Saxon: The Book of Dreams (Saxon 1) (21 page)

Ganelon came to a quick decision.

‘If Sigwulf is prepared to accompany Husayn to Zaragoza, he can rejoin us in Barcelona in, say, three weeks’ time. I’ll check with the Saracens that they agree to this
arrangement.’

As we hurried out into the village square, Osric was standing beside the stone water trough in the centre of the village, talking with Gerin’s servant.

‘Ganelon and Gerin are accompanying Governor Suleyman to Barcelona, and we’ll be taking the road through the mountains with Husayn, direct to Zaragoza,’ I told him.

Osric waited until Gerin’s servant was safely out of earshot before replying.

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he said softly.

I gave him a sharp look. There had been no hint of trouble on the journey. No one had attempted to harm me. I was beginning to think that the mushroom poisoning and the attack in the forest were
unrelated accidents, or that whoever wished to hurt me had been left far behind.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘I’ve learned a little more about Gerin.’

‘He has no reason to do away with me,’ I said.

‘He sells his sword to whoever pays him. King Offa hired him during a border quarrel with the Welsh. Gerin served as leader of a war band.’

I recalled Gerin’s expertise with lance and javelin.

‘How long ago was that?’

‘Maybe five or six years ago.’

‘Poison is not his style; an arrow in the back, maybe.’

‘Gerin was present at the hunt and also at the banquet,’ Osric reminded me.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ganelon walking across the square to where the Saracens were clustered. They were tightening their saddle girths, getting ready to depart.

‘There’s something more. Ganelon has already had a private meeting with Husayn,’ he said.

That startled me.

‘Do you know what was discussed?’

‘No, Gerin’s servant was up early, tending to a horse with saddle sores. He saw Ganelon go and return. The meeting lasted less than an hour.’

There was a flurry of activity on the far side of the square. The Saracens were mounting up. A gaggle of villagers surrounded them, some begging, others holding up lumps of hard cheese and
strips of dried mutton, hoping for a sale. Now we were in the borderlands, we were having to purchase our own supplies.

‘Everything’s arranged,’ Ganelon shouted at me. ‘I’ll see you in Barcelona in three weeks’ time! Go with God!’ He hurried to where Gerin and the rest of
our group were already mounted and circling their animals, preparing to head off. Osric and I had to grab the reins of our own horses and hold them back to prevent them joining the others. After
three weeks on the road our animals had become used to travelling together.

I watched my comrades clatter out of the village at a trot. Gerin still rode like a cavalryman on campaign. He sat square and upright in the saddle, his plain red shield bouncing against his
horse’s flank, with his long heavy sword slung across his back. The handle projected above his left shoulder like a cross.

Deep in thought, I turned my attention to the Saracens who had stayed behind. Four of them were sitting quietly on their horses on the far side of the square, the hoods of their riding cloaks
pulled up against the chill air. They were waiting for Osric and me to join them.

‘Greetings, fellow travellers,’ said the nearest Saracen in good Latin as we approached. He was a little older than me, perhaps in his early twenties, plump and expensively dressed.
From his air of confidence I presumed that I was being addressed by Husayn, Wali of Zaragoza. This was the first time I had seen him close up and face to face. He had a clear olive skin and large
dark eyes made even darker by the application of black dye around them. He had also painted his small, delicate mouth. His lips were a striking shade of pink. If I had not known that he had just
ridden across Frankia in less than three weeks, I would have mistaken him as being effeminate.

‘Ambassador Ganelon tells me that you wish to accompany me to Zaragoza. I look forward to your company, so let us be friends,’ he said.

‘Your Excellency is to be congratulated on his excellent command of my language,’ I answered diplomatically. I was thinking that Husayn’s Latin was so fluent that Ganelon would
not have required an interpreter at their private discussion.

The wali smiled delicately, showing small, even white teeth.

‘Then we shall be able to converse as we ride.’

‘Does Your Excellency know how long the journey will take?’ I asked.

‘A week at the most. We are fortunate there is so little snow this year.’

Husayn, his curiosity evident, turned his gaze on Osric.

‘Your Excellency. This is Osric, my servant. He has been with me for many years,’ I explained.

Abruptly the wali switched into what must have been the Saracen tongue and asked Osric a direct question.

There was an awkward pause as Osric looked across at me. I nodded.

When Osric had finished his reply, the wali treated me to another of his engaging smiles.

‘Now it is you who must be congratulated. Your servant tells me that you are a good master, and he is happy to serve you. Come, let us get started!’

*

Thankfully, riding in company with Husayn was less gruelling than what had gone before. The young wali rode at a steady walk so that I could match the pace of my gelding to his
mount and he encouraged me to ride by his side. He asked many questions about my life and later, when I ran out of answers, we continued together in companionable silence, the white-capped
mountains gradually coming closer and the land wilder and less inhabited. Recalling Hroudland’s comment that the Saracens could turn nasty and cut my throat, it occurred to me that no one
would be any the wiser if it happened in these remote borderlands. Yet I sensed no threat from the Wali of Zaragoza. Husayn was courteous and friendly and, as it turned out, also very devout.
Whenever we stopped for him and his people to say their prayers, they took a long time. This gave me a chance to dismount and wander away from our little group under the pretence that I needed to
stretch my legs. Then, privately, I wrote down my observations for Alcuin.

Our route continued westward for two days before turning south and beginning to climb steadily through the foothills. The landscape was a dreary succession of barren hills slashed by steep-sided
ravines. Watering sources were few, forage non-existent and, in many places, the road narrowed to a single track difficult for carts. The inhabitants were a sturdy, taciturn people living in small,
scattered settlements located on spurs of high ground. They provided food and shelter for us and our animals in return for generous payments in silver coins from a heavy purse carried by one of
Husayn’s attendants, but they showed no interest in who we were or where we were going.

On the fourth day of our journey, we passed above the snow line. Now the mountain slopes were speckled with boulders poking up through the snow crust. But the track itself was almost clear. It
was another cold, crisp day of bright sunshine, and we had not seen a living soul since setting out that morning. I judged that we were approaching the crest of the pass itself and I could see that
Husayn was pleased with our progress.

‘Normally I would be worried that snow would block the road. But tomorrow we will be over the worst and our path will begin to slope downhill,’ he said cheerfully. For the past mile
he had been glancing up at the sun to determine when to halt and recite the Saracen prayers that are said just after noonday. I waited patiently. I had slipped behind in writing up my notes and
this was the most crucial stage of the road through the mountains.

At length we came to a narrow defile, warmed by the sun but sheltered from the wind.

‘This is a good place to halt,’ Husayn announced. ‘After prayers, we can take some food and rest the horses.’

I dismounted stiffly and handed the reins of the bay gelding to Osric.

‘I think I’ll go for a stroll,’ I said.

‘Stay close,’ warned Husayn. ‘There are bears in these mountains, and wolves. They have been known to attack travellers.’

I laughed.

‘I haven’t seen a bear or a wolf since we began our journey.’

‘Then at least take a weapon with you, just in case,’ Husayn insisted.

Dutifully, I unstrapped my bow case from the packhorse and took out the weapon and a couple of arrows. I noticed the look of mild interest on Husayn’s face when he saw the type of bow I
was using.

Leaving the others, I walked off, picking my way carefully over the loose rocks. Behind me I could hear the sounds of the Saracens unsaddling their horses. From past experience I expected we
would halt for at least an hour.

The bare hillside was open and exposed, and I was obliged to walk a little distance to find somewhere to sit privately and write my notes. I angled up the slope until I could no longer be seen
from the defile. There, I found myself a patch of ground free of snow in the lee of a large boulder. I laid down my bow and arrows, sat down and took the flat box containing my writing materials
from the inner pocket of my coat.

I had just slipped off my gloves and taken up the stylus when a movement caught my eye. A bird, the size and colour of a crow, was flying in low swooping arcs across the hillside. Occasionally
it stopped and landed on a boulder. It was the only living creature in the immense, frozen landscape, and I wondered what it found to feed on. I watched the bird come closer until it settled on a
rocky outcrop below me. I turned my attention back to the work in hand and began to scratch out a diagram of our route for the past three days. The wax tablet had hardened in the cold and the metal
point of the stylus skidded on the brittle glazed surface. I pressed harder, the wax chipping and flaking. I engraved the main line of the route then started to mark the location of the mountain
villages I had seen and the distance between them. The air was so still and the silence of the mountains so absolute that I clearly heard the sound of claws scrabbling on rock as the bird settled
on the crest of a boulder, not six feet from me. It cawed loudly. Its voice came back as an echo from the far mountainside.

I ignored the bird and worked on, head down. I was anxious to finish my work before the Saracens thought I was overdue and came looking for me. After a short while I heard the soft flap of wings
as the bird flew away. Then came a tiny clink, the sharp sound of a pebble falling on rock. I vaguely thought that the sun melting the snow must have released a stone lying on the crust.

I was concentrating so fiercely on my work that I was shocked by the loud crack as something smashed into the boulder close to my head. I jerked back and felt a sharp sting on my cheek. A round
pebble, the size of a hen’s egg, fell to the ground beside me.

I dropped my writing materials and sprang to my feet. Fifty yards away and slightly up the slope a shaggily dressed man was standing and whirling a strap around his head. I recognized a slinger
and threw myself to the ground just as he released his second missile. I heard it whirr overhead. If it had struck me in the head the blow would have split my skull.

Seeing that he had missed, my attacker turned and began to run, dodging from rock to rock up the hillside.

A cold rage seized me. This attack was too similar to the murderous assault in the forest to be a coincidence. This time I would not let my assailant get away. I picked up my bow, nocked an
arrow to the string, and then turned to judge the distance to my target. The slinger had not gone far. He had chosen to run directly uphill, thinking no doubt that he could outdistance any pursuit,
and his decision had slowed him down. Evidently he had not noticed my bow lying on the ground beside me. He was running straight, not bothering to weave from side to side. He was an easy
target.

Taking a deep, slow breath, I took up the tension on the bow and waited. It was like one of the archery exercises that Osric had made me repeat so often in the royal park of Aachen. My target
was a dark, shapeless figure, bundled in heavy fur clothing, moving steadily and predictably up the slope away from me. In another few yards he would cross an undisturbed patch of snow. I waited
until he was halfway across the white background and clearly outlined. Then, in a single controlled movement that concentrated all my rage, I drew the bow to full extent, aimed and released,
watching the arrow fly up the hill.

The arrow struck the slinger squarely in the back. He pitched face forward into the slope. There was a moment’s pause as though he was embracing the mountain, then his body slithered back
down a few feet in the snow and came to rest.

I put the bow down. My hands shook for the first time as I collected up the writing tablet and stylus, put them away in their wooden box, and then hid them safely out of sight inside my coat. I
retrieved the bow and the second of the two arrows, though I knew it would not be needed. Then I began climbing towards the man I had struck down.

There was a shout from the hillside below me. One of the Saracens was calling my name. I did not answer but kept heading upwards, taking deep deliberate breaths, each step breaking through the
crust of snow.

I reached my victim. He was still lying face down, the feathered shaft of my arrow protruding a hand’s span from the grimy fabric of his heavy wolfskin jacket. I had struck him square
between his shoulder blades. Callously I put the toe of my boot beneath him and turned him so he lay on his side. He was a man of middle age, his face gaunt with hunger and burned dark by the sun.
A few strands of dirty grey hair straggled out from under a tight-fitting cap, also of wolfskin. A long scar, perhaps the result of a sword cut, ran from his left ear to the side of his mouth. He
was breathing but only just. I had never seen him before.

I kicked him hard in the ribs.

‘Who sent you?’ I snarled.

His eyes opened, revealing dark brown irises, and he mumbled something in a strange, spiky-sounding language.

I kicked him again, more viciously.