by Tim Severin
I had to stop myself from shaking my head despairingly. Once Hroudland fastened on an idea, he was impossible to reason with.
‘And if there is no Graal and the whole thing is a myth?’
Sensing my misgivings, Hroudland laughed.
‘In that case this expedition is still my chance for a new beginning. As I’ve said before, I will serve with such distinction that when we have conquered our Saracen opponents, my uncle Carolus will make me Margrave of the new Spanish March.’ He leaned across from his horse and cuffed me affectionately across the head. ‘And then, Patch, you will come with me as my close advisor, and enjoy the sunshine instead of the Breton drizzle.’
He clapped his heels to the side of his horse and broke into a canter, clods of earth flying up from his horse’s hooves.
A week later we found ourselves looking down into a ruined valley. It was as if a great wind of destruction had swept across the land. Hedges and thickets were smashed into tatters. The young crops in the fields trampled and ruined. The ground was all torn up and wrecked. Not a tree or sapling was left standing in the coppices, and their stumps showed fresh axe marks. It was a truly dismal spectacle and I was astonished when Berenger gave a whoop of delight.
He began humming to himself as we rode side by side down the slope and into the scene of devastation.
‘What happened here?’ I asked.
‘An army,’ he retorted with a grin. ‘The ground will soon recover. Look at all that manure.’
Indeed there were piles of dung dotted here and there, as well as an ugly spew of rubbish — discarded sacking, traces of cooking fires, chicken feathers, gnawed bones, a broken earthenware pot, a split shoe that someone had tossed away. I pulled my horse aside before he stepped into what was obviously a pile of human excrement. It took me another moment to realize that all this squalor lay in a broad swathe leading along the bottom of the valley.
Hroudland was riding a little distance ahead of us. He swivelled in his saddle and called back, ‘Come on! They must be just over that hill crest!’ He put his horse into a fast trot and began to ascend the far slope.
Berenger and I followed, and as we crested the rise I pulled my mount to a halt and looked on in amazement. I knew now why my comrades always seemed so confident of the success of the Frankish army.
Along the bottom of the next valley crawled a huge serpent. It was formed of ox-drawn vehicles, creeping forward in a long line. There must have been four or five hundred of them. Most were substantial two-wheeled carts, though a few of the larger ones had four wheels similar to Arnulf’s eel wagon. All were tented and drawn by two animals, their drovers walking beside them or riding on bench seats in front of the canopies. Even from a distance I could hear the squealing and groaning of the huge solid wheels turning on wooden axles, and hear the occasional crack of a whip. Out on the flanks of the column were parties of foragers stripping the countryside of any vegetation that might provide food for the draught animals. Closer to us a great herd of cattle meandered along, eating every blade of grass or green leaf in its path.
‘Everything the army needs is down there,’ Berenger called out to me proudly. He waved his arm towards the wagons. ‘Tents, spare weapons, grain, cooking pots, trenching tools. That cattle herd is a moving larder of fresh meat.’
‘Where’s the king himself?’ I asked.
He pointed. At the head of the column, in the far distance, was a dark swarm of horsemen, the main body of the army. I could just make out some flapping banners and the occasional glint of sunlight reflected from a shield or spear point.
‘Sloppy of them not to have posted a rearguard,’ observed Hroudland tartly, interrupting us. He spurred his horse down the slope to join the army, and Berenger and I cantered along behind him.
We overtook the column and rode along beside it. Now I could hear the deep grunting breaths of the draught animals, saliva dripping from their mouths as they plodded forward. We came level with a company of infantry, tramping along stolidly, one of many such companies dotted along the column. This group were husky, well-built men, who shouldered short-handled axes. Their sergeant, a craggy figure with cropped hair and a great beak of a broken nose shouted out a question at us in a strange hoarse voice, in a language none of us could understand.
‘They’ll be some of Anseis’s Burgundians,’ Berenger explained. ‘Carolus has summoned troops from all over the kingdom. Each man is obliged to serve under arms for up to sixty days a year.’
‘Do they fight only with those axes?’
‘Their shields and spears will be somewhere in the wagons along with the rest of their gear. There’s no point in carrying an extra burden on the march.’
Ahead of us one of the ox carts pulled out of line. The right hand wheel was wobbling and it looked as if an axle pin had come loose.
Someone, a wheelwright probably, jumped off an ox wagon. Tools in hand, he was already on his way to repair the stranded cart. It appeared that the column was self-repairing.
‘What happens when the column needs to cross a river?’ I asked.
‘If there’s no bridge strong or big enough to take so many vehicles, the scouts find a ford. Provided the oxen can keep their footing, the army moves forward. Nothing should get wet. The carts and wagons are built like boats, to keep out river water as well as rain.’
I noticed that the wooden sides of the nearest cart were sealed with pitch, and the cover was made of greased leather. Nevertheless, something was missing. It was only after Berenger and I had ridden the entire length of the column and were approaching the mass of cavalry up ahead that I identified the flaw. Among all the hundreds of supply wagons and carts, mobile smithies and workshops of the army on the move, there was not a single large siege engine. If Carolus met with resistance from the walled cities of Hispania, he risked failure.
I thought of voicing my concern to Hroudland, but he had gone ahead to catch up with the leaders, and by the time I had a chance to speak to him privately, too much had happened to make me think that my opinion would be taken seriously.
In mid-afternoon the army halted on open ground. Nearby was a lake where the horses and oxen were led to be watered. The ox carts and wagons were parked in orderly lines, the infantry and cavalry set up their tents, camp fires were lit, and cattle selected from the accompanying herd were slaughtered and butchered. Soon so much smoke rose into the air from the cooking fires that a stranger would have thought he had stumbled on a small town.
Hroudland went to report to the official in charge of the practical arrangements for the campaign, a man named Eggihard who held the title of seneschal to the king. Meanwhile Berenger and I set off in search of the other paladins. We found them drinking wine and lounging around a camp fire close to an enormous square pavilion, striped in red, gold and blue with the royal standard flying from the centre pole. Several paladins I remembered from the winter in Aachen were there — Anseis of Burgundy, handsome and swaggering Engeler, and Gerer, Gerin’s friend. Old Gerard was missing and I was saddened to be told that he had never fully recovered from the poison he had eaten at the banquet. His agonizing stomach cramps had returned and his new doctor had advised him to chew laurel leaves, swallow the juice and then lay the wet leaves on his stomach. This treatment had been no more help than the prayers of the attendant priests, and a winter chill took him off while he was still in a weakened state.
Guiltily I wondered if I had been selfish to have taken Osric with me on the mission to Zaragoza. If Osric had stayed behind, perhaps his medical skill would have saved the old man. Now, even if I had wished to return the Book of Dreams, it was impossible.
‘Patch, Berenger! I want you to hear our orders from the king.’ Hroudland was standing at the entrance to the royal pavilion and summoning us. All thoughts of Gerard vanished from my mind. Inside the tent I might come face to face with Ganelon and he was a man best avoided. I had not seen him since he had gone off to Barcelona with Gerin. Even if Ganelon was not responsible for t
he attack by the Vascon slinger in the mountains and the earlier attempts on my life, he would see me as a threat to his plan to discredit Hroudland as a traitor in the pay of the Wali of Zaragoza.
So I stepped cautiously into the royal pavilion. The interior was more spacious than most houses. I caught a whiff of some sort of incense, and I guessed that the royal chaplain had recently been conducting a service inside. The evening light filtering through the canvas was strong enough to show a heavy curtain of purple velvet partitioned off the far end. Beyond it, I presumed, were the king’s private quarters. The rest of the pavilion was arranged as a council room. Wooden boards had been laid to make a temporary floor. In one corner two clerks sat at a portable desk with parchment and pens. A travelling throne of gilded, carved wood stood on a low plinth, and the centre of the room was entirely taken up by a familiar object — the great tile map that I had last seen in the Aachen chancery. It had been reassembled on trestle tables.
A dozen senior officers and court officials were already standing around the map, talking quietly among themselves. My heart was in my mouth as I scanned their faces, looking for Ganelon. But he was not there, nor among the outer circle of lesser attendants and advisors. I quietly joined them just as the velvet curtain was abruptly pulled aside and the king strode into the room. Carolus was bare-headed and dressed in his usual workday clothing, brown woollen tunic and hose with cross garters of plain leather, and he wore no badges of rank. Outside the tent one might have mistaken him for a common soldier; tall but unremarkable.
His glance swept round the assembled company and I could have sworn that it lingered for a moment on my face as he recalled who I was. Ignoring the wooden throne, he walked straight to the map table, and was straight down to business.
‘I have summoned this meeting so that you are all familiar with our plan for the campaign in Hispania,’ he announced in his strangely high, thin voice, so much in contrast with his air of authority. He gestured toward the map on the table beside him. ‘I want you to take careful note of our dispositions because tomorrow I propose to divide the army.’
All around me was a collective intake of breath. Men shifted uncomfortably, clearly disturbed by the royal decision.
Carolus was aware of the disquiet he had caused.
‘I know it is considered foolhardy to divide one’s forces, but now that my nephew Count Hroudland has arrived with his Breton cavalry we have sufficient numbers to do so.’ Again he indicated the map. ‘A wall of mountains lies between us and the Saracens in Hispania who seek our help, here at Barcelona, Huesca and Zaragoza.’
I was standing too far away to be sure, but I had the impression that he was pointing out the three cities on the map without reading their names on the tiles because he could not do so.
Carolus paused briefly while he looked at his senior officers. He had their full attention.
‘I myself will lead that part of the army — the larger part — that will go around the eastern end of the mountains. We head directly for Barcelona to meet with the wali there.’
There was complete silence in the room. No doubt many of his audience were silently wondering which units would be detached from the main force.
The king turned to face Eggihard.
‘You as seneschal will lead the western division that will go around the mountains and head for Zaragoza where the wali is expecting us. The margrave will be your second in command.’
I felt a glow of satisfaction. It meant that I was likely to see Osric again.
Carolus once again addressed his wider audience.
‘Our spies tell us that our entry into Hispania may encounter opposition. By entering Hispania from two directions we will crush our opponents between us like a nutcracker. That is why I divide the army.’
His audience relaxed. There were murmurs of approval.
The king held up a warning hand and the assembly immediately fell silent.
‘The success of my plan depends on both halves of the army acting in concert.’
‘Your Majesty, what about the supply train?’ asked Eggihard.
‘Allocate the vehicles by their size. The smaller, lighter carts will go with the western division as it has further to travel and must move more quickly. Those details I leave to you and my other captains to arrange.’
Amid the general shuffling and conversation which followed, I heard someone ask his neighbour, ‘Anyone know who we’re likely to be fighting?’
The questioner was a pear-shaped, rather worried-looking man with a strong accent. I guessed he was the commander of one of the contingents from the further reaches of the kingdom, possibly Lombardy.
I missed the answer because Carolus had disappeared behind the velvet curtain and Hroudland was beckoning to me and Berenger. We pushed our way through the press of people and caught up with the count as he was leaving the pavilion and heading in the direction of the tents allocated to the Breton cavalry. The count was in a foul mood and scowling.
‘Eggihard knows how to put pottage into soldier’s bellies and boots on their feet, but if it comes to a fight, he’ll be useless.’
It was obvious that Hroudland resented Eggihard’s appointment over him. I also wondered if the count would have preferred staying with the main army where he would have been more directly under his uncle’s eye to impress the king with his military prowess.
‘Maybe there won’t be any fighting,’ I suggested. ‘We are entering Hispania at the invitation of the Saracens.’
Hroudland gave a snort of disbelief.
‘The Falcon of Cordoba won’t stand by idly.’
‘Who’s he?’ I asked.
‘The most dangerous man in Hispania. He claims that he is rightful overlord of those three rebellious Saracen walis who have invited us to help them. The last time there was an uprising against him, he lined up a hundred of their leaders, kneeling on the ground, and had their heads chopped off.’
‘Then all the more renown for us when we defeat him,’ boasted Berenger.
This was dangerous vainglory, but I held my tongue. Besides, something was nagging at the back of my mind. We were walking past the horse lines and a tall, big-boned stallion had caught my attention. It had its head in a feed bag while a groom brushed its coat. I had seen that same horse on the day I had gone to hunt deer near Aachen; it was the horse that the king had ridden. The memory brought a shiver to my spine. The next animal in the line was another stallion, not as tall as its neighbour, but broader and more heavily muscled, a true war horse. There was something eerily familiar about it, too. I stared long and hard at the creature, wondering where I had seen it before. With a sudden lurch of recognition, I knew. It was the same animal I had seen in my nightmare many months ago, looming over me, one hoof raised. I had looked up in terror and seen blood seeping from the eyes of the rider. It was also the bronze horse of the statue Carolus had brought from Ravenna, the statue I had seen dragged across the sheet ice.
I came to an abrupt halt, unable to take another step. A strange prickling sensation had come over me, paralysing me from head to toe. Unaware of what was happening, Berenger and Hroudland walked away, leaving me behind. I remained rooted to the spot, unable to take my eyes off the war horse until a hand touched me on the elbow and I turned to see a messenger, dressed in royal livery. He was looking at me strangely, and I heard his words through a haze. He repeated them.
‘Follow me, please. The king wants to speak with you.’
I was so numb with shock that until my boots were echoing on the wooden flooring I did not realize that I had been led back inside the royal pavilion. A small group of courtiers was in the outer chamber and they eyed me curiously as I was taken straight past them and handed over to an attendant. He peeked in through the velvet curtain, and then held it aside just far enough for me to slip into Carolus’s private quarters. As I entered I caught a whiff of roast flesh.
The king was eating a late meal. Seated at a plain wooden table, he was gnawing the stringy fl
esh from the leg of a partially dismembered goose carcass. A manservant was hovering nearby with a jug of water and a napkin over his arm, ready to wash the grease off the royal fingers. The inevitable clerk lurked in a corner, wax tablet in hand, ready to take down notes. Otherwise the king was alone.
He gnawed a strip of meat from the bone. His teeth were big and strong, a match for his great size. When he raised his face towards me, I again saw the grey, watchful eyes. A morsel of food was trapped in his moustache.
‘Have you anything to report?’ he asked, not unkindly but with a simple directness.
My mind was in a whirl. The face of the king and the image of the man on the horse crying blood were overlapping as if in a waking nightmare. I blinked hard, feeling confused and nauseous.
‘Well, what have you to say?’ The tone was harder now. Carolus did not like to waste time.
‘Your Majesty, I returned from Hispania some two months ago, by sea. I have been with Count Hroudland,’ I stammered.
‘I know that,’ Carolus snapped. ‘Did you learn anything among the Saracens? Did you dream among them?’
Desperately I thought back to all that happened when I was with Husayn. All I could remember was the horrible dream of the snake lying across my lap.
‘Just once, Your Majesty. I dreamed of treachery.’
The king pointed the half-chewed goose bone at me as though it was a sceptre.
‘Tell me.’
I described my dream and how I had consulted the Book of Dreams to interpret its meaning.
Carolus listened in silence.
‘This happened when you were staying with Wali Husayn in Zaragoza?’ he asked when I finished.
I nodded.
‘Thank you. I shall be on my guard.’
I began to edge away towards the curtain. I was still deeply disturbed by my vision of the king on horseback, crying blood. I knew I should not speak about it, at least not until I knew what it might mean.
