Saxon: The Book of Dreams (Saxon 1) (13 page)

‘Fallen on your feet again, Patch,’ Berenger said, his usual jaunty self. ‘Convalescing in the royal household.’ He grinned. ‘I always knew that banquet food was
bad, but I had no idea quite how awful it could be.’

I smiled weakly. My stomach felt as though a horse had kicked me in the gut.

‘Get well quickly, Patch,’ Berenger continued. ‘There’s to be a grand hunt in two weeks’ time, the first of the season. You wouldn’t want to miss
that.’

Hroudland was pacing up and down the room, looking agitated.

‘Patch, do you have any idea what could have poisoned you?’ he asked.

I shook my head. I could remember eating smoked eel, pig meat with dumplings, and then some of the chicken and vegetable pottage.

‘Perhaps it was something I drank,’ I said.

‘All of us enjoyed Anseis’s wine, yet only you and Gerard are sick.’

‘What are you trying to tell me?’

Hroudland chose his words carefully.

‘That someone may have harmed you deliberately.’

It took me a moment to grasp his meaning.

‘Are you saying that someone tried to poison me? Why would they want to do that?’ I was astonished.

He hesitated.

‘You are known to be my close friend. It could have a warning aimed at me, or simply an act to hurt me.’

‘I still don’t understand.’

‘The king has said that he will appoint me to the next important post that falls vacant. Others seek that post for themselves. They see me as an obstacle to their own ambitions.’

I thought back to Alcuin’s opaque warning about dangers lurking in the court.

‘That seems a very vague threat,’ I said.

‘Then there’s Ganelon.’

It took me a moment to realize whom he was talking about.

‘You mean your stepfather?’

‘He loathes me. The feeling is mutual. He thinks I’m trying to turn my mother against him. He’ll lose much of his wealth and power if she divorces him.’

I recalled how the man in the yellow jerkin had watched me during the banquet. But surely it was impossible that Ganelon would have been able to carry out a deliberate poisoning so quickly. Also
I found it difficult to believe that that a family feud could be so bitter that it would extend to murder. I told myself that my illness was probably an accident and I would be more careful what I
ate in future. First, though, I would check with Osric. He had known how to cure me, so he might know what had harmed me.

Berenger had started to tell a bawdy joke when the door opened and my fourth visitor of the day swept in, someone so completely unexpected that I goggled: it was Princess Bertha.

Berenger immediately broke off his tale and bowed.

‘We were just leaving, your highness,’ he said smoothly. At the same time he treated Hroudland to a meaningful glance. The two of them made for the door and, just as they were
leaving, I was startled to see Berenger turn round and, behind the princess’s back, wink.

I had still not got over my surprise when the princess said, ‘I am so pleased to see that you are recovering.’

She was looking lovely in a pale-blue gown of some soft, clinging material gathered at the waist with a thin silver belt. Her long yellow plaits hung free as when I had first seen her, though
now the amber necklace was missing.

‘It is kind of you to come to see me,’ I mumbled.

‘You told the story of Troilus so beautifully. My father says you are a natural storyteller.’

The princess’s voice was husky and musical, and she had the same direct manner of speaking as her father. She walked over and sat down beside my bed on the stool that Alcuin had used. A
hint of rose perfume reached me. She smoothed the front of her gown over her bosom.

‘His regular bard is furious.’

Briefly I wondered if he had been furious enough to warn me off with something poisonous in my food.

‘Sigwulf is a nice name. It’s a pity that everyone calls you Patch.’

I wondered how she came to know this detail, but already she was reaching to remove my eye bandage.

‘That should be more comfortable.’

I felt vulnerable without the eye patch, almost naked. Then I remembered that she had been in the room when her father had commented on my different-coloured eyes.

Now she was looking at me with great interest, searching my face. She was so close I could see that her own eyes, which I had thought were blue, verged on grey like her father’s. The
lashes were as blonde as her hair, the eyelids faintly freckled. Her broad well-shaped brow, fair skin and straight nose made her very attractive in the way the Franks admired. I found myself
trying to decide whether she had used berry juice to add colour to her lips.

She sat looking at me without speaking. I kept my head turned towards her, scarcely daring to breathe. I wanted the moment to last as long as possible so that I could absorb exactly how she
looked and would be able to recall it in every detail. She radiated a gentle warmth and softness that was overwhelming. I was captivated and hesitant, afraid to say anything, fearful of making a
mistake, yet hoping that somehow she would read my thoughts.

With a confident, graceful movement she reached out one hand and touched a finger to beside my right eye, then my left.

‘You are a very remarkable person,’ she said.

I could not ignore the physical contact. I reached up and took the outstretched hand, opened the fingers and kissed her palm. This time there was the scent of oil of almonds.

Without a word, she rose to her feet, crossed to the door and put in place the little wooden wedge that locked the latch. In another two paces she had returned to my bedside. She undid her
silver belt and peeled back the shoulders of her gown and let it fall to the floor. All that remained was a loose undershift, and she slid out of it with the same fluid movement that brought her
beneath the blanket beside me. She was facing me, and I wrapped my arms around her and felt the soft pressure of those magnificent naked breasts. Her arms gathered me in, and after a long hungry
kiss, I felt her hands removing my bed gown.

*

Later, as we lay side by side, I felt utterly content. What had happened was the most natural thing in all the world, yet it far surpassed any pleasure that I had imagined.

‘I have never felt like this before,’ I murmured.

‘I know,’ she said. She gave a slow, lazy smile and placed her hand across my chest. ‘It was the first time, properly.’

‘Yes,’ I admitted. ‘The girls at home steered clear of me. They thought I was bewitched.’

‘But not bewitching?’ She crooked her fingers so the nails dug lightly into the flesh, and then drew her hand slowly downward. ‘That was only a beginning.’

I thought I heard someone at the door and my heart jumped into my mouth. I seized her wrist to halt her hand.

‘There’s someone coming!’ I blurted.

She sat up, quickly but without panic. A moment later she had left the bed and was stepping into her shift. She pulled on her gown and fastened the belt with neat, sure movements. I noticed that
her hands were steady. Even her long braids were undisturbed.

She leaned over me and gave me a brief but genuine kiss. For a moment there was a glimpse of the swell of those breasts that only minutes earlier I had enjoyed.

‘That was only the first time,’ she whispered, and then she straightened up, boldly stepped to the door and released the latch.

There was a brief pause, and when nothing happened, she opened the door. The corridor outside was empty. I cursed myself for being so nervous, for cutting short our time together.

Without a backward glance she glided out into the corridor and was gone, leaving me craving her.

*

I stayed another four days and nights in the king’s house, longer than necessary for my recovery. The reason, of course, was Bertha. I was besotted with her, and she came
to my bed twice more. It turned me into an unusual patient, dreamy and distracted yet fretful, because when I was not longing for her return, I was worrying that our intimacy would be discovered. I
could think of nothing else but the two of us. Eventually, when it was obvious that I was well enough to return to my normal quarters, Osric came with fresh clothes for me to wear. Only then did I
remember to ask him what medicine he had given me.

‘I’ll show you next time we have archery practice,’ he said. ‘It’s the juice from a certain plant that grows near the menagerie.’

‘You knew it would cure my sickness?’

‘I only guessed.’

‘So you’re not sure what poisoned me?’

‘I can’t be certain, not yet.’

I thought about the crushed pepper grains that Berenger had given me to taste, and asked Osric if they could have been the cause.

He shook his head.

‘Only if there was some other substance mixed in.’

‘Count Hroudland thinks someone put it in my food on purpose.’

Osric gave me a long, hard look.

‘That’s possible.’

‘He believes it was done because I am known to be his close friend. Someone wanted to warn him, or hurt him.’

A veiled look came over Osric’s eyes.

‘The count has enemies but there could be other reasons.’

I tried to make a joke.

‘Are you saying that from now on I should employ a food taster?’

He didn’t smile.

‘If the poison was what I think it was, it could have got into your food deliberately or by accident.’

‘Well, one thing is sure: if old Gerard mixed something with those peppercorns, it was by accident. I’m told he was also very sick.’

‘Unless he deliberately took a smaller dose to distract attention,’ Osric replied.

*

But when I saw Gerard in his cubicle, I knew he could have had no part in my poisoning. He looked dreadful. The flesh had fallen away from his bones, and his face was a sickly
orange-yellow. He lay in a cot, propped up on a bank of pillows. There were great dark rings around his eyes and they were sunken in their sockets and also had a yellowish tinge. He greeted me
feebly.

‘Patch, whatever it was that your slave gave me saved my life.’

I tried to sound cheerful, though I feared that the old man was not yet out of danger.

‘I am as much in debt to Osric,’ I said. ‘I’m sure his treatment can restore your body fully.’

Gerard gave a ghost of a smile.

‘I’m leaving it to the priests to save my soul. But whatever the outcome, I would want to show some gratitude.’ He fumbled under his pillow and, with an effort, pulled out a
square package wrapped in cloth. He pushed it across the blanket towards me. ‘Maybe you will accept this, though it’s never been much use to me . . . until now that is.’

I unwrapped the package and found that it contained a medium-sized book, which had been ill-used. The leather cover had once been handsome. There were still the tracings of fine toolwork, and a
flake or two of gold leaf. There were several gouge marks as though someone had kicked the book like a football across rough ground.

Gerard sank back on his pillow.

‘I’ve owned that book for years. Can’t say I’ve done anything about it.’

‘How did it come into your possession?’ I asked.

‘It was found in the baggage train of the Saracens after we drove them into the sea. That was a long time ago. When I was just a youth.’

I turned the book over. The back cover was torn away. The last pages were gone. The exposed parchment was water-stained as if it had been left lying in a puddle. I hesitated to open it for fear
that it would fall to pieces in my hand.

Gerard lay limp, drawing breath before he could speak again.

‘May I examine it?’ I asked. Books were rare and precious, even in such bad condition. It was most unusual to find one in private hands.

‘Of course.’

I opened the book at random and saw the line upon line of writing, beautifully executed and regular. To my chagrin, it meant nothing to me.

‘It is written in the Saracen script,’ Gerard said.

I suppressed my disappointment.

Gerard allowed himself a bleak laugh.

‘My father offered it to one of the monasteries as a gift. But the priests turned it down. Said it was the work of idolaters and would pollute their library of holy books.’

I began leafing carefully through the pages. The water had soaked right through the book, and then dried, leaving the material fragile. But the writing itself was clear.

‘I’d be fascinated to know what is written here. If only I knew someone who could translate it,’ I said.

‘Have you thought about your slave Osric?’

I looked up in surprise.

‘It hasn’t occurred to you that he has Saracen blood?’ The old man seemed faintly amused that I hadn’t thought of this for myself.

‘I haven’t seen many Saracens,’ I admitted.

‘I have, and I would say that your slave’s homeland was either in Hispania or Africa.’

I thought over his suggestion. Osric was swarthy, but his complexion was no darker than several other people I had known when growing up.

‘Even if he is a Saracen, I doubt he can read or write,’ I said.

Gerard eased himself gently against his pillows.

‘Ask him nevertheless. If he can read the book, maybe he’ll find a recipe for another potion, one that will speed my recovery. Everyone knows that the Saracens are skilled
healers.’

The old man was visibly tiring. I turned my attention back to the book in my hands. The soaking had stuck the first page to the inside of the cover, and I carefully peeled it apart. Here, at
last, I could recognize some writing, though not what it meant. Bertwald had taught me the Greek alphabet before he fled the Church hounds, though I suspected he knew little of the language itself.
On the first page was a single word in Greek script. I presumed it was the book’s title or perhaps the name of its owner. Letter by letter I deciphered what was written and silently rehearsed
how it might be spoken.

Gerard had fallen asleep. His breathing was laboured and shallow, his head rolled to one side. I thought about replacing the book under his pillow, but feared that would disturb him. Instead I
wrapped it back in its cloth cover, tucked it under my arm and set out in search of Osric. If the book did contain medical information that would help the old man, I should locate a translator as
quickly as possible.