by Tim Severin
If I was to die, I thought to myself, I preferred to be facing the enemy. In a sudden flashback to my childhood, I knew my martial father would have wanted it to be that way.
My pursuers had strung out in a line. The leader was a lancer mounted on a small chestnut horse. He gave a shout of confident anticipation as he saw that I had turned and was at bay. Scarcely breaking stride he lowered his lance and rode straight at me. The point with its fluttering scrap of green cloth was aimed squarely at my chest.
Whether it was luck or the hours of practice I had spent on the training ground below Hroudland’s great hall, I responded as the instructors had taught me. I gripped my horse with my knees and thankfully the mare steadied for a moment, too tired to fidget. I concentrated fiercely on the lance tip. The green cloth tied around it made it so much easier. As it came darting towards me, I swung up my shield and slapped aside the point so that it missed entirely. My enemy was riding at a full gallop and went racing past me on my left hand side, lying forward in the saddle so that the small round shield slung between his shoulder blades protected his back. He was a youngster, scarcely into his teens, and his lighter weight had brought him to the front of the pursuit. He was probably in his first hand to hand combat, for when I looked into his brown eyes for an instant I saw they were bright with the excitement of battle.
Then, without deliberate thought, I was rising in my stirrups as I had seen my instructors demonstrate time and again. My borrowed sword was in my right hand, and as my attacker drew level, I chopped down the blade almost vertically. It caught the lad in the back of the neck, below the rim of his helmet. I felt the shock as the blade hit something solid, and then it was nearly ripped from my hand as the lad slumped forward on his horse’s neck. A moment later he tumbled to the ground, his mantle tangling around his corpse.
My hand and wrist was tingling from the shock of the blow, and I was gasping for breath as I turned to face my next attacker. Beneath me the mare was weaving unhappily from side to side, wanting to turn and flee. I knew she would be overtaken in a few strides so I struggled to keep her head toward the remaining Saracens. There were four or five of them — it was all happening too quickly for me to be sure exactly how many — and they had reached the far edge of the clearing. After witnessing the fate of their comrade, they were getting ready for their next attack. One man turned and handed his lance to a comrade, then drew a short, wide-bladed sword. For an unsettling moment, I had a vision of my family’s final battle. The shape of the Saracen’s weapon recalled the seaxes that my father’s followers had held when they faced King Offa’s warriors. I saw dark, bearded faces beneath their helmets, faces set in grim calculation. The trooper with the drawn sword rode forward a pace or two, and was joined by a companion who had kept his lance. Now I saw what they intended to do. One would ride at me on my left hand side with his lance, and while I fended off his attack with my shield, his companion would cut me down on my exposed side.
The two troopers took their time. I heard them exchange a few words and then they edged their horses sideways to increase the gap between them and make it harder for me to defend myself against their double-pronged assault. Now they settled in the saddle, adjusted reins, and prepared to charge. I saw the horses gather their hind legs under them, ready to spring forward. I knew I was finished.
At that moment, another Saracen rode out from the tree line. He was dressed like the others in flowing gown and metal helmet, but he carried a short staff instead of a spear. I guessed he was some sort of officer for he barked an order, and, to my relief, the two who had been preparing to charge me pulled back their mounts, and resumed their places in the line. I sensed that they were disappointed at being denied their victim.
My relief was short lived. The officer gave a second order, and one of the other troopers reached behind his saddle and produced an object I recognized. It was a curved bow, the twin of the one that I had learned to use in Aachen. Still mounted the archer strung the bow, then reached into a quiver hanging from his saddle and drew out an arrow. I sat there helplessly, thinking back to what Osric had told me in Aachen and I had scarcely believed: at seventy paces distance a mounted Saracen was expected to hit a target of less than three spans across.
The bowman facing me was no more than half that distance away. The Saracen officer saw no point in risking further loss to his men. He preferred that I was despatched like a mad dog.
For a brief moment I wondered about turning my horse and trying to flee. But it was hopeless — I could not outrun the arrow.
So I sat on the mare without moving. I stared at my executioner, wondering what was going through his mind as he drew back the bowstring and took aim.
I saw the arrow fly. It was no more than a very brief, dark blur and then, appallingly, I felt it thump into the target. It was not my chest. Beneath me the mare quivered as if she had been struck with a hammer, and her forelegs buckled as she collapsed on the ground. As I flew over her head I realized that the Saracens did not want to kill me. They wanted to take me alive.
I landed on soft ground, sprawling awkwardly. My sword flew from my hand, and I felt a sharp pain in my elbow as the shield straps held firm, twisting my arm sideways.
Dazed, I struggled up on all fours and managed to haul myself upright, my pride forcing me to remain facing my enemies. The mare was on the ground next to me, her legs kicking feebly. I saw the ribs heave one last time and heard a hollow grunting sigh emerge from her throat. Then she lay still. The mounted officer gave his reins a gentle flick and his mount, a particularly fine stallion, stepped delicately towards me. His expression framed by the rim of the iron helmet and its two metal cheek guards was of cold, bleak certainty.
He had no need to tell me what to do. I pulled my left arm free of the shield straps and let the shield fall to the ground. Then I reached up and began to unfasten my helmet, which had somehow remained in place.
I was fiddling with the lacing knot when something flew over my head from behind me. It smashed into the chest of the officer and the impact threw him backward over his horse’s haunch. He flung up his arms and, as he fell, I had a momentary glimpse of the butt end of a heavy spear buried in his chest. The next instant I heard a full-throated whoop of triumph that I had heard on my first full day at Aachen, and many times on the training ground below Hroudland’s great hall. It was the yell of victorious pleasure that the count released whenever he scored a direct hit on his target.
An instant later Hroudland himself burst out of the trees directly behind me. He was riding at a full gallop, hallooing and yelling, and charging straight at the Saracens.
He deliberately rode over his victim. I heard the sickening crunch of bones as the powerful war horse trod on the officer’s body. Then the animal crashed headlong into the next Saracen trooper in line and sent his lighter horse staggering backward. Hroudland already had his sword in his hand and before his opponent could recover his balance, the count had delivered a downward cut at the Saracen’s shoulder. The man must have been wearing shoulder armour under his mantle; otherwise he would have lost his arm. He swayed in the saddle, his arm now hanging useless, blood gushing from the wound. His horse saved his life; before Hroudland could deliver a second sword blow, the animal leaped sideways and carried its rider out of range.
Now Berenger and the rest of the count’s escort came pouring out of the tree line. Suddenly there was the thunder of hooves, yelling and shouting, and all the headlong chaos of a cavalry charge.
The Saracens knew at once that they were outnumbered. Without hesitation they pulled around their horses. It was astonishing how nimbly their mounts turned. They pivoted on their hindquarters and, like cats, sprang forward. Moments later they were in full flight, racing away from the pursuit. They had been driven off but they were not in disarray. The group split up, each man taking his own line through the orange and plum trees, weaving and twisting, and making the chase difficult. I doubted if Hroudland, Berenger and the others would catch the
m.
I stood in the clearing, shaken and exhausted. My legs were trembling with fatigue, and I could feel my left elbow stiffening where the shield straps had wrenched my arm. All of a sudden everything seemed very quiet. The skirmish had been very brief, yet had taken a bloody toll. My chestnut mare lay dead just a few feet away, and beyond her was the body of the young Saracen I had killed. Further off, right in the centre of the glade, was the corpse of the officer with Hroudland’s lance sticking out of his chest.
The very same qualities that often irritated me about Hroudland — his lack of forethought, his belligerence, his vain confidence in his own prowess — had saved me. His impetuous, raging attack had been typical of the man. If he had not been riding out ahead of his escort, he would have arrived too late. If he had not been so prone to acting on the spur of the moment, he would never have intercepted the Saracen officer in time. If he was not such a good fighting man, he would never have hit his target with his thrown lance.
Without question I owed him my liberty and very likely my life as well.
The count and the others rode back into the clearing some time later, their horses flecked with lather. There were no Saracen prisoners.
‘They got away,’ Berenger called, frustrated.
The group gathered round me and dismounted. Their presence was comforting. Never before had I felt so close to my Frankish colleagues.
‘Who were they?’ I asked through dry cracked lips. My throat felt raw and I was parched with a sudden, fierce thirst.
‘A patrol of the Emir of Cordoba’s cavalry, probably.’ Berenger lifted off his helmet and removed the felt cap he wore under it. He ran his hand through his crop of curls.
‘How did they come to be here?’ I wondered.
‘The Falcon didn’t get his nickname for nothing. He strikes fast. They must have been probing the defences of Zaragoza.’
One of the men sauntered over to the corpse of the young Saracen I had killed. Doubtless he was checking what there might be worth plundering from the body. With his foot he rolled the body over on its back. Now I saw the face clearly. It was indeed that of a young man, not old enough to have grown a full beard. He had smooth skin and fine, regular features. As I watched, the head lolled loosely to one side. My downward stroke had nearly decapitated the trooper. A great red gash opened, and I saw the white gleam of bone.
My stomach heaved. I doubled over and threw up its thin, slick contents at the feet of my rescuers.
‘Here, take a drink.’ Hroudland was holding out a waterskin to me. I straightened up and took it from him. The water had a rancid taste and was lukewarm. I drank it gratefully.
‘No point in hanging around,’ Hroudland said. ‘We ride ahead to the city and let them know we are here. They’ll be grateful to know we’ve driven off the Falcon.’
Instinctively I looked around for my horse, forgetting for a moment that the creature lay dead. Hroudland noted my error.
‘We caught one of the Saracen cavalry mounts running loose. You can ride that.’
One of his escorts led forward the animal. It was the thoroughbred that the Saracen officer had been riding. Someone helped me up into the saddle, another man handed up my helmet and shield, then the sword. The blade was chipped where it must have struck the neck bone. I hung it from a loop on the Saracen saddle, settled the helmet on my head, and rode after Hroudland who was already moving away at a brisk trot.
Half a mile further on we emerged from the orchard and there ahead of us was the city wall of Zaragoza just as I remembered — huge blocks of yellow stone carefully fitted to form a sheer rampart forty feet high with circular watch towers at regular intervals. Husayn’s crimson banner flew above the arch of the main gate. The great double doors with their iron sheets were firmly shut.
We sat on our horses, taking in the spectacle. Unlike Pamplona with its semi-derelict defences, the walls of Zaragoza were in perfect condition. There was no sign of dilapidation or weakness. The ground around the city wall had been cleared for the distance of a long arrow flight, and an occasional glint of sunlight on a metal helmet or spear point marked where Husayn had posted his soldiers along the ramparts. Doubtless they were watching us.
‘Even the Falcon would have trouble storming a city like that,’ commented Hroudland with grudging admiration. He turned to me. ‘Patch, ride up to the main gate. They might know who you are. Announce our arrival and say that we have come to relieve the city.’
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when one half of the main gate swung open, and a man on horseback came out and began to make his way towards us at a sedate trot.
Even from that distance I knew at once that it was Osric. His misshapen leg stuck out awkwardly to one side, and he held himself slightly aslant to allow for his crooked neck. His ungainly posture was in stark contrast to the perfect proportions and elegant gait of his horse, a pure white Saracen stallion that must have come from the wali’s personal stable.
When Osric was some fifty paces away, I heard an angry intake of breath and realized Hroudland had just recognized who it was.
‘What’s this insult, sending a slave to greet me?’ he growled.
I stole a quick sideways look at him. Hroudland had removed his helmet so that his yellow hair hung around his shoulders. Mounted on his war horse and still in full armour, he cut an imposing figure, but the effect was ruined by his expression: his face was red with anger and pouring with sweat.
‘Osric is no longer a slave,’ I reminded him quietly. ‘He deserved his freedom and I gave it to him.’
Hroudland responded with a low grunt of disdain and spat deliberately on the ground.
Osric came to a halt a few feet from us. He was wearing the full livery of the wali, crimson turban and sash, soft leather boots patterned with matching red silk stitching. The rest of his garments, the baggy trousers and loose shirt, were made of fine white cotton and his short over-jacket was embroidered with silver thread. He looked more like a rich Saracen nobleman than the former house slave of a Saxon kinglet.
After acknowledging Hroudland’s presence with a slight bow, he addressed me.
‘I bring a message from His Excellency, the Wali Husayn of Zaragoza,’ he said in Frankish.
Hroudland broke in rudely.
‘Go back and tell your wali that we have come two months’ journey to meet him and to confirm our alliance with him and his fellow governors in Barcelona and Huesca. We look forward to being received by him,’ he rasped. I knew that Hroudland was annoyed that Osric had chosen to speak to me and not to him.
Osric ignored the outburst.
‘My master, His Excellency the wali trusts that your journey was not too uncomfortable.’
Hroudland shifted impatiently in his saddle.
‘You can also tell the wali that we encountered a patrol from Cordoba and have put them to flight,’ he snapped.
Again Osric was imperturbable though I noticed his eyes flick towards the Saracen horse I was riding.
‘His Excellency the wali is aware that the emir’s troops are in the vicinity. That is one reason why he ordered the city gates to be closed. He anticipates that they will soon be discouraged and go away.’
I knew from Hroudland’s tone of voice that he was close to losing his temper. Before the storm broke, I intervened.
‘Please inform the wali that we would be grateful for food and lodging in the city for our men, and for the army which follows,’ I said.
There was a long, meaningful pause before Osric said quietly.
‘His Excellency the wali regrets that will not be possible.’
I could hardly believe my ears. I asked Osric to repeat what he had just said.
‘Husayn, Wali of Zaragoza, has told me to inform you that your army may not enter Zaragoza. The city is closed to all Franks.’
Hroudland exploded.
‘What nonsense is this!’ he roared.
‘On my master’s orders,’ Osric said firmly, ‘the gates will
remain closed. Anyone coming within range of the archers on the city wall will be regarded as hostile.’
‘Osric, can you explain this?’ I asked, using his name for the first time.
‘It is repayment for treachery,’ he replied simply.
I goggled at him.
‘Treachery?’
There was a trace of sympathy in his dark eyes as he looked straight at me.
‘Then you have not heard?’ he asked.
I shook my head.
‘King Karlo has betrayed Wali Suleyman of Barcelona. The wali has been seized by force and is now a prisoner of the Franks.’
I gaped at him.
Beside me Hroudland guffawed in utter disbelief.
‘Nonsense! We come as friends and allies.’
Osric raised an eyebrow.
‘That is what my lord the wali truly wished to believe. Unfortunately your king acted otherwise. He has broken faith. His army has done great harm to Barcelona and now he holds the wali captive.’
‘I don’t believe a word of this,’ snarled Hroudland, swinging round to glare at me. ‘Slaves are natural liars.’
Osric did not flinch.
‘You do not have to believe me. At this very moment your King Karlo is marching here with his army. When he arrives, you will see for yourself that Wali Suleyman is his prisoner. Perhaps you now understand why my lord will not open the gates of his city to your people.’
Osric turned his attention back to me. He seemed reproachful.
‘It was written,’ he said simply.
For a moment I thought he was talking about the Saracens’ holy book, their divine scripture revealed by a desert prophet. Then with a jolt I realized he meant the Book of Dreams. In Zaragoza I had dreamed of the snake, the sign of impending treachery. Stupidly I had presumed it meant that the Saracens would betray Carolus. But it was the Franks who had behaved treacherously. I had ignored Artimedorus’s statement that when a snake slithers away from the dreamer, it signifies that the treachery will be found elsewhere.
