Saxon: The Book of Dreams (Saxon 1) (35 page)

*

I spent the next few hours like a man stunned. I never saw Wali Husayn. He did come to see us at his treasury and must have relied on Osric’s clever guidance on how to
deal with the unwanted visitors to his city. Hroudland, by contrast, was childishly eager to complete the ransom arrangements. He lusted after the magnificent hunting horn for himself and he knew
that his uncle the king would be delighted to receive the priceless crystal salver. The immense amount of silver coin was enough to be shared out with the army and keep the other nobles happy.

So in late afternoon, the ransom accepted, we rode back to the main gate of Zaragoza accompanied by a score of Vascon muleteers leading their pack animals loaded with the ransom of silver coin.
As I had anticipated, my gelding, bow and sword had been returned to me. Husayn wanted no reminder of my former presence, and I had found the animal tied to the tail of one of the horse-drawn
wagons that carried the remainder of the ransom. The great iron-plated gates were dragged open and we waited there, under the archway. Out from the distant line of orchards, Berenger appeared on
horseback. He was holding the lead rein of the horse on which sat Suleyman, the Wali of Barcelona. As the two men approached us, Suleyman was staring straight ahead. He looked a broken man, tired
and withdrawn. He passed me close enough for me to reach out to touch him, and as he did so he deliberately lowered his eyes and gazed down at his horse’s mane. I wondered if he knew of my
role in arranging his ransom, and wished that I could tell him that I felt ashamed. Carolus’s grand adventure of Hispania had been reduced to a grubby exercise in banditry.

At a nod from Hroudland, Berenger released the lead rein. The humiliated Wali of Barcelona rode on into the city, and our heavily laden little procession began to make its way slowly towards the
Frankish camp. It would soon be dusk and I looked back over my shoulder, thinking that Osric or even Husayn had come to greet the ransomed wali. But there was no one to be seen beneath the archway
except the soldiers hauling shut the two heavy gates. They closed with a solid thud, and there was the sound of a heavy crossbar dropping into place. The gates would open when our Vascon muleteers
returned with their unloaded pack animals, but against me Zaragoza was sealed tight.

I had one more thing to do. As soon as we got back to the Frankish camp, I went directly to the tent that I shared with Gerin and the other paladins. There, I took out my copy of the Book of
Dreams. I leafed through the pages, searching for a passage that I remembered from happier times when Osric and I had sat in Wali Husayn’s guest rooms working together on the translation.

It did not take me long to find what I was looking for. The author of the Book of Dreams had an explanation for a dream about trumpets. They were symbols for man himself because air had to pass
through them just as a man requires air to pass through his lungs if he is to live. And when the air is totally expelled, a trumpet falls silent, just as a man expires with his final breath.

I put down the Book of Dreams and stared unseeingly at the walls of tent. A trumpet and a hunting horn were alike. Was I now able to glimpse the future in day-to day events as well as in my
dreams? If so, when Hroudland took the oliphant hunting horn from my hand and blew that false dying note, he had announced his own impending death.

I
HAD
NO
TIME
TO
BROOD
. Someone was shouting my name. I
peered out of the tent flap, expecting I was being called to supervise the unloading of the ransom from the mule train and its transfer into the army’s ox carts, but the royal messenger who
had been sent to fetch me announced that I was to attend the count. The matter was urgent.

‘The bad news came while you were away,’ the messenger told me as he waited for me to put away the Oneirokritikon safely. ‘The Saxons have assembled a huge raiding force in the
northern forests and are threatening to invade across the Rhine. The king has called a meeting of the army council.’

As we hurried through the gathering dark I wondered why I should be needed at such a high level conference. I entered the royal pavilion to find it lit by clusters of candles on tall, metal
stands. The air in the tent was stifling, and there was a tense atmosphere among the dozen or so people gathered around the map table. One of them was Carolus, and beside him was Hroudland. To my
relief there was no sign of Ganelon.

Hroudland saw me enter and beckoned to me to approach.

‘The king wants to know about the route you took through the mountains when you first came to Zaragoza,’ Hroudland told me.

I felt the colour rising in my face.

‘Alcuin asked me to make notes,’ I stammered, ‘but I never got round to sending them to him. I don’t have them with me now.’

The king ignored my embarrassment.

‘Tell me what you can remember.’

I swallowed nervously.

‘The road is very narrow in places but an army would be able to use it.’

‘Show me exactly where the route goes.’ Carolus was briskly efficient.

I reached out to touch the map, and then checked myself. The rough tiles had once pricked my finger and drawn blood.

‘From this side the road climbs through the foothills in easy stages. There’s a narrow pass just here.’ My finger was quivering slightly as I pointed out the exact route.
‘Once you’re over the pass, the descent on the far slope is awkward but should present little difficulty.’

‘Is the track passable for ox carts?’ Eggihard the seneschal asked. I recalled that he was in charge of supplies and stores.

‘In single file, and taken slowly,’ I said.

‘Water? Pasture? Food supplies?’ Carolus demanded more detail.

‘There are only rocks and bare slopes in the higher sections, Your Majesty. But there are several springs and wells along the route, though not in the throat of the pass itself. Beyond
that, the nearest water would be a day’s travel on the far side.’

Carolus grunted. He was deep in thought. I had been forgotten. After some moments he turned to Hroudland.

‘We must get the army north urgently. That route will save us three or four days.’

The count leaned forward, and the shadow of his arm fell across the map as he pointed to a spot close to where he stood.

‘Our flank will be dangerously exposed if we don’t deal with this place,’ he said.

I looked to see what he meant. He was indicating the Vascon city of Pamplona. I was puzzled. Pamplona was too far away to be a serious threat, and though the Vascons were hostile, they were
unlikely to launch a full scale attack on a large army. They would keep out of the way, glad to see the Franks retreat over the mountains. Then I remembered the count’s intense dislike of the
Vascons and the ambush that had killed one of his troopers. I stole a quick glance at Eggihard. He had restrained Hroudland from attacking Pamplona during our advance into Hispania. The result had
been a bitter falling-out between the two men. But now Eggihard, even if he guessed what Hroudland had in mind, said nothing. I supposed it was because he knew the count was high in the
king’s favour after his stratagem to extract a ransom for the Wali of Barcelona.

Carolus accepted his warning without any questions.

‘Go with your cavalry and deal with Pamplona. Then catch up with the army. Eggihard can take command of the rearguard and cover the withdrawal through the mountains.’

I saw Hroudland’s mouth set in a grim line as he nodded, acknowledging his uncle’s instructions. There was something chilling in his reaction. My presence was no longer needed and I
stepped back from the map table. Already I was trying to think of how I could avoid riding against Pamplona with the count. I had no quarrel with the people in the city. They had treated me fairly
when I passed through on my way to Brittany. After what had just happened in Zaragoza, I feared that if I was again swept up in Hroudland’s plans I would only add to my sense of guilt.

*

Hroudland raised no objection when I told him that I preferred to remain with the main army as a guide. He rode off for his raid on Pamplona taking Berenger, Gerin and five
hundred picked troopers with him. I did not see him again for two weeks. By then I was high in the mountains and our leading units had already crossed the pass and begun to descend the other side.
Behind them straggled a disjointed, weary line of foot soldiers, transport drivers and camp followers. Saracen mounted archers were harassing our rear. Whether they were the Falcon’s men or
soldiers from Zaragoza, it was impossible to tell. They would appear at first light and skulk around, sending arrows at long range. Eggihard organized sorties to ride out to drive them off. But the
Saracens would simply melt away and return the following morning.

On the afternoon Hroudland got back, I was camped beside a shepherd’s hut close to the pass where the road ran between high cliffs in a narrow defile. It was the same hut where Wali Husayn
and I had discussed the slinger who had attacked me in the mountains. I had gone there with Eggihard to investigate an accident with the baggage train. An ox cart had smashed a wheel at a narrow
section of the track and was blocking the roadway. Fortunately the damaged cart was one of the last transports in the column, and there were only three more carts behind it. Alarmingly we
discovered that the stranded vehicles carried the ransom money from Zaragoza though they should have been in the well-protected centre of the column. The group of four carts was becoming
increasingly isolated, and Eggihard decided that we should stay with them until the wheel was repaired, and the order of march could be rearranged.

So we greeted Hroudland’s arrival with relief. He came clattering up the rock-strewn trail at the head of his troops and immediately agreed to detach fifty men to stand guard over the
stranded vehicles. The remainder would ride on and rejoin the main force. Their horses were lathered and exhausted and their riders seemed reluctant to talk about the raid on Pamplona.

Hroudland’s unkempt appearance was shocking. His eyes were raw and red-rimmed, staring from a face where every line was engrained with soot. His yellow hair, normally clean and lustrous,
was streaked with ash. When he passed a hand across his face to rub away the dirt, I saw that the nails were jagged and grimy. In his sweat-stained and crumpled clothes he looked nothing like the
handsome nobleman who had ridden out so jauntily to win his wardenship of the Spanish March. The only fine thing about him was the splendid hunting horn of carved ivory. He wore it like a badge of
conquest, slung from a silk cord across his chest.

His companions were even worse for wear. A rough bandage on Gerin’s left arm partially covered a painful looking burn that extended from his elbow to his wrist. Berenger had lost most of
his eyebrows. They had been scorched away and only the stubble remained. Their clothes reeked of smoke and there were holes where sparks or hot cinders had landed.

The sun had dropped behind the mountain ridge and the air was turning so chilly that Eggihard suggested we discuss the next day’s plans in front of the hearth in the shepherd’s
hut.

‘We wondered why the Saracen skirmishers disappeared this morning,’ said Eggihard, as we took our places on the rickety benches. He was eyeing the oliphant horn with more than a
touch of envy. ‘They must have known you were coming up behind them.’

Hroudland had found himself a wineskin. He held it up to his face and squirted out a long draught into his mouth before wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

‘If they return,’ he growled, ‘we’ll soon see them off.’

Eggihard bridled at Hroudland’s bluntness.

‘I take it, then, that you’ve also disposed of the Vascon threat?’ The simmering antagonism between the two men was close to boiling over.

The count gave a bitter laugh.

‘Pamplona will no longer bother us.’

There was an awkward pause, and then Berenger broke the silence.

‘Pamplona has been taught its lesson.’

Eggihard turned towards him, eyebrows raised.

‘Or have you only succeeded in rousing the citizens against us?’ His voice was waspish.

‘There’s not much left to rouse,’ Berenger answered. ‘Their fault for neglecting the walls. We were charging down the streets before they could put together a
defence.’

‘And then?’

‘Some idiot set the place on fire. The blaze spread too fast.’

‘Too fast for what?’

‘For us to sack the place properly.’

Eggihard smirked. I wondered if he was pleased that his earlier caution about attacking Pamplona had been proved right.

‘Poorly handled, then. A pity.’

Hroudland flared.

‘Better handled than this botched withdrawal. If we hadn’t got here today, you might have lost the Zaragoza ransom, taken back by the Saracens.’

The two men bristled at one another, and then out-faced by Hroudland and his comrades, Eggihard got to his feet and stalked out of the hut.

Hroudland shot me a resentful glance.