Saxon: The Book of Dreams (Saxon 1) (28 page)

*

It was only when our little group was back on the main road that I had the chance to ask Hroudland the question that had been troubling me.

‘Why did we go to the trouble of visiting the fountain?’ I asked. ‘What’s so important about disproving an ancient folk tale?’

We were riding at a brisk trot. Hroudland pulled on the reins to slow his horse to a walk so that he did not have to shout. He threw a glance over his shoulder to make sure our escort was out of
earshot.

‘As Warden of the Breton March it is my duty to defend the frontier and maintain the king’s authority,’ he said.

‘What has that got to do with a tale told by a blind bard?’

My friend’s face clouded for a moment.

‘The Bretons expect the Franks to be driven from this land.’

I laughed out loud.

‘By whom? They can only dream.’

‘That is precisely my problem – their dreams.’

I looked at him in surprise. I had never told him about the Oneirokritikon or my own dreams. But he had something else in mind.

‘Patch, the Bretons await the return of a war leader who will restore their independence. As long as they think like that, the March is not secure.’

‘What’s the name of this saviour warrior?’ I enquired with more than a hint of disbelief.

‘They know him as Artorius.’

Something stirred in my memory, something that I had heard as a child. My teacher had spoken of an Artorius, a king who had led the resistance against my own people when they first came to
settle in Britain.

‘If it’s the same person I’m thinking of, you don’t need to worry,’ I said. ‘Artorius has been dead for a couple of hundred years.’

Hroudland threw me a sharp glance.

‘What do you know about him?’

‘He fought my Saxon ancestors and was mortally wounded in battle. His followers set his corpse adrift in a boat.’

Hroudland’s mouth was set in a grim line.

‘Exactly the same story is told here. Bretons and Britons share a common history. They claim that the boat drifted on to our coast and Artorius was buried with a great boulder as his
tombstone, a stone like the one we saw by the fountain. They say he will rise and lead them to victory.’

I had to chuckle.

‘That can’t please their Christian priests. It’s too much like their own story about their risen saviour.’

Hroudland frowned at me. He was impatient that I would not take him seriously.

‘You’re wrong. The priests are adding fuel to the fire. They’ve begun using this Artorius as an example of a good Christian ruler. They say he did good deeds and encouraged his
very best men to track down the holiest relics from the time of Christ himself.’

‘And did they find any?’

The count reached into his saddlebag, drew out the cup he had stolen from the fountain and held it up.

‘If they did, maybe they looked something like this.’

At last I understood.

‘So you went to the fountain intending to discredit the stories about Artorius. You knew that there would be neither a gem-studded stone nor a golden cup. They were as fanciful as the
legend of Yvain himself, and as he was supposed to be one of Artorius’s men, then he and his lord were both make-believe.’

Hroudland casually tossed the cup into the air and caught it again. ‘You hoped to show that the gem-studded stone and golden cup did not exist. Yvain was one of his men.’

‘And I found that the famous gold cup is nothing but a small, bronze beaker. I think I’ll put it on display in the great hall or I might even drink from it at my next banquet. That
will make both the priests and the pagan stone-worshippers think again about the truth in the wonderful adventure of Yvain.’

‘What about the strange shower of rain, and the flock of birds?’

He shrugged.

‘There are natural explanations for both of them, but neither you nor I need mention them.’

I was silent for several moments as I thought over his reply.

‘And if the story had been true? If we had found a cup of gold and a stone studded with gems?’

He showed his teeth in a wolfish grin.

‘That would have been even better. I would have prised out the gems with my knife and brought them and the gold cup back with me as plunder. As I said, I need the money badly.’

He spurred his horse into a canter, cramming the bronze cup back into his saddlebag.

N
EXT
MORNING, HAVING RISEN EARLY
and feeling in need of fresh air, I climbed the wooden ladder to the lookout platform on the
palisade surrounding the great hall. The day had dawned cold and clear, and a shallow bank of fog pooled in the valley floor below me, obscuring the soldiers’ camp. Judging by the noise, the
camp had grown in size in the short time that Hroudland and I were away investigating the fountain. From the fog rose a medley of sounds: shouted commands, ribald laughter, axes chopping into wood,
the distinctive ring of a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil, the neighing of many horses. Shivering in the chill, I descended the ladder and fetched myself a breakfast of hot milk and bread
from the kitchen beside the great hall. Then, loaf in hand, I strolled down the slope to get a closer view of the preparations for the expedition to Hispania.

Where the ground levelled out, I found myself walking between dimly seen rows of army tents. They stood empty, their door flaps fastened open and I could see the baggage of the occupants whom I
supposed were now out and about on their duties. Occasionally the ghostly figure of a man appeared on foot leading a saddleless horse on halter, only to disappear into the mist without a word of
greeting. When the smell of manure grew overpowering I knew I had reached the horse lines. The picket ropes to which the animals were tethered hung slack, but somewhere in the mist, a handful of
horses was still being groomed. I heard the impatient stamping of hooves, the occasional vibrating fart of a horse breaking wind and the soothing sounds made by unseen ostlers, whistling between
their teeth or murmuring soft nonsense as they attended to their animals. Finally I came to the river bank where the ground was churned to deep mud by the animals brought there to drink.

Here I turned to my left, intending to walk upriver. Before I had gone a couple of hundred paces a breeze sprang up and began to clear away the fog in slow-moving tendrils. I discovered that I
had ventured on to a broad open expanse of turf and mud – the cavalry training ground. Men on foot were gathered in groups of about twenty, holding their horses’ reins while they
listened to instructors. Compared to the escort of smart troopers that had greeted Wali Husayn when we had reached Zaragoza, the men were very scruffy. They wore an assortment of helmets and
mailcoats, no two of them alike, and their mounts were shaggy in their winter coats.

The nearest instructor, a lean, grizzled fellow with a horseman’s bow legs, had his sword slung across his back. The handle protruding over his shoulder reminded me of the last time I had
seen Gerin as he rode away with Ganelon in the company of the Wali of Barcelona. The instructor was standing with the reins of his horse looped over his arm and holding up a small iron hoop, about
the size of his palm. One side of it was flattened.

‘Any of you know what this is?’ he was demanding of his listeners.

One or two members of his audience looked down at the ground and shifted awkwardly. No one made any reply. I guessed that many of them knew the answer but did not want to risk being singled out
later.

‘It’s a stirrup,’ announced the instructor. ‘Now some of you think that stirrups are womanly, that a good rider doesn’t need them.’ He jabbed a stubby finger
at a tall, rangy recruit in the front row who had removed his helmet to reveal a shock of red hair. ‘Carrot Top, you’re a big lad. Mount up and let me show why every one of you will
have stirrups attached to his saddle by tomorrow morning.’

The red-headed recruit put on his helmet and vaulted on to his horse. He was an accomplished rider and sat easily in his saddle though I noticed that his legs hung down each side of the animal,
without the benefit of stirrups.

By now the instructor was also on horseback. He drew his sword and nudged his mount forward until the two riders were facing one another, knee to knee.

‘Strike at me, lad!’ he commanded.

The redhead pulled out his own blade and aimed a halfhearted blow that the instructor easily blocked with his shield. Then the instructor rose in his stirrups until he was half a head taller
than his opponent. Reversing his sword, he thumped the pommel down hard on his opponent’s helmet. Dazed, the redhead reeled in the saddle.

A hand clapped me on the shoulder, making me jump. Hroudland had walked up behind me.

‘Skulking on the sidelines, Patch, instead of training?’ he queried cheerfully.

‘Where are those men from?’ I asked.

‘They’re locals. I’ve stripped the March of men and animals. The king’s marshals want cavalry, not foot soldiers, for the expedition to Hispania.’ He turned to look
at the recruits who were now lining up under their instructor’s eye, ready to tilt at a line of straw dummies. ‘Let’s hope this latest batch of levies are quick learners. We
don’t have enough fodder to keep so many animals for more than a few weeks.’

‘If you want me to join them, I’ll need to borrow some armour from you, as well as a sword,’ I said.

‘What happened to the sword I selected for you from the royal armoury in Aachen?’ he demanded, his face suddenly serious.

‘I left it in Zaragoza with my servant Osric. He’s a free man now. I also gave him my horse.’

For a moment the count was lost for words. Then he snapped angrily, ‘You blockhead. That sword was something special. Have you forgotten that it is forbidden to export such weapons from
Frankia?’

His outburst was so unexpected that it took me a moment to respond.

‘I’ll ask Osric for it back when we get to Zaragoza,’ I said.

The count scowled.

‘If Osric is still there, or hasn’t sold it.’

‘I’m sure he would keep it until I return,’ I said.

Hroudland drew a sharp breath, clearly annoyed.

‘I’d rather shatter the blade of my own Durendal than let it fall into the wrong hands.’ He swung round to face me and, in a sudden change of mood, treated me to an apologetic
smile. ‘I’m sorry, Patch, I didn’t mean to be boorish. Of course, it was impractical for you to bring that sword back with you. The Vascon sailors would have cut your throat for
it.’ He waved his hand towards the great hall on the crest of the hill. ‘Pick yourself a shield and helmet from my armoury and find yourself a mail coat that fits.’

*

With the prospect of real fighting in Hispania ahead of me, I did as Hroudland suggested: I devoted all my energy to becoming a skilful mounted warrior. There was no time to
think of anything else. I pushed aside any thoughts of making contact with Bertha, for I was still wary of palace politics in Aachen. Besides, I suspected that she had long ago found other lovers.
I was now the margrave’s man and I owed him my duty, and that meant following him unquestioningly wherever he might lead. After six weeks’ practice with lance and borrowed sword I was
fit to accompany the margrave’s cavalry when they set out to join the main invasion force. We struck camp two weeks after the equinox and made an impressive spectacle, the mounted column
splashing across the ford at the edge of the training ground in the pale spring sunshine. Hroudland himself took the lead, a stylish figure in a scarlet riding cloak trimmed with marten fur,
bareheaded, with his long blonde hair falling to his shoulders. Immediately behind him came his standard bearer holding the staff with the bull’s head banner. Then followed the rest of his
entourage – household servants in red and white livery, a groom leading the roan war horse, his councillors and his confidants, of which I was one.

Our supply carts had gone ahead and we followed them southward in easy stages. We were travelling across pleasant wooded countryside, the trees were bursting into leaf and the underbrush was
full of small, flitting, rustling creatures and birdsong. The air had a rich, loamy smell of new growth and, except for the occasional heavy rain shower during the first week, the weather was kind
to us. Day after day, the sun shone from a clear, pale-blue sky, disappearing only briefly behind the legions of puffy, white clouds that sailed overhead on a westerly wind, their shadows racing
across our path and then over the open landscape to our left.

Frequently Hroudland invited me to ride beside him, in full view of the rest of the company, cementing my reputation as his close friend.

‘I’m not sorry to be leaving the Breton land,’ he confided to me on the fourth day of our journey. The road was taking us through a birch forest on the edge of a heathland. The
greyish-white bark on the trees reminded me of my stay in Zaragoza. The bark was the same colour as the sheets of unknown writing material I had found in wali Husayn’s guest chamber.

‘Does the winter weather depress you?’ I asked.

‘That and the people. They keep their feelings so shuttered. I’d like to have their loyalty, not just have their sullen obedience. You never know what they are thinking.’ He
nodded towards the forest around us. ‘Those birch trees, for example. To me, as a Frank, they are trees full of bright life, hope for the future. But, to the Breton, the birch is a tree that
grows in the land of the dead.’