Saxon: The Book of Dreams (Saxon 1) (29 page)

‘My father once told me that the birch is a symbol of a new beginning, a cleansing of the past. Perhaps that is what you need,’ I said.

Hroudland suddenly became very serious.

‘Patch, if I have anything to do with it, this new campaign will indeed provide me with a fresh start.’

I stole a quick sideways glance. His face was clouded.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘Remember our excursion to the forest of Broceliande to investigate the story of Yvain and the fountain and how it ended?’

‘The cup of gold turned out to be made of bronze. I saw it recently with the other tableware in your great hall.’

‘What if we had found a real gold cup?’

‘As I recall, you proposed to have it melted down and added to your treasury.’

‘But supposing the cup had been something of such extraordinary value that no one would ever think of destroying it.’

‘Now you are talking in riddles,’ I said to him.

‘Those Breton bards are always singing about something called a Graal, some sort of a bowl or a platter. It was the most precious object known to their mystical king Artorius.’

‘And what happened to it?’ I asked.

He did not answer my question directly but said, ‘Many of Artorius’s best men went looking for this Graal. Yet only a couple of them ever laid eyes on this mysterious
object.’

‘I don’t see what this has got to do with our expedition to Hispania,’ I said to him. I was beginning to believe that Hroudland had spent far too many evenings swilling wine
with his friends and boasting of exploits past and future.

He turned to face me and I saw that he was in complete earnest.

‘The Breton bards say this mysterious Graal is kept in a heavily guarded castle, a place difficult to reach because it is surrounded on all sides by mountains. They make it sound as if the
castle is somewhere in the south.’

I had to scoff.

‘If you’re thinking that the Graal is to be found among the mountains on the way to Hispania, let me tell you there are few forests in that region. It’s a bleak and barren
place where someone nearly knocked out my brains with a sling stone.’

Hroudland was not to be deflected.

‘A little danger won’t deter me from looking for the Graal there, no more than it stopped me from riding into the forest of Broceliande.’

I sighed with exasperation.

‘And what will you do, if you lay hands on this Graal? It could turn out to be like the little bronze cup, something you could buy for a penny in a market.’

The look Hroudland gave me was almost triumphant.

‘Don’t you see, Patch? It doesn’t matter whether this Graal is made of gold or brass or even wood. Imagine how the Bretons would respect the man who returned this treasure to
them!’

I had to stop myself from shaking my head despairingly. Once Hroudland fastened on an idea, he was impossible to reason with.

‘And if there is no Graal and the whole thing is a myth?’

Sensing my misgivings, Hroudland laughed.

‘In that case this expedition is still my chance for a new beginning. As I’ve said before, I will serve with such distinction that when we have conquered our Saracen opponents, my
uncle Carolus will make me Margrave of the new Spanish March.’ He leaned across from his horse and cuffed me affectionately across the head. ‘And then, Patch, you will come with me as
my close advisor, and enjoy the sunshine instead of the Breton drizzle.’

He clapped his heels to the side of his horse and broke into a canter, clods of earth flying up from his horse’s hooves.

*

A week later we found ourselves looking down into a ruined valley. It was as if a great wind of destruction had swept across the land. Hedges and thickets were smashed into
tatters. The young crops in the fields trampled and ruined. The ground was all torn up and wrecked. Not a tree or sapling was left standing in the coppices, and their stumps showed fresh axe marks.
It was a truly dismal spectacle and I was astonished when Berenger gave a whoop of delight.

He began humming to himself as we rode side by side down the slope and into the scene of devastation.

‘What happened here?’ I asked.

‘An army,’ he retorted with a grin. ‘The ground will soon recover. Look at all that manure.’

Indeed there were piles of dung dotted here and there, as well as an ugly spew of rubbish – discarded sacking, traces of cooking fires, chicken feathers, gnawed bones, a broken earthenware
pot, a split shoe that someone had tossed away. I pulled my horse aside before he stepped into what was obviously a pile of human excrement. It took me another moment to realize that all this
squalor lay in a broad swathe leading along the bottom of the valley.

Hroudland was riding a little distance ahead of us. He swivelled in his saddle and called back, ‘Come on! They must be just over that hill crest!’ He put his horse into a fast trot
and began to ascend the far slope.

Berenger and I followed, and as we crested the rise I pulled my mount to a halt and looked on in amazement. I knew now why my comrades always seemed so confident of the success of the Frankish
army.

Along the bottom of the next valley crawled a huge serpent. It was formed of ox-drawn vehicles, creeping forward in a long line. There must have been four or five hundred of them. Most were
substantial two-wheeled carts, though a few of the larger ones had four wheels similar to Arnulf’s eel wagon. All were tented and drawn by two animals, their drovers walking beside them or
riding on bench seats in front of the canopies. Even from a distance I could hear the squealing and groaning of the huge solid wheels turning on wooden axles, and hear the occasional crack of a
whip. Out on the flanks of the column were parties of foragers stripping the countryside of any vegetation that might provide food for the draught animals. Closer to us a great herd of cattle
meandered along, eating every blade of grass or green leaf in its path.

‘Everything the army needs is down there,’ Berenger called out to me proudly. He waved his arm towards the wagons. ‘Tents, spare weapons, grain, cooking pots, trenching tools.
That cattle herd is a moving larder of fresh meat.’

‘Where’s the king himself?’ I asked.

He pointed. At the head of the column, in the far distance, was a dark swarm of horsemen, the main body of the army. I could just make out some flapping banners and the occasional glint of
sunlight reflected from a shield or spear point.

‘Sloppy of them not to have posted a rearguard,’ observed Hroudland tartly, interrupting us. He spurred his horse down the slope to join the army, and Berenger and I cantered along
behind him.

We overtook the column and rode along beside it. Now I could hear the deep grunting breaths of the draught animals, saliva dripping from their mouths as they plodded forward. We came level with
a company of infantry, tramping along stolidly, one of many such companies dotted along the column. This group were husky, well-built men, who shouldered short-handled axes. Their sergeant, a
craggy figure with cropped hair and a great beak of a broken nose shouted out a question at us in a strange hoarse voice, in a language none of us could understand.

‘They’ll be some of Anseis’s Burgundians,’ Berenger explained. ‘Carolus has summoned troops from all over the kingdom. Each man is obliged to serve under arms for
up to sixty days a year.’

‘Do they fight only with those axes?’

‘Their shields and spears will be somewhere in the wagons along with the rest of their gear. There’s no point in carrying an extra burden on the march.’

Ahead of us one of the ox carts pulled out of line. The right hand wheel was wobbling and it looked as if an axle pin had come loose.

Someone, a wheelwright probably, jumped off an ox wagon. Tools in hand, he was already on his way to repair the stranded cart. It appeared that the column was self-repairing.

‘What happens when the column needs to cross a river?’ I asked.

‘If there’s no bridge strong or big enough to take so many vehicles, the scouts find a ford. Provided the oxen can keep their footing, the army moves forward. Nothing should get wet.
The carts and wagons are built like boats, to keep out river water as well as rain.’

I noticed that the wooden sides of the nearest cart were sealed with pitch, and the cover was made of greased leather. Nevertheless, something was missing. It was only after Berenger and I had
ridden the entire length of the column and were approaching the mass of cavalry up ahead that I identified the flaw. Among all the hundreds of supply wagons and carts, mobile smithies and workshops
of the army on the move, there was not a single large siege engine. If Carolus met with resistance from the walled cities of Hispania, he risked failure.

I thought of voicing my concern to Hroudland, but he had gone ahead to catch up with the leaders, and by the time I had a chance to speak to him privately, too much had happened to make me think
that my opinion would be taken seriously.

In mid-afternoon the army halted on open ground. Nearby was a lake where the horses and oxen were led to be watered. The ox carts and wagons were parked in orderly lines, the infantry and
cavalry set up their tents, camp fires were lit, and cattle selected from the accompanying herd were slaughtered and butchered. Soon so much smoke rose into the air from the cooking fires that a
stranger would have thought he had stumbled on a small town.

Hroudland went to report to the official in charge of the practical arrangements for the campaign, a man named Eggihard who held the title of seneschal to the king. Meanwhile Berenger and I set
off in search of the other paladins. We found them drinking wine and lounging around a camp fire close to an enormous square pavilion, striped in red, gold and blue with the royal standard flying
from the centre pole. Several paladins I remembered from the winter in Aachen were there – Anseis of Burgundy, handsome and swaggering Engeler, and Gerer, Gerin’s friend. Old Gerard was
missing and I was saddened to be told that he had never fully recovered from the poison he had eaten at the banquet. His agonizing stomach cramps had returned and his new doctor had advised him to
chew laurel leaves, swallow the juice and then lay the wet leaves on his stomach. This treatment had been no more help than the prayers of the attendant priests, and a winter chill took him off
while he was still in a weakened state.

Guiltily I wondered if I had been selfish to have taken Osric with me on the mission to Zaragoza. If Osric had stayed behind, perhaps his medical skill would have saved the old man. Now, even if
I had wished to return the Book of Dreams, it was impossible.

‘Patch, Berenger! I want you to hear our orders from the king.’ Hroudland was standing at the entrance to the royal pavilion and summoning us. All thoughts of Gerard vanished from my
mind. Inside the tent I might come face to face with Ganelon and he was a man best avoided. I had not seen him since he had gone off to Barcelona with Gerin. Even if Ganelon was not responsible for
the attack by the Vascon slinger in the mountains and the earlier attempts on my life, he would see me as a threat to his plan to discredit Hroudland as a traitor in the pay of the Wali of
Zaragoza.

So I stepped cautiously into the royal pavilion. The interior was more spacious than most houses. I caught a whiff of some sort of incense, and I guessed that the royal chaplain had recently
been conducting a service inside. The evening light filtering through the canvas was strong enough to show a heavy curtain of purple velvet partitioned off the far end. Beyond it, I presumed, were
the king’s private quarters. The rest of the pavilion was arranged as a council room. Wooden boards had been laid to make a temporary floor. In one corner two clerks sat at a portable desk
with parchment and pens. A travelling throne of gilded, carved wood stood on a low plinth, and the centre of the room was entirely taken up by a familiar object – the great tile map that I
had last seen in the Aachen chancery. It had been reassembled on trestle tables.

A dozen senior officers and court officials were already standing around the map, talking quietly among themselves. My heart was in my mouth as I scanned their faces, looking for Ganelon. But he
was not there, nor among the outer circle of lesser attendants and advisors. I quietly joined them just as the velvet curtain was abruptly pulled aside and the king strode into the room. Carolus
was bare-headed and dressed in his usual workday clothing, brown woollen tunic and hose with cross garters of plain leather, and he wore no badges of rank. Outside the tent one might have mistaken
him for a common soldier; tall but unremarkable.

His glance swept round the assembled company and I could have sworn that it lingered for a moment on my face as he recalled who I was. Ignoring the wooden throne, he walked straight to the map
table, and was straight down to business.

‘I have summoned this meeting so that you are all familiar with our plan for the campaign in Hispania,’ he announced in his strangely high, thin voice, so much in contrast with his
air of authority. He gestured toward the map on the table beside him. ‘I want you to take careful note of our dispositions because tomorrow I propose to divide the army.’

All around me was a collective intake of breath. Men shifted uncomfortably, clearly disturbed by the royal decision.

Carolus was aware of the disquiet he had caused.

‘I know it is considered foolhardy to divide one’s forces, but now that my nephew Count Hroudland has arrived with his Breton cavalry we have sufficient numbers to do so.’
Again he indicated the map. ‘A wall of mountains lies between us and the Saracens in Hispania who seek our help, here at Barcelona, Huesca and Zaragoza.’

I was standing too far away to be sure, but I had the impression that he was pointing out the three cities on the map without reading their names on the tiles because he could not do so.

Carolus paused briefly while he looked at his senior officers. He had their full attention.

‘I myself will lead that part of the army – the larger part – that will go around the eastern end of the mountains. We head directly for Barcelona to meet with the wali
there.’