course of action, he was adamant. This time he had persuaded himself that the Graal was hidden nearby, and he was determined to take it. I could either stand aside and refuse to be involved in such a madcap venture or I could accompany him and assist in whatever way I could. A quick, stealthy raid might achieve surprise but I doubted it. The mountaineers would be keeping a good lookout, knowing the Frankish army was moving through the pass. If there was fighting, the count’s reckless bravery might win a skirmish. But his rashness could equally draw him far into danger.

Conscious that I already owed my life and liberty to Hroudland’s impetuous actions, I decided that I would go with him. If I was the cool head by his side, there might come a moment when I could repay the debt.

Just three of us set out in mid-morning — Hroudland, Berenger and myself. Hroudland had decided to keep our group as small as possible to attract the least attention. Eggihard raised no objection to our departure. Indeed he was so keen to see us go that I suspected he was hoping that Hroudland would get himself killed. Our plan was that we would be back by the time the broken cartwheel was repaired so we could catch up with the main army. Gerin was to stay behind, partly to help stand guard over the disabled treasure carts, but also to make sure that Eggihard kept his word and waited for our return. At Hroudland’s request I carried my bow, and he and Berenger were armed with swords and daggers. None of us wore our armoured jackets for we intended to travel fast and light, and we left behind our horses for the trail we followed was a thread of a footpath that branched from the main track.

The path looped its way around the flank of the hillside and by the time we had gone less than a mile, we were out of sight of the main track behind us. The surface was crumbly and treacherous, and we had to walk cautiously. To our right, the land was a series of steep slopes scarred with dry gullies and an occasional deep ravine. In places a few scrubby plants had managed to take root, but in this season they were parched and shrivelled. To our left the mountainside rose so abruptly that the path was often broken in places where land slips had carried away the trail. It was a bleak, rocky wilderness where the only signs of life were a large bird of prey hanging in the air far above us, and, very far in the distance, a small group of animals on an upper slope that I guessed were wild goats. They took fright and went bounding off across a ridge as soon as they detected our presence.

The weather was in our favour. The day was sunny and bright, and there was enough of a breeze to make the air feel pleasantly cool. I began to hope that Hroudland’s notion of locating the Graal was misplaced, and our venture would prove to be no more than a pleasant stroll. It took us another hour of steady walking before we turned a corner around a spur and Hroudland, who was in the lead, came to a sudden halt. He dropped to one knee and gestured to us to wait where we were. After a few moments he beckoned me forward and pointed. I could just make out some sort of building in the distance. It was perched on a rocky crag that jutted out from the mountainside like the prow of a ship. The building was made of exactly the same grey stone as the surrounding landscape so it was difficult to make out any details. It was much smaller than I had expected, little more than a substantial hut surrounded by what looked like a wall built of boulders. The line of our footpath continued on, doubling back and forth, climbing across the face of the mountain in that direction.

‘That has to be the place,’ Hroudland muttered.

We retreated to a small patch of level ground.

‘Berenger,’ instructed the count, ‘you stay here and keep a look out.’

Berenger started to object but Hroudland cut him short.

‘This is our only way back. I trust you to make sure it stays open. Use force if necessary. If that’s impossible, sound a warning.’

He unslung the oliphant horn from around his neck and handed it to Berenger who accepted it reluctantly.

‘I would prefer to go with you,’ Berenger told the count sulkily.

Hroudland shook his head.

‘I need Patch to accompany me. His bow could make the difference.’ Then he turned to me. ‘You and I will climb up the mountainside immediately behind us. We’ll be out of sight from anyone in that building. After we’ve gained enough height, we begin to work our way sideways.’

I glanced up the rugged slope and must have looked doubtful because he added, ‘There’s no hurry. We must wait until late afternoon before we cross into view of anyone in that building. They’ll have the sun in their eyes, and we’ll be able to take advantage of the longer shadows as we get closer.’

The boulder-strewn mountainside looming over me brought back a memory of the rock slide that had almost killed me. My attention wavered for a moment as I wondered who had been behind it. Since Zaragoza there had been no attempt on my life, and I had almost forgotten the series of mysterious attacks.

Hroudland was speaking again.

‘In our final approach to the building, Patch, I want you to be higher up the slope from me, looking down so you have a clear shot if necessary.’

I had removed the bow from its cover to check that everything was in order.

‘You’ll need both hands while we’re climbing. So keep your bow slung across your back. When it’s time to take up your position I’ll pause and give you a signal.’

I selected an arrow and ran my thumb along the barb. It was murderously sharp. I had a vague recollection that I had used the identical arrow to despatch the Vascon slinger who had ambushed me in that same area.

‘How many arrows should I carry?’ I asked.

‘Four or five. That building looks as if it contains no more than one or two men. If I can get close enough, I should be able to rush the place before anyone knows what is happening.’

We waited until the sun was dropping towards the horizon before we began our climb. We had to grope our way up the steep face of the mountain, handhold by handhold, and made such slow progress that I feared the count had left it too late. He was in the lead and I tried to avoid being directly behind him because he occasionally dislodged large stones which bounced down around me dangerously. Once or twice I nearly came to grief through my own fault when a stone that I was holding worked loose. There was a very bad moment when my foot slipped and I slid backwards for several yards towards the lip of a small precipice. I came to a stop just short of the edge, my heart pounding. Ahead of me Hroudland paused only to look back down at me, glare, and gesture to me to hurry. Soon the muscles of my arms and shoulders were aching with the strain, and I began to worry that even if we reached our objective before dark, my hands would be shaking so much that I would be useless as an archer.

Eventually Hroudland halted his upward climb and waited for me to come level with him. Then he began to angle sideways across the face of the mountain. I followed close behind him, hampered by my bow slung across my back. The going was easier now and we made better progress, stretching from one handhold to the next, spread-eagled in our effort to cover the most ground. When we crossed the ridge line and into view of the building we chanced on to the faint vestige of a trail made by sheep or, more likely, by wild goats. It meant we could move more quickly. Otherwise we would have found ourselves scrambling about the mountainside in the gathering dark.

After we had crept within a long bowshot of our target, Hroudland waited until I was close behind him, and then said quietly, ‘I don’t see any sign of life. Maybe they haven’t posted a lookout.’

I looked past him. We were high enough to see over the surrounding wall and gain a better idea of the unknown building. It was on the far side of the walled-in enclosure, overlooking the cliff face beyond. Constructed of cut stone blocks, it had an unusual barrel-shaped roof of weathered tiles. It was definitely not a shepherd’s hut. There was no chimney or soot marks from a smoke hole, and, from where I was positioned, I could see only a low wooden door and no window. Nor was there any sign of fortification and it was much too small to hold a garrison.

‘More like a tiny chapel than a mountain stronghold,’ I said to Hroudland.

He turned his face towards me and I saw the gleam of excitement in his eyes.

‘Just the place for the Graal!’ he said. ‘Another fifty paces, then I want you to find a spot from where you can put an arrow into anyone who might put his head up over that wall. I’ll go on alone.’

A slight ruffle of breeze made me glance up at the sky. The weather was changing. The leading edge of a heavy veil of cloud was advancing over the mountain crest to the north. Once it moved over us, we would quickly lose the evening light and then it would be a black and starless night.

‘Better hurry. But be careful,’ I told him.

For a moment he was his old, blithe self as he treated me to a confident, light-hearted smile. Then he scurried off, stooping as he picked his way from boulder to boulder and made towards the building.

I found my place, half-hidden behind a great slab of tumbled rock, took my bow from my back, and tied on an arm guard of stiff leather. It might help steady my aim. My muscles were still shaking from the exertion of the climb. Below me Hroudland was sprinting in short, quick bursts from one hiding place to the next. There was still no movement from what I now thought of as the mountain chapel. Everything was eerily quiet.

When Hroudland was not more than twenty paces from the surrounding wall, he stopped, unsheathed his sword, then turned and waved to me. I stepped out into the open, nocked an arrow to my bow, and took aim at a spot just above the flimsy-looking wooden gate. It would be an easy shot. Hroudland ran the last few yards and I saw him give the gate a heavy kick. It flew open and he dashed inside. Afterwards there was an occasional glimpse of his head and shoulders above the wall as he searched the enclosure.

In a short while he reappeared at the gate and called up to me, ‘There’s no one here. The place is empty.’

The tension drained from me. I let my bow go slack, and then began to descend the slope to where Hroudland stood waiting.

‘All that climbing and hiding for nothing,’ he smiled ruefully. ‘We could have walked directly here along the path.’

We went in through the broken gate and I looked round. The enclosure did duty as a sheep pen. The dusty ground was strewn with animal droppings. A length of canvas had been draped over branches propped against the outer wall to make a lean-to shelter. Someone had kindled a fire on the ground in front of it. The charred fragments looked fairly recent.

‘Whoever stays here didn’t want to occupy the building itself,’ said Hroudland. He was checking the door. It was locked.

‘I would have expected there to be some sort of caretaker or a guard?’ I said. The emptiness of the place struck me as unnatural.

‘He could have gone off to Pamplona,’ said Hroudland. He was probing the door jamb with his sword point to see if he could find a weakness. ‘His friends needed help to empty the city of valuables and carry them up into the mountains.’

‘No point in damaging Durendal,’ he commented, slipping his sword back into its sheath. He walked over to a boundary wall made of rocks. They were neatly stacked one on top of the other without any mortar. He picked out a large stone and brought it back.

‘Stand aside!’ he warned, and then slammed the rock against the timber. The door was sturdy and it took a dozen hefty blows before the lock gave and it finally burst open.

Hroudland peered inside.

‘It’s too dark to see much.’

The lintel was so low that he had to duck his head as he stepped over the threshold. I followed him cautiously.

There was a faint aroma of burned herbs. The interior was more like a cave than a room. If I stretched my arms out sideways I would nearly have touched the opposite walls, and I could barely stand upright. The only window was a fist-sized hole left open in the far wall and close to the ceiling. The light from it scarcely penetrated the deep gloom. Both of us had to stop for a moment to allow our eyes to adjust to the darkness.

I heard Hroudland give a low grunt, part astonishment, part satisfaction.

‘There, straight ahead.’

I moved aside to allow more light to enter through the smashed doorway behind me. A thick stone slab set in the far wall made a broad shelf running almost the width of the building. On each end of the shelf stood a small wooden block. They were holders for rush lights, though both were empty. On the shelf between them lay two commonplace items that might have been found in the kitchen of a modest home. One was a small goblet. Five or six inches high, it looked dull and very plain. Beside it was a plate that was even more ordinary, the sort of serving dish for a small joint of meat or a fish. Otherwise the little room was bare.

Hroudland stepped forward.

‘Could this be the Graal?’ he asked tentatively. He sounded more than a little disappointed. He picked up the goblet from the shelf and carried it back to the doorway to look at it in better light.

The sun had now sunk far below the horizon and the chapel, if it was that, was deep in shadow. Nevertheless as he held up the goblet up, I saw a very faint glow, tawny brown within the bowl.

‘It’s made of some sort of stone,’ the count said. On the middle finger of his left hand he wore a gold ring set with a large piece of amber. He tapped the goblet with it and it rang with a hard, flat sound.

He handed me the goblet.

‘What do you make of it, Patch?’ he asked.

If I had seen the goblet displayed on an altar I might perhaps have described it as a small chalice. The upper part, the bowl, appeared to have been hollowed from a single piece of a dark coloured stone, which had a brownish tint in its depths. This bowl had been fixed on to a base made from a dense dark wood that contained black streaks. The effect was rather clumsy and heavy, and the goblet with its thick rim looked neither valuable nor very elegant. I turned it over in my hand, half-expecting to find some pattern or decoration like that I had seen on the bronze cup from the fountain of Broceliande. There was nothing.

‘Maybe this is not the Graal, if such a thing even exists,’ I said carefully.

‘Then why hide it away up here in the mountains?’ demanded Hroudland, taking it back from me and returning inside the chamber.

He replaced the cup on the shelf and picked up the dish that had been lying next to it, and brought that into the light. Again I saw the tawny brown glow. The plate was made from the same material as the goblet. I could only compare it to a fine marble. The dish had swirls of other colours — grey and pale white — within the stone. I had never seen anything like it before.

Hroudland examined both sides of the dish. Again there were no marks. The plate had been carved from the unknown stone and then polished.

‘Those tales you heard from the Breton bards, do they say what the Graal looked like?’ I asked.

He shook his head.

‘The stories were more about the journeys of those who went searching for the Graal, the strange places and the mysterious people they met. .’ His voice tailed off as he saw the expression on my face.

I had been looking past him, over his shoulder at the mountainside. The fading light had lengthened the shadows, changing the appearance of the rocky slope behind him. There were patterns and shapes among the boulders that had not been there previously. I knew exactly where I was. I was in the landscape of my dream, the nightmare of the monstrous beasts and winged creatures that attacked Hroudland and me.

‘What’s the matter?’ the count asked sharply. ‘You looked as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

I forced my gaze back to the plate he had in his hand.

‘We have to get out of here, immediately,’ I said shakily.

Hroudland did not hesitate.

‘We’ll take both the cup and the platter. Later we can decide which is the true Graal.’

He turned and disappeared inside, the plate in his hand, to fetch the cup. At that instant a series of high-pitched whistles sounded from the side of the mountain above me. There were several different notes, one after another. My skin crawled. I swung round on my heel, scanning the slope. But it was impossible to locate where the sound came from. The mountain was shrouded in the gathering darkness. There was a short silence; then came a series of whistles from a different spot. Another succession of notes, rising and falling almost as if they were words. I jerked around, again seeking the source of the sound. But it was futile. I was still peering into the gloom when the original caller responded. Now there was no doubt. The whistlers were communicating with one another in some sort of secret language.

I was about to duck into the building to summon Hroudland outside when there was a fierce scrabbling sound. A dark shape came hurtling out of the shadows straight at me with shocking speed. There was a terrifying snarl, and I was knocked off my feet by the impact of a heavy body. I heard a deep-throated murderous growl and had a glimpse of white fangs beneath drawn-back lips. My nostrils filled with a powerful scent of dog.

I flung up my arm to ward off the gaping jaws. The beast was appallingly strong and determined. It was thrusting and snarling, trying to snatch my throat. I rolled from side to side, attempting to throw it off. I was faintly aware of two more animals. They streaked past me and bounded into the dark entrance to the chapel. From within came the sounds of a vicious tussle.

My archer’s arm guard saved me. The dog had locked its jaws on my forearm, and the leather prevented the teeth from penetrating. I managed to struggle up on my knees, and then regain my feet. The brute was thrashing its head violently from side to side, trying to drag me down again. I reached forward with my free hand, intending to pull it off by the scruff of the neck. There was an agonizing stab of pain as my hands closed on the sharp metal spikes of a thick collar designed to deter wolves.

I backed away slowly, step by step, holding off the dog with my left arm while it continued to growl savagely, shaking and tugging frenziedly. I retreated, just managing to stay on my feet, until I could feel the wall of the chapel behind me. That is where I had left my bow leaning against the stonework. I searched behind me with my right hand and fumbled in the arrow bag until my fingers closed on an arrow. Gripping the shaft firmly I pulled it out. With a great heave I swung the brute to one side and, when its flank was exposed, I rammed the razor-sharp metal head into the dog’s belly with all my strength. There was a yelp of pain and it released the grip of its jaws.

But the brute did not abandon the attack. It stood a yard away, stiff-legged, teeth bared and growling murderously, watching for an opening when it could fling itself on me once again.

I shouted for Hroudland, and he backed slowly out from the chapel in a half-crouch, facing towards the frenzy of brutish snarls that sounded within the gloomy interior. He had set down the dish because he had his sword, Durendal, in one hand and in the other a short dagger. Both blades were pointed towards the doorway. He had scarcely got clear when the other two dogs emerged. They were even larger than the one that had knocked me down. One had a gash in its shoulder, the blood dripping down on the dust. Both animals had their eyes fixed on the count, and they were stalking slowly towards him, ready to spring.

Again I heard that unearthly whistling from the mountainside behind me. This time it seemed closer.

‘They’re somewhere on the mountain,’ I gasped. ‘I don’t know who they are or how many.’

‘If they send in more dogs, we’re in trouble,’ said the count. ‘I can deal with three or four. But a pack of them would pull us down.’

We were out in the open now, standing back to back, facing the growling dogs. They were massive brutes, each as big as a small calf, with bear-like shaggy pelts and heavy square heads. All of them wore spiked collars, and it was clear that they were trained for fighting.

Even at that late stage, Hroudland might have successfully completed his raid. He could have risked going back inside the chapel, snatched up the goblet and the plate, and the two of us could have fought our way back down the track. But then there was a sudden movement in the air above us. It was so unexpected that neither of us had time to prepare ourselves. Out of the gloom swooped down a half-seen shape, a darker form against the already dark sky. It came at an unnatural speed, at head height. I felt the rush of air on my face. A whisper of something flashed overhead. Hroudland let out an oath and doubled over as if he had been struck. Durendal clattered to the ground as he let go his sword and clapped his hand to his face. For a moment he stayed bent over, hunched in pain. When he stood upright and removed his hand, blood was streaming from a gash just beside his right eye.

I had barely time to take in what had happened when again I felt that sinister rush of air. This time there was a sharp blow and searing pain across my scalp as something sharp raked across my head. I caught the quick flap of broad wings and the large bird that had attacked me was rising up and away. It was circling, ready to attack again.

In the distance we heard the oliphant horn. Berenger was signalling that there was danger along the path where he stood guard. Our escape route was threatened.

So we ran. We blundered out of the broken gate and down the dimly seen track. The huge dogs harried us every step. They lunged at our heels, snarling and barking, driving us off like the sheep stealers. I had abandoned my bow but Hroudland had managed to snatch up Durendal from the ground. Occasionally he stopped and stabbed and slashed at our tormentors, making them keep their distance. There was nothing we could do about the birds. They swooped out of the darkness and tried to rip out our eyes. Like the huge dogs, they must have been trained to guard the Vascon flocks from wolves and thieves.

Only when we were well clear of the chapel did the onslaught finally cease.

The night sky then clouded over completely. Without light from moon or stars to show us where to put our feet, our progress was like groping through a black pit. We tripped and fell, got up and stumbled forward a dozen or more times. We dared not stop, fearing that our enemies would have time to set an ambush on the track ahead of us. We lost all sense of time or how far we had got, and it must have been well past midnight when someone called out a challenge from directly in front of us. It was Berenger. He heard the noise we made coming down the track.

‘Thank God you’re back,’ he said. The relief in his voice was very evident. ‘The place is swarming with Vascons, hundreds of them on the move.’

‘Which way are they headed?’ asked Hroudland sharply. Even exhausted, he kept his wits about him.

‘Towards the road. They passed me a couple of hours ago. I stayed out of sight until it was safe to sound the alarm.’

‘We press on at once,’ Hroudland announced. It was an order, and he was once again a war leader. ‘I must be back in command of the rearguard before the Vascons fall on us.’