Saxon: The Book of Dreams (Saxon 1) (25 page)

I was plodding along, head down and looking where I was putting my feet when all of a sudden the two dogs rushed away from the footpath. They were barking excitedly, doubtless chasing a rabbit
or a hare. Gallmau roared at them so fiercely to come to heel that I glanced up to see the reason for his anger. The sight that greeted me made my skin prickle. Our way lay between two rows of huge
grey stones. They were set at intervals, some fifteen paces apart, and a little way back from the track. Each stone was its natural shape, a massive boulder longer than it was broad and weighing
many tons. It must have taken unimaginable labour to drag each one of them into its right place. Then, by some feat of ingenuity, they had been tilted and set on end so that they resembled gigantic
tombstones. In the half-light of the overcast day they were eerie and mysterious, as if not of this world.

Gallmau treated them with great respect. After the two dogs had returned obediently to their master, he used the tip of his staff to mark some sort of shape in the turf, before bowing his head
and dropping down to one knee as though to pay homage to the great stones.

The mist grew even denser as we proceeded, until I could barely make out the looming shape of the nearest stone on either side. As we moved through this silent, opaque world I became aware that
we were not alone. Someone had joined us. It was just a fleeting impression at first, a shadowy figure a short distance ahead of Gallmau, someone walking along the path in the same direction as us.
The figure was indistinct, appearing and then disappearing as the thickness of the mist varied. Gallmau was striding along ahead of me and the track was too narrow for me to overtake him to
investigate. Besides, I had no wish to intercept the stranger. Only after several minutes did I realize there was something familiar about our new companion. He was dressed like me, in a long
cloak. He had the hood pulled up so I could see only his general shape. It was the manner of his walking and the way he held his shoulders that was familiar. Finally I realized who it was: my twin
brother. His fetch was travelling with us, leading the way. I wondered if Gallmau could also see him, but the fisherman gave no sign of it. Only the two dogs reacted. They ran forward along the
path and I watched them investigate the distant wraith, sniffing at its heels, wagging their tails, and then padding back to their master. The confidence of the dogs reassured me. I knew I could
not attract my brother’s attention. The otherworld pays no heed to mortals, and if he wished to speak to me, he would do so. Yet I half-hoped that he would stop and turn to greet me. But he
kept walking forward through the mist, and I tramped along behind him, strangely comforted by his presence. I was certain that as long as my twin brother was with me on my journey, no harm would
come to me.

After some hours the path finally began to descend. We left the high moorland and emerged from the worst of the mist. About that time my brother’s fetch vanished. He disappeared in much
the same manner as he had first arrived, showing himself indistinctly for a few moments, then vanishing, only to reappear for another brief glimpse. When he did not show himself for several long
minutes, I knew that I would not see him again that day.

We had reached a fold in the land, which sheltered a hamlet of a dozen small cottages. The two dogs ran ahead of us, straight to one of the buildings, and scratched at the door. A voice called
out and when Gallmau answered, the door was opened by a bald, very overweight man of middle age. He had a round head, a neck that spilled over his collar in folds of fat, and his small sharp eyes
looked as if they had been set in a pudding. His gaze travelled slowly over me, and then to Gallmau before he gestured at us to enter. We stepped into a room starkly furnished with a wooden table,
a bench and three stools. There was a door to an inner room, a fire burning in the hearth and several farm tools propped in a corner. Gallmau’s two dogs promptly ran to the hearth and lay
down on the earth floor as if they owned the place. Soon the room filled with the smell of drying dog.

Gallmau spoke briefly to the fat man, who then turned to me.

‘You travel to the king’s palace at Aachen?’ he enquired. He spoke far better Frankish than Gallmau’s wife.

‘I carry a sacred book for the library of the new chapel,’ I said. I was uneasy. Something about the fat man made me distrust him.

He waved a chubby hand towards the bench by the table.

‘Take a seat. It’s a long walk from the coast, and you must be tired. I’ll get something for you and Gallmau to eat and drink.’

He waddled out of the room and I went across to the bench, removed my cloak and sat down heavily. It was true. I was exhausted. I was also aware of Gallmau’s interest in my satchel so I
placed it on the bench beside me, trying not to make it obvious that I was keeping it very close.

Gallmau removed his dripping hat and took his seat on a stool opposite me.

We sat in strained silence, waiting for our host to return. Surreptitiously I scanned the room hoping to see some sign of another person living in the house – a wife, children. There was
nothing. The fat man lived by himself, and I began to wonder if I should get up and leave while I still could. I was alone, a stranger in an unknown house and an easy target for a robbery, if not
worse. Yet I had not seen anyone else in the hamlet as we arrived, and I knew that country people were clannish. There was no certainty that I would find a better reception elsewhere.

The fat man came back into the room. He was carrying three scuffed, leather tankards in one hand, and in the other a large earthenware jug. He put them down on the scarred table top and,
wheezing slightly, pulled up a stool and sat down. His flabby bulk overflowed the stool. He tipped a stream of some pale straw-coloured liquid from the jug into each of our tankards. I sniffed it
suspiciously. It smelled of apples, pears and honey. A quick taste confirmed that it was mead mixed with fermented apple and pear juice, something that had been my father’s favourite. I took
a long draught. It had been months since I had tasted strong drink. The tiny bubbles tickled the back of my throat as I swallowed. The sweet heady liquid was delicious.

The fat man was eyeing me speculatively. He reminded me of a large boar inspecting its next meal. He put down his tankard and licked his lips, about to speak. I forestalled him.

‘Those big boulders up on the moor, what are they?’ I began.

He blinked.

‘Menhirs, the long stones.’ He sounded as if he did not want to talk about them.

‘Who put them there?’

‘No one knows. They’ve always been there.’

‘And do they have a purpose?’ I asked.

He shrugged fleshy, round shoulders.

‘Some believe that they are grave markers of giants.’

‘Not only giants,’ I said in a solemn voice. He looked at me curiously. I took another drink from my tankard and set it down carefully on the table. I had not eaten all day and could
sense the strong drink taking effect. My tongue felt slightly thick and I knew I was already getting tipsy.

‘I saw my twin brother at the menhirs this afternoon,’ I said.

His piggy eyes opened wide in surprise.

‘Your brother?’ he asked.

‘He walked with us for a while. The dogs saw him.’ I nodded towards the two animals now asleep in front of the fire.

The fat man muttered something to Gallmau who shook his head, then looked flustered and ill at ease.

‘Are you sure it was your brother?’ asked the fat man.

‘Of course. I haven’t seen him for more than a week. He doesn’t visit me that often,’ I said, trying to sound casual.

The fat man’s eyes flicked towards the satchel.

‘Are you not a Christian?’ he asked.

I belched softly. Judging by the aftertaste, the mead had been brewed with clover honey.

‘My being a Christian has nothing to do with it. My brother visits me as often as he wishes,’ I said. ‘He drowned when we were youngsters.’

The fat man’s eyes darted nervously around the room. A bead of sweat broke out on his scalp.

‘Will he call on us tonight?’ he asked.

I shrugged.

‘Who knows.’

My host got up from his stool.

‘Then we must not be found wanting,’ he muttered, and shuffled his way out of the room.

In a short while he came back with four wooden plates, a loaf of stale-looking bread and some cheese, and an extra tankard. He set four places on the table, and we began to eat. Each time there
was a sound outside, both my companions started. We hurried through our meal, and when I had finished, I drained my third tankard of the cider-mead and reached up and removed my eye patch. Then I
turned to face my companions, staring straight at them for a long moment, unblinking so they could not help but notice the mismatched colours of my eyes.

‘Leave my brother’s place at the table as it is,’ I said, ‘in case he joins us later.’

Without asking, I stretched myself out on the bench, with my satchel as a pillow and allowed myself to drift off to sleep, confident that neither of them would dare harm someone who bore the
Devil’s mark and was the twin brother of a fetch.

*

A low growling awoke me, followed by a thud as a heavy boot kicked the front door, making it rattle in its frame.

‘Wake up you tub of lard,’ shouted a voice.

I sat up. I was still on the bench and had spent a quiet night. My brother’s wooden plate and tankard sat on the table untouched.

The boot thumped into the door again. Gallmau was climbing to his feet from where he had been sleeping on the floor. The two dogs were barking furiously and dancing round the door, which shook
to another heavy blow. The fat man was nowhere to be seen.

I put on my eye patch and went across to the door and pulled it open. Outside stood a thick-set, scowling man with a short, neatly trimmed beard and the weather-beaten skin of someone who spent
his days in the open air. Behind him I saw two men-at-arms with spears. Further down the street, the faces of villagers were peering out from their front doors.

‘Who are you?’ demanded the bearded man aggressively. He spoke in good Frankish.

‘Sigwulf, a royal servant,’ I answered.

The man narrowed his eyes.

‘Royal? Don’t waste my time!’ he growled.

I knew that I made an unimpressive spectacle, with a patch on one eye, travel-stained and unwashed.

‘I am on my way to see Margrave Hroudland,’ I said.

‘And is the margrave expecting you?’ jeered my interrogator.

I was feeling grouchy and hungover, and lost my temper.

‘No, he is not,’ I snapped, ‘but he will be very pleased to see me, and I shall make it my business to report on your conduct.’

My sharp manner penetrated the man’s disbelief. He gave me a calculating look.

‘What do you want to see the margrave about?’ he asked, a little less derisively.

‘I’m bringing him a book.’ Once again I slid the Book of Dreams out of the satchel.

The display had its effect. The man might have never seen a book before, but he knew that they were rare and valuable.

‘Very well, you come with me and tell your story to the head steward,’ he said.

He looked past me at Gallmau who had both hands full, holding back the two dogs that were eager to attack the stranger.

‘Where’s Maonirn?’ he asked.

Gullmau stared back stonily without replying.

‘He doesn’t speak Frankish,’ I said. ‘He’s a fisherman from the coast.’

‘Smuggler, too, if he keeps company with Maonirn. I expect that grease bucket slipped off to the moors when he heard us coming. No chance to find him now.’

He turned on his heel and I followed him out of the cottage and past the waiting men at arms.

*

I had encountered a bailiff, as it turned out. He had planned to arrest Maonirn, a known rogue, for the theft of some cattle. Instead he brought me before the head steward of
the local landowner. He, in turn, was persuaded as to my honest character and provided me with a pony and directions to the town Hroudland had chosen for his headquarters as Margrave of the Breton
March.

It was not much of a place.

A few hundred modest houses clustered on the floor of a shallow valley where the river made a loop around a low hill. The dwellings were a depressing sight under a dull winter sky, with their
drab walls of mud and wattle, and roof thatch of grey reeds. There was a watermill on the river bank, a scattering of leafless orchards and vegetable patches, and a log palisade to enclose the
hilltop. Just visible above this palisade was the roof of a great hall. The miserable weather was keeping the townsfolk indoors, and the only activity was in what looked like a soldiers’ camp
on the water meadows. Tents had been set up in orderly lines, smoke was rising from cooking fires, and numbers of armed men were moving about.

It had taken me two full days to ride there and I guided my tired pony through the town’s muddy, deserted streets and headed straight for the gate in the palisade. It stood open and I rode
in without being challenged. There I halted, overcome by a reminder of the past.

Hroudland’s great hall recalled my memories of my father’s house, the home I had grown up in, except that it was much, much larger and intended to impress the visitor. The ridge of
its enormous roof stood two-storeys high. The roof itself was covered with thousands upon thousands of wooden shakes and sloped down to side walls of heavy planks set upright and closely fitted.
Every vertical surface had been brightly painted. Red and white squares alternated with diamond shapes in green and blue. There were stripes and whorls. Flowers, animal shapes, and human grotesques
had been carved into the projecting ends of the beams and cross timbers and the door surrounds. These carvings, too, were picked out in vivid colours: orange, purple and yellow. Flags flew from
poles at each corner of the building, and a long banner with a picture of a bull’s head hung down above the double entrance doors. It was a spectacle of unrestrained and gaudy
ostentation.

There was much bustle around the building. An impatient-looking foreman was supervising a team of workmen as they unloaded trestle tables and benches from a cart, and then carried them indoors.
Servants were wheeling out barrows heaped with cinders and soiled rushes; others were taking in bundles of fresh reeds. A man on a ladder was topping up the oil in the metal cressets attached to
the huge doorposts.