Saxon: The Book of Dreams (Saxon 1)

by Tim Severin

  She sat looking at me without speaking. I kept my head turned towards her, scarcely daring to breathe. I wanted the moment to last as long as possible so that I could absorb exactly how she looked and would be able to recall it in every detail. She radiated a gentle warmth and softness that was overwhelming. I was captivated and hesitant, afraid to say anything, fearful of making a mistake, yet hoping that somehow she would read my thoughts.

  With a confident, graceful movement she reached out one hand and touched a finger to beside my right eye, then my left.

  ‘You are a very remarkable person,’ she said.

  I could not ignore the physical contact. I reached up and took the outstretched hand, opened the fingers and kissed her palm. This time there was the scent of oil of almonds.

  Without a word, she rose to her feet, crossed to the door and put in place the little wooden wedge that locked the latch. In another two paces she had returned to my bedside. She undid her silver belt and peeled back the shoulders of her gown and let it fall to the floor. All that remained was a loose undershift, and she slid out of it with the same fluid movement that brought her beneath the blanket beside me. She was facing me, and I wrapped my arms around her and felt the soft pressure of those magnificent naked breasts. Her arms gathered me in, and after a long hungry kiss, I felt her hands removing my bed gown.

  *

  Later, as we lay side by side, I felt utterly content. What had happened was the most natural thing in all the world, yet it far surpassed any pleasure that I had imagined.

  ‘I have never felt like this before,’ I murmured.

  ‘I know,’ she said. She gave a slow, lazy smile and placed her hand across my chest. ‘It was the first time, properly.’

  ‘Yes,’ I admitted. ‘The girls at home steered clear of me. They thought I was bewitched.’

  ‘But not bewitching?’ She crooked her fingers so the nails dug lightly into the flesh, and then drew her hand slowly downward. ‘That was only a beginning.’

  I thought I heard someone at the door and my heart jumped into my mouth. I seized her wrist to halt her hand.

  ‘There’s someone coming!’ I blurted.

  She sat up, quickly but without panic. A moment later she had left the bed and was stepping into her shift. She pulled on her gown and fastened the belt with neat, sure movements. I noticed that her hands were steady. Even her long braids were undisturbed.

  She leaned over me and gave me a brief but genuine kiss. For a moment there was a glimpse of the swell of those breasts that only minutes earlier I had enjoyed.

  ‘That was only the first time,’ she whispered, and then she straightened up, boldly stepped to the door and released the latch.

  There was a brief pause, and when nothing happened, she opened the door. The corridor outside was empty. I cursed myself for being so nervous, for cutting short our time together.

  Without a backward glance she glided out into the corridor and was gone, leaving me craving her.

  *

  I stayed another four days and nights in the king’s house, longer than necessary for my recovery. The reason, of course, was Bertha. I was besotted with her, and she came to my bed twice more. It turned me into an unusual patient, dreamy and distracted yet fretful, because when I was not longing for her return, I was worrying that our intimacy would be discovered. I could think of nothing else but the two of us. Eventually, when it was obvious that I was well enough to return to my normal quarters, Osric came with fresh clothes for me to wear. Only then did I remember to ask him what medicine he had given me.

  ‘I’ll show you next time we have archery practice,’ he said. ‘It’s the juice from a certain plant that grows near the menagerie.’

  ‘You knew it would cure my sickness?’

  ‘I only guessed.’

  ‘So you’re not sure what poisoned me?’

  ‘I can’t be certain, not yet.’

  I thought about the crushed pepper grains that Berenger had given me to taste, and asked Osric if they could have been the cause.

  He shook his head.

  ‘Only if there was some other substance mixed in.’

  ‘Count Hroudland thinks someone put it in my food on purpose.’

  Osric gave me a long, hard look.

  ‘That’s possible.’

  ‘He believes it was done because I am known to be his close friend. Someone wanted to warn him, or hurt him.’

  A veiled look came over Osric’s eyes.

  ‘The count has enemies but there could be other reasons.’

  I tried to make a joke.

  ‘Are you saying that from now on I should employ a food taster?’

  He didn’t smile.

  ‘If the poison was what I think it was, it could have got into your food deliberately or by accident.’

  ‘Well, one thing is sure: if old Gerard mixed something with those peppercorns, it was by accident. I’m told he was also very sick.’

  ‘Unless he deliberately took a smaller dose to distract attention,’ Osric replied.

  *

  But when I saw Gerard in his cubicle, I knew he could have had no part in my poisoning. He looked dreadful. The flesh had fallen away from his bones, and his face was a sickly orange-yellow. He lay in a cot, propped up on a bank of pillows. There were great dark rings around his eyes and they were sunken in their sockets and also had a yellowish tinge. He greeted me feebly.

  ‘Patch, whatever it was that your slave gave me saved my life.’

  I tried to sound cheerful, though I feared that the old man was not yet out of danger.

  ‘I am as much in debt to Osric,’ I said. ‘I’m sure his treatment can restore your body fully.’

  Gerard gave a ghost of a smile.

  ‘I’m leaving it to the priests to save my soul. But whatever the outcome, I would want to show some gratitude.’ He fumbled under his pillow and, with an effort, pulled out a square package wrapped in cloth. He pushed it across the blanket towards me. ‘Maybe you will accept this, though it’s never been much use to me . . . until now that is.’

  I unwrapped the package and found that it contained a medium-sized book, which had been ill-used. The leather cover had once been handsome. There were still the tracings of fine toolwork, and a flake or two of gold leaf. There were several gouge marks as though someone had kicked the book like a football across rough ground.

  Gerard sank back on his pillow.

  ‘I’ve owned that book for years. Can’t say I’ve done anything about it.’

  ‘How did it come into your possession?’ I asked.

  ‘It was found in the baggage train of the Saracens after we drove them into the sea. That was a long time ago. When I was just a youth.’

  I turned the book over. The back cover was torn away. The last pages were gone. The exposed parchment was water-stained as if it had been left lying in a puddle. I hesitated to open it for fear that it would fall to pieces in my hand.

  Gerard lay limp, drawing breath before he could speak again.

  ‘May I examine it?’ I asked. Books were rare and precious, even in such bad condition. It was most unusual to find one in private hands.

  ‘Of course.’

  I opened the book at random and saw the line upon line of writing, beautifully executed and regular. To my chagrin, it meant nothing to me.

  ‘It is written in the Saracen script,’ Gerard said.

  I suppressed my disappointment.

  Gerard allowed himself a bleak laugh.

  ‘My father offered it to one of the monasteries as a gift. But the priests turned it down. Said it was the work of idolaters and would pollute their library of holy books.’

  I began leafing carefully through the pages. The water had soaked right through the book, and then dried, leaving the material fragile. But the writing itself was clear.

  ‘I’d be fascinated to know what is written here. If only I knew someone who could translate it,’ I said.

  ‘Have you thought about you
r slave Osric?’

  I looked up in surprise.

  ‘It hasn’t occurred to you that he has Saracen blood?’ The old man seemed faintly amused that I hadn’t thought of this for myself.

  ‘I haven’t seen many Saracens,’ I admitted.

  ‘I have, and I would say that your slave’s homeland was either in Hispania or Africa.’

  I thought over his suggestion. Osric was swarthy, but his complexion was no darker than several other people I had known when growing up.

  ‘Even if he is a Saracen, I doubt he can read or write,’ I said.

  Gerard eased himself gently against his pillows.

  ‘Ask him nevertheless. If he can read the book, maybe he’ll find a recipe for another potion, one that will speed my recovery. Everyone knows that the Saracens are skilled healers.’

  The old man was visibly tiring. I turned my attention back to the book in my hands. The soaking had stuck the first page to the inside of the cover, and I carefully peeled it apart. Here, at last, I could recognize some writing, though not what it meant. Bertwald had taught me the Greek alphabet before he fled the Church hounds, though I suspected he knew little of the language itself. On the first page was a single word in Greek script. I presumed it was the book’s title or perhaps the name of its owner. Letter by letter I deciphered what was written and silently rehearsed how it might be spoken.

  Gerard had fallen asleep. His breathing was laboured and shallow, his head rolled to one side. I thought about replacing the book under his pillow, but feared that would disturb him. Instead I wrapped it back in its cloth cover, tucked it under my arm and set out in search of Osric. If the book did contain medical information that would help the old man, I should locate a translator as quickly as possible.

  *

  I found my slave at the stables, questioning the head groom whether my bay gelding would run straight when the reins were left slack, or veer to one side. Before he had his answer, I called him outside and together we walked to a spot where we could not be overheard.

  ‘Old Gerard believes you saved his life by giving him that medicine,’ I said.

  ‘He’s not out of danger yet. There could be a relapse.’

  Osric’s eyes flicked towards the parcel I was carrying.

  ‘He’s given me a book that he thinks is a leech book and contains medical knowledge which might help his recovery.’ I hesitated, fearing to cause offence. Few people would like being mistaken for a Saracen.

  Osric regarded me impassively.

  ‘I can’t read it,’ I stumbled on. ‘Maybe you can?’ I had committed myself now. I took the book from its cover and handed it to Osric.

  Osric opened the book without a word, and glanced inside. Then he raised his head and looked straight at me.

  ‘Gerard supposes that your homeland may be Hispania or Africa,’ I said, feeling the colour rising to my cheeks.

  Osric did not move a muscle.

  I grew more embarrassed under his silent gaze.

  ‘Whether he’s right or wrong makes no difference to me. I’m just trying to help him.’

  Eventually Osric let out a long, slow breath.

  ‘It has been a long, long time since I held a book like this in my hands. I should be able to read what is written here, provided the content is uncomplicated.’ He looked down at the volume and slowly turned the pages.

  I waited for his assessment. The time dragged by.

  Finally he said. ‘Gerard is wrong. This is not a book of medicine.’

  I was crestfallen. Worse, I regretted that I had intruded on Osric’s life before he was enslaved. If he had wanted me to know about his origins, he would have told me long ago.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know for sure. There are some words that I do not know.’ He pointed. ‘Here it says that a man who dreams he is flying means that he will gain great riches.’ He turned over several more pages and selected another section. ‘Here is something about clouds and wind.’

  He closed the book and handed it back to me.

  ‘If I had enough time perhaps I could make sense of it.’

  I took the volume from him.

  ‘Osric, whether you are Saracen, Christian or pagan matters not to me.’

  ‘Where I come from, it would be said that is God’s will,’ he assured me with a wan smile.

  I left Osric at the stables and went in search of Alcuin. He was standing before the porch of the chancery, deep in conversation with another priest whom I recognized as Odo, the king’s chief architect. They must have been discussing the next stage in the construction work because they turned to face the chapel and pointed upward at the new roof and were exchanging comments. I waited until they had finished their conversation, then approached Alcuin and asked if he could help me with the meaning of a Greek word.

  ‘What word is that?’ asked Alcuin.

  ‘Oneirokritikon’ I said.

  My pronunciation must have been astray, for he asked me to repeat slowly what I had said.

  It took me three attempts before I got it right, then Alcuin smiled and said, ‘Ah! I have it now. “Oneir” is a dream or vision. “Kriticon” comes from “kritikos”, which means able to discern or judge. So your word means something like “the interpretation of dreams”. Does that make sense?’

  I felt a shiver of apprehension. I had never breathed a word to anyone, even Osric, about my disturbing dreams, or how my dead brother’s fetch sometimes appeared to me. If this alien book was genuine, it would allow me to unravel what my visions signified.

  Suddenly, I was not at all sure that I wanted to be able to peer into the future. I feared that I would become a helpless onlooker, condemned to watch events unfold, knowing the outcomes, however sinister, yet tortured with the knowledge that I was unable to alter them.

  Chapter Nine

  I HAD LITTLE OPPORTUNITY to brood on what I should do with the book. Two days later I was riding out of Aachen with a cluster of courtiers, setting out for the first royal hunt of the season. The company fairly buzzed with excitement. An untold number of verderers, trackers, dog handlers and huntsmen had spent weeks preparing for the great occasion. The weather was clear and crisp, with a lingering trace of early morning mist, and the tall figure of king was in the lead. He was mounted on a towering, big-boned stallion and setting a brisk pace.

  After two hours in the saddle we were deep within the royal hunting preserve. I recognized the road; it was the same track that the eel wagon had travelled to reach the capital, and I wondered if we would get as far as the place where the brigands had attempted to rob us. I doubted if I would be able to identify the exact spot because everything looked so different from what I remembered of those rain-sodden days. Then the forest had seemed heavy and foreboding, pressing in on us. Now it had an awe-inspiring majesty. The centuries-old trees were enormous. Their upper branches thick as a man’s waist were still green with the last of the summer foliage. But the leaf fall had begun so the ground below them was russet and brown stretching away between the huge moss-covered tree trunks as far as the eye could see, deep into the gloom of primal woodland. Our cavalcade was no more than a temporary disturbance in this immensity. We brought a bubble of cheerful noise and activity – the thudding of hooves, creaking leather, snatches of conversation, bursts of laughter, a sudden oath as someone swore at a clumsy horse that stumbled. Yet as soon as our company had passed, a vast and timeless silence would seep back, only broken by the brief, ancient noises of the forest.

  I was thinking how insignificant was our intrusion into such surroundings when Oton rode up beside me. He reined in his horse so we were riding knee to knee. His chubby face was pink from the rattling motion of our trot.

  ‘Patch, how are you and the delicious Bertha getting along?’ he asked.

  I was startled out of my reverie.

  ‘I haven’t seen her since I left the royal household,’ I answered.

  ‘Berenger tells me that she was at your bedside,�
�� he said with a spark of mischief in his eyes.

  ‘She came to see how I was getting on,’ I retorted, trying to keep my voice dispassionate.

  ‘Only as far as your bedside?’

  I coloured.

  ‘I have no idea what you mean.’ I knew I sounded less than convincing.

  ‘Bertha is not easily denied,’ he said, laughing.

  I gritted my teeth. The truth was that I would have much preferred to stay back in Aachen with the chance of meeting the princess again. But that had been impossible. All royal guests were required to attend the hunt. Only Gerard had been excused, on the grounds of ill-health.

  ‘Oton, leave off teasing him. You’re just jealous,’ said Hroudland’s voice, and the count rode up on my other side. His roan stallion stood several inches taller than my bay, and I found myself looking up at my friend.

  ‘Jealous?’ Oton sniggered. ‘Not me. But perhaps you should tell him. Could save him from a broken heart.’ He pulled his horse’s head aside and dropped back out of earshot.

  ‘What’s he talking about?’ I asked Hroudland.

  ‘Bertha’s reputation as a man-eater,’ said the count curtly.

  I gaped at him.

  ‘But she’s the king’s daughter!’

  ‘Precisely. She gets what she wants.’

  A hollow feeling grew in the pit of my stomach. I had been cherishing what had occurred between me and Bertha, every moment of it. I was smitten with her.

  Hroudland saw my distress.

  ‘Patch, don’t take it to heart. Bertha and her sisters treat the court as their private hunting preserve, rather like this forest around us.’

  ‘But surely their father does not allow it,’ I protested.

  ‘Rather the reverse.’ Hroudland was matter of fact. ‘The king knows his daughters have a healthy appetite in that direction. They’ve inherited it from him. He prefers they indulge themselves casually, rather than marry and produce children who would complicate the succession.’