The Book of Dreams

Chapter Seven

The summer passed, the great storm and flood forgotten as I settled into the daily routine of my companions. I discovered that the bay gelding knew more about cavalry manoeuvres than I did, and I scarcely had to touch the reins in the mock charges and retreats. Instead I could concentrate on handling lance, javelin and shield. But I still felt clumsy compared to my companions, though I did better in the single-handed contests with blunted weapons, improving until I could hold my own with the likes of Oton and Berenger, the weaker members of our company. However, I never matched experts like Gerin or Hroudland, even though the latter showed me how to favour my left-hand side where my eye patch always left me exposed.

During those sham fights it was never far from my mind that King Offa might decide one day that it was better if I was dead. It was not unknown for there to be a fatal accident on the practice field, and I found it strange to be swinging a blunt sword blade or feinting a jab with a lance at someone who might possibly become an agent for the Mercian king. Afterwards, relaxing in the royal guesthouse, I developed a habit of watching my companions and trying to gauge just how much I could rely on them, because I was very conscious that I was a latecomer to their fellowship.

Berenger, always cheerful and open, was very easy to get on with. His sense of humour appealed to me. I was often the first person to laugh at his jokes so that he would fling an arm around my shoulders and proclaim that I must be his long-lost brother. The older man Gerard of Roussillon was more difficult to get to know, yet behind his reserve lay a kind heart and a tolerance born of long experience. I spent many evenings talking quietly with him, learning more about the Frankish world, and he appreciated the deference I showed him. But it was with Hroudland that I soon fell into an easy friendship despite the difference in our backgrounds. The count was open-handed and impulsive. One day, at his own expense, he sent his tailor to measure and make me a new and fashionable wardrobe. On another occasion he suddenly insisted that I accompany him to a meeting with a high-ranking official, telling me that it was the best way for me to see how the court worked. During those evenings when the paladins stayed in their quarters, discussing or arguing among themselves, he would often turn to me and for my opinion as if I was his advisor and confidant. Eventually I found a quiet moment, away from the others, to ask him why he was so considerate to me.

‘Patch, one day my uncle will give me a province to govern in his name,’ he answered. ‘When that day comes, I will need to be accompanied by men on whom I can depend for good council.’

‘But you have other comrades who can give good advice. Berenger, for example; you’ve known him far longer than you’ve known me.’

Hroudland treated me to one of his aristocratic stares, part amused, part condescending.

‘I recall the first evening when you arrived among the paladins and they were exchanging riddles. I remember noting that you were both quick-witted and level-headed. I value that combination.’

‘I hope I won’t disappoint you,’ I replied, for the truth was that I was flattered that the count had singled me out to be his particular friend after such brief acquaintance, and I already knew that there was one way in which I could be of use to him. Hroudland was headstrong and outspoken. From time to time he offended men like Engeler. They resented his royal connections and were jealous that he was so handsome and gifted. In future I would take it upon myself to smooth over the quarrels that the count left in his wake.

Some days after Hroudland had taken me to the royal armoury to select weaponry, Osric arranged to meet me at a wooded area close to the king’s animal park. It was a quiet place, away from prying eyes, and he arrived carrying a long, thin object concealed in sacking. I guessed it contained the curiously shaped bow he had found.

‘I’ve managed to restore it to working condition,’ he said, extracting it from its wrapping. The bow was a little over four feet long and, to my eye, its design seemed to be back to front. The hand grip in the centre of the bow was where it should be held, but the stave curved in the wrong direction, away from the archer.

Osric saw that I was bemused. He reached into the neck of his tunic and pulled out a length of cord. ‘Count Hroudland wouldn’t be happy if he knew that one of his better shirts provided this thread. I’ve made a bowstring from silk.’

He dropped one of the bowstring’s end loops over the tip of the bow stave and settled it into a notch. Then he placed the end of the bow stave on his instep and pressed down strongly. The bow bent, reversing its curve so he was able to slip the other end of the bow string in place.

‘A long soaking in warm oil has brought the limbs back to life,’ he murmured, running a finger lovingly along the gleaming length of the weapon.

He handed it to me.

‘Try it.’

I gripped the weapon firmly with my left hand and pulled back on the cord. I was able to bend the weapon into a gentle curve, no more. Osric gave me the single, iron tipped arrow that he had brought with him.

‘See how far this goes.’

I prided myself on being a good archer. At home I had often used an ordinary long bow for hunting and I was more accurate with it than anyone else in our household. Now I nocked the arrow, drew the strange bow as far as I could, took aim at a nearby tree trunk, and released.

The arrow whipped away and thumped into the target, driving the tip solidly through the bark and into the wood.

‘Why didn’t you make one like this for me when I was a boy?’ I asked Osric wonderingly. I had not expected the arrow to fly so true and with such force.

‘Because I don’t have the bowyer’s skill,’ he replied. ‘Look more closely; it is made of five different parts: the belly, the two arms and those two end sections called the siyahs.’

I examined the weapon in my hand. I could see the complex construction and also how several different materials were tightly glued together.

‘The wooden part looks something like our bows at home,’ I remarked. ‘Heartwood to the belly, sapwood to the back.’

Osric’s slight smile contained a hint of pride.

‘This bow is made of wood, horn and sinew. Each element was gathered at the right season, selected and prepared, carefully fitted. It will have taken at least two years to make.’

‘How did it come to be gathering dust in the royal armoury?’

‘War loot?’ Osric said with a shrug, ‘A neglected gift to King Carolus that no one knew how to use properly?’

I was intrigued.

‘What sort of range does it have and still be accurate?’

‘At seventy paces a competent bowman should put his arrows into a target three spans across,’ he paused deliberately, ‘at a gallop.’

I thought I had misheard. As Hroudland had said, only foot soldiers used bows.

‘You mean from horseback?’ I asked.

Osric noted my disbelief.

‘I can teach you how to do it. Either on foot or on horseback.’

It took me no more than a moment to realize my opportunity. Here was my chance to excel in the paladins’ warrior games. I would surprise and shock my companions.

‘And against someone wearing armour?’ I asked.

‘With the right arrow head, seventy paces is also your killing range.’

That settled it. A thrown javelin might hit the target at twenty paces, but I would demonstrate how my arrows could empty a saddle at three times the distance.

‘Then I want you to teach me,’ I said to Osric.

‘You will have to be patient.’ He gave a mirthless smile. ‘And for once you will find your eye patch is a help. You aim with the right eye only.’

So I became Osric’s pupil. While my more energetic companions wrestled, lifted weights, competed in races on foot while wearing armour, or held swimming contests, I would slip away and practise my archery. Osric showed me the correct stance when I drew the bow, how to control my breathing, allow for the wind, time my release. He explained the exercises to strengthen the muscles in my back and arms, and insisted on hour after hour of target practice. I enjoyed it all, and Osric was no more than honest when he said that I was a natural archer. By the time the leaves began to turn, I was close to achieving the standard he expected — sending arrow after arrow into a target as broad as a man’s torso, at seventy paces. I was still on foot, for he said that shooting from horseback would come later.

King Carolus required that once a week all the paladins received formal instruction in a topic of his choosing. Like reluctant school children we assembled in the entrance porch of the royal chancery. It was temporarily housed in an annex of the great unfinished church and through the open doorway we could glimpse the earnest-looking monks and scribes. Some were at their desks, heads down and hunched over documents. Others stood in little groups conferring, while a secretary with a stylus took notes on a wax tablet. Porters and messengers bustled past us with expressions that told us we were standing in the way of what really mattered in the kingdom.

One day it was Alcuin himself who emerged to tell us that our topic for the day was to be geography.

Beside me Berenger muttered, ‘Thank the Lord! I feared it would be theology.’

Alcuin pretended not to have heard.

‘I will detain you only a few minutes, but it will be long enough to demonstrate that geography has its uses in war as in peace,’ he said coolly. He gave no hint that he already knew me, and he brought us into the chancery and led us directly to a broad trestle table covered with biscuit-coloured tiles of baked clay laid side by side like the squares on a games board.

I studied what was scratched on them — the names of towns, rivers, provinces. I was looking at a great map of the kingdom of the Franks and the neighbouring lands, a portable map ingeniously made so it could be dismantled and reassembled wherever it was needed.

‘We use this for planning, both civil and military,’ Alcuin was saying. He walked round the table to its far side. ‘Here, for example, is Byzantium, the capital of the Eastern Emperor. Over there,’ he waved his hand, ‘is the northern sea.’

I recalled the model of the palace I had seen in the king’s chambers. There had been no documents or written material in his room. It occurred to me that Carolus could neither read nor write, and that this map of tiles was as much for his benefit as for the clerks in the chancery.

Alcuin reached into a small wooden box and produced a number of figurines, miniatures of men, horses and oxen.

‘What sort of child’s toys are those?’ interrupted Anseis rudely.

Alcuin remained unflustered.

‘Do you play tafl?’ he asked.

‘Of course.’

‘In that game you calculate which of your opponent’s squares are vulnerable and which squares hold threats?’

‘Naturally.’

‘Then think of this map in the same way. It tells you who lies beyond your immediate neighbour, and with whom you should form alliances.’

Anseis snorted with disdain.

‘I don’t need that map to tell me what I already know.’

‘But this device will also allow you to plan your campaigns and plot your strategy-’ Alcuin paused for dramatic effect ‘-which is why our king and lord asked me to teach you some geography. He may want your advice about where he should next send his armies.’

Alcuin now had their complete attention; they were like a pack of hounds that have heard the first, faint sound of the huntsman’s horn.

‘If you were to advise the king, what would you say should be his priority?’ he asked.

‘Finish off the heathen Saxons,’ grunted Gerin. ‘We’ve been fighting them for years. One last push should do it.’

Alcuin placed the clay figures of a man, a horse and an ox, facing outward on the tile labelled SAXONIA.

‘So here we assign some infantry, cavalry and a supply train for the task. You will have to bear in mind that the king’s host will be entering densely wooded country. It will be slow work for them.’ He indicated some cross-hatching incised in the tiles. I guessed it represented forests.

‘I disagree,’ said Gerard. ‘The Saracens are a greater threat than the Saxons. They’ve attacked us once and will do so again.’

I recalled that Gerard’s home was in the far south bordering on the Mediterranean and had been ravaged by Arabs from Africa.

Alcuin placed several more figurines on the tile marked SEPTIMANIA.

Hroudland was stalking eagerly around the table, looking at the map from every angle.

‘The best campaign is one that brings glory and also pays for itself. If we overrun the Avars, their treasure will fill our coffers for years to come.’

Alcuin arranged some miniatures, this time in the east, on CARINTHIA.

‘What is your suggestion?’ asked Alcuin. He was looking directly at me.

The little figures on the table were facing in opposite directions, widely scattered and vulnerable. My reply would sound cautious and dull compared to the opinions of my companions.

‘I would begin by asking the king whether he really needs to extend his kingdom. It is already immense and it prospers.’

‘And if he does decide to send out his army?’ Alcuin asked softly.

‘Then he must first secure his borders; make sure that no enemy invades while his troops are elsewhere.’

‘Which is precisely what I and the other members of his council have been telling him,’ said Alcuin. He began collecting up the figurines and returning them to the box.

My companions sensed that the lesson was over and began to head for the door. A clerk came over and requested Alcuin’s presence at a nearby conference with some other priests. But I lingered beside the table, staring down at the map. It was more detailed than I had first noticed. Thin, meandering grooves were rivers; straight lines almost certainly the old Roman roads. Someone had drawn a comb through the wet clay before it was fired, leaving ridges and furrows to indicate the extent of mountain ranges. I allowed my imagination to wander across the modelled landscape as I devised a make-believe itinerary for myself. I sidled slowly around the table, selecting which of the towns and cities I would choose to visit. Their names were not always easy to make out. I bent over the table, concentrating so hard with my single eye that it made me light-headed and giddy. In places the tiles had dark blotches where the clay was poorly mixed, and the lettering was indistinct. The tile labelled SAXONIA, for instance, showed an irregular dark stain the colour of dried blood where Gerin had proposed mustering an invasion army. I shivered, not knowing if this was a portent. Then a glint from the far side of the map caught my attention. It was a pin prick of light, unmissable. Curious as to what caused it, I walked around the table and looked closer. A speck of shiny material had been exposed when the mapmaker scraped his comb through the clay to mark the range of mountains dividing the kingdom from the Franks from the lands of the Saracens. The speck glittered, both malevolent and enticing. Gently I touched my index finger to it and was shocked to feel a tiny pinch of pain. As I withdrew my hand, a single drop of my bright red blood dripped on the tile. This time I knew, without question, it was an omen.

In early September came my first royal banquet and my life changed yet again. The feast was to celebrate the completion of the cupola on top of the royal basilica. For weeks the masons had been attached like spiders by safety ropes around their waists as they nailed in place the last tiles, the sound of their hammering drifting down to us. The banquet was to be held in the as-yet-unfinished Council Hall, the massive rectangular building whose shape had reminded me of my father’s mead hall, though on a far larger scale.

‘Don’t expect too much,’ Hroudland said to me as we loitered with the other guests outside the entrance, waiting to be summoned inside. ‘This place is little more than a shell, and the builders are standing by to stretch a canvas awning to keep us dry.’

I glanced up at the sky. It was midday and the air had the first edge of autumn’s chill, but the few clouds did not threaten rain. I felt self-conscious in a short cloak of very expensive dark blue velvet trimmed with marten fur which Hroudland has loaned me for the occasion.

‘Who’s going to be there?’ I asked.

‘Carolus, of course, with Queen Hildegard, and young Pepin, whom everyone presumes is the heir to the throne, though it’s not official. Plus whichever of his other children care to come along.’

‘It sounds rather casual,’ I said, feeling relieved.

‘Carolus dislikes formal banquets. He much prefers taking his meals with just his family.’

‘And what’s your opinion of your cousin Pepin?’

‘It’s difficult to think of him as my cousin. Carolus never formally married his mother though she was his concubine for years.’

‘I thought the king was deeply religious, a devout Christian who believed in marriage.’

Hroudland gave a cynical laugh.

‘The king is a Christian in whatever way suits him. He uses the Church to his advantage.’

At that moment a trumpet flourish announced that the guests were to proceed into the building.

As we filed inside, Hroudland whispered, ‘Stick close to me. Otherwise you might finish up sitting next to some ancient bore. There’ll be plenty of those.’

The absence of a roof made the interior of the Council Hall feel even larger than it really was. The enormous brick walls with their double lines of windows towered around us, open to the sky, and I could see a flock of doves wheeling in the air high above us. Finally completed, the place would be able to hold at least three or four hundred people, but now only the area next to the main entrance was being utilized. Two long tables had been set up, facing one another with a large open space between them. A smaller table, raised on a low plinth, had been placed across the end of the open space. This table was covered with a white and silver cloth, and gleamed with a display of gold ewers, goblets and other costly vessels, among them a remarkable salver carved from solid crystal and rimmed with a broad gold band inlaid with enamels of every colour.

Hroudland steered me to the long table on our left. Here the dishes were of silver and gilt, and the drinking vessels were beakers and cups of blue-green glass, some of them cleverly shaped to resemble traditional drinking horns.

‘This table is for the likes of us, the companions of the court,’ the count said, pulling out a bench. We sat down next to one another as Gerard, Oton and the others took their places nearby, along with several other people I did not know.

Hroudland nodded towards the far table.

‘Over there, you’ll see the king’s councillors and advisors.’

I followed his glance. Alcuin was with a group of priests. A couple of places away from him sat a middle-aged man in a yellow silk tunic. He had a clever, foxy face and a shock of iron-grey hair. As I watched, he happened to look in my direction and I had the impression that he was taking note of my presence at the table alongside Hroudland.

Again the trumpet sounded, and I nearly fell to the floor as the bench beneath me tipped when everyone jumped to their feet. I clutched at Hroudland and hauled myself upright in time to see the king enter through a doorway which I guessed must lead to his private residence. He was dressed in the same costume as I had seen him previously wear, with the addition of a long embroidered cloak of dark purple held with a gold buckle. He wore no crown or symbol of rank, but his great height and confident stride were more than enough to establish his commanding presence. Crossing to the raised table, he faced the assembled company, lifted one hand briefly to acknowledge his guests, and sat down. He looked bored. We remained standing. After a short interval a group entered through the same door and took their places on either side of the king. They were all women with just one man among them. He was in his late teens and I guessed he was Pepin, the king’s heir presumptive. I had not expected him to be a hunchback. But my attention was drawn to the young woman who had been with Carolus when I was introduced. She was wearing the same heavy amber necklace, but this time her long blonde braids were coiled up on her head, and she wore a headband encrusted with small jewels. Beside her were three other young women, ranging in age from their teens to early twenties. There was no mistaking the strong family resemblance.

‘Who’s the girl with the amber necklace?’ I muttered to Hroudland as we resumed our places.

‘That’s Bertha. If she’s the girl who caught your fancy, you’ll have your hands full. That’s true, isn’t it, Oton?’

Oton, who was seated opposite us, rolled his eyes in mock horror.

‘She’d eat you alive, Patch.’

A relay of servants was passing along our table, serving food and drink. I sipped cautiously at what was poured into my cup. It was red wine, the best I had ever tasted.

‘We never drank anything like that at home,’ I commented approvingly.

‘You’ve got Anseis to thank for that,’ said Oton. ‘His family’s Burgundian estates are obliged to send fifty barrels a year to the king.’

I noticed Anseis scowl; he must have been thinking that the vintage was wasted on foreigners like myself.

Oton reached for a loaf of bread and broke off a chunk, then passed it to me.

‘Here, Patch, have some of this. It’s flavoured with caraway and poppy seeds. The trouble with banquets is that Carolus only likes boiled or roast meat, no fancy sauces.’

A large dish had been set down in the middle of the table, heaped with what appeared to be a heap of twisted, dark-brown sticks.

‘Can you pass me a couple of those,’ I asked Berenger, who was seated on my other side. I had recognized smoked eel and wondered if it was a relic of my trip with Arnulf and his ox wagon.

‘Can’t wait for the hunting season to begin,’ complained Berenger, regarding with distaste the boiled pork and dumplings that had been put on our plates. ‘Venison and wild boar on a spit is something the cooks can’t ruin.’ He called across to Gerard, ‘I’ve a riddle for you:

‘I am black on the outside, wrapped in a wrinkled skin,

Inside I contain a fiery marrow. .

I season delicacies and the banquets of kings,

But you will find in me no quality of any worth. .’

Gerard gave a rueful smile and said, ‘No need to go on. You’ve made your point.’

He produced a small pouch from his sleeve and carefully extracted three or four black seeds which he passed across. Berenger laid them on the table and smashed them to powder with the handle of his dagger. He saw me watching him.

‘Patch, you’re good at solving riddles. What’s the answer to mine?’

‘I have no idea,’ I said.

Berenger picked up a few of the broken grains on the tip of his knife and said, ‘Put these on your tongue.’

I did so. The fiery taste made me grab my wine cup. I took a deep gulp to wash out my burning mouth.

‘The answer is “pepper”,’ said Berenger, grinning.

As we ate, a group of musicians entered the hall and began to play. The noise of their fiddles, pipes and drums made conversation difficult so I covertly studied the guests at the councillors’ table. Several important-looking men wore chains of office. I supposed they were the high officers of state, the seneschal, the count of the palace, the high chamberlain, and the keeper of the royal stables. This last individual, Hroudland had told me, commanded the royal guard. Alcuin and his fellow priests sat in a group, forming a sombre block of brown and drab among the other splendidly dressed dignitaries, whose costumes were bright with rich reds and blues, their necks and fingers heavy with gold jewellery. I presumed they were the dukes and counts whom the king appointed to rule the provinces. Among them the foxy-faced man whom I had noticed earlier was in earnest conversation with his neighbour, but something told me that he was very aware that I was watching him.

‘Who’s that in the yellow tunic, the one with the shock of grey hair?’ I asked Hroudland when the musicians finally began to put away their instruments.

Hroudland glanced across the hall.

‘That viper is my stepfather, Ganelon,’ he said icily. ‘He’s a charlatan and opportunist.’

I would have liked to have found out the reason for his dislike but a hush fell on the assembly. A man carrying a stool in one hand and a small harp in the other had walked into the open space between the tables.

Berenger gave a low groan of dismay.

‘This will be worse than theology,’ he said.

The newcomer set the stool down, bowed to the king, and announced loudly, ‘With your permission, my Lord, today I tell of the great warrior Troilus, son of King Priam, and how he met his death at the hands of the noble Achilles.’

Beside me, Hroudland said in a low voice, ‘Another of my uncle’s foibles. At meal times he loves to hear the tales of ancient heroes.’

The bard cleared his throat, placed one foot on the stool, set his harp upon his knee, and after plucking a few chords, launched into his tale. I watched the king’s face as I tried to decide whether he was genuinely enjoying the performance. He sat expressionless, not eating, only toying with a piece of bread with a large, powerful hand on which a massive gold ring was set with a large ruby.

I already knew the Troilus story. It had been a favourite of my old teacher, Bertwald.

The bard droned on. He had a high-pitched, rather irritating voice, and an unfortunate tendency to lay the stress on the wrong words. I began to sympathize with Berenger’s dismay, and wondered how long the performance would last. The wooden bench was uncomfortable.

The bard plodded through his narrative: Troilus was the most beautiful youth in Troy, a famous warrior, and an adept handler of horses. Daily he went beyond the city walls to exercise his chariot team on the plain before Troy. Afterwards he brought them to a sacred grove to water them at a spring. Knowing his routine, the Greeks set upon him. But he defeated them, wounding king Menalaus, and even put the renowned Myrmidons to flight. When word of this humiliation reached Achilles, the greatest champion of the Greeks, he vowed to exact revenge. He put on his armour and hid in ambush at the sacred grove.

The bard paused. He took a sip of water and fiddled with his harp, tightening a couple of strings. I knew he was doing it for dramatic effect.

Incautiously I muttered to Hroudland, ‘He’s not mentioned the main reason why Achilles had to kill the youth.’

Either the king’s hearing was abnormally acute or I had taken too much of Anseis’s wine and spoken louder than intended. A high-pitched royal voice barked, ‘You! If you know the story so well, why don’t you finish it?!’

I looked up, dismayed. Carolus was glaring at me with those large pale eyes, his mouth set in an angry line.

‘Go on, young man,’ he rasped. ‘Show us you can do better.’

I felt the blood drain from my face. The king continued to stare angrily at me. I was aware of the sudden silence, the entire company watching and waiting for my reaction. Engeler made a faint, clucking sound with his tongue. He was enjoying my humiliation.

Perhaps it was a further effect of the wine, but somehow I found the courage to get to my feet. Without looking at the king, I walked over to where the bard was standing, harp in hand, a look of disgust on his face.

With an ironic gesture he offered me the harp, but I waved it aside. I was no musician. Smirking, he retreated a few paces and stood with arms folded waiting for me to make a fool of myself.

I drew several deep breaths as Bertwald had taught me to do if I was to speak in public.

‘My Lord,’ I addressed the king. ‘There was a prophecy known to all the Greeks. It said that if the beautiful youth Troilus lived to reach full manhood, Troy would never fall. For that reason — above all others — Achilles knew he had to slay the golden youth. So Achilles lay in wait at the sacred grove, and when Troilus came there with his servant, he burst from ambush.’

I saw the king relax. He sat back in his seat, and nodded.

‘Go on,’ he commanded.

By now the wine had certainly gone to my head. The audience seemed to soften and blur around me. I knew they were still there, waiting and listening. But I was in my own empty space and I could fill it with my words. I raised my voice.

‘Achilles fell upon Troilus. He caught him by his long and lustrous hair, and dragged him off his horse. Then on the sacred soil he beheaded him. Then he cut off his parts and hung them beneath the armpits of the corpse so that Troilus’s ghost would never come to haunt him.’ I paused and licked my dry lips. The spirit of tipsy courage had taken complete control. ‘Troilus’s mutilated corpse was carried back into the city, and the Trojans raised a great wailing. They lamented the loss of their youthful prince, but above all they remembered him for his grace and for his surpassing beauty. He was the darling of the people, and none grieved him more than Polyxena, princess of the Trojans. She was the fairest of all her sisters, tall and beautiful. Her eyes were lovely, her long hair the colour of ripe wheat, and her body was well-proportioned. She melted men’s hearts.’

I finished the final sentence and bowed to the king. As I lowered my head, I deliberately allowed my eyes to rest for a brief moment on Bertha. She was staring at me, her eyes wide.

The bard treated me to a look of pure loathing as I walked past him and returned to my seat. The hum of general conversation resumed. Hroudland thumped me on the back as I sat down beside him. My knees were shaking.

‘Well done, Patch!’ he chortled.

The servants had already begun ladling out the next course of the banquet. I picked up my spoon and took a mouthful. It was an evil-tasting pottage of chicken in a spinach and bean broth, heavily flavoured with garlic. Vaguely I heard the musicians start up again. I was too spent to say anything and I kept my head down, eating quietly.

All of a sudden, there was an agonizing spasm in my stomach as if a dagger had been jabbed into my gut. Bile surged up. My throat constricted and I felt I could not breathe. Next there came a great roaring in my head and a red curtain descended across my eyes. I felt myself falling forward, and everything went black.