Saxon: The Book of Dreams (Saxon 1) (12 page)

‘Who’s the girl with the amber necklace?’ I muttered to Hroudland as we resumed our places.

‘That’s Bertha. If she’s the girl who caught your fancy, you’ll have your hands full. That’s true, isn’t it, Oton?’

Oton, who was seated opposite us, rolled his eyes in mock horror.

‘She’d eat you alive, Patch.’

A relay of servants was passing along our table, serving food and drink. I sipped cautiously at what was poured into my cup. It was red wine, the best I had ever tasted.

‘We never drank anything like that at home,’ I commented approvingly.

‘You’ve got Anseis to thank for that,’ said Oton. ‘His family’s Burgundian estates are obliged to send fifty barrels a year to the king.’

I noticed Anseis scowl; he must have been thinking that the vintage was wasted on foreigners like myself.

Oton reached for a loaf of bread and broke off a chunk, then passed it to me.

‘Here, Patch, have some of this. It’s flavoured with caraway and poppy seeds. The trouble with banquets is that Carolus only likes boiled or roast meat, no fancy sauces.’

A large dish had been set down in the middle of the table, heaped with what appeared to be a heap of twisted, dark-brown sticks.

‘Can you pass me a couple of those,’ I asked Berenger, who was seated on my other side. I had recognized smoked eel and wondered if it was a relic of my trip with Arnulf and his ox
wagon.

‘Can’t wait for the hunting season to begin,’ complained Berenger, regarding with distaste the boiled pork and dumplings that had been put on our plates. ‘Venison and
wild boar on a spit is something the cooks can’t ruin.’ He called across to Gerard, ‘I’ve a riddle for you:

Gerard gave a rueful smile and said, ‘No need to go on. You’ve made your point.’

He produced a small pouch from his sleeve and carefully extracted three or four black seeds which he passed across. Berenger laid them on the table and smashed them to powder with the handle of
his dagger. He saw me watching him.

‘Patch, you’re good at solving riddles. What’s the answer to mine?’

‘I have no idea,’ I said.

Berenger picked up a few of the broken grains on the tip of his knife and said, ‘Put these on your tongue.’

I did so. The fiery taste made me grab my wine cup. I took a deep gulp to wash out my burning mouth.

‘The answer is “pepper”,’ said Berenger, grinning.

As we ate, a group of musicians entered the hall and began to play. The noise of their fiddles, pipes and drums made conversation difficult so I covertly studied the guests at the
councillors’ table. Several important-looking men wore chains of office. I supposed they were the high officers of state, the seneschal, the count of the palace, the high chamberlain, and the
keeper of the royal stables. This last individual, Hroudland had told me, commanded the royal guard. Alcuin and his fellow priests sat in a group, forming a sombre block of brown and drab among the
other splendidly dressed dignitaries, whose costumes were bright with rich reds and blues, their necks and fingers heavy with gold jewellery. I presumed they were the dukes and counts whom the king
appointed to rule the provinces. Among them the foxy-faced man whom I had noticed earlier was in earnest conversation with his neighbour, but something told me that he was very aware that I was
watching him.

‘Who’s that in the yellow tunic, the one with the shock of grey hair?’ I asked Hroudland when the musicians finally began to put away their instruments.

Hroudland glanced across the hall.

‘That viper is my stepfather, Ganelon,’ he said icily. ‘He’s a charlatan and opportunist.’

I would have liked to have found out the reason for his dislike but a hush fell on the assembly. A man carrying a stool in one hand and a small harp in the other had walked into the open space
between the tables.

Berenger gave a low groan of dismay.

‘This will be worse than theology,’ he said.

The newcomer set the stool down, bowed to the king, and announced loudly, ‘With your permission, my Lord, today I tell of the great warrior Troilus, son of King Priam, and how he met his
death at the hands of the noble Achilles.’

Beside me, Hroudland said in a low voice, ‘Another of my uncle’s foibles. At meal times he loves to hear the tales of ancient heroes.’

The bard cleared his throat, placed one foot on the stool, set his harp upon his knee, and after plucking a few chords, launched into his tale. I watched the king’s face as I tried to
decide whether he was genuinely enjoying the performance. He sat expressionless, not eating, only toying with a piece of bread with a large, powerful hand on which a massive gold ring was set with
a large ruby.

I already knew the Troilus story. It had been a favourite of my old teacher, Bertwald.

The bard droned on. He had a high-pitched, rather irritating voice, and an unfortunate tendency to lay the stress on the wrong words. I began to sympathize with Berenger’s dismay, and
wondered how long the performance would last. The wooden bench was uncomfortable.

The bard plodded through his narrative: Troilus was the most beautiful youth in Troy, a famous warrior, and an adept handler of horses. Daily he went beyond the city walls to exercise his
chariot team on the plain before Troy. Afterwards he brought them to a sacred grove to water them at a spring. Knowing his routine, the Greeks set upon him. But he defeated them, wounding king
Menalaus, and even put the renowned Myrmidons to flight. When word of this humiliation reached Achilles, the greatest champion of the Greeks, he vowed to exact revenge. He put on his armour and hid
in ambush at the sacred grove.

The bard paused. He took a sip of water and fiddled with his harp, tightening a couple of strings. I knew he was doing it for dramatic effect.

Incautiously I muttered to Hroudland, ‘He’s not mentioned the main reason why Achilles had to kill the youth.’

Either the king’s hearing was abnormally acute or I had taken too much of Anseis’s wine and spoken louder than intended. A high-pitched royal voice barked, ‘You! If you know
the story so well, why don’t you finish it?!’

I looked up, dismayed. Carolus was glaring at me with those large pale eyes, his mouth set in an angry line.

‘Go on, young man,’ he rasped. ‘Show us you can do better.’

I felt the blood drain from my face. The king continued to stare angrily at me. I was aware of the sudden silence, the entire company watching and waiting for my reaction. Engeler made a faint,
clucking sound with his tongue. He was enjoying my humiliation.

Perhaps it was a further effect of the wine, but somehow I found the courage to get to my feet. Without looking at the king, I walked over to where the bard was standing, harp in hand, a look of
disgust on his face.

With an ironic gesture he offered me the harp, but I waved it aside. I was no musician. Smirking, he retreated a few paces and stood with arms folded waiting for me to make a fool of myself.

I drew several deep breaths as Bertwald had taught me to do if I was to speak in public.

‘My Lord,’ I addressed the king. ‘There was a prophecy known to all the Greeks. It said that if the beautiful youth Troilus lived to reach full manhood, Troy would never fall.
For that reason – above all others – Achilles knew he had to slay the golden youth. So Achilles lay in wait at the sacred grove, and when Troilus came there with his servant, he burst
from ambush.’

I saw the king relax. He sat back in his seat, and nodded.

‘Go on,’ he commanded.

By now the wine had certainly gone to my head. The audience seemed to soften and blur around me. I knew they were still there, waiting and listening. But I was in my own empty space and I could
fill it with my words. I raised my voice.

‘Achilles fell upon Troilus. He caught him by his long and lustrous hair, and dragged him off his horse. Then on the sacred soil he beheaded him. Then he cut off his parts and hung them
beneath the armpits of the corpse so that Troilus’s ghost would never come to haunt him.’ I paused and licked my dry lips. The spirit of tipsy courage had taken complete control.
‘Troilus’s mutilated corpse was carried back into the city, and the Trojans raised a great wailing. They lamented the loss of their youthful prince, but above all they remembered him
for his grace and for his surpassing beauty. He was the darling of the people, and none grieved him more than Polyxena, princess of the Trojans. She was the fairest of all her sisters, tall and
beautiful. Her eyes were lovely, her long hair the colour of ripe wheat, and her body was well-proportioned. She melted men’s hearts.’

I finished the final sentence and bowed to the king. As I lowered my head, I deliberately allowed my eyes to rest for a brief moment on Bertha. She was staring at me, her eyes wide.

The bard treated me to a look of pure loathing as I walked past him and returned to my seat. The hum of general conversation resumed. Hroudland thumped me on the back as I sat down beside him.
My knees were shaking.

‘Well done, Patch!’ he chortled.

The servants had already begun ladling out the next course of the banquet. I picked up my spoon and took a mouthful. It was an evil-tasting pottage of chicken in a spinach and bean broth,
heavily flavoured with garlic. Vaguely I heard the musicians start up again. I was too spent to say anything and I kept my head down, eating quietly.

All of a sudden, there was an agonizing spasm in my stomach as if a dagger had been jabbed into my gut. Bile surged up. My throat constricted and I felt I could not breathe. Next there came a
great roaring in my head and a red curtain descended across my eyes. I felt myself falling forward, and everything went black.

S
OMETHING
HARD
WAS
forced between my teeth, and then a trickle of fluid ran down the back of my throat.
I coughed and nearly choked. I did not have the strength to lift my eyelids. Worse, my heart was pounding in a frightening way, its beat irregular.

A faraway voice said calmly, ‘You must swallow.’ I knew the speaker but I was too confused to remember who it was. I swallowed.

Time must have passed, for when I regained the strength to open my eyes, it was to see Osric’s familiar face. He was leaning over me, a narrow tube in his hand. He inserted it again into
my mouth.

‘Drink as much of this as you can,’ he said.

Obediently I sucked on the liquid. It had no taste and left a sticky coating on the inside of my mouth. My stomach churned and my bowels had turned to water. I felt so weak that I could not move
my limbs.

‘Lie quietly,’ said Osric.

I must have drifted off to sleep for when I came to my senses again, it was night. By the light of a single candle Osric sat beside me, and once again he made me drink the sticky liquid. I was
lying on some sort of bed and had soiled myself. The bed linen stank. Feebly I tried to sit up, but he pushed me back down with his hand.

‘Here, chew,’ he said, and dropped into my mouth a lump of some substance which crumbled into powder as I bit into it. He held a cup of water to my lips and I swirled down the thin
paste. It tasted of nothing. Again I drifted off into blackness.

*

When I awoke a second time, it was to find that I had been washed and dressed in a clean bed gown. Osric was gone, but Alcuin was sitting patiently on a stool, his face
grave.

I looked about me. I was lying in a small, plainly furnished room. Daylight entered through a window in the whitewashed walls.

‘Where am I?’ I asked.

‘The king’s house, a room where the crown couriers rest between trips.’

‘What happened?’

‘You ate something which made you so violently sick that you were brought here, the nearest place.’ The priest folded his hands in his lap. ‘Perhaps it was a food which you
were not accustomed to. There were times when it was thought you might die. Prayers were said for you.’

I detected a hesitation in his voice.

‘Was anyone else taken ill?’ I asked.

‘The old man, Gerard of Roussillon, suffers the same symptoms, but they began some hours later. He managed to get back to his own bed. He breathes with difficulty and is getting
weaker.’

I remembered Osric dosing me.

‘My slave Osric must treat him with the same medicine he gave me. It seems to have been effective.’

‘As could have been our prayers,’ Alcuin reminded me quietly, but he agreed to my request and got to his feet. ‘When you are strong enough, you will be able to return to your
own quarters.’

No sooner had he left the room than a worried-looking Count Hroudland and Berenger appeared in the doorway. I managed to raise my head and greet them. Hroudland’s face lit up with
relief.

‘Patch, it’s good to see you awake,’ said Hroudland. ‘There were times when we thought you were finished.’ He came across to my bed and laid a hand on my brow.
‘The fever has broken, thank God.’