by Tim Severin
‘But I don’t even know if there’s any truth in it. It could all be rubbish, written for the credulous.’
‘You’ll never know until you’ve read it,’ she said.
There was no response to that, so I stayed silent.
‘My father tells his family about his dreams, no one else. He hopes we might be able to explain them to him.’
‘Then perhaps I can write out a translation of the book for him.’
‘My father doesn’t know how to read,’
Now I saw what she had in mind.
‘You mean I would become his interpreter of dreams.’
‘Exactly! Through me.’ There was triumph in her voice. ‘And that way you will become a trusted member of the inner circle.’
Translating the Oneirokritikon was not as difficult as I had feared. Alcuin provided a desk in a quiet side room in the chancery and supplied writing materials. I took Osric’s dictation as he unravelled the sentences.
‘The author’s name is Artimedorus,’ said Osric as we began.
‘He doesn’t sound like a Saracen.’ The goose feather was fresh, and I was having problems getting the ink to flow smoothly.
‘He’s a Greek. He states he will offer proof of the fulfilment of dreams and refute those sceptics who mock the art of divination.’
I wiped the tip of the quill clean with a fresh rag and loaded it again with ink.
Osric ran his eye along the next few lines.
‘Artimedorus claims that for many years he has been collecting books of dream interpretation and consulting diviners of the marketplace, so now he provides a truthful guide on the subject.’
‘Sounds promising.’ I bent to my task.
‘There are two categories of dreams,’ Osric translated. ‘Those which reflect the present, and those which foretell the future. The former need no explanation. Thus a sick man is likely to dream of doctors and his illness; a lover dreams of the person he holds dear. When they awake that was the end of the dream and it had no significance.’
My quill was still giving trouble. I discarded it and cut a replacement.
Osric waited until I had caught up with his dictation.
‘Master, should I summarize the Greek’s ideas?’ he asked. ‘I fear he is rather pedantic.’
‘Pick out the practical advice,’ I replied. Bertha would be expecting quick results on how to interpret dreams.
Osric leafed through the pages.
‘The dreams of the second category can either be literal or allegorical.’
‘Does he give examples?’
‘For a literal dream, he cites the case of a man travelling aboard ship who dreamed he was in a shipwreck. The next day his vessel sank. Artimedorus claims to have spoken to the man himself. He goes on to say that such dreams come true so often that we should not be surprised.’
I had no need to ask Osric how a dream could be an allegory of the future. My dream of the aggressive ox led by a vixen attacking the stag had been an image of King Offa’s invasion of my father’s kingdom. There was a much more important question I had to ask. The answer might protect me against future dangers.
‘Does Artimedorus say whether it is possible to induce a prophetic dream — by swallowing extracts of powerful herbs before sleeping, for example?’ I asked.
I had already told Osric about the unknown archer, and he guessed my thoughts.
‘So you would have been prepared for what happened during the hunt?’
I nodded.
Osric spent a long time searching the pages of the Oneirokritikon. Finally he shook his head. ‘He only warns that dreams that are the result of having eaten or drunk too much are not to be relied on.’
‘Osric, do you ever dream?’ I ventured to ask.
‘Only nightmares I would sooner forget,’ he replied quietly.
We worked on the translation for over a week before I received my next summons to the king’s residence. Leaving Osric to puzzle over obscure Saracen phrases, I set out across the royal precinct. The weather had turned bitterly cold and a thick coating of frost covered the raw piles of building materials with glittering crystals. I felt sorry for the workmen balanced on the scaffolding of the half-finished audience hall, their hands wrapped in rags against the chill wind. They were still mixing mortar and setting courses of bricks. The construction work was behind schedule and the king was insisting on having the building in time for Christmas. To my surprise the guards at the main entrance to the king’s residence directed me to a side door. Here an under-chamberlain met me and escorted me to a small reception room, comfortably furnished with low stools and soft rugs and with a fire burning in the corner. To my delight, Bertha was waiting for me. The moment the door closed behind me, I started forward, about to embrace her. The warning look in her eyes stopped me.
‘So this is the man of dreams,’ said a slightly mocking voice. Standing off to one side was a woman who, I guessed at once, had to be one of Bertha’s sisters. The two were very alike. They had the same fair hair, blue eyes and creamy, slightly freckled skin. But the stranger lacked Bertha’s voluptuous curves and was not as tall. She seemed more mature, more worldly, and I presumed she was the older of the two. She was eyeing me with an expression of curiosity tempered with disbelief. I wondered if she was comparing me to her sister’s previous lovers.
Bertha wasted no time in coming straight to the point.
‘Sigwulf, this is Adelaide, my sister. Our father has had a dream that could be important.’
I could tell by the way that Bertha held her hands clasped in front of her, her face animated, that she was excited.
‘He told us about it yesterday. We want you to interpret it for us.’ She cast a conspiratorial glance towards her sister.
‘I’m less than halfway through translating the dream book,’ I apologized.
‘I’m sure you can locate the part that matters.’
Her high-handed manner irritated me. Then I remembered that she was a king’s daughter.
‘I’ll do what I can,’ I said.
Adelaide moved across the room to stand beside her sister.
‘Do you find this dream book believable?’ she asked.
‘I haven’t had time to judge.’
‘So now’s the time to put it to the test,’ Bertha interrupted eagerly.
‘It’s not as simple as that. .’ my voice trailed away. I wanted to please Bertha but I was beginning to wonder if I was wise to have spoken to her about the Oneirokritikon. I had a feeling that there was more to the sisters’ questions than they were letting on. I sensed that I was approaching something sensitive, a dangerous topic that I was not equipped to handle.
‘What are these difficulties?’ asked Adelaide. Her voice was low and musical but there was a probing edge.
I prevaricated.
‘The interpretation of a dream depends on so many factors — the time of the dream, the status of the dreamer, his or her health, whether the dreamer has anxieties.’
Adelaide waved aside my excuses.
‘You know my father’s status — he’s the king. He dreamed shortly before midnight. It’s no secret that he’s a light sleeper, and he awoke soon afterwards.’
It was clear that she was not someone who was easily diverted.
‘Perhaps Your Highness could relate the contents of the dream,’ I suggested.
‘Our father dreamed he was travelling through a foreign country. He had no idea where it was. The people dressed strangely and they spoke in languages he did not understand. He was invisible to them so they ignored him even when he tried to engage them in conversation.’ Unexpectedly Adelaide hesitated. She flushed slightly as if embarrassed.
‘Go on, Addy,’ said her sister. ‘That patch Sigwulf is wearing is a fake.’
‘What really troubles my father is that in his dream he had only one eye. The other had been lost,’ said Adelaide.
I relaxed. Artimedorus had written about dreams of blindness or the loss of an eye in a chapter that Osric an
d I had already translated.
‘There are two possible explanations of the dream,’ I began.
Quick as a flash Adelaide gave a sniff of disbelief.
‘Just as I told you, Bertha. Soothsayers are always devious. They’re deliberately vague so you can read into their prophecies whatever you want to believe.’
‘Hear him out, Addy,’ Bertha said, springing to my defence. ‘Give him a chance to explain.’
I gave Bertha a grateful glance and went on.
‘According to Artimedorus, a person who dreams of travelling through a foreign country while having only one eye means the journey will be hindered and full of difficulties.’
Adelaide looked doubtful.
‘I’ve not heard that the king intends a foreign trip.’
‘The interpretation of the dream does not allow one to say when it will come true,’ I cautioned.
‘More weasel words from the soothsayer,’ Adelaide promptly accused.
Her open scepticism prodded me into saying what I had not intended.
‘There is another interpretation of the loss of an eye,’ I said sharply.
‘And what’s that?’ Adelaide scoffed.
‘The loss of an eye means the loss of a member of the family,’ I said quietly.
That caught their attention. The two sisters looked hard at me.
‘What member of the family?’ asked Bertha. Her voice was flinty, but there was a trace of fear.
I was committed now, and could not draw back.
‘A parent or a child.’
‘Well, both the king’s mother and father are already deceased,’ said Adelaide. Her eyes were alert with interest.
‘And does your Greek offer any further details?’ Bertha asked slowly.
‘You will have to tell me which eye was missing in your father’s dream.’
‘The right one.’
I smothered a sigh of relief.
‘According to Artimedorus, the loss of the right eye means that the dreamer will lose a son.’
No sooner had the words left my mouth than I regretted them. I pictured the royal family seated at their table at the banquet. There had been only one son — Pepin. He was the heir, yet he was illegitimate, the offspring of a concubine. Both sisters in front of me were daughters of legal marriage.
I tried to hide my thoughts, keeping my face blank. But I noticed that the two sisters exchanged a quick, meaningful glance.
Then Adelaide said brightly, ‘We are forgetting our manners.’ She went to a side table, removed the glass stopper from a flask of wine and poured me a drink. ‘Here, Sigwulf, you need something to warm you up before you go out into the cold again.’
It was clear that my audience with the royal sisters was at an end.
My thoughts were in turmoil as I left the royal residence. I had a queasy feeling that I was teetering on the edge of palace politics, a very dangerous area. What I had said about the king losing a son had struck a chord with both sisters. Yet nothing I had heard about Pepin led me to believe he was near death. I had not laid eyes on him for some time and he had not been with the royal hunting party, but that was not surprising in light of his physical attributes.
I was so engrossed in my thoughts that I did not look where I was putting my feet. All of a sudden I skidded, flailing wildly to keep my balance.
‘Look where you’re going!’
A building foreman, wrapped up in a heavy sheepskin coat, was waving at me to get out of the way. Behind him a squad of labourers were advancing in a line, tipping buckets of water on to the frozen ground. As the water spread it was freezing into a sheet of ice.
‘Keep off if you don’t want to break your neck!’ bellowed the foreman.
His men were creating a smooth, slick pathway from the unfinished great hall. Behind them was another gang of men. They were hauling on ropes attached to a crude sledge. On it stood the great metal horse and rider which had shocked me on my first day. They were sliding their load along the ice.
I went across to the foreman.
‘Where will the statue eventually be placed?’ I enquired.
‘Search me,’ was his gruff reply. ‘Right now the master mason wants it out of his way. Says it interferes with his brick hoists where it is.’
The foreman wiped a drip hanging from the end of his nose and turned round to yell more instructions to his men.
I continued on to the chancery where Osric was still engrossed in the Oneirokritikon. I asked him whether Artimedorus had written anything about seeing bronze statues in a dream.
He searched the pages of the book.
‘According to him, a large bronze statute is a good sign as it symbolizes wealth. On the other hand, if the dream statue is truly enormous that portends extraordinary dangers.’
‘What about a statue of a horse and rider?’
‘I haven’t come across anything like that. Artimedorus does say that a man who dreams of riding a well-schooled and obedient horse will have friends and family to support him throughout his life.’
‘I’m sure he also provides a more bleak interpretation,’ I said.
Osric gave a thin smile.
‘If a poor woman dreams that she is riding a horse through a city street, he says it means she will become a prostitute.’
I sat down at my desk and took up my pen, but before I started on Osric’s dictation I told him what had been said during my visit to Bertha and Adelaide.
‘As far as I know, Pepin’s in good health. Yet one interpretation of the dream is that the king will lose his son,’ I concluded.
Osric glanced towards the door to make sure that we would not be overheard.
‘Master, as I mentioned earlier, slaves and servants gossip. Pepin has not been formally declared as the heir to the king. There are important men around him who fear that if the king has another son, Pepin will be passed over.’
‘Because the king never married his mother?’ I said.
‘Precisely. These so-called friends of Pepin are encouraging him to seize the throne before it is too late.’
A chill ran through me. Should Pepin be plotting to seize the throne, and his scheme was discovered, he was almost certain to be put to death. Before that, there would be uproar within the royal family, accusations and counter-accusations as to who knew about the plot, and who was involved. Any outsider who might provide information would be questioned. If Bertha or her sister breathed a word of what I had said about their brother’s doubtful future, I would be under suspicion of knowing about Pepin’s plan and not warning the authorities. They would want details from me, extracted on the rack if necessary. I had already experienced the lengths to which a ruler would go to protect his position against rivals. My blunder with Bertha and her sister meant that King Offa was far from the only threat to my survival.
I found myself wishing that I had never told Bertha about the Book of Dreams.
Gerard mended very slowly. For his convalescence he was moved to a house within the town, the property of a rich contractor. I went there to tell him about the poison mushroom Osric had identified, and found the old man sitting up in bed, a marten fur cloak wrapped around his shoulders. His face looked strained and pale under the thick felt hat that hid his white hair. But Gerard was hardier than his frail appearance suggested. His eyes were bright with intelligence.
‘So that’s what nearly did for the two of us,’ he said after I had explained.
‘Osric came across it growing in the forest.’
The old man snorted.
‘The kitchen is staffed with fools.’
‘I’ve been wondering if it was more than an accident,’ I said cautiously.
He shot me a glance from under bushy eyebrows.
‘You think it was put into the pottage deliberately?’
‘The thought had occurred to me, but I don’t know who might want to injure me.’
He smiled grimly.
‘In other words you believe that I have enemies.’
‘I meant no offence,’ I apologized. ‘But if you do, it is best if you and I were aware of them.’
A thin, blotched hand emerged from under the cloak to scratch his chin.
‘Everyone acquires enemies sooner or later.’
It was my turn to draw an inference.
‘I don’t believe I’ve been here long enough to merit them.’
‘What about enemies you left behind. They could have a long reach.’
I thought about King Offa and my turncoat uncle.
‘I’m much too insignificant,’ I concluded.
‘Less and less so,’ he replied. ‘I gather you made quite a stir at the hunt and that a certain princess thinks highly of you.’
I avoided the old man’s sly gaze. It seemed that servants were not the only ones to gossip.
‘Hroudland thinks I was poisoned as a means of getting at him.’
Gerard considered my suggestion.
‘That’s possible. Everyone has noticed that you and Hroudland are very close. He is the king’s nephew and could be the target for ambitious rivals.’ Abruptly he changed the subject. ‘Did your servant Osric manage to translate any of that book I gave you?’ he asked.
‘He’s about halfway through. It’s not a leech book. It’s about how to understand the meaning of dreams,’ I answered.
‘Does it contain any truth?’
I decided to take Gerard into my confidence. The old man was wise in the ways of palace politics. Maybe he could suggest how I could deal with the consequences should Bertha and her sister speak to others about my interpretation of their father’s dream.
‘I’ve put it to the test, but it’s too early for any result.’ I told him how I had used the book to interpret the king’s dream of losing the sight of one eye.
Gerard sat very still, his face grave.
‘If your interpretation is accurate, that book is more powerful than any sword.’
‘Double-edged, then. Every dream has more than one explanation, and I’ll need to learn how to choose the right one.’
When the old man next spoke, he was deadly serious.
‘Patch, if the dream book is genuine, others will want to get their hands on it. The more you learn how to use it, the more danger you will be in.’
