Saxon: The Book of Dreams (Saxon 1) (33 page)

‘His Excellency the wali regrets that will not be possible.’

I could hardly believe my ears. I asked Osric to repeat what he had just said.

‘Husayn, Wali of Zaragoza, has told me to inform you that your army may not enter Zaragoza. The city is closed to all Franks.’

Hroudland exploded.

‘What nonsense is this!’ he roared.

‘On my master’s orders,’ Osric said firmly, ‘the gates will remain closed. Anyone coming within range of the archers on the city wall will be regarded as
hostile.’

‘Osric, can you explain this?’ I asked, using his name for the first time.

‘It is repayment for treachery,’ he replied simply.

I goggled at him.

‘Treachery?’

There was a trace of sympathy in his dark eyes as he looked straight at me.

‘Then you have not heard?’ he asked.

I shook my head.

‘King Karlo has betrayed Wali Suleyman of Barcelona. The wali has been seized by force and is now a prisoner of the Franks.’

I gaped at him.

Beside me Hroudland guffawed in utter disbelief.

‘Nonsense! We come as friends and allies.’

Osric raised an eyebrow.

‘That is what my lord the wali truly wished to believe. Unfortunately your king acted otherwise. He has broken faith. His army has done great harm to Barcelona and now he holds the wali
captive.’

‘I don’t believe a word of this,’ snarled Hroudland, swinging round to glare at me. ‘Slaves are natural liars.’

Osric did not flinch.

‘You do not have to believe me. At this very moment your King Karlo is marching here with his army. When he arrives, you will see for yourself that Wali Suleyman is his prisoner. Perhaps
you now understand why my lord will not open the gates of his city to your people.’

Osric turned his attention back to me. He seemed reproachful.

‘It was written,’ he said simply.

For a moment I thought he was talking about the Saracens’ holy book, their divine scripture revealed by a desert prophet. Then with a jolt I realized he meant the Book of Dreams. In
Zaragoza I had dreamed of the snake, the sign of impending treachery. Stupidly I had presumed it meant that the Saracens would betray Carolus. But it was the Franks who had behaved treacherously. I
had ignored Artimedorus’s statement that when a snake slithers away from the dreamer, it signifies that the treachery will be found elsewhere.

I must have been silent for quite some time because it was Hroudland who spoke next, his voice thick with anger.

‘You insult my family. My uncle would never commit such a base act.’

Osric shrugged.

‘Then he was badly advised.’

‘By whom?’ The count’s voice dripped disbelief.

‘I understand it was by one of his chief counsellors. A man named Ganelon.’

Hroudland looked as if he had been struck across the face. There was a long pause, and then he spoke again, slowly.

‘Now perhaps I might believe you.’

‘As you wish,’ said Osric drily. He touched his reins to his stallion’s neck and as the horse obediently turned aside, he added, ‘Make no mistake, the gates of Zaragoza
stay closed.’

For a long moment we all sat on our horses watching him ride back to the city. I had no idea what Hroudland was thinking, but my own thoughts were in turmoil. I had been looking forward so much
to meeting Osric again, renewing our friendship, and learning about his life at the wali’s court. Now it seemed that Frankish double-dealing meant we were on opposing sides. I regretted that
I had ever tried to use the Oneirokritikon to help me understand my visions. I had allowed myself to be led disastrously astray with my interpretation of the snake dream. Was I also wrong about
other dreams where I had found explanations? I had jumped to the conclusion that my own adventure in the hunting forest explained the king’s vision of the huntsman attacked by wolves and
desperately blowing his horn to summon help. Lost in the forest I had sounded the horn dropped by my unknown attacker, hoping to hear an answering call. But I had seen no wolves in the forest.
Perhaps the huntsman in the royal dream was someone else entirely.

A clammy chill spread into the pit of my stomach as I recalled those other troubling visions that still haunted me – the rider on the great horse crying blood, and the ghoulish incident
when Hroudland and I were on a mountainside and attacked by monsters and flying demons. I had no idea what either dream meant, though I knew now that they were of great significance. But I did not
know whether I wanted to understand what they might foretell, or if I should throw the Oneirokritikon into the fire and give up the interpretation of dreams entirely.

C
AROLUS
ARRIVED
A
WEEK
LATER
at our camp outside
Zaragoza’s walls, leading an army that was weary and much reduced in size. Many of his levies had returned to Frankia, having completed their days of service. Others had deserted. The great
baggage train had dwindled to less than a hundred ox carts and the accompanying herd of cattle no longer existed. The troops had eaten every last animal and were now living off the land like
locusts.

The king lost no time in summoning a council of war. It was held in the same royal pavilion, its bright colours now faded by sun and rain, and once again Hroudland required Berenger and me to
attend him.

This time, as I entered the great tent, I saw Ganelon. He was dressed in exactly the same clothes he had been wearing at the first banquet in Aachen. Apart from a deep tan on his bearded face he
appeared to have changed not at all since he rode off with Gerin to negotiate with – or rather betray – the Wali of Barcelona. I quietly took my usual place in the outer circle of
attendants and stood watching him, waiting for his reaction when he noticed me. Halfway through a conversation with his neighbour, he happened to look up and saw me. His eyes widened and for a
fraction of a moment he froze. Then he recovered himself and glanced briefly towards Hroudland. If he was busy calculating whether or not the count knew of the plot to discredit him, it did not
show on his face. Without the slightest change of expression he turned back to continue his conversation with his companion. At that moment Carolus appeared from behind the velvet curtain.

In just a few months, the king looked as though he had aged by ten years. He no longer walked with quite the same confident stride, and his face was more deeply lined than I remembered. His long
moustache, once straw-yellow, held flecks of grey and he looked tired. As usual he was dressed in the ordinary cross-gartered leggings, tunic and trousers of a well-to-do Frankish noble, though, as
a concession to the heat of Hispanian summer, the cloth was now of light linen rather than heavy wool. In his right hand he carried a mace of dark wood, gnarled and polished and banded with gold. I
imagined it was some sort of sceptre.

He walked across to his portable gilded throne and took his seat. His attendants had already set up the trestle table with the map of tiles, and Carolus looked across it at the assembled
company. His gaze was the same as ever, the grey eyes shrewd and penetrating, knowing each and every one of the people before him. Despite myself I held my breath and stood straighter as I waited
for his pronouncement.

‘I have summoned you to council,’ he began, ‘to hear your advice on how we should proceed with the campaign. As you are aware, our allies are in disarray. The Emir of Cordoba
has defeated the Wali of Huesca in battle. The Wali of Barcelona was unable to offer us the help he promised. Our original plan for Hispania must now be modified.’

The king’s words made me realize how little I knew of the overall progress of the campaign. Evidently the Falcon of Cordoba had moved decisively against the rebellious Saracen governors
before the Franks had arrived.

‘We now find ourselves in front of Zaragoza, whose governor is the third of our so-called allies,’ Carolus continued. ‘He has closed its gates to us. I await your suggestions
as to what we should do next.’

There was a long awkward silence. I sensed the Frankish nobles trying to gauge the king’s frame of mind. None of them wanted to speak up and risk the king’s wrath by making an
unwelcome proposal. It was the ever-cautious and practical Eggihard who spoke first.

‘Your Majesty, we are running low on supplies. The army cannot keep in the field for more than a few weeks.’

Carolus toyed with his wooden sceptre, stroking the polished surface.

‘So how do we put those few weeks to good use?’

‘We teach the Saracens a lesson they will remember so they never cross into Frankia again,’ called out a swarthy, heavily built nobleman I did not recognize.

‘How?’ grunted the king.

‘We’ve already dealt with the Wali of Barcelona as he deserved. Now we should do the same to the Wali of Zaragoza. Take his city, and hold him to account.’

The man looked around for the support of his fellows. Most of them avoided his gaze and stared instead at the map table. The mood of the meeting was decidedly pessimistic, even sombre.

To my surprise, it was the normally aggressive Hroudland who urged caution.

‘I have seen the walls of Zaragoza,’ he said. ‘Believe me, without large siege engines we cannot take the city in less than six months.’

‘Then our engineers must build siege engines,’ insisted the swarthy nobleman. He scowled angrily at Hroudland. The man was evidently another of the margrave’s rivals at
court.

‘It will take far too long to construct heavy siege engines,’ argued Eggihard. ‘By the time they are ready, our supplies will be finished.’

There was another long interval as no one else spoke. The king stirred restlessly on the wooden throne. Close to me someone coughed nervously. I was aware of the faint, musty smell of mildew;
the canvas of the great royal tent had begun to rot. It occurred to me that this decay symbolized the threadbare, worn-out state of the Frankish army.

Finally Hroudland again spoke. He raised his voice so everyone could hear him clearly, and his words were delivered with a confident flourish.

‘I suggest, Your Majesty, that instead of laying siege to Zaragoza, we extract its wealth like honey from the hive, and leave the city so impoverished that it will be unable to trouble us
in the future.’

‘And how do we keep the bees at bay?’ demanded his uncle. I could see a glint of interest, even affection, in the gaze he turned on Hroudland.

‘We have the Wali of Barcelona as our prisoner. He is both the brother-in-law and the close ally of the Wali of Zaragoza,’ the count answered. ‘I’m told that there is a
strong bond between the two men. I propose that we demand a very great ransom for the release of the Wali of Barcelona plus an additional sum to recompense the expenses for bringing the army into
Hispania.’

Like a shaft of sunlight suddenly lighting up gloomy countryside, his words lifted the atmosphere in the pavilion. Noblemen exchanged knowing glances. Most of them had come to Hispania for loot,
not to stay and settle. There was a mutter of excitement; they could carry back the spoils without having to fight for them.

‘Is there enough wealth in Zaragoza to meet such a heavy demand?’ the king asked Hroudland mildly.

‘Your Majesty, Zaragoza is one of the richest cities in Hispania. The wali has enormous personal wealth,’ Hroudland assured him.

A low rumble of approval greeted his announcement.

By now I knew this was the way of the Frankish world. The naked greed of the Franks was unpleasant to observe but, however distasteful I found it, I had to accept that I had committed myself to
helping satisfy their craving for riches when I rode into Hispania as a loyal member of Hroudland’s entourage.

‘And how do we persuade the wali Husayn to part with his wealth?’ asked the king.

With a sinking heart I anticipated what Hroudland would say next.

‘I have just the man to act as a go-between. He will know how best to present our demand,’ answered the count. He looked in my direction.

The king followed his glance and there was a flicker of recognition as his shrewd, grey eyes came to rest on me.

Unexpectedly Ganelon spoke up. His voice was measured and serious, with no hint that he was raising an objection. He was too clever for that.

‘Your Majesty, the noble margrave’s plan is admirable, but it may come to nothing unless we can provide the wali with some sort of surety of our good faith.’

It was a fair comment but Ganelon rarely did anything without a hidden reason.

Hroudland blundered into the trap set for him.

‘Your Majesty, I am willing to offer myself as that surety. I will go into Zaragoza as hostage for the honest fulfilment of our bargain. Only when the Wali of Barcelona is set free and
rides in through the gates of the city will I bring back the wealth of Zaragoza.’

I detected a hint of a smile under Ganelon’s black beard. He was evidently relishing the success of his intervention. If something went badly wrong with the payment of the ransom,
Hroudland might well have forfeited not only his freedom, but also his life.