by Tim Severin
My friend was falling-down drunk when I finally located him and told him my news. It was late afternoon and he was lolling with Berenger on a bench in the changing room of the thermae. The water in the pool was pleasantly warm even in mid-winter, and the count sometimes went there to swim and then carouse with his close companions. The baths, being some distance from the main palace, were a place to go for heavy drinking sessions as the king was known to discourage drunkenness.
Hroudland waved his cup, slopping the contents.
‘Patch, you couldn’t have a worse travelling companion,’ he announced, slurring his words.
‘He can’t be that bad,’ I protested.
Even intoxicated, Hroudland still had the look and manner of the handsome aristocrat despite the flushed face and owlish expression.
‘Don’t you believe it. Ganelon will always try to save his own skin. He tried to get the king to send me with the Saracens. Serve him right that he’s been given the job instead.’
‘I don’t understand.’ The sight of Hroudland helpless and groggy made me uncomfortable.
‘The journey to Barcelona could prove to be a suicide mission. The Saracens turn against you, and you’re done for.’ Hroudland drew his finger across his throat and made a gurgling sound. He swayed on the bench and would have slipped off it if Berenger had not caught him and held him upright.
Hroudland belched and rose to his feet. He staggered forward and threw an arm around my shoulders and hugged me to him. Judging by the smell of his breath he was drinking hot red wine flavoured with blackthorn berries.
‘Poor Patch, this may be the last time I see you. You will come to visit me in Brittany, won’t you?’
Embarrassed, I pushed him away.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Berenger, who was more sober, explained: ‘The king has appointed Hroudland to be the new Margrave of the Breton March. He leaves next week to take up his post.’
‘So, Patch, you ride off to the sunshine, and I’ll be heading for the rain and drizzle of the west,’ said Hroudland.
My friend’s melancholy was contagious. All of a sudden I felt depressed. I knew I would miss Hroudland. I valued him as a confidant and comrade.
‘I’ll have Gerin for company. He’s being sent to Hispania as well,’ I said.
Hroudland swayed back and hiccupped.
‘Pity the king didn’t think to send him to Brittany with me. Gerin gave Offa a hand with sorting out his neighbours.’
It was the first time that I had heard any reference to link Gerin to Offa since Osric had told me that one of Gerin’s servants was curious whether I had ever been at Offa’s court. But I had no chance to ask any questions because Hroudland had begun taking off his clothes.
‘Come on, Berenger! Time for another swim,’ he said with another drunken hiccup. ‘We won’t have thermae in Brittany. Let’s make the most of it.’
I turned away dejectedly. I had not got over my dread of the murky green waters of the pool, and I had to go and find Osric and tell him to be ready to leave early next morning.
That night was my last in Aachen for many months and it was filled with foreboding. I had great difficulty in falling asleep, and when I did so I dreamed that I was on the side of a strange and barren mountain. It was in near-darkness and Hroudland was with me. Together we scrambled down the steep slope, descending at breakneck speed, careering off rough boulders, bruising hands and knees as we slipped and fell, then getting back to our feet and hurtling onward. Dragons with armoured scales flew around our heads and from clefts in the rocks sprang loathsome creatures that snarled and showed their fangs. I awoke drenched in sweat and wondering if the Book of Dreams could explain such grotesque fantasies.
One thing was certain: I would take the Oneirokritikon with me to Hispania so that Osric and I could finish the translation. I needed Artimedorus’s writings to help me to spy into the minds of the Saracens as King Carolus had instructed.
A raw wind was lifting little spirals of powdered snow, sending them spinning across the frozen ground in front of the great hall as I joined the other members of Carolus’s delegation to Hispania assembling on horseback. The icy blast was making my eyes stream and, although I was wearing heavy gauntlets, I had already lost all feeling in my fingers. It was only an hour after sunrise and Osric had brought my bay gelding from the stable and was riding a rangy-looking chestnut mare. He held a laden pack animal on a lead rope, and I noted a long package which I guessed contained my bow and sword. I had packed the Book of Dreams in my saddlebags, together with pages of the translation I had made so far. All around me the other riders were bundled up in thick clothes. I recognized Ganelon by the glimpse of a black beard poking out from the hood of his heavy jacket, and Gerin by the red shield slung across his back. The Saracens had not yet mounted but were holding their horses by the reins; there seemed to be some sort of problem.
An official emerged from the portico of the great hall and hurried across to Ganelon and said something to him. I saw Ganelon jerk the reins in an angry gesture, then wheel his horse round and come trotting across to shout to Gerin.
‘The Saracens are refusing to leave until we have more horses,’ he called.
‘What’s the matter with them?’ asked Gerin. He sounded grumpy.
‘They say we need to bring spare mounts, or we’ll slow them down. They’ve already refused a cavalry escort for the same reason.’
I looked across at the Saracens. They wore heavy riding cloaks and soft boots, and carried short whips. Their small horses were no longer decked out in the finery of their arrival. Manes and tails were neatly plaited and tied up. Bridles and saddles were workmanlike, and when one of the Saracens picked up his horse’s hoof to check, I saw a half hoop of metal armed with short spikes. I had never seen a horseshoe before. A Saracen was talking with a palace official and pointing with his whip towards the king’s residence. The official set off at a run.
‘What’s going on?’ demanded Ganelon. His horse was skittish. It stamped and snorted, edging sideways.
‘They are insisting you bring couriers’ horses as remounts,’ the official called out, heading towards the outbuilding that housed the horses kept ready for the king’s messengers.
‘Impudence,’ growled Gerin. He leaned forward and patted the neck of his tall stallion. With its shaggy winter coat, the animal looked even more powerful than when he rode it during our fighting practice.
Ganelon shifted in his saddle to make himself more comfortable. Apart from one slight nod, he had ignored me entirely.
‘No point in making a fuss,’ he said quietly to Gerin. ‘We’ll be in one another’s company for a long time.’
After a short delay, a gang of palace ostlers appeared, leading a string of horses from the couriers’ stables. They distributed the animals among us, handing out the lead ropes, and at last we were ready to set out.
We formed up in a ragged column, two royal heralds in the lead. Immediately behind them were the Saracens. Discreetly I took up my place towards the rear, just ahead of the grooms and servants. Osric was at my side and glancing at him I could see the resemblance to the Saracens in the embassy. His face had the same sharply defined features and dark complexion.
‘Did you ever hear anything more about Gerin’s time at King Offa’s court?’ I asked.
Osric’s eyes flicked to where Gerin rode ahead of us.
‘No, but his servant is travelling with us. I’ll see what I can find out,’ he replied.
‘I had a strange dream last night. When we have a chance I want us to see if there is some meaning to it.’
Osric turned his brown eyes towards me.
‘So you are beginning to have faith in the book?’
‘I am, but it would be better if we kept quiet about it, at least for now.’
There was a shouted command from the front of the column. One of the heralds blew a short blast on a horn, and we began to move. I twisted in my saddle an
d looked back towards the king’s residence, wondering if Bertha was watching us leave. I doubted it. There had been no opportunity to say farewell to her, and my goodbye to Hroudland had been less than satisfactory. The newly appointed Margrave of the Breton March had been stretched out on his bed with his head under a pillow, suffering a bad hangover. He had groaned and with a muffled voice told me to go to the Devil.
The brisk pace of the Saracen riders came as an unwelcome surprise. Their horses moved with short, rapid steps, covering the ground with a smooth, measured beat while their riders sat at ease in their deep, comfortable saddles. To keep up with them the rest of us had to either trot or canter, and this tested our heavier mounts. Soon the muscles in my legs and back were aching and I felt my bay gelding beginning to flag. The groans and muttered curses from other riders told me that they too were suffering. From time to time someone would break the torment by pulling out of line and going up ahead at a gallop. But then his horse would tire and slow to a walk, and not long afterwards the Saracen cavalcade came stepping by at the same brisk rate, apparently unflagging. By the time we stopped for a brief midday break, most of our riders had already changed horses, glad that remounts were available. When we finally halted for the night and slid painfully down from our saddles, we had covered the same distance Arnulf’s eel cart would have travelled in a week.
So it continued, relentlessly, day after day. We rose in the dark, set out on the road in half-light of dawn and often did not reach our day’s destination until well after sunset. Many of our horses broke down or went lame. If they were not immediately replaced, their riders were left behind. Our group steadily dwindled until we numbered less than a score of riders in addition to the Saracens. Not one of them fell by the way. We had no need of guides because our path was along the old Roman roadways. Sometimes the original paving remained, the stone slabs cracked and scored with grooves left by cartwheels over the centuries. Elsewhere the surface had deteriorated into a rutted gravel track that followed the lines of ancient causeways over marsh and bogland, bringing us to sturdy Roman bridges whose solid stone arches still crossed the rivers. During the first week of our journey many of the smaller streams were frozen solid so that we could ride across on the ice. The Saracen horses went ahead on their spiked shoes, while the rest of us dismounted and cautiously crept across, leading our nervous mounts.
The scenery changed very slowly. Our route avoided high ground, as everywhere was in the grip of winter. The trees in the vast forest tracts were leafless and stark, as were the orchards outside the villages. The ploughed fields were bleak expanses of bare soil. Nothing moved. The country people were keeping indoors close to their fires and if no smoke rose from the chimneys we knew they shared their hovels with their cattle, huddling together for warmth. We passed quickly through the towns, having no need to buy supplies or seek lodgings. The king owned royal farms all along our route, some so vast that they rivalled my father’s little kingdom in acreage. Every steward on them was obliged to feed us from his stores and give us shelter. If no royal demesne was convenient, the dukes and counts, who held their lands from the king, provided all we needed. Our progress was so swift and unhampered that I was able to measure it by the way the weather changed. We left Aachen under skies so dull and overcast that it was impossible to tell the direction of the sunrise, and in the evening the daylight ebbed seamlessly into night. Three weeks later we were riding in sunshine so bright that it hurt the eyes, and the night sky was so clear that the stars glittered in the bitter cold with an intensity that I had never seen before. By then we were already within sight of the jagged crests of the snow-covered mountains marking the limit of the king’s realm.
Here, taking us unawares, the Saracens abruptly announced one morning that they would be going their different ways. Suleyman al Arabi, the Wali of Barcelona, was to continue straight ahead, taking the coast road direct to his own country. The governor of Heusca would accompany him. Husayn, the Wali of Zaragoza, intended to turn aside and use a different route home through a mountain pass further west.
We had spent the night in the hamlet that had sprung up at the fork in the road. It was a poverty-stricken place of small houses built of loose unmortared stone, their wooden roof tiles held down with heavy rocks. Ganelon, Gerin and I hurriedly met in a disused building on the central square to discuss the change of plan. Judging by the smell and the droppings underfoot, the place was used as a sheep shed.
‘We have to decide whether to stay together or divide,’ Ganelon announced.
‘We should stay with Suleyman. He’s their leader,’ said Gerin. Throughout the journey he had been his usual taciturn self and had barely exchanged a dozen gruff sentences with me.
Ganelon turned to me.
‘What do you think?’ he asked.
I was surprised to be consulted. Ganelon had treated me as some sort of unwanted addition to the embassy ever since we had set off from Aachen. I recalled my instructions from Alcuin that I was to gather information on the possible routes for an army to enter Hispania.
‘What do we know about the different roads the Saracens will take?’
‘The coast road to Barcelona is well travelled. I have not heard anything about the road through the mountains which Husayn proposes,’ Ganelon told me.
‘Then I will go with Husayn,’ I said promptly. Ganelon studied me for a long moment, his eyes watchful, and I wondered if he knew or had guessed the reason for my choice.
‘I’m for Barcelona,’ Gerin confirmed.
There was a sudden burst of some foreign language from outside. The words sounded angry. One of the Saracens was shouting, probably chasing away a villager who had got too close to their panniers and saddlebags. The Saracens were likely to set out at any moment.
Ganelon came to a quick decision.
‘If Sigwulf is prepared to accompany Husayn to Zaragoza, he can rejoin us in Barcelona in, say, three weeks’ time. I’ll check with the Saracens that they agree to this arrangement.’
As we hurried out into the village square, Osric was standing beside the stone water trough in the centre of the village, talking with Gerin’s servant.
‘Ganelon and Gerin are accompanying Governor Suleyman to Barcelona, and we’ll be taking the road through the mountains with Husayn, direct to Zaragoza,’ I told him.
Osric waited until Gerin’s servant was safely out of earshot before replying.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he said softly.
I gave him a sharp look. There had been no hint of trouble on the journey. No one had attempted to harm me. I was beginning to think that the mushroom poisoning and the attack in the forest were unrelated accidents, or that whoever wished to hurt me had been left far behind.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I’ve learned a little more about Gerin.’
‘He has no reason to do away with me,’ I said.
‘He sells his sword to whoever pays him. King Offa hired him during a border quarrel with the Welsh. Gerin served as leader of a war band.’
I recalled Gerin’s expertise with lance and javelin.
‘How long ago was that?’
‘Maybe five or six years ago.’
‘Poison is not his style; an arrow in the back, maybe.’
‘Gerin was present at the hunt and also at the banquet,’ Osric reminded me.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ganelon walking across the square to where the Saracens were clustered. They were tightening their saddle girths, getting ready to depart.
‘There’s something more. Ganelon has already had a private meeting with Husayn,’ he said.
That startled me.
‘Do you know what was discussed?’
‘No, Gerin’s servant was up early, tending to a horse with saddle sores. He saw Ganelon go and return. The meeting lasted less than an hour.’
There was a flurry of activity on the far side of the square. The Saracens were mounting up. A gaggle of villagers surrounded them, so
me begging, others holding up lumps of hard cheese and strips of dried mutton, hoping for a sale. Now we were in the borderlands, we were having to purchase our own supplies.
‘Everything’s arranged,’ Ganelon shouted at me. ‘I’ll see you in Barcelona in three weeks’ time! Go with God!’ He hurried to where Gerin and the rest of our group were already mounted and circling their animals, preparing to head off. Osric and I had to grab the reins of our own horses and hold them back to prevent them joining the others. After three weeks on the road our animals had become used to travelling together.
I watched my comrades clatter out of the village at a trot. Gerin still rode like a cavalryman on campaign. He sat square and upright in the saddle, his plain red shield bouncing against his horse’s flank, with his long heavy sword slung across his back. The handle projected above his left shoulder like a cross.
Deep in thought, I turned my attention to the Saracens who had stayed behind. Four of them were sitting quietly on their horses on the far side of the square, the hoods of their riding cloaks pulled up against the chill air. They were waiting for Osric and me to join them.
‘Greetings, fellow travellers,’ said the nearest Saracen in good Latin as we approached. He was a little older than me, perhaps in his early twenties, plump and expensively dressed. From his air of confidence I presumed that I was being addressed by Husayn, Wali of Zaragoza. This was the first time I had seen him close up and face to face. He had a clear olive skin and large dark eyes made even darker by the application of black dye around them. He had also painted his small, delicate mouth. His lips were a striking shade of pink. If I had not known that he had just ridden across Frankia in less than three weeks, I would have mistaken him as being effeminate.
‘Ambassador Ganelon tells me that you wish to accompany me to Zaragoza. I look forward to your company, so let us be friends,’ he said.
