Saxon: The Book of Dreams (Saxon 1) (26 page)

‘Where’s Count Hroudland?’ I asked a porter. He was shouldering a yoke from which hung two water buckets and was on his way towards what looked like the kitchen building
attached to the side of the great hall. Smoke was rising from its double chimney.

‘You’ll not find him here. He’s down by the army camp.’

I turned my pony and rode back down the slope towards the water meadows. I was scarcely halfway there when I heard a sound that made my heart lift: a full-throated whoop of triumph. It was the
yell that my friend let loose every time he scored a direct hit with javelin or lance, and it came from my right, just beyond the soldiers’ tents. I kicked my pony into a faster walk and a
moment later emerged onto a familiar scene. A couple of dozen cavalry men were fighting a mock battle. Watched by a ring of spectators, the opposing sides were a milling mob of armoured men on
horseback chopping and thrusting with wooden swords and blunt lances, deflecting blows with their shields. I spotted Hroudland at once. He was riding his roan stallion with the distinctive white
patches and he had a cluster of black feathers fastened to his helmet. A closer look showed that several of the other riders were wearing black feathers while their opponents sported sprigs of
green leaves. Above the hoarse shouts, the thud of blows and the general grunting tussle of horses and riders, I again heard Hroudland’s triumphant cry. He had barged forward with the roan,
knocked his opponent’s horse off balance, and then delivered a downward blow to the man’s head. As I watched, he thrust his shield into his opponent’s face so that he toppled
backwards out of his saddle and crashed to the ground.

Hroudland straightened up and looked around, seeking his next victim. His eye fell on me where I sat on my pony looking over the heads of the spectators. His face lit up with a broad smile.
Ignoring the chaos around him he spurred his stallion through the fighting and came towards me at a lumbering trot. The crowd in front of me scattered, dodging the great hooves as the horse came to
a halt.

‘Patch! Welcome home!’ the count shouted. He was out of breath, the sweat pouring down his face. He tossed aside his wooden sword, slung his shield on to his back, dropped the reins
and swung himself out of the saddle. I dismounted from my pony. Hroudland came forward, threw his arms around me and swept me up in a powerful bear hug. I was crushed uncomfortably against his
chain-mail shirt, and had to duck to avoid the rim of his helmet.

‘It’s good to see you!’ he said.

I became aware that another horse and rider had joined us. Looking up, I saw Berenger’s cheerful face grinning down at me. He had taken off his helmet and his curly hair was plastered with
sweat.

‘Patch, where did you spring from?’ he called down.

I disentangled myself from the count’s embrace.

‘From Hispania by way of the Bay of the Vascons,’ I said. ‘I’ve important news.’

Hroudland’s unattended stallion was edging sideways, tossing its head and irritably stamping the soft ground. The nearest onlookers were scrambling back out of the way.

‘Patch, I’ll see you up at the great hall later,’ said the count, hurriedly stepping back to gather up the reins. ‘You could not have come at a better time. There’s
to be a banquet. My seneschal will look after you.’ He vaulted easily up into the saddle. Someone handed back his wooden sword and he waved it above his head in salute, and then plunged back
into the fray, Berenger riding at his side.

*

Hroudland’s seneschal made no attempt to conceal his irritation at being distracted from the preparations for the banquet. He bawled at a groom to take my pony to the
stables, then beckoned to a lad loitering nearby and told him gruffly to show me to the margrave’s personal quarters. There he was to hand me over to the margrave’s manservant. I
followed the youngster into the great hall. The interior was as resplendent as the outside of the building. Painted in stripes of white and red, Hroudland’s household colours, a double line
of wooden pillars, each thicker than a man’s waist, soared upward as piers for the great roof. Bolted to each pillar were brackets for dozens of torches. Although it was scarcely noon, many
of these lamps were already lit, and their flames made the shadows dance and flicker in the rafters high above us. The trestle tables and benches I had seen earlier were already erected in the
spaces between the pillars, and there were enough to accommodate more than a hundred guests. A team of servants was setting out wooden trenchers and glass beakers. The kindling in the fire pit was
well alight, and the blaze had spread into the stack of fresh logs. I smelled pine smoke and somewhere in the background was the sound of a musician tuning up a stringed instrument. My guide took
me the length of the great hall and past the high table, still bare except for a fine, linen table cloth. I presumed that the more valuable tableware would be brought out later. At the far end of
the hall I was shown through a heavy door into what amounted to a large arms store. The walls of mortared stone had narrow slits for windows. Cressets added to the weak light, which shone on racks
of spears and javelins, war axes and iron bound chests. Along one wall was a display of shields. All of them were painted with the margrave’s red and white.

My young guide led me on and up a wooden staircase that brought us into an upper room furnished for comfortable living. There were rugs on the floor, and wall hangings embroidered with scenes
from the chase and the classical tales. To my surprise I noticed that one of the wall hangings depicted the siege of Troy. I recognized the figures of Troilus and Achilles, whose story I had told
in the presence of Carolus at the banquet where I was poisoned. Ironwork braziers kept out the chill and damp, and there was a large and comfortable-looking bed with a mattress, as well as the
usual stools and chairs. Here the windows were glazed and larger than on the ground floor, allowing in extra daylight. Nevertheless racks of expensive wax candles, some of them scented, were
already burning. I found myself wondering how Hroudland could afford such luxury.

A manservant took me in charge and, after a condescending appraisal of what I was wearing, drew back a curtain to an alcove. Expensive clothes hung on pegs. There were fine shirts of silk and
linen, jackets and leggings, fur-trimmed cloaks, tunics with silver and gold thread woven into the fabric, a selection of fashionable hats and bonnets. Lower down, shelves displayed an array of
footwear; boots, slippers and shoes of all colours and styles. I was told that I could select whatever clothes I wanted, and that hot water would be brought up from the kitchens so I could wash and
change.

*

The count himself arrived two hours later. I heard his footsteps thudding on the wooden stair and a moment later he came bounding into the room, his face flecked with mud and
his eyes alive with energy.

‘Patch, Patch! It’s been far too long!’ he exclaimed, and I received another exuberant bear hug. Then he held me at arm’s length and gazed into my face.
‘You’re tanned and look well. Hispania must have suited you.’

‘Being Warden of the March has suited you. Your great hall is magnificent,’ I complimented him.

He pulled a face.

‘It’s to make up for this miserable climate and its equally miserable people. You have no idea what it is like to live among such sullen, dour blockheads. They don’t know the
meaning of what it is to enjoy oneself. We have to create our own amusements.’ He brightened. ‘But tonight there’ll be good food and conversation and my steward will provide some
decent wine. Also, I’ve arranged a special entertainment for you.’

His words tumbled out at such a pace and with so much fervour that I examined my friend more closely. I noticed the slight bags under his eyes and the broken veins on his face. He seemed
overwrought and anxious. It was not how I remembered him. I wondered if Hroudland had been living a little too lavishly.

‘I abandoned my mission to Hispania because I have to warn you of a plot against you,’ I began.

But the count had already turned away, almost as though he was unable to keep still. He strode across to the bed and pulled off his shirt. His body was still as slim and athletic as before, the
muscles sculpted under the pale skin. If my friend had been indulging in too much fine living, it had not affected his physique. The manservant reappeared with a basin of water, which he placed on
a stand, and Hroudland began to wash his face and arms.

‘Ganelon is plotting against you,’ I said loudly, trying to get his full attention.

‘That’s nothing new,’ answered the count dismissively. He did not bother to raise his face from the bowl.

‘This time he may succeed,’ I insisted. ‘He wants to have you disgraced as a traitor.’ I failed to suppress the note of irritation in my voice but I was frustrated that
my friend should be taking my warning so casually after I had made so great an effort to reach him.

‘Tell me about it,’ said the count, straightening up. He began towelling his head and shoulders.

Point by point, I explained how Ganelon had obtained Husayn’s signed promise to pay me five hundred dinars so he could use it as false proof of Hroudland’s treachery.

When I had finished, the count threw back his head and laughed scornfully.

‘Is that the best that Ganelon can do? It won’t get him very far,’ he scoffed.

I thought I detected a note of hysteria in my friend’s response and I pressed on.

‘You must contact the king. Tell him what is happening. Warn him against Ganelon.’

Hroudland came across to me and punched me lightly on the arm.

‘Patch, my friend, I’ll do better than that. I’ll fight so well in Hispania that Carolus will have no doubt of my loyalty.’

‘What do you mean? Is there to be a war in Hispania?’

Again Hroudland laughed.

‘Of course!’

‘But I was sent with Ganelon and Gerin to investigate whether or not the Saracens’ request for military help was genuine.’

The count gave me a wicked smile.

‘Carolus decided on war in Hispania long ago, well before the Saracens showed up to ask for his help. Despatching you and the other two to make a report was just a ruse, a way of
concealing his intentions.’

From somewhere outside came the sound of a horn. The margrave’s guests were being summoned to their places in the great hall. I heard someone else coming up the wooden stairs and Berenger
appeared in the room with the words, ‘Time to get ready.’

‘Patch, any more trouble with people trying to kill you?’ Hroudland asked.

I would have preferred if his enquiry had sounded less casual.

‘There was an attempt when I was travelling through the mountains,’ I said and told him about the Vascon slinger.

‘Sounds like Ganelon at work,’ said Hroudland. ‘Berenger, what do you think?’

‘Just like him,’ replied Berenger, who was helping the count get his arms into a fresh shirt.

‘Well, Patch,’ said my friend, as he selected a belt studded with semi-precious stones from his wardrobe in the alcove, ‘at least you don’t have to worry about being
poisoned at today’s banquet. The cook and every scullion are on my staff.’ He buckled on the belt, picked up a short cloak of white silk with a crimson lining and threw it over his
shoulder. It was time to descend into the great hall and begin the banquet.

*

I was seated in the place of honour on Hroudland’s right, while Berenger was on his left. The rest of the high table was occupied by senior members of Hroudland’s
entourage. Some of them I recognized from the mock battle earlier. There were no women. All of us sat facing down the hall so that the guests could look up and see us and their overlord. The table
setting was as ostentatious as I now knew to expect from the margrave; plates and ewers of silver, drinking vessels of horn banded with gold and silver or made of coloured glass, candle holders
with gold inlay or decorations of semi-precious stones. The food, by contrast, was disappointing. Pottage, lumpy and bland, was served with root vegetables. The bread was coarse and gritty.
Hroudland grumbled to me that the local farmers were unable to grow good wheat due to the climate and poor soil. He was drinking heavily, right from the start of the meal, and Berenger and the
others at the table kept pace with him. As more and more wine and beer was consumed, their raised voices and shouted conversations drowned out the efforts of a small group of musicians who were
trying to keep us entertained. From the packed hall in front of us rose the steady babble of conversation as the margrave’s less exalted guests ate their way stolidly through the meal. More
than once I found myself having to stifle a yawn.

All of a sudden, Hroudland banged the handle of his knife down on the table, hard enough to make the nearest plates jump. Immediately everyone fell silent, looking to him. By now my friend was
well and truly drunk.

‘I want you all to meet my good and excellent friend, Patch,’ he announced in a slightly slurred voice.

There was a tipsy nodding of heads around the high table. One or two of the more sober guests caught my eye and smiled at me tentatively.

‘Some of you will have heard how he corrected the royal bard in Aachen when he was telling a story during a banquet in front of the king.’ The count raised his voice so he could be
heard the length of the great hall. ‘Tonight I have arranged for one of the greatest bards of the Bretons to entertain us so Patch will know that we have storytellers the equal of any in the
kingdom.’

There was a scatter of applause, and from behind one of the great pillars stepped a stooped, bony man of middle age. He was dressed in a plain, brown robe and a close-fitting skull cap. In one
hand he held a small harp. The other hand rested on the shoulder of a lad no more than ten years old. They walked slowly into the open space in front of the high table, and the boy put down a small
three-legged stool he was carrying. The bard took his seat and placed the harp on his lap, ready to begin.

‘Tell us what tale you are going to sing,’ called Hroudland.