Saxon: The Book of Dreams (Saxon 1)

by Tim Severin

  ‘I abandoned my mission to Hispania because I have to warn you of a plot against you,’ I began.

  But the count had already turned away, almost as though he was unable to keep still. He strode across to the bed and pulled off his shirt. His body was still as slim and athletic as before, the muscles sculpted under the pale skin. If my friend had been indulging in too much fine living, it had not affected his physique. The manservant reappeared with a basin of water, which he placed on a stand, and Hroudland began to wash his face and arms.

  ‘Ganelon is plotting against you,’ I said loudly, trying to get his full attention.

  ‘That’s nothing new,’ answered the count dismissively. He did not bother to raise his face from the bowl.

  ‘This time he may succeed,’ I insisted. ‘He wants to have you disgraced as a traitor.’ I failed to suppress the note of irritation in my voice but I was frustrated that my friend should be taking my warning so casually after I had made so great an effort to reach him.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ said the count, straightening up. He began towelling his head and shoulders.

  Point by point, I explained how Ganelon had obtained Husayn’s signed promise to pay me five hundred dinars so he could use it as false proof of Hroudland’s treachery.

  When I had finished, the count threw back his head and laughed scornfully.

  ‘Is that the best that Ganelon can do? It won’t get him very far,’ he scoffed.

  I thought I detected a note of hysteria in my friend’s response and I pressed on.

  ‘You must contact the king. Tell him what is happening. Warn him against Ganelon.’

  Hroudland came across to me and punched me lightly on the arm.

  ‘Patch, my friend, I’ll do better than that. I’ll fight so well in Hispania that Carolus will have no doubt of my loyalty.’

  ‘What do you mean? Is there to be a war in Hispania?’

  Again Hroudland laughed.

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘But I was sent with Ganelon and Gerin to investigate whether or not the Saracens’ request for military help was genuine.’

  The count gave me a wicked smile.

  ‘Carolus decided on war in Hispania long ago, well before the Saracens showed up to ask for his help. Despatching you and the other two to make a report was just a ruse, a way of concealing his intentions.’

  From somewhere outside came the sound of a horn. The margrave’s guests were being summoned to their places in the great hall. I heard someone else coming up the wooden stairs and Berenger appeared in the room with the words, ‘Time to get ready.’

  ‘Patch, any more trouble with people trying to kill you?’ Hroudland asked.

  I would have preferred if his enquiry had sounded less casual.

  ‘There was an attempt when I was travelling through the mountains,’ I said and told him about the Vascon slinger.

  ‘Sounds like Ganelon at work,’ said Hroudland. ‘Berenger, what do you think?’

  ‘Just like him,’ replied Berenger, who was helping the count get his arms into a fresh shirt.

  ‘Well, Patch,’ said my friend, as he selected a belt studded with semi-precious stones from his wardrobe in the alcove, ‘at least you don’t have to worry about being poisoned at today’s banquet. The cook and every scullion are on my staff.’ He buckled on the belt, picked up a short cloak of white silk with a crimson lining and threw it over his shoulder. It was time to descend into the great hall and begin the banquet.

  *

  I was seated in the place of honour on Hroudland’s right, while Berenger was on his left. The rest of the high table was occupied by senior members of Hroudland’s entourage. Some of them I recognized from the mock battle earlier. There were no women. All of us sat facing down the hall so that the guests could look up and see us and their overlord. The table setting was as ostentatious as I now knew to expect from the margrave; plates and ewers of silver, drinking vessels of horn banded with gold and silver or made of coloured glass, candle holders with gold inlay or decorations of semi-precious stones. The food, by contrast, was disappointing. Pottage, lumpy and bland, was served with root vegetables. The bread was coarse and gritty. Hroudland grumbled to me that the local farmers were unable to grow good wheat due to the climate and poor soil. He was drinking heavily, right from the start of the meal, and Berenger and the others at the table kept pace with him. As more and more wine and beer was consumed, their raised voices and shouted conversations drowned out the efforts of a small group of musicians who were trying to keep us entertained. From the packed hall in front of us rose the steady babble of conversation as the margrave’s less exalted guests ate their way stolidly through the meal. More than once I found myself having to stifle a yawn.

  All of a sudden, Hroudland banged the handle of his knife down on the table, hard enough to make the nearest plates jump. Immediately everyone fell silent, looking to him. By now my friend was well and truly drunk.

  ‘I want you all to meet my good and excellent friend, Patch,’ he announced in a slightly slurred voice.

  There was a tipsy nodding of heads around the high table. One or two of the more sober guests caught my eye and smiled at me tentatively.

  ‘Some of you will have heard how he corrected the royal bard in Aachen when he was telling a story during a banquet in front of the king.’ The count raised his voice so he could be heard the length of the great hall. ‘Tonight I have arranged for one of the greatest bards of the Bretons to entertain us so Patch will know that we have storytellers the equal of any in the kingdom.’

  There was a scatter of applause, and from behind one of the great pillars stepped a stooped, bony man of middle age. He was dressed in a plain, brown robe and a close-fitting skull cap. In one hand he held a small harp. The other hand rested on the shoulder of a lad no more than ten years old. They walked slowly into the open space in front of the high table, and the boy put down a small three-legged stool he was carrying. The bard took his seat and placed the harp on his lap, ready to begin.

  ‘Tell us what tale you are going to sing,’ called Hroudland.

  The boy leaned forward and spoke quietly to the older man. Not only was the skald blind, but also he did not speak Frankish.

  The boy looked up and in his high voice he said, ‘With your permission, my lord, my father will tell a local story; the tale of Yvain.’

  My neighbour on my right, a stocky red-faced Frankish stalwart whose sour breath stank of ale, leaned closer and whispered in my ear, ‘Let’s hope this doesn’t go on for too long.’

  Hroudland was beckoning to the lad.

  ‘Come up here,’ he ordered. ‘I want you to translate for my guest.’

  Unembarrassed, the boy stepped up on to the dais, came round the end of the table, and stood behind Hroudland and myself.

  Without any preamble the blind storyteller plucked a single note on his harp and launched into his tale, speaking in a language that I presumed was the local Breton tongue. He had a fine, strong voice and it carried clearly. On the high table most of the count’s entourage looked bored, but the audience in the hall stayed silent, either out of courtesy or for fear of Hroudland’s displeasure.

  The lad was a competent interpreter. The bard would pause between each verse and the boy swiftly summarized the lines in Frankish, speaking quietly in my ear.

  The tale itself was a strange one: Yvain, a nobleman, leaves the court of his king to go in search of a magical fountain, deep within a forest. Beside the fountain stands a boulder studded with gems, and a golden cup hangs from the branch of a nearby tree. Directed to the spot by a hideous giant, the nobleman pours water from the cup on the boulder. Immediately a great storm arises, tearing the leaves from the trees. When the storm ceases, flocks of birds descend from the sky, singing and settling on the branches. At that moment an armoured man mounted on a horse appears and proclaims himself the guardian of the fountain. He and Yvain fight until the mysterious stranger is wounded, turning his horse and fleei
ng, with Yvain in pursuit.

  ‘Surely Yvain took with him the golden cup? It was his prize,’ Hroudland called out rudely. I had not realized quite how drunk he was.

  The skald broke off his recital, offended by the interruption.

  Hroudland turned to me, his face flushed.

  ‘That’s what would have happened at the siege of Troy, wouldn’t it, Patch? To the victor the spoils.’

  ‘It’s a legend, a fantasy,’ I said, trying to humour him and calm him down.

  ‘No, my lord, it is how it happened,’ the lad behind us spoke up.

  Surprised by his boldness, I turned round to get a good look at him. He was standing with his hands clenched at his side, looking pale and upset.

  ‘Nonsense,’ snapped Hroudland. He was ready to pick an argument, even with a youngster. ‘The entire yarn is a fabrication.’

  ‘The fountain is there. You can see for yourself. At Barenton in the forest of Broceliande,’ insisted the lad.

  I feared that Hroudland was drunk enough to hit the boy so I waved the youngster away. He turned on his heel and stalked back to his father, his back stiff with anger.

  Hroudland’s mood had plummeted. He was aggressive and angry. He picked up his goblet unsteadily and took a long fumbling drink. A trickle of wine ran down his chin. Then he slammed the goblet down and slurred truculently, ‘Patch, tomorrow you and I will search out that fountain and prove there is no magic to it.’

  Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that the bard had risen from his stool, and he and his son were leaving the hall. The song had not been a success.

  *

  Next morning I hoped that Hroudland would have forgotten the episode. But a servant came to the guest chamber where I spent the night and woke me just after dawn to say that the margrave was waiting for me at the stables. Leaving aside my borrowed finery, I pulled on my travelling clothes and joined Hroudland. He seemed little affected by the evening’s carousing and I wondered if he had grown so accustomed to regular drinking bouts that he no longer suffered from hangovers.

  ‘Patch, I’m told that the magic fountain is no more than a three-hour ride from here,’ my friend said brightly. ‘We can get there and back in daylight.’

  A stable-hand led forward two sturdy riding horses, and we rode out of the palisade gate, followed by an escort of four mounted troopers. The morning was dank and misty and beads of condensation glistened on my horse’s mane as we made our way down the hill and through the streets of the little town, deserted except for an occasional thin cur scavenging for scraps.

  ‘You have no idea how glad I am that soon we will be off to war in Hispania,’ Hroudland confided to me as we rode side by side.

  ‘In search of glory?’ I asked mockingly.

  He turned a serious face towards me.

  ‘I need money badly. You’d be shocked to know how costly it is to maintain a great hall and its entire staff.’

  I could have pointed out that he could save money by not being so lavish, but instead said, ‘I thought the local taxes provided funds for your office as Warden of the March.’

  ‘Nothing like enough.’

  ‘Then you should ask the king to relieve you of your post. Go back to court.’

  Hroudland shook his head.

  ‘That would be to admit failure. In any case, being Warden of the March has given me a taste of what it is like to make my own decisions.’

  ‘So it’s plunder rather than renown that you want from Hispania.’

  ‘I hope to win both,’ he answered bluntly.

  We made good progress along a rutted highway, which took us across low round hills covered with scrubby woodland. The only travellers we saw were on foot, walking between the small hamlets. Often they would deliberately leave the road, vanishing into the bushes, avoiding us. Eventually we overtook a family of father and mother and three small children trudging slowly along. One of our escorts spoke enough Breton to glean from them that the fountain at Barenton lay some distance off to our right.

  The low cloud was thinning and a watery sun had begun to show itself as we left the main road and turned into an area of true forest. The ancient oaks intermingled with beech reminded me of the place the mysterious archer had tried to kill me while out hunting with the king. But here the trees were less majestic; they were gnarled and stunted, and the space between their thick, mossy trunks was choked with undergrowth. Little by little, the track narrowed until it became no more than a footpath, and the branches above the height of a man’s head reached out and scratched our faces as we pushed our horses forward.

  ‘Can’t be much further now,’ said Hroudland, finally dismounting when progress on horseback became too difficult. He handed the reins to our escort and told them to wait. Stiffly I got down from my horse and followed the count as he strode briskly onward. The forest smelled of earth and wet leaves, and – oddly – there was no sound of wildlife, no birdsong, not even the faint rustling of a breeze in the stagnant, still air. It was eerie, and I grew uneasy.

  Hroudland did not appear to notice the silence. He drew his sword and, when the path became very overgrown, slashed back the undergrowth.

  ‘If the legend was true, this is where we should encounter an ugly giant,’ he joked to me over his shoulder. ‘Someone to show us on our way.’

  But we saw no one, though I thought I detected the occasional faint trace of a footprint on the muddy track we were following.

  Eventually, just as I was about to suggest that we turn back, we emerged into a clearing. It was no more than twenty paces across and open to the sky. It had the serene, tranquil air of an ancient place. In the centre stood a great upright stone. The boulder was similar to the menhirs I had seen on the moors in the mist, but here it stood alone, its rough grey sides speckled with pale circular patches of lichen growth. Close to the foot of the boulder was a shallow pool, little more than a large puddle. In the stillness of the glade the only movement was a faint ripple disturbing the water’s surface. A spring was bubbling out of the ground. My spine prickled.

  ‘This must be the place,’ said Hroudland confidently. He sheathed his sword and looked around at the bushes. ‘But I don’t see a golden cup hanging from a branch.’

  He crossed to the stone and examined it more closely. ‘Nor is it studded with gems,’ he added with a derisive snort. ‘Another fable.’

  I walked across to join him. A small trickle of water overflowed from the pool and drained out of the glade to where it was soon lost under some bushes. Something caught my eye, a small shadow under the surface of the rill, a dark patch that came and went as the water washed over it. I leaned in closer. Lying on its side, submerged in the water, was a metal beaker. Reaching in, I picked it up tentatively. I knew instinctively that it was extremely old. It was the size and shape of a small tankard or a large cup without a handle. I shook off the drops of water and turned it this way and that, searching for distinguishing marks in the dull surface. The cup was made seamlessly from a single sheet of metal, without joints or rivets; there were only patterns of dots, pecked into the surface with a pointed instrument. They swirled around it in mysterious whorls.

  ‘What have you got there?’ demanded Hroudland. He strode across, taking the cup from my grasp. ‘Probably a drinking cup dropped here by a woodsman.’

  ‘My guess is that it’s bronze,’ I said.

  My friend pulled out a dagger from his belt and scratched the surface of the cup with the tip of the blade. It left no mark.

  ‘It’s not Yvain’s cup of gold, that’s for sure. Far too hard.’

  He grinned at me mischievously.

  ‘Let’s see if it will work its magic as it did for Yvain.’

  Hroudland knelt down by the little pool and filled the cup with water. Walking across to the great boulder, he tossed the contents over the grey rock, stood back, and looked up at a sky still covered with its thin veil of cloud through which the disc of the sun could just be seen.

  Nothing happe
ned. The forest around us remained completely still and silent, the air pressed down on us, heavy and clammy.

  ‘There you are, Patch,’ Hroudland declared. ‘It can’t even summon up a storm.’

  The words were scarcely out of his mouth when, without any warning, there came a hard pattering noise all around us. It was the sound of a myriad of fat, heavy rain drops striking the branches and bushes, splattering on the soggy carpet of dead leaves. There was not a breath of wind so the rain fell straight, as if tipped directly from the sky. The freakish shower lasted only a few minutes, five at most. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the downpour stopped. The eerie silence returned.

  Hroudland looked down at the bronze cup in his hand and gave a nervous laugh.

  ‘Coincidence, Patch. What about the gale? The story of Yvain says that when he poured the water on the stone, a great gale arose and ripped the leaves from the trees.’

  ‘There are no leaves. It’s winter,’ I pointed out.

  We looked at one another, both silent for a moment.

  And into that silence came another sound, a hollow rushing noise. It filled the air, coming closer and louder though it happened so quickly and without warning that there was no time to say from which direction the sound was coming. Then my skin crawled as a shadow passed across me, momentarily darkening the sky above the glade.

  I looked up. A great flock of birds, thousands of them, was swirling over the clearing. We were hearing the beating of their wings, a noise that rose and fell as the flock circled twice and then came spiralling around our heads to land on the boughs and twigs of the trees and bushes around us. There were so many birds that it was impossible to count their number. They settled on every possible perch until the thinner branches began to sway and sag under their weight. I had never before seen birds like them. They were the size of thrushes, brownish-black and with short yellow beaks. They clung on their perches, seeking to keep their balance, occasionally shifting to get a firmer grip with their feet or to allow yet another bird to land beside them, but never settling on the ground. Then a faint, subdued chatter arose, and the entire circle of the glade seethed with birdlife.