by Tim Severin
Berenger was dumbfounded.
‘Some of them must be the men I saw yesterday. But where did all the others spring from?’
He had drawn his sword and now he looked down at the weapon in wonder as if he knew that it would be useless in the face of such overwhelming odds. Behind me I heard Eggihard’s voice, railing at Hroudland, shouting that he should have sent to Carolus earlier and asked for reinforcements from the main army. Even the oxen sensed that something had changed. The squealing of the wheels fell silent as they came to a gradual halt and stood meekly. We were halfway into the entrance to the ravine.
Hroudland changed his instructions.
‘Stand! Form a defensive line. Shift the carts to make a barricade!’ he roared.
But it was impossible. The road was too narrow. The drovers did not have enough space to turn and manoeuvre their beasts. The carts remained where they were, one behind the other. The Vascons had pushed us into the ravine like forcing a cork into the neck of a bottle.
Gerin squeezed his way past me.
‘It’ll take more than an hour to clear away enough boulders from their barrier,’ he reported to Hroudland.
Anselm, the count of the palace, was within earshot. He was sweating heavily, his fleshy face scarlet under his helmet and his fine chainmail covered in dust.
‘Is there enough of a gap for a rider to get through?’ he demanded savagely. His stallion, trained to battle, was tossing its head and pawing the ground nervously.
When Gerin hesitated with his reply, Anselm bawled to one of the troopers nearby.
‘You there! Change horses with me and get through to the main army. Tell them to send help!’
He slid down from his own horse, handed over the reins, and a moment later the man was galloping into the ravine on his fresh mount.
Hroudland had no time to react to this challenge to his authority. Our men were milling about in confusion. The close-packed carts were making it difficult to form up in a defensive line. He rode in among the troopers, pushing and shoving them into some sort of order. I glanced across at Berenger. He was sitting still, his eyes fixed on Hroudland, waiting to carry out his commands. I realized that Berenger would follow the count whatever happened, his faith unshakeable.
The swarm of Vascons on the mountainside merged into a single dense mass as they reached more level ground. Now they flowed towards us like a rising tide. They filled the roadway and lapped up the sides of the track until they came to a stop, some twenty paces away. There was neither semblance of discipline nor any plan of attack that I could see. Among their weapons were ugly-looking cudgels as well as their swords and short spears. A few held woodsmen’s axes. For an unhappy moment I was reminded of the homespun levies my father had assembled when our family fought and lost its last battle against King Offa and his Mercian men-at-arms. But the resemblance was false. These Vascons were hardy mountain men, not peaceful farmers, and they out-numbered us so vastly that it was clear to everyone that we had not the slightest chance of victory.
For a long, tense moment the two sides stood and faced one another. The Vascons brandished their weapons and shouted insults and threats in their outlandish language. We stood silent except for the occasional stamping of a restless horse. The wounded trooper on the cart next to me was mumbling some sort of prayer over and over again as some sort of lucky charm that would save him. The sun beat down and the heat reflected off the rocks. My head ached and I was parched with thirst. I licked my cracked lips and tasted the gritty road dust.
Vaguely I became aware of someone getting down from his horse. Then he was pushing through our front line and walking towards the enemy. It was Godomar, the veteran from Burgundy. He had taken off his brunia and his helmet and was wearing only a pair of loose trousers and a light jerkin which left his arms and shoulders bare. A strip of cloth held back his long, thick hair which was the colour of forest honey. In his right hand he held the short handled axe that usually hung from his broad leather belt. All of us, Vascons and Franks, looked on as Godomar strode out on to the open ground between us. Then, in a deep husky voice from his wounded throat, he began to recite what must have been a battle ode in some ancient tribal dialect. With each line he tossed his axe in the air so that it spun in a circle, and caught it with the opposite hand. Finally, as he declaimed the last words, his voice rose to a shout and he threw the axe, not to the other hand, but high in the air, towards the enemy. It spun round and round, and by the time it fell back, Godomar had run forward and was ready to catch its handle. He was no more than an arm’s length from the Vascon line. In a sudden blur of axe strokes he cut down three or four Vascons. Then they closed in around him, and he was gone.
His death broke the spell that had held us in our places. With a bellow of shock and anger the Vascons charged. They crashed into us, and there was pandemonium. Lances were useless at such close quarters. Troopers used their swords to hack and thrust at the men on foot surging around them. The Vascons ducked and feinted. They stooped to get in under the riders’ guard, and if close enough, they hacked and stabbed with their weapons. The bravest grabbed for the riders’ legs and tried to drag them out of the saddle.
Amid the curses and grunts, the clash of metal, the cries of anger and pain, the Vascons were badly mauled. Dozens of them died, their bodies overridden by the horses or trampled underfoot by their comrades. Yet they kept pressing forward, ignoring their losses. Charge after charge, they were like waves pounding on a rocky beach. With each attack they reduced our numbers. Our troopers went down one after another, hauled from the saddle or their horses were killed beneath them. Few survived for more than a moment if they were unhorsed. The Vascons swarmed over them and killed them. With their third headlong charge our line broke, and the Vascons were among the drovers and their oxen. With the expertise of butchers, they slit the windpipes of the cattle and brought the beasts to their knees. The drovers were massacred.
The press of the mob was so powerful that my mount was thrust back and pinned against the wheel of the nearest cart. I flailed with my sword, uselessly. Strong hands grabbed my leg and I was hauled to the ground. Without a rider, the horse kicked out and a hoof struck the forehead of the man who held me. I heard the crack of hoof on bone. He let go and I rolled away between the wheels of the cart. My attackers were obliged to stand back as the terrified animal reared up, then bolted through the mob. It gave me enough time to scuttle away on all fours to the far side of the cart and rise to my feet. I had lost my sword and I could think of nothing else to do but hoist myself up on the cart itself. From there I looked around and saw the carnage that had taken place. Only one man was still on horseback — Hroudland. His powerful roan was rearing and plunging, faced by a half circle of Vascons. They were being kept at bay by the lashing hooves and by Hroudland’s menacing sword blade. Every other Frank was on foot. They were drawn up in a compact mass behind Hroudland, their backs towards the carts. I estimated there were no more than a dozen of them. Berenger had lost his helmet and I recognized his head of tight curls. There was no sign of either Eggihard or Anselm. Their bodies would be lying among the ugly jumble of corpses in front of the Frankish position. Dead and injured Vascons were scattered everywhere, the ground streaked and splashed with blood.
Hundreds of Vascons still filled the roadway, and many more were poised on the slopes on each side of the road. With their next assault they would swamp us.
First, however, they dealt with Hroudland. A single Vascon stepped out from their ranks. He was a squat man of middle age, wearing a wolfskin cap and very broad across the shoulders and chest. He held a loaded sling which he began to whirl rhythmically around his head. He watched Hroudland, judging his moment. As the roan stallion turned towards him, the Vascon released a slingstone as large as a man’s fist. The stone travelled less than five paces and struck the roan between the eyes. I heard the thud from where I stood. At that short range the impact was spectacularly effective. The front legs of the horse buckled and the s
tunned animal tipped forward on to its knees and Hroudland just had time to leap clear. He landed on his feet and, sword in hand, ran back across the blood-soaked ground to join the other Franks. I noticed he was limping. Behind him, the dazed stallion stayed down for several moments, then groggily heaved itself back upright and wandered off.
The Vascons held back a little longer, waiting to see what we would do next.
I jumped down from the tail of the cart and picked up an abandoned sword from the ground. Berenger glanced at me over his shoulder. His red-rimmed eyes looked out from a mask of dust. His hair was sweat-soaked, and there was a rent in his brunia where several plates had been torn off. ‘This is where the fight gets interesting, Patch,’ he said to me with a tight smile, then turned back to ask Hroudland, ‘What are your orders?’
The count was so calm and self-possessed that I wondered if he appreciated the hopelessness of our situation.
‘We leave behind the carts. Looting them will delay the Vascons. It will give us time to make an orderly retreat.’
Even now a flicker of regret passed across his face. The idea of losing all the treasure still grated on him.
‘We take with us only what we value the most,’ he continued. He turned to me. ‘Patch, can you find the oliphant for me? It should not fall into the hands of the Vascons. Also the crystal salver from Wali Suleyman’s ransom. I still intend to give it to the king.’
I climbed back on the cart and searched. I came across the oliphant wrapped in a soft leather covering but the crystal salver must have been locked away in a treasure chest and I had no time to locate the key. Instead I picked up my most prized possession — the packet of loose pages of the translation of the Book of Dreams. Unlacing the side of my brunia, I slid them inside my armoured jacket.
By the time I rejoined the others, Hroudland had marshalled our few survivors into two ranks. There was only one direction for our retreat — deeper into the ravine. One rank was to stand firm while the other ran back a few yards, then turned to face the enemy and allow the first group to filter back among them before they again took up position. I remembered practising the same manoeuvre when I had first arrived in Aachen and joined the paladins in their war games. I had never expected to rely on it in real combat.
The Vascons harassed us every step of the way. Inside the ravine they could only attack us on a narrow front but they were recklessly brave and showed no mercy. Any Frank who slipped and fell, or dropped his guard for a moment, was despatched on the spot. As the afternoon wore on and the light began to fade, we fought and retreated, turned and fought again. Our numbers dwindled as we grew more and more weary. I allowed my shield to droop and felt an agonizing pain in my left shoulder. A Vascon, screaming with anger, had run his spear point over its rim. Beside me Berenger was clumsy in countering a thrust from a Vascon dagger. He was stabbed, low down on his right side. Only Hroudland continued to wield his sword as if he would never tire, but with every pace he left a bloody foot print on the ground. I could not see where he had been injured, but he was losing blood rapidly.
The Vascons drove us along the ravine like obstinate sheep until our backs came up against the barrier of boulders that they had created earlier. By then it was almost dark and only four of us were still standing — Hroudland, Berenger, myself, and an unknown trooper with a hideous stomach wound. As if to gloat, the Vascons drew back so we would know that they had us at their mercy. Occasionally one of them let out the dreadful wolf’s howl in victory. During the retreat I had seen such hatred in their faces that I knew that they would not let us live.
‘We managed to hold them off,’ said Hroudland proudly. He was leaning on his sword, his chest heaving as he sucked in great breaths of air. Beside me, Berenger slumped on a boulder, a wet bloodstain seeping down his leg. I too found a place to sit as I was dizzy from the pain of my wounded shoulder.
I looked at Hroudland. There was just enough light to see how he was deathly pale. He was smiling and his eyes held a faraway look that convinced me that he had lost touch with reality. I wondered if he still clung to the idea that he could never be defeated in battle by a horde of uncouth mountain men.
With an effort he turned his back on me and began to climb up on to the rock barrier behind us. The oliphant hung on a cord around his neck. When he reached the highest boulder, he stood up on it, raised the great horn to his lips and blew a long, quavering blast, which echoed and re-echoed down the ravine.
‘What in God’s name is he doing?’ I demanded of Berenger. He was gazing up at Hroudland, awestruck.
Berenger turned to face me, his eyes shining.
‘Listen!’ he exclaimed.
Hroudland sounded the horn again, and I recognized the notes. It was the call when a huntsman announces the death of a great stag. In the deepening gloom there were only shades of black and grey. There, up above me, I could only make out the outline figure of the Margrave of Brittany. A cold lump gathered in my guts as I remembered that the same scene was carved on the oliphant itself, and that long ago in Aachen the king himself had dreamed of a huntsman standing on a rock surrounded by wolves and blowing a horn calling for help. But Hroudland was not summoning help. He was announcing his own passing.
‘Do you remember when I first laid eyes on you,’ Berenger suddenly asked. The question was completely unexpected and his voice sounded strained, almost as if he was ashamed to speak. ‘It was evening. You walked into our living quarters, unannounced. None of us had any idea who you were.’
‘You, Gerin, Anseis and the others were playing a game. Asking one another riddles,’ I said.
Berenger’s voice sank almost to a whisper as he began to recite:
‘Four strange creatures travel together, their tracks were very swart.
Each mark very black. The bird’s support moves swiftly, through the air, underwater.
The diligent warrior works without stopping, directing the four over the beaten gold.’
I knew the words.
‘That was the riddle I set. Hroudland was the only one who knew the answer,’ I said.
‘That was the moment I began to fear you,’ he murmured.
I was so astonished that I could only blurt, ‘Why?’
I heard him shift uncomfortably. Another shaft of pain must have struck him.
‘I was terrified that you would take Hroudland away from me.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I said, baffled.
‘Jealousy feeds easily. Hroudland paid you every attention from the moment you arrived.’
‘He saw that I was a stranger and in an alien land. He only wanted to help me,’ I said.
‘I know that now,’ Berenger answered, ‘but not then. The very next day I walked in on you at the bath. He was half-naked, holding you by the arm.’
I was appalled.
‘He was trying to drag me into the water, that’s all. I didn’t want to go. I have a fear of water.’
In the darkness Berenger laughed mirthlessly.
‘As time passed I persuaded myself that you were luring him on. I decided I had to get rid of you and waited for a suitable opportunity.’
The memory of the banquet when I had nearly died came back clearly. Berenger had been seated next to me.
‘So you were the one who put poison in my food. I never thought of you as a murderer,’ I told him.
‘Neither did I. I had the poison hidden in my sleeve and even at the very last moment I hesitated. Then I had to listen to you brazenly telling the story of Troilus and Achilles to everyone at the banquet. That was too much for me.’
I remembered seeing a tapestry depicting the same story hanging in Hroudland’s room in his great hall. Achilles’s lust for the beautiful youth Troilus lay at the core of the Greek tale. Berenger, already jealous, must have been driven to distraction.
‘And when poison didn’t work, did you also try to have me killed while hunting in the forest?’ I said.
‘Yes.’
&nb
sp; From above us came the sounds of the oliphant. Hroudland was blowing the same hunting call again and again, each time less vigorously. He was tiring.
‘First I thought it was Gerin who wanted to do away with me on King Offa’s orders,’ I said, ‘More recently I believed it was Ganelon who was trying to have me murdered. And all along it was you. You even tried to have me killed here in these mountains by that Vascon slinger.’
‘There you are wrong,’ Berenger said. ‘I had no hand in that. It must have been a genuine attack, though I did roll some rocks down on you when we were on our way here into Hispania.’
Hroudland had come to the end of his strength. Halfway through the next hunting call, the notes died away in an ugly rasp. From the darkness where the Vascons waited came a derisive spine-chilling howl of wolves.
Ignoring the pain in my shoulder, I twisted around so I could look up towards Hroudland. The moon had risen above the lip of the ravine and its cold light showed Hroudland facing towards the enemy. He was swaying on his feet. With an effort he raised his sword Durendal in defiance, and then smashed it down on the rock, trying to break the blade. He failed. Twice more he tried to destroy his sword, and then he gave up the attempt. He knelt down and laid the sword on the boulders before him. Then with the oliphant still hanging against his chest, he lay face down, the sword beneath his body. With an awful sick sensation I knew that he would never rise again.
‘Patch, you are a hard man to kill,’ hissed Berenger.
He managed to struggle to his feet. His injured leg was too weak for him to remain standing so he put his back against the rock barrier. He had his sword in hand, and I thought he was about to attack me. Instead he croaked, ‘I die here with Hroudland. You have no right to be here at his side. Go! I will make sure you are not followed.’
I dragged myself over the rocks, away from the Vascons. I had no idea how far I had the strength to go, and there was no reason that the Vascons would let me escape. But the urge for survival was powerful. I gritted my teeth against the pain and stumbled forward. Twice I tripped and fell on to my knees and, weirdly, an image of Hroudland’s roan stallion came to my mind. I saw the animal, stunned by the slingstone, getting back on its feet. I forced myself to do the same. In the darkness all around me I imagined the shapes and blurred outlines of people and grotesque creatures. One of them was my brother’s fetch. He was seated on a rock ahead of me and I longed for him to come forward and help me. But all he did was watch me in brooding silence as if to chide me for ignoring his warning that I should trust my enemies and beware my friends. Then my legs gave way one last time, and I sank to the ground in a dead faint.
