The Book of Dreams s-1

by Tim Severin

  I heard Hroudland give a low grunt, part astonishment, part satisfaction.

  ‘There, straight ahead.’

  I moved aside to allow more light to enter through the smashed doorway behind me. A thick stone slab set in the far wall made a broad shelf running almost the width of the building. On each end of the shelf stood a small wooden block. They were holders for rush lights, though both were empty. On the shelf between them lay two commonplace items that might have been found in the kitchen of a modest home. One was a small goblet. Five or six inches high, it looked dull and very plain. Beside it was a plate that was even more ordinary, the sort of serving dish for a small joint of meat or a fish. Otherwise the little room was bare.

  Hroudland stepped forward.

  ‘Could this be the Graal?’ he asked tentatively. He sounded more than a little disappointed. He picked up the goblet from the shelf and carried it back to the doorway to look at it in better light.

  The sun had now sunk far below the horizon and the chapel, if it was that, was deep in shadow. Nevertheless as he held up the goblet up, I saw a very faint glow, tawny brown within the bowl.

  ‘It’s made of some sort of stone,’ the count said. On the middle finger of his left hand he wore a gold ring set with a large piece of amber. He tapped the goblet with it and it rang with a hard, flat sound.

  He handed me the goblet.

  ‘What do you make of it, Patch?’ he asked.

  If I had seen the goblet displayed on an altar I might perhaps have described it as a small chalice. The upper part, the bowl, appeared to have been hollowed from a single piece of a dark coloured stone, which had a brownish tint in its depths. This bowl had been fixed on to a base made from a dense dark wood that contained black streaks. The effect was rather clumsy and heavy, and the goblet with its thick rim looked neither valuable nor very elegant. I turned it over in my hand, half-expecting to find some pattern or decoration like that I had seen on the bronze cup from the fountain of Broceliande. There was nothing.

  ‘Maybe this is not the Graal, if such a thing even exists,’ I said carefully.

  ‘Then why hide it away up here in the mountains?’ demanded Hroudland, taking it back from me and returning inside the chamber.

  He replaced the cup on the shelf and picked up the dish that had been lying next to it, and brought that into the light. Again I saw the tawny brown glow. The plate was made from the same material as the goblet. I could only compare it to a fine marble. The dish had swirls of other colours — grey and pale white — within the stone. I had never seen anything like it before.

  Hroudland examined both sides of the dish. Again there were no marks. The plate had been carved from the unknown stone and then polished.

  ‘Those tales you heard from the Breton bards, do they say what the Graal looked like?’ I asked.

  He shook his head.

  ‘The stories were more about the journeys of those who went searching for the Graal, the strange places and the mysterious people they met. .’ His voice tailed off as he saw the expression on my face.

  I had been looking past him, over his shoulder at the mountainside. The fading light had lengthened the shadows, changing the appearance of the rocky slope behind him. There were patterns and shapes among the boulders that had not been there previously. I knew exactly where I was. I was in the landscape of my dream, the nightmare of the monstrous beasts and winged creatures that attacked Hroudland and me.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ the count asked sharply. ‘You looked as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

  I forced my gaze back to the plate he had in his hand.

  ‘We have to get out of here, immediately,’ I said shakily.

  Hroudland did not hesitate.

  ‘We’ll take both the cup and the platter. Later we can decide which is the true Graal.’

  He turned and disappeared inside, the plate in his hand, to fetch the cup. At that instant a series of high-pitched whistles sounded from the side of the mountain above me. There were several different notes, one after another. My skin crawled. I swung round on my heel, scanning the slope. But it was impossible to locate where the sound came from. The mountain was shrouded in the gathering darkness. There was a short silence; then came a series of whistles from a different spot. Another succession of notes, rising and falling almost as if they were words. I jerked around, again seeking the source of the sound. But it was futile. I was still peering into the gloom when the original caller responded. Now there was no doubt. The whistlers were communicating with one another in some sort of secret language.

  I was about to duck into the building to summon Hroudland outside when there was a fierce scrabbling sound. A dark shape came hurtling out of the shadows straight at me with shocking speed. There was a terrifying snarl, and I was knocked off my feet by the impact of a heavy body. I heard a deep-throated murderous growl and had a glimpse of white fangs beneath drawn-back lips. My nostrils filled with a powerful scent of dog.

  I flung up my arm to ward off the gaping jaws. The beast was appallingly strong and determined. It was thrusting and snarling, trying to snatch my throat. I rolled from side to side, attempting to throw it off. I was faintly aware of two more animals. They streaked past me and bounded into the dark entrance to the chapel. From within came the sounds of a vicious tussle.

  My archer’s arm guard saved me. The dog had locked its jaws on my forearm, and the leather prevented the teeth from penetrating. I managed to struggle up on my knees, and then regain my feet. The brute was thrashing its head violently from side to side, trying to drag me down again. I reached forward with my free hand, intending to pull it off by the scruff of the neck. There was an agonizing stab of pain as my hands closed on the sharp metal spikes of a thick collar designed to deter wolves.

  I backed away slowly, step by step, holding off the dog with my left arm while it continued to growl savagely, shaking and tugging frenziedly. I retreated, just managing to stay on my feet, until I could feel the wall of the chapel behind me. That is where I had left my bow leaning against the stonework. I searched behind me with my right hand and fumbled in the arrow bag until my fingers closed on an arrow. Gripping the shaft firmly I pulled it out. With a great heave I swung the brute to one side and, when its flank was exposed, I rammed the razor-sharp metal head into the dog’s belly with all my strength. There was a yelp of pain and it released the grip of its jaws.

  But the brute did not abandon the attack. It stood a yard away, stiff-legged, teeth bared and growling murderously, watching for an opening when it could fling itself on me once again.

  I shouted for Hroudland, and he backed slowly out from the chapel in a half-crouch, facing towards the frenzy of brutish snarls that sounded within the gloomy interior. He had set down the dish because he had his sword, Durendal, in one hand and in the other a short dagger. Both blades were pointed towards the doorway. He had scarcely got clear when the other two dogs emerged. They were even larger than the one that had knocked me down. One had a gash in its shoulder, the blood dripping down on the dust. Both animals had their eyes fixed on the count, and they were stalking slowly towards him, ready to spring.

  Again I heard that unearthly whistling from the mountainside behind me. This time it seemed closer.

  ‘They’re somewhere on the mountain,’ I gasped. ‘I don’t know who they are or how many.’

  ‘If they send in more dogs, we’re in trouble,’ said the count. ‘I can deal with three or four. But a pack of them would pull us down.’

  We were out in the open now, standing back to back, facing the growling dogs. They were massive brutes, each as big as a small calf, with bear-like shaggy pelts and heavy square heads. All of them wore spiked collars, and it was clear that they were trained for fighting.

  Even at that late stage, Hroudland might have successfully completed his raid. He could have risked going back inside the chapel, snatched up the goblet and the plate, and the two of us could have fought our way back down the track. But then th
ere was a sudden movement in the air above us. It was so unexpected that neither of us had time to prepare ourselves. Out of the gloom swooped down a half-seen shape, a darker form against the already dark sky. It came at an unnatural speed, at head height. I felt the rush of air on my face. A whisper of something flashed overhead. Hroudland let out an oath and doubled over as if he had been struck. Durendal clattered to the ground as he let go his sword and clapped his hand to his face. For a moment he stayed bent over, hunched in pain. When he stood upright and removed his hand, blood was streaming from a gash just beside his right eye.

  I had barely time to take in what had happened when again I felt that sinister rush of air. This time there was a sharp blow and searing pain across my scalp as something sharp raked across my head. I caught the quick flap of broad wings and the large bird that had attacked me was rising up and away. It was circling, ready to attack again.

  In the distance we heard the oliphant horn. Berenger was signalling that there was danger along the path where he stood guard. Our escape route was threatened.

  So we ran. We blundered out of the broken gate and down the dimly seen track. The huge dogs harried us every step. They lunged at our heels, snarling and barking, driving us off like the sheep stealers. I had abandoned my bow but Hroudland had managed to snatch up Durendal from the ground. Occasionally he stopped and stabbed and slashed at our tormentors, making them keep their distance. There was nothing we could do about the birds. They swooped out of the darkness and tried to rip out our eyes. Like the huge dogs, they must have been trained to guard the Vascon flocks from wolves and thieves.

  Only when we were well clear of the chapel did the onslaught finally cease.

  The night sky then clouded over completely. Without light from moon or stars to show us where to put our feet, our progress was like groping through a black pit. We tripped and fell, got up and stumbled forward a dozen or more times. We dared not stop, fearing that our enemies would have time to set an ambush on the track ahead of us. We lost all sense of time or how far we had got, and it must have been well past midnight when someone called out a challenge from directly in front of us. It was Berenger. He heard the noise we made coming down the track.

  ‘Thank God you’re back,’ he said. The relief in his voice was very evident. ‘The place is swarming with Vascons, hundreds of them on the move.’

  ‘Which way are they headed?’ asked Hroudland sharply. Even exhausted, he kept his wits about him.

  ‘Towards the road. They passed me a couple of hours ago. I stayed out of sight until it was safe to sound the alarm.’

  ‘We press on at once,’ Hroudland announced. It was an order, and he was once again a war leader. ‘I must be back in command of the rearguard before the Vascons fall on us.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  There was no rearguard, as it turned out. The three of us limped out on to the main road just as the first glow of sunrise seeped into the sky. In the cold light we found the treasure carts gone. The area around the shepherd’s hut where we had previously camped was strewn with the usual rubbish left behind by retreating soldiers. The place was abandoned.

  Wearily I sat down on a roadside boulder. My knees were sore and bruised and the palms of my hands skinned raw from the number of times I had fallen.

  ‘Back on your feet!’ Hroudland hissed at me. The gash on the side of his face where the eagle had clawed him was crusted with dried blood. ‘Gerin and the others can’t have gone far and the Saracen skirmishers will be here soon.’

  I rose slowly. Every part of my body ached.

  ‘Over here!’ Berenger shouted. He had gone across to the shepherd’s hut in search of something to eat.

  The count and I joined him. Lying in the dust behind the hut was the Vascon shepherd. His throat had been cut. The front of his wolfskin jacket lay open. Someone had searched the corpse for anything worth stealing. Our dispirited soldiers had been reduced to corpse robbers.

  We heard the clatter of horses’ hooves. Someone was riding at speed down the road from the direction of the pass. Berenger and Hroudland drew their swords and ran to take up positions where they could defend themselves. With only a dagger in my belt, I considered whether to take refuge inside the hut but thought better of it. I did not want to be accused of cowardice.

  The rider came in view. He had a plain red shield on his arm and Hroudland’s roan war stallion on a leading rein. It was Gerin.

  ‘I thought you might come back,’ he called out. ‘We don’t have much time.’

  He tossed the stallion’s reins to Hroudland and leaned down, extending an arm towards me so that I could scramble up behind him.

  ‘How far ahead are the others?’ Hroudland demanded, settling himself into the saddle of the roan, and then hoisting Berenger up on to the crupper.

  ‘Five or six miles. Eggihard ordered the carts to move on as soon as the broken wheel was fixed.’

  We set off at a canter, the sound of the hooves echoing off steep rocky slopes. Hroudland had to raise his voice to make himself heard.

  ‘I told you to make him wait for our return.’

  Gerin snorted.

  ‘Carolus sent Count Anselm back to find out what the delay was all about. The king is worried about the gap between the main army and the last of the carts. Anselm accepted Eggihard’s suggestion that the carters should travel through the night.’

  Hroudland cursed both Eggihard and Anselm. The latter was count of the palace and could act with the king’s authority.

  ‘Where’s Carolus now?’ he called to Gerin.

  ‘Already through the main pass. He’s taken the main cavalry with him and intends to push on to face the Saxons.’

  The road was rising steadily, one bend after the other. I was glad I was no longer on foot. I doubted I had enough strength left to have made the climb. I twisted around, looking back over my shoulder, trying to recall what I had seen when coming in the opposite direction with Wali Husayn. The rocks and slopes all looked alike, featureless and forbidding.

  Only when we reached the treasure carts did I know where we were. Up to my left I recognized the rocky slope on which I had killed the Vascon slinger who had ambushed me.

  The four treasure carts were halted at the place where Husayn and his men had stopped to say their noonday prayers. Here the road widened out, and there was enough space for the drivers and their oxen to pause and rest. Their escort of some thirty heavily armed cavalrymen was standing around, looking bored and impatient, waiting for the journey to continue. I wondered which one of them had murdered the Vascon shepherd.

  Hroudland sprang down from his horse and strode off to confront Eggihard and a tubby, balding man in an expensive-looking war coat of chain mail that extended right down to cover his ample thighs. I guessed he was Count Anselm.

  Hroudland was furious, and his voice carried clearly.

  ‘Where are the rest of my men? I left fifty of them as guards. I can see barely a score of them now,’ he snarled.

  Eggihard shrugged. He seemed to accept that Hroudland had a right to take charge again.

  ‘Count Anselm brought more soldiers with him. I relieved the others, and they’ve gone ahead.’ He treated Hroudland to a look full of malice. ‘While you were away on your private escapade, we outstripped any Saracen pursuit by travelling through the night. In a few more miles we’ll be through the pass and back on Frankish soil.’

  Hroudland glowered.

  I had to get away from the incessant bickering. I slid down from the back of Gerin’s mount and picked my way up the slope and sat down on the exact same spot where I had written up my notes for Alcuin. The rock was already warm from the sun. It was going to be a hot day.

  I sat quietly, gazing toward the plains in Hispania just visible in the distant haze. Somewhere out there was Osric. I wondered whether he would spend the rest of his life in Zaragoza as an official of the wali’s court or whether he would eventually find his way back to the city of his birth. It was strange
that fate allowed him a choice, while I could not return to my own homeland as long as King Offa ruled. Thinking about Offa reminded me that Gerin had once served the King of Mercia. Looking down towards the road I could see Gerin with his red shield slung on his back. He was chatting to one of the troopers. Previously I had suspected him of being behind the attempts to have me killed. Now that seemed unlikely. He had been just as quick to get me out of danger as to extricate Hroudland and Berenger.

  My gaze drifted back to the mountain opposite me, on the far side of the road. The slope was a jumble of boulders and broken rock with an occasional ledge and overhang. There were no trees or shrubs to add a touch of green. Everything was grey, from the darkest shade of slate to the colour of cinders left in a cold hearth. I slid my eyepatch up on my forehead. A speck of grit had worked its way under it and was lodged in the corner of my eye. It pricked painfully and made my eye water. I rubbed the eye to clear it, and before putting the patch back in place I blinked several times to clear my vision. Perhaps because I was using both eyes I saw the far hillside much more clearly. A dark shape that I had thought was a boulder was nothing of the sort. It was a man. He was sitting motionless, his clothing the exact colour of the rocks around him; even his head was swathed in grey material. He was watching the ox carts on the road below him. After I had spotted the first man, it was much easier to see the others. They were spread out across the slope, waiting and watching, not moving. There must have been a dozen or more. My heart thumped wildly, and I replaced my eye patch. Slowly I got to my feet and began to descend the slope, careful not to hurry.

  ‘There are men lying in wait on the slopes above us,’ I said under my breath to Hroudland, forcing myself to act as though everything was normal.

  He did not even glance upward.

  ‘They’ll be the Vascons that Berenger saw earlier. Any idea how many?’

  ‘At least a dozen, maybe twice that number.’