The Book of Dreams

Chapter Nineteen

There was no rearguard, as it turned out. The three of us limped out on to the main road just as the first glow of sunrise seeped into the sky. In the cold light we found the treasure carts gone. The area around the shepherd’s hut where we had previously camped was strewn with the usual rubbish left behind by retreating soldiers. The place was abandoned.

Wearily I sat down on a roadside boulder. My knees were sore and bruised and the palms of my hands skinned raw from the number of times I had fallen.

‘Back on your feet!’ Hroudland hissed at me. The gash on the side of his face where the eagle had clawed him was crusted with dried blood. ‘Gerin and the others can’t have gone far and the Saracen skirmishers will be here soon.’

I rose slowly. Every part of my body ached.

‘Over here!’ Berenger shouted. He had gone across to the shepherd’s hut in search of something to eat.

The count and I joined him. Lying in the dust behind the hut was the Vascon shepherd. His throat had been cut. The front of his wolfskin jacket lay open. Someone had searched the corpse for anything worth stealing. Our dispirited soldiers had been reduced to corpse robbers.

We heard the clatter of horses’ hooves. Someone was riding at speed down the road from the direction of the pass. Berenger and Hroudland drew their swords and ran to take up positions where they could defend themselves. With only a dagger in my belt, I considered whether to take refuge inside the hut but thought better of it. I did not want to be accused of cowardice.

The rider came in view. He had a plain red shield on his arm and Hroudland’s roan war stallion on a leading rein. It was Gerin.

‘I thought you might come back,’ he called out. ‘We don’t have much time.’

He tossed the stallion’s reins to Hroudland and leaned down, extending an arm towards me so that I could scramble up behind him.

‘How far ahead are the others?’ Hroudland demanded, settling himself into the saddle of the roan, and then hoisting Berenger up on to the crupper.

‘Five or six miles. Eggihard ordered the carts to move on as soon as the broken wheel was fixed.’

We set off at a canter, the sound of the hooves echoing off steep rocky slopes. Hroudland had to raise his voice to make himself heard.

‘I told you to make him wait for our return.’

Gerin snorted.

‘Carolus sent Count Anselm back to find out what the delay was all about. The king is worried about the gap between the main army and the last of the carts. Anselm accepted Eggihard’s suggestion that the carters should travel through the night.’

Hroudland cursed both Eggihard and Anselm. The latter was count of the palace and could act with the king’s authority.

‘Where’s Carolus now?’ he called to Gerin.

‘Already through the main pass. He’s taken the main cavalry with him and intends to push on to face the Saxons.’

The road was rising steadily, one bend after the other. I was glad I was no longer on foot. I doubted I had enough strength left to have made the climb. I twisted around, looking back over my shoulder, trying to recall what I had seen when coming in the opposite direction with Wali Husayn. The rocks and slopes all looked alike, featureless and forbidding.

Only when we reached the treasure carts did I know where we were. Up to my left I recognized the rocky slope on which I had killed the Vascon slinger who had ambushed me.

The four treasure carts were halted at the place where Husayn and his men had stopped to say their noonday prayers. Here the road widened out, and there was enough space for the drivers and their oxen to pause and rest. Their escort of some thirty heavily armed cavalrymen was standing around, looking bored and impatient, waiting for the journey to continue. I wondered which one of them had murdered the Vascon shepherd.

Hroudland sprang down from his horse and strode off to confront Eggihard and a tubby, balding man in an expensive-looking war coat of chain mail that extended right down to cover his ample thighs. I guessed he was Count Anselm.

Hroudland was furious, and his voice carried clearly.

‘Where are the rest of my men? I left fifty of them as guards. I can see barely a score of them now,’ he snarled.

Eggihard shrugged. He seemed to accept that Hroudland had a right to take charge again.

‘Count Anselm brought more soldiers with him. I relieved the others, and they’ve gone ahead.’ He treated Hroudland to a look full of malice. ‘While you were away on your private escapade, we outstripped any Saracen pursuit by travelling through the night. In a few more miles we’ll be through the pass and back on Frankish soil.’

Hroudland glowered.

I had to get away from the incessant bickering. I slid down from the back of Gerin’s mount and picked my way up the slope and sat down on the exact same spot where I had written up my notes for Alcuin. The rock was already warm from the sun. It was going to be a hot day.

I sat quietly, gazing toward the plains in Hispania just visible in the distant haze. Somewhere out there was Osric. I wondered whether he would spend the rest of his life in Zaragoza as an official of the wali’s court or whether he would eventually find his way back to the city of his birth. It was strange that fate allowed him a choice, while I could not return to my own homeland as long as King Offa ruled. Thinking about Offa reminded me that Gerin had once served the King of Mercia. Looking down towards the road I could see Gerin with his red shield slung on his back. He was chatting to one of the troopers. Previously I had suspected him of being behind the attempts to have me killed. Now that seemed unlikely. He had been just as quick to get me out of danger as to extricate Hroudland and Berenger.

My gaze drifted back to the mountain opposite me, on the far side of the road. The slope was a jumble of boulders and broken rock with an occasional ledge and overhang. There were no trees or shrubs to add a touch of green. Everything was grey, from the darkest shade of slate to the colour of cinders left in a cold hearth. I slid my eyepatch up on my forehead. A speck of grit had worked its way under it and was lodged in the corner of my eye. It pricked painfully and made my eye water. I rubbed the eye to clear it, and before putting the patch back in place I blinked several times to clear my vision. Perhaps because I was using both eyes I saw the far hillside much more clearly. A dark shape that I had thought was a boulder was nothing of the sort. It was a man. He was sitting motionless, his clothing the exact colour of the rocks around him; even his head was swathed in grey material. He was watching the ox carts on the road below him. After I had spotted the first man, it was much easier to see the others. They were spread out across the slope, waiting and watching, not moving. There must have been a dozen or more. My heart thumped wildly, and I replaced my eye patch. Slowly I got to my feet and began to descend the slope, careful not to hurry.

‘There are men lying in wait on the slopes above us,’ I said under my breath to Hroudland, forcing myself to act as though everything was normal.

He did not even glance upward.

‘They’ll be the Vascons that Berenger saw earlier. Any idea how many?’

‘At least a dozen, maybe twice that number.’

‘There’ll be many more waiting at whatever place they’ve selected for an ambush,’ he said calmly. He beckoned to Gerin to come to join us.

‘Patch tells me that there are Vascon watchers on the slopes above us,’ he told Gerin. ‘Is there someone who might know where their attack is likely to take place?’

Gerin signalled to one of the guards to join us. The man’s battered face with its broken nose seemed familiar. I recalled him as the Burgundian sergeant I had seen marching at the head of his troop on the way to Hispania. He had his short-handled axe slung from his belt. I wondered why he was now a mounted soldier and what had happened to the rest of his unit.

‘What’s your name?’ Hroudland asked him.

‘Godomar, my Lord.’

‘You came with Count Anselm?’

‘I did, my lord.’ The man spoke with an unnaturally husky voice and there was the scar of an old wound on his throat.

‘So you’ve travelled this road a couple of times,’ said Hroudland. ‘If you were to set an ambush, where would it be?’

‘About half a mile ahead, my lord,’ the Burgundian replied without hesitation. ‘The road runs through a small ravine, low cliffs on either side. Ideal spot.’

‘Any way we can avoid it?’

Godomar shook his head.

‘Gerin, I’m putting you in charge of the vanguard,’ said Hroudland briskly, ‘with Godomar as your second in command. You’ll have ten men.’ He sounded purposeful, almost eager. ‘Expect an attack. It’s likely to come from both sides — arrows and slingstones followed by a charge.’

The Burgundian’s eyes flicked to where Anselm stood with Eggihard. He was worried about taking orders directly from Hroudland.

The count noted his hesitation.

‘Godomar, the king appointed me to command the rearguard,’ he said firmly.

The veteran raised his hand in a salute and was about to leave when Hroudland warned, ‘The Vascons will try to block the road with boulders. Tell your men that they will have to clear away any obstacle. The treasure carts must get through, at whatever cost.’

As the Burgundian went off to carry out Hroudland’s instruction, Gerin’s mouth twisted in a sardonic smile.

‘Cavalry men won’t like getting off their horses in order to roll boulders around.’

‘By the time the Vascons have finished with us, we’ll be lucky if there are enough horses left for anyone to ride,’ retorted Hroudland grimly. He was in his element, issuing orders. ‘Berenger, I’m putting you and Patch on either side of the carts. I’ll assign five troopers to each of you. The enemy will try to cripple the draught animals. Your job is to protect the oxen.’

‘Where will you be?’ I asked him. My horse, the bay gelding, was tethered at the tail of a cart. I had left my sword for safekeeping with the carter.

‘At the rear with the rest of the troopers. That’s where the Vascons will concentrate their attack.’

The halt was over. The drovers were fussing around their oxen, getting ready to move off. Godomar was talking quietly to several of the troopers and they were mounting up and taking their position ahead of the carts.

Eggihard and Anselm sauntered across, making it obvious from their casual manner that they did not care much for Hroudland or his leadership.

Hroudland allowed his irritation to show.

‘It’s time you were mounted up. I’m assigning you to the rearguard,’ he snapped at them. He deliberately turned his back and put a foot into the stirrup of his roan, ready to climb into the saddle.

Eggihard paused for a moment. Then he observed in a voice loud enough for the nearest soldiers to hear him, ‘I would have despatched a messenger to the king by now.’

Hroudland’s back went rigid. He removed his foot from the stirrup and swung round to glower at Eggihard.

‘A messenger to say what?’ he demanded icily.

‘To ask the army to turn back and assist.’

Two red spots of anger appeared on Hroudland’s cheeks.

‘I have not the slightest intention of running to the king asking for help,’ he snapped.

Eggihard raised an eyebrow insolently.

‘And if we are outnumbered, what then?’

‘We fight our way through. That’s what the king expects of us.’ Hroudland pointedly allowed his gaze to settle on Anselm’s bulging waistline. ‘Unless you and your companion no longer have the stomach for it.’

Anselm looked as though he would explode with anger.

‘I’ll hold my own against any man who cares to go against me,’ he spluttered.

‘Then I suggest you reserve your fighting prowess for the coming battle,’ snarled Hroudland. Without bothering to put a foot into the stirrup, he vaulted into the saddle. A moment later he was trotting off, shouting encouragement at the ox drovers, encouraging them to pick up the pace.

Riding beside the treasure carts brought back memories of the days when Osric and I had tramped along behind Arnulf’s eel wagon. There was the familiar farmyard smell from the oxen, and the four heavily laden carts rumbled along at the same sedate walking pace. The road surface was very rough, and their solid wheels juddered and shook as they rolled over small rocks or dropped into pot holes. Arnulf had handled his well-trained oxen by himself, but here in the mountains each cart needed two men, one walking beside the animals, the other seated on the cart and armed with a whip to urge the animals on. The axles worn down by months of travel produced a continuous, high-pitched squealing that announced our presence to anyone within half a mile and set one’s teeth on edge.

It was unnerving to know that the Vascon sentinels were watching our every step. I found myself wondering how often they had tracked the progress of other travellers labouring along the same narrow road. Perhaps this was how the stone platter and the little chalice had come into their possession, looted from victims of an ambush sometime in the distant past. I had no doubt that the Vascons knew about the ransom that Wali Husayn had paid. The bags of silver would be sufficient enticement for an attack, and Hroudland’s brutal sack of Pamplona had given the Vascons a powerful reason to wreak bloody revenge.

So, despite the blazing sunshine, I wore an iron helmet over a felt skull cap. The metal plates of a brunia protected my body. Thick, padded gauntlets covered my hands and forearms. Only my legs felt vulnerable. I sweltered in the searing heat and the perspiration ran down my body until my saddle was slippery with sweat. Like the troopers riding with me, I knew there would be no time to don our war gear when the Vascons chose to launch their assault.

It was the trooper just behind me who first spotted the danger. He gave a sharp cry of alarm and pointed up to our right. I swivelled in the saddle and looked up the steep slope of the mountain. The Vascons had struck early, well before we reached the gorge. The mountainside was sprouting men, a hundred or more. They had been lying in wait, concealed among the rocks. Now they rose from the ground and began to descend, leaping and slithering. As they advanced they raised a war cry, the most chilling sound I had heard. It was a terrible wolfish howl, mournful and without pity.

There was momentary panic along our line. The drovers struck out with their long whips. Troopers cursed as they swung their shields off their backs and slid their arms through the straps. Everyone grabbed for their weapons. Hroudland was bellowing at us to close ranks and keep moving and face the danger.

The Vascons had another surprise for us. We had expected their first attack to come as a hail of sling stones and arrows. But we had misjudged their ferocity. There was a clatter of slingstones, though only a few. At the same time a couple of dozen arrows fell among us without doing much harm, though a wounded horse screamed. It was the reckless savagery of the Vascon charge that was dismaying. They came seething down the hill in a surge of raw hatred and hostility. They were determined to engage us hand to hand. At that moment I knew for certain that it was not the wali’s ransom that drew them on but the burning desire to exact retribution for the destruction we had inflicted on their city.

Their leading warriors had concealed themselves within a few yards of the track. They sprang up from the ground and lunged at our horses’ bellies with daggers and short swords. Few succeeded in reaching their targets. Our troopers spitted them on their lances. Their iron sword blades cut down through muscle and bone, severing outstretched hands and limbs. The Vascons wore no armour. They were dressed in jackets of wolfskin and leggings of coarse cloth, and they took fearful losses. The man who had selected my gelding as his victim scuttled out of the roadside ambush and came straight at me like a scorpion, dagger raised. I swung my sword at him and the well-balanced Ingelrii blade made an effortless arc. The razor edge lopped off the man’s dagger hand as easily as a woodsman prunes a small branch. The Vascon reeled away, leaving a smear of blood behind him.

There was a confusion of shouting and the clash of steel from where Gerin was in charge of the vanguard. Near me the trooper who had first seen the Vascon ambush was swearing steadily as he tried to wield his sword and at the same time bring his mount under control. The howls of the Vascons and the smell of blood had panicked the animal. It was skittering from side to side, trying to bolt, hooves scrabbling on the rocky surface of the road. The trooper was roaring angrily and, unbalanced, he failed to connect as he cut at a Vascon lunging at him with a spear. The point of the weapon gouged a deep gash in the horse’s hindquarters before the trooper recovered himself enough to make a backhanded sword swing and hack the man to the ground. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a lad dart past me. He could not have been more than ten years old. He headed for the nearest ox cart and had a small knife in his hand. Before I realized what he was doing, he stabbed the blade into a full water bladder that hung from the side of the cart. Quick as a weasel, he dived under the cart and escaped. Behind him a jet of fresh water sprang from the punctured water bag and splashed to the ground.

All the while the oxen plodded on. Heads held low, they ignored the chaos of battle. Their huge dark eyes were intent on the road immediately ahead of their hooves. Long, glistening strings of drool hung from their muzzles. They toiled forward against the slope, goaded by their frightened drovers.

Gerin was managing to keep the road clear ahead of us. Whenever numbers of Vascons blocked the path, his Frankish lancers formed up and charged. They swept aside the men on foot, killing or wounding those who were too slow to run back up the hillside. Then the troopers reined in, turned and trotted back to resume their station in the vanguard. Each charge left a handful of Vascon corpses on the ground.

‘They’re out of their minds!’ Berenger yelled across to me. He was on the far side of the cart, riding escort. He had seen little action yet because the Vascons had launched their ambush from our right.

‘Hroudland ought to send a messenger to summon help from the main army,’ I shouted back. ‘This is just the first attack.’

Berenger laughed aloud and I heard a note of battle frenzy in his response.

‘Not a chance! The count is much too proud. We can fight our way past this rabble.’

I glanced over my shoulder. The Vascons were concentrating their attack on the rear of our little column. Hroudland and the rear guard were engaged against a grey-clad mob of the enemy. Eggihard and Anselm were mounted on tall, powerful horses so they were very visible. They had been reluctant to take orders from Hroudland, but in battle they were proving fearsome. Both men were using their long swords with deadly effect, slashing and thrusting, forcing back the attackers. A few yards away, Hroudland sat on his roan, roaring encouragement to his troopers as they drove off the Vascons.

It was impossible to tell how long the fury of the initial assault lasted. Eventually the Vascons saw how effectively we resisted and they began to withdraw, though only for a few yards up the mountainside where they were safe from our cavalry. There they kept pace with us, moving across the slope as our column crept forward.

To my surprise Hroudland took advantage of the lull in the fighting to ride up and congratulate me. His face under the rim of his helmet was running with sweat, and his eyes were bright.

‘Well done, Patch!’ he exclaimed. ‘You and your men held our flank.’

‘The enemy are only biding their time,’ I answered.

‘Then we’ll drive them off again and again until they learn that they can’t defeat well-trained cavalry,’ he assured me.

‘We’re not yet at the place Godomar thought suited for an ambush,’ I reminded him.

Hroudland was not to be put off.

‘Then that’s their mistake. They’ve thrown away the advantage of surprise.’

‘Maybe the Vascons are planning to delay us or to wear us down,’ I objected.

Hroudland drew his eyebrows together in a scowl. He did not like his judgement to be questioned.

‘What makes you such an expert soldier, Patch?’ he demanded, his congratulatory tone suddenly gone.

‘One of their lads slipped through our defence earlier. He put a hole in that waterskin over there,’ I said and nodded to where the punctured waterskin hung limp from the side of the cart.

Hroudland shrugged.

‘So we’ll be thirsty for a while,’ he said, though I noted that his eyes flicked towards the other carts. Several of their waterskins were also dangling empty.

I lowered my voice so that no one else could hear.

‘The next water source is the far side of the summit ridge.’

Hroudland recovered his poise.

‘Then all the more incentive to fight our way there,’ he retorted.

While we had been speaking the column had advanced perhaps a hundred paces. I wondered how many more hours it would be until we were out of danger.

The Vascons attacked us twice more before the sun was directly overhead. Each time we succeeded in driving them off though we lost a dozen horses, lamed or disembowelled. Their riders now walked or, if they had been wounded, they rode on the carts. We had not suffered a single death and I began to think that Hroudland was right; we would manage to force our way along the road until we were safely over the pass.

Two miles later everything changed.

Gerin rode back past me, his face grim. He was on his way to report to Hroudland. I was close enough to overhear him say to the count, ‘We’re in sight of the ravine now. It looks very narrow. A dangerous place.’ There was a short pause, and then Gerin added, almost apologetically, ‘We could always leave the carts behind. We still have enough horses to carry everyone to safety if they double up. I’m confident we could slip through.’

Hroudland’s answer was delivered in a harsh whisper.

‘I thought I made it clear: I have no intention of abandoning the treasure we have won. Have the enemy blocked the roadway?’

‘Apparently not, though there’s a bend in the road and I can’t see the full length of the ravine,’ said Gerin.

‘Then the passage lies ahead, and we take it,’ Hroudland confirmed.

‘I will do my best, my lord. But I fear that is what the enemy want us to do,’ Gerin said. He spoke in a flat, resigned tone in contrast to his usual air of steely competence.

He returned past me, looking distracted and chewing his lip. I had a queasy feeling that he was right. We were doing what the Vascons had planned for us. Only Hroudland’s absolute self-confidence kept driving us forward.

The enemy left us alone for the time it took us to reach the point where the road narrowed to no more than four or five paces width, just before entering the ravine itself. To the right was a low cliff, not more than fifteen feet high. To the left a steep broken slope covered with rocks and small loose stones extended all the way up to the mountain ridge. I noticed the troopers casting worried glances from side to side. We were roasting in the summer heat and my mouth was dry. I summoned up some saliva and swallowed in an attempt to moisten my throat.

Two of Gerin’s troopers accompanied by Godomar broke away from the vanguard and went forward at a trot, presumably to scout the passage. They were gone for several minutes. When they returned and delivered their report, Gerin rose in his stirrups, turned and called back to the drovers behind him, ‘Close up! Keep moving! The road is partially blocked by a barrier of boulders at the far end. My men will clear the way for you.’

We continued forward, our little column more compact now as we reduced the distance between each cart. The narrowness of the roadway obliged the flanking cavalrymen to close in. My knee was almost touching the wooden wheel of the nearest cart.

‘Maybe we’ve reached the boundary of their territory,’ Berenger called across to me. He nodded toward the Vascons on the hillside who had been keeping pace with us. They had halted, and were standing and watching us leave.

‘Or they know that there’s a relief force on its way back from the main army,’ I said hopefully, though I did not believe it. There was something unnerving about the way the Vascons were holding themselves in check.

As Gerin and the vanguard entered the ravine, I paid close attention to the top of the low cliff to our right. I was expecting to see Vascon slingers or archers appear there at any moment.

I was looking in the wrong direction.

After the first of our carts entered the ravine, I heard a gasp. It came from a wounded trooper riding on the cart next to me. He was looking up the long, steep slope to our left. I followed his gaze. It was as if the mountainside was sloughing off its grey skin. The entire slope was alive and moving. Grey-clad men, hundreds of them, covered its surface and they were swarming down towards us. They were not hurrying, but picking their way purposefully among the boulders, converging on the roadway. They held spears and swords, and they moved with deadly earnest.

My guts turned to water as, behind us, the massed wolf-like howl we heard when the Vascons first attacked rose again. I swung round. The men who had been tracking us had now descended into the roadway. They were blocking any attempt at retreat.

‘Face left! Keep moving!’ Hroudland was bellowing. Most of us were still gaping at the sheer number of fighting men the Vascons had assembled.

Berenger was dumbfounded.

‘Some of them must be the men I saw yesterday. But where did all the others spring from?’

He had drawn his sword and now he looked down at the weapon in wonder as if he knew that it would be useless in the face of such overwhelming odds. Behind me I heard Eggihard’s voice, railing at Hroudland, shouting that he should have sent to Carolus earlier and asked for reinforcements from the main army. Even the oxen sensed that something had changed. The squealing of the wheels fell silent as they came to a gradual halt and stood meekly. We were halfway into the entrance to the ravine.

Hroudland changed his instructions.

‘Stand! Form a defensive line. Shift the carts to make a barricade!’ he roared.

But it was impossible. The road was too narrow. The drovers did not have enough space to turn and manoeuvre their beasts. The carts remained where they were, one behind the other. The Vascons had pushed us into the ravine like forcing a cork into the neck of a bottle.

Gerin squeezed his way past me.

‘It’ll take more than an hour to clear away enough boulders from their barrier,’ he reported to Hroudland.

Anselm, the count of the palace, was within earshot. He was sweating heavily, his fleshy face scarlet under his helmet and his fine chainmail covered in dust.

‘Is there enough of a gap for a rider to get through?’ he demanded savagely. His stallion, trained to battle, was tossing its head and pawing the ground nervously.

When Gerin hesitated with his reply, Anselm bawled to one of the troopers nearby.

‘You there! Change horses with me and get through to the main army. Tell them to send help!’

He slid down from his own horse, handed over the reins, and a moment later the man was galloping into the ravine on his fresh mount.

Hroudland had no time to react to this challenge to his authority. Our men were milling about in confusion. The close-packed carts were making it difficult to form up in a defensive line. He rode in among the troopers, pushing and shoving them into some sort of order. I glanced across at Berenger. He was sitting still, his eyes fixed on Hroudland, waiting to carry out his commands. I realized that Berenger would follow the count whatever happened, his faith unshakeable.

The swarm of Vascons on the mountainside merged into a single dense mass as they reached more level ground. Now they flowed towards us like a rising tide. They filled the roadway and lapped up the sides of the track until they came to a stop, some twenty paces away. There was neither semblance of discipline nor any plan of attack that I could see. Among their weapons were ugly-looking cudgels as well as their swords and short spears. A few held woodsmen’s axes. For an unhappy moment I was reminded of the homespun levies my father had assembled when our family fought and lost its last battle against King Offa and his Mercian men-at-arms. But the resemblance was false. These Vascons were hardy mountain men, not peaceful farmers, and they out-numbered us so vastly that it was clear to everyone that we had not the slightest chance of victory.

For a long, tense moment the two sides stood and faced one another. The Vascons brandished their weapons and shouted insults and threats in their outlandish language. We stood silent except for the occasional stamping of a restless horse. The wounded trooper on the cart next to me was mumbling some sort of prayer over and over again as some sort of lucky charm that would save him. The sun beat down and the heat reflected off the rocks. My head ached and I was parched with thirst. I licked my cracked lips and tasted the gritty road dust.

Vaguely I became aware of someone getting down from his horse. Then he was pushing through our front line and walking towards the enemy. It was Godomar, the veteran from Burgundy. He had taken off his brunia and his helmet and was wearing only a pair of loose trousers and a light jerkin which left his arms and shoulders bare. A strip of cloth held back his long, thick hair which was the colour of forest honey. In his right hand he held the short handled axe that usually hung from his broad leather belt. All of us, Vascons and Franks, looked on as Godomar strode out on to the open ground between us. Then, in a deep husky voice from his wounded throat, he began to recite what must have been a battle ode in some ancient tribal dialect. With each line he tossed his axe in the air so that it spun in a circle, and caught it with the opposite hand. Finally, as he declaimed the last words, his voice rose to a shout and he threw the axe, not to the other hand, but high in the air, towards the enemy. It spun round and round, and by the time it fell back, Godomar had run forward and was ready to catch its handle. He was no more than an arm’s length from the Vascon line. In a sudden blur of axe strokes he cut down three or four Vascons. Then they closed in around him, and he was gone.

His death broke the spell that had held us in our places. With a bellow of shock and anger the Vascons charged. They crashed into us, and there was pandemonium. Lances were useless at such close quarters. Troopers used their swords to hack and thrust at the men on foot surging around them. The Vascons ducked and feinted. They stooped to get in under the riders’ guard, and if close enough, they hacked and stabbed with their weapons. The bravest grabbed for the riders’ legs and tried to drag them out of the saddle.

Amid the curses and grunts, the clash of metal, the cries of anger and pain, the Vascons were badly mauled. Dozens of them died, their bodies overridden by the horses or trampled underfoot by their comrades. Yet they kept pressing forward, ignoring their losses. Charge after charge, they were like waves pounding on a rocky beach. With each attack they reduced our numbers. Our troopers went down one after another, hauled from the saddle or their horses were killed beneath them. Few survived for more than a moment if they were unhorsed. The Vascons swarmed over them and killed them. With their third headlong charge our line broke, and the Vascons were among the drovers and their oxen. With the expertise of butchers, they slit the windpipes of the cattle and brought the beasts to their knees. The drovers were massacred.

The press of the mob was so powerful that my mount was thrust back and pinned against the wheel of the nearest cart. I flailed with my sword, uselessly. Strong hands grabbed my leg and I was hauled to the ground. Without a rider, the horse kicked out and a hoof struck the forehead of the man who held me. I heard the crack of hoof on bone. He let go and I rolled away between the wheels of the cart. My attackers were obliged to stand back as the terrified animal reared up, then bolted through the mob. It gave me enough time to scuttle away on all fours to the far side of the cart and rise to my feet. I had lost my sword and I could think of nothing else to do but hoist myself up on the cart itself. From there I looked around and saw the carnage that had taken place. Only one man was still on horseback — Hroudland. His powerful roan was rearing and plunging, faced by a half circle of Vascons. They were being kept at bay by the lashing hooves and by Hroudland’s menacing sword blade. Every other Frank was on foot. They were drawn up in a compact mass behind Hroudland, their backs towards the carts. I estimated there were no more than a dozen of them. Berenger had lost his helmet and I recognized his head of tight curls. There was no sign of either Eggihard or Anselm. Their bodies would be lying among the ugly jumble of corpses in front of the Frankish position. Dead and injured Vascons were scattered everywhere, the ground streaked and splashed with blood.

Hundreds of Vascons still filled the roadway, and many more were poised on the slopes on each side of the road. With their next assault they would swamp us.

First, however, they dealt with Hroudland. A single Vascon stepped out from their ranks. He was a squat man of middle age, wearing a wolfskin cap and very broad across the shoulders and chest. He held a loaded sling which he began to whirl rhythmically around his head. He watched Hroudland, judging his moment. As the roan stallion turned towards him, the Vascon released a slingstone as large as a man’s fist. The stone travelled less than five paces and struck the roan between the eyes. I heard the thud from where I stood. At that short range the impact was spectacularly effective. The front legs of the horse buckled and the stunned animal tipped forward on to its knees and Hroudland just had time to leap clear. He landed on his feet and, sword in hand, ran back across the blood-soaked ground to join the other Franks. I noticed he was limping. Behind him, the dazed stallion stayed down for several moments, then groggily heaved itself back upright and wandered off.

The Vascons held back a little longer, waiting to see what we would do next.

I jumped down from the tail of the cart and picked up an abandoned sword from the ground. Berenger glanced at me over his shoulder. His red-rimmed eyes looked out from a mask of dust. His hair was sweat-soaked, and there was a rent in his brunia where several plates had been torn off. ‘This is where the fight gets interesting, Patch,’ he said to me with a tight smile, then turned back to ask Hroudland, ‘What are your orders?’

The count was so calm and self-possessed that I wondered if he appreciated the hopelessness of our situation.

‘We leave behind the carts. Looting them will delay the Vascons. It will give us time to make an orderly retreat.’

Even now a flicker of regret passed across his face. The idea of losing all the treasure still grated on him.

‘We take with us only what we value the most,’ he continued. He turned to me. ‘Patch, can you find the oliphant for me? It should not fall into the hands of the Vascons. Also the crystal salver from Wali Suleyman’s ransom. I still intend to give it to the king.’

I climbed back on the cart and searched. I came across the oliphant wrapped in a soft leather covering but the crystal salver must have been locked away in a treasure chest and I had no time to locate the key. Instead I picked up my most prized possession — the packet of loose pages of the translation of the Book of Dreams. Unlacing the side of my brunia, I slid them inside my armoured jacket.

By the time I rejoined the others, Hroudland had marshalled our few survivors into two ranks. There was only one direction for our retreat — deeper into the ravine. One rank was to stand firm while the other ran back a few yards, then turned to face the enemy and allow the first group to filter back among them before they again took up position. I remembered practising the same manoeuvre when I had first arrived in Aachen and joined the paladins in their war games. I had never expected to rely on it in real combat.

The Vascons harassed us every step of the way. Inside the ravine they could only attack us on a narrow front but they were recklessly brave and showed no mercy. Any Frank who slipped and fell, or dropped his guard for a moment, was despatched on the spot. As the afternoon wore on and the light began to fade, we fought and retreated, turned and fought again. Our numbers dwindled as we grew more and more weary. I allowed my shield to droop and felt an agonizing pain in my left shoulder. A Vascon, screaming with anger, had run his spear point over its rim. Beside me Berenger was clumsy in countering a thrust from a Vascon dagger. He was stabbed, low down on his right side. Only Hroudland continued to wield his sword as if he would never tire, but with every pace he left a bloody foot print on the ground. I could not see where he had been injured, but he was losing blood rapidly.

The Vascons drove us along the ravine like obstinate sheep until our backs came up against the barrier of boulders that they had created earlier. By then it was almost dark and only four of us were still standing — Hroudland, Berenger, myself, and an unknown trooper with a hideous stomach wound. As if to gloat, the Vascons drew back so we would know that they had us at their mercy. Occasionally one of them let out the dreadful wolf’s howl in victory. During the retreat I had seen such hatred in their faces that I knew that they would not let us live.

‘We managed to hold them off,’ said Hroudland proudly. He was leaning on his sword, his chest heaving as he sucked in great breaths of air. Beside me, Berenger slumped on a boulder, a wet bloodstain seeping down his leg. I too found a place to sit as I was dizzy from the pain of my wounded shoulder.

I looked at Hroudland. There was just enough light to see how he was deathly pale. He was smiling and his eyes held a faraway look that convinced me that he had lost touch with reality. I wondered if he still clung to the idea that he could never be defeated in battle by a horde of uncouth mountain men.

With an effort he turned his back on me and began to climb up on to the rock barrier behind us. The oliphant hung on a cord around his neck. When he reached the highest boulder, he stood up on it, raised the great horn to his lips and blew a long, quavering blast, which echoed and re-echoed down the ravine.

‘What in God’s name is he doing?’ I demanded of Berenger. He was gazing up at Hroudland, awestruck.

Berenger turned to face me, his eyes shining.

‘Listen!’ he exclaimed.

Hroudland sounded the horn again, and I recognized the notes. It was the call when a huntsman announces the death of a great stag. In the deepening gloom there were only shades of black and grey. There, up above me, I could only make out the outline figure of the Margrave of Brittany. A cold lump gathered in my guts as I remembered that the same scene was carved on the oliphant itself, and that long ago in Aachen the king himself had dreamed of a huntsman standing on a rock surrounded by wolves and blowing a horn calling for help. But Hroudland was not summoning help. He was announcing his own passing.

‘Do you remember when I first laid eyes on you,’ Berenger suddenly asked. The question was completely unexpected and his voice sounded strained, almost as if he was ashamed to speak. ‘It was evening. You walked into our living quarters, unannounced. None of us had any idea who you were.’

‘You, Gerin, Anseis and the others were playing a game. Asking one another riddles,’ I said.

Berenger’s voice sank almost to a whisper as he began to recite:

‘Four strange creatures travel together, their tracks were very swart.

Each mark very black. The bird’s support moves swiftly, through the air, underwater.

The diligent warrior works without stopping, directing the four over the beaten gold.’

I knew the words.

‘That was the riddle I set. Hroudland was the only one who knew the answer,’ I said.

‘That was the moment I began to fear you,’ he murmured.

I was so astonished that I could only blurt, ‘Why?’

I heard him shift uncomfortably. Another shaft of pain must have struck him.

‘I was terrified that you would take Hroudland away from me.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I said, baffled.

‘Jealousy feeds easily. Hroudland paid you every attention from the moment you arrived.’

‘He saw that I was a stranger and in an alien land. He only wanted to help me,’ I said.

‘I know that now,’ Berenger answered, ‘but not then. The very next day I walked in on you at the bath. He was half-naked, holding you by the arm.’

I was appalled.

‘He was trying to drag me into the water, that’s all. I didn’t want to go. I have a fear of water.’

In the darkness Berenger laughed mirthlessly.

‘As time passed I persuaded myself that you were luring him on. I decided I had to get rid of you and waited for a suitable opportunity.’

The memory of the banquet when I had nearly died came back clearly. Berenger had been seated next to me.

‘So you were the one who put poison in my food. I never thought of you as a murderer,’ I told him.

‘Neither did I. I had the poison hidden in my sleeve and even at the very last moment I hesitated. Then I had to listen to you brazenly telling the story of Troilus and Achilles to everyone at the banquet. That was too much for me.’

I remembered seeing a tapestry depicting the same story hanging in Hroudland’s room in his great hall. Achilles’s lust for the beautiful youth Troilus lay at the core of the Greek tale. Berenger, already jealous, must have been driven to distraction.

‘And when poison didn’t work, did you also try to have me killed while hunting in the forest?’ I said.

‘Yes.’

From above us came the sounds of the oliphant. Hroudland was blowing the same hunting call again and again, each time less vigorously. He was tiring.

‘First I thought it was Gerin who wanted to do away with me on King Offa’s orders,’ I said, ‘More recently I believed it was Ganelon who was trying to have me murdered. And all along it was you. You even tried to have me killed here in these mountains by that Vascon slinger.’

‘There you are wrong,’ Berenger said. ‘I had no hand in that. It must have been a genuine attack, though I did roll some rocks down on you when we were on our way here into Hispania.’

Hroudland had come to the end of his strength. Halfway through the next hunting call, the notes died away in an ugly rasp. From the darkness where the Vascons waited came a derisive spine-chilling howl of wolves.

Ignoring the pain in my shoulder, I twisted around so I could look up towards Hroudland. The moon had risen above the lip of the ravine and its cold light showed Hroudland facing towards the enemy. He was swaying on his feet. With an effort he raised his sword Durendal in defiance, and then smashed it down on the rock, trying to break the blade. He failed. Twice more he tried to destroy his sword, and then he gave up the attempt. He knelt down and laid the sword on the boulders before him. Then with the oliphant still hanging against his chest, he lay face down, the sword beneath his body. With an awful sick sensation I knew that he would never rise again.

‘Patch, you are a hard man to kill,’ hissed Berenger.

He managed to struggle to his feet. His injured leg was too weak for him to remain standing so he put his back against the rock barrier. He had his sword in hand, and I thought he was about to attack me. Instead he croaked, ‘I die here with Hroudland. You have no right to be here at his side. Go! I will make sure you are not followed.’

I dragged myself over the rocks, away from the Vascons. I had no idea how far I had the strength to go, and there was no reason that the Vascons would let me escape. But the urge for survival was powerful. I gritted my teeth against the pain and stumbled forward. Twice I tripped and fell on to my knees and, weirdly, an image of Hroudland’s roan stallion came to my mind. I saw the animal, stunned by the slingstone, getting back on its feet. I forced myself to do the same. In the darkness all around me I imagined the shapes and blurred outlines of people and grotesque creatures. One of them was my brother’s fetch. He was seated on a rock ahead of me and I longed for him to come forward and help me. But all he did was watch me in brooding silence as if to chide me for ignoring his warning that I should trust my enemies and beware my friends. Then my legs gave way one last time, and I sank to the ground in a dead faint.