The Book of Dreams

Prologue

Aachen, Frankia, 780 AD

Sorely wounded, Roland felt his death coming upon him.

He made his way to where a great block of marble stood.

Raising Durendal, he struck the stone with all his strength.

The sparks flew and the rock was scored, but Durendal did not break.

Three times he struck the rock.

Still the blade did not shatter.

Lamenting, Roland laid himself face down on the grass,

his sword and the oliphant beneath him,

and prepared to give up his soul to God.

I put down my pen and wait for the ink to dry. I am pleased to see that my letters are neat and evenly spaced. I learned the new script under the critical eyes of the men who persuaded the king that it should be made standard throughout his realm. I sit straighter on my stool to ease the nagging cramp in my spine and try to ignore the low incoherent muttering to my right. An Irish priest, ruddy cheeked and bald, has an irritating habit of talking to himself at his desk. It is mid-January in Aachen and the royal chancellery is full of draughts; every few minutes the priest wipes his streaming nose on the sleeve of his gown. He is making notes of what he has seen and heard at court, and has already confided to me that he is writing a biography of our lord and master.

‘I shall call it The Life of Carolus Rex,’ he said, his Latin tinged with the musical accent typical of his island.

A dull title for a colourful topic, I thought. But I restricted myself to enquiring why he embarked on this labour when the notaries of the imperial secretariat were being paid to compile the official record.

‘My dear Sigwulf,’ he replied, ‘the wisdom of the ancients tells us that when great men die, the story of their deeds deserves more than burial in mouldering archives. Their lives must be celebrated in classical prose, enduring and invigorating.’

I wonder just how lively his prose will be when, between sniffles, he adds, ‘With God’s help, my book will be read and re-read for generations to come. It will not be some fanciful yarn recited by the fireside or sung to a simple tune that soon fades from memory.’

He is wrong, of course. Tales of the tongue can be more vivid than tales of the pen; they endure just as long, as I know from personal experience, and they are more widely remembered.

However, the priest’s disdainful remark plants an idea in my mind: I will write a story about the brave, chivalrous and noble man who was my patron and my friend. He also saved my life. My tale will be my way of keeping his memory bright. At times he could be arrogant, vindictive, headstrong and greedy for wealth, yet all agree that his death is a tragic loss. Few, if any, know that I abandoned him in his final hour. That is why I begin this homage with the moment of his dying.

I still grieve for him.