Saxon: The Book of Dreams (Saxon 1) (40 page)

The swarm of Vascons on the mountainside merged into a single dense mass as they reached more level ground. Now they flowed towards us like a rising tide. They filled the roadway and lapped up
the sides of the track until they came to a stop, some twenty paces away. There was neither semblance of discipline nor any plan of attack that I could see. Among their weapons were ugly-looking
cudgels as well as their swords and short spears. A few held woodsmen’s axes. For an unhappy moment I was reminded of the homespun levies my father had assembled when our family fought and
lost its last battle against King Offa and his Mercian men-at-arms. But the resemblance was false. These Vascons were hardy mountain men, not peaceful farmers, and they out-numbered us so vastly
that it was clear to everyone that we had not the slightest chance of victory.

For a long, tense moment the two sides stood and faced one another. The Vascons brandished their weapons and shouted insults and threats in their outlandish language. We stood silent except for
the occasional stamping of a restless horse. The wounded trooper on the cart next to me was mumbling some sort of prayer over and over again as some sort of lucky charm that would save him. The sun
beat down and the heat reflected off the rocks. My head ached and I was parched with thirst. I licked my cracked lips and tasted the gritty road dust.

Vaguely I became aware of someone getting down from his horse. Then he was pushing through our front line and walking towards the enemy. It was Godomar, the veteran from Burgundy. He had taken
off his brunia and his helmet and was wearing only a pair of loose trousers and a light jerkin which left his arms and shoulders bare. A strip of cloth held back his long, thick hair which was the
colour of forest honey. In his right hand he held the short handled axe that usually hung from his broad leather belt. All of us, Vascons and Franks, looked on as Godomar strode out on to the open
ground between us. Then, in a deep husky voice from his wounded throat, he began to recite what must have been a battle ode in some ancient tribal dialect. With each line he tossed his axe in the
air so that it spun in a circle, and caught it with the opposite hand. Finally, as he declaimed the last words, his voice rose to a shout and he threw the axe, not to the other hand, but high in
the air, towards the enemy. It spun round and round, and by the time it fell back, Godomar had run forward and was ready to catch its handle. He was no more than an arm’s length from the
Vascon line. In a sudden blur of axe strokes he cut down three or four Vascons. Then they closed in around him, and he was gone.

His death broke the spell that had held us in our places. With a bellow of shock and anger the Vascons charged. They crashed into us, and there was pandemonium. Lances were useless at such close
quarters. Troopers used their swords to hack and thrust at the men on foot surging around them. The Vascons ducked and feinted. They stooped to get in under the riders’ guard, and if close
enough, they hacked and stabbed with their weapons. The bravest grabbed for the riders’ legs and tried to drag them out of the saddle.

Amid the curses and grunts, the clash of metal, the cries of anger and pain, the Vascons were badly mauled. Dozens of them died, their bodies overridden by the horses or trampled underfoot by
their comrades. Yet they kept pressing forward, ignoring their losses. Charge after charge, they were like waves pounding on a rocky beach. With each attack they reduced our numbers. Our troopers
went down one after another, hauled from the saddle or their horses were killed beneath them. Few survived for more than a moment if they were unhorsed. The Vascons swarmed over them and killed
them. With their third headlong charge our line broke, and the Vascons were among the drovers and their oxen. With the expertise of butchers, they slit the windpipes of the cattle and brought the
beasts to their knees. The drovers were massacred.

The press of the mob was so powerful that my mount was thrust back and pinned against the wheel of the nearest cart. I flailed with my sword, uselessly. Strong hands grabbed my leg and I was
hauled to the ground. Without a rider, the horse kicked out and a hoof struck the forehead of the man who held me. I heard the crack of hoof on bone. He let go and I rolled away between the wheels
of the cart. My attackers were obliged to stand back as the terrified animal reared up, then bolted through the mob. It gave me enough time to scuttle away on all fours to the far side of the cart
and rise to my feet. I had lost my sword and I could think of nothing else to do but hoist myself up on the cart itself. From there I looked around and saw the carnage that had taken place. Only
one man was still on horseback – Hroudland. His powerful roan was rearing and plunging, faced by a half circle of Vascons. They were being kept at bay by the lashing hooves and by
Hroudland’s menacing sword blade. Every other Frank was on foot. They were drawn up in a compact mass behind Hroudland, their backs towards the carts. I estimated there were no more than a
dozen of them. Berenger had lost his helmet and I recognized his head of tight curls. There was no sign of either Eggihard or Anselm. Their bodies would be lying among the ugly jumble of corpses in
front of the Frankish position. Dead and injured Vascons were scattered everywhere, the ground streaked and splashed with blood.

Hundreds of Vascons still filled the roadway, and many more were poised on the slopes on each side of the road. With their next assault they would swamp us.

First, however, they dealt with Hroudland. A single Vascon stepped out from their ranks. He was a squat man of middle age, wearing a wolfskin cap and very broad across the shoulders and chest.
He held a loaded sling which he began to whirl rhythmically around his head. He watched Hroudland, judging his moment. As the roan stallion turned towards him, the Vascon released a slingstone as
large as a man’s fist. The stone travelled less than five paces and struck the roan between the eyes. I heard the thud from where I stood. At that short range the impact was spectacularly
effective. The front legs of the horse buckled and the stunned animal tipped forward on to its knees and Hroudland just had time to leap clear. He landed on his feet and, sword in hand, ran back
across the blood-soaked ground to join the other Franks. I noticed he was limping. Behind him, the dazed stallion stayed down for several moments, then groggily heaved itself back upright and
wandered off.

The Vascons held back a little longer, waiting to see what we would do next.

I jumped down from the tail of the cart and picked up an abandoned sword from the ground. Berenger glanced at me over his shoulder. His red-rimmed eyes looked out from a mask of dust. His hair
was sweat-soaked, and there was a rent in his brunia where several plates had been torn off. ‘This is where the fight gets interesting, Patch,’ he said to me with a tight smile, then
turned back to ask Hroudland, ‘What are your orders?’

The count was so calm and self-possessed that I wondered if he appreciated the hopelessness of our situation.

‘We leave behind the carts. Looting them will delay the Vascons. It will give us time to make an orderly retreat.’

Even now a flicker of regret passed across his face. The idea of losing all the treasure still grated on him.

‘We take with us only what we value the most,’ he continued. He turned to me. ‘Patch, can you find the oliphant for me? It should not fall into the hands of the Vascons. Also
the crystal salver from Wali Suleyman’s ransom. I still intend to give it to the king.’

I climbed back on the cart and searched. I came across the oliphant wrapped in a soft leather covering but the crystal salver must have been locked away in a treasure chest and I had no time to
locate the key. Instead I picked up my most prized possession – the packet of loose pages of the translation of the Book of Dreams. Unlacing the side of my brunia, I slid them inside my
armoured jacket.

By the time I rejoined the others, Hroudland had marshalled our few survivors into two ranks. There was only one direction for our retreat – deeper into the ravine. One rank was to stand
firm while the other ran back a few yards, then turned to face the enemy and allow the first group to filter back among them before they again took up position. I remembered practising the same
manoeuvre when I had first arrived in Aachen and joined the paladins in their war games. I had never expected to rely on it in real combat.

The Vascons harassed us every step of the way. Inside the ravine they could only attack us on a narrow front but they were recklessly brave and showed no mercy. Any Frank who slipped and fell,
or dropped his guard for a moment, was despatched on the spot. As the afternoon wore on and the light began to fade, we fought and retreated, turned and fought again. Our numbers dwindled as we
grew more and more weary. I allowed my shield to droop and felt an agonizing pain in my left shoulder. A Vascon, screaming with anger, had run his spear point over its rim. Beside me Berenger was
clumsy in countering a thrust from a Vascon dagger. He was stabbed, low down on his right side. Only Hroudland continued to wield his sword as if he would never tire, but with every pace he left a
bloody foot print on the ground. I could not see where he had been injured, but he was losing blood rapidly.

The Vascons drove us along the ravine like obstinate sheep until our backs came up against the barrier of boulders that they had created earlier. By then it was almost dark and only four of us
were still standing – Hroudland, Berenger, myself, and an unknown trooper with a hideous stomach wound. As if to gloat, the Vascons drew back so we would know that they had us at their mercy.
Occasionally one of them let out the dreadful wolf’s howl in victory. During the retreat I had seen such hatred in their faces that I knew that they would not let us live.

‘We managed to hold them off,’ said Hroudland proudly. He was leaning on his sword, his chest heaving as he sucked in great breaths of air. Beside me, Berenger slumped on a boulder,
a wet bloodstain seeping down his leg. I too found a place to sit as I was dizzy from the pain of my wounded shoulder.

I looked at Hroudland. There was just enough light to see how he was deathly pale. He was smiling and his eyes held a faraway look that convinced me that he had lost touch with reality. I
wondered if he still clung to the idea that he could never be defeated in battle by a horde of uncouth mountain men.

With an effort he turned his back on me and began to climb up on to the rock barrier behind us. The oliphant hung on a cord around his neck. When he reached the highest boulder, he stood up on
it, raised the great horn to his lips and blew a long, quavering blast, which echoed and re-echoed down the ravine.

‘What in God’s name is he doing?’ I demanded of Berenger. He was gazing up at Hroudland, awestruck.

Berenger turned to face me, his eyes shining.

‘Listen!’ he exclaimed.

Hroudland sounded the horn again, and I recognized the notes. It was the call when a huntsman announces the death of a great stag. In the deepening gloom there were only shades of black and
grey. There, up above me, I could only make out the outline figure of the Margrave of Brittany. A cold lump gathered in my guts as I remembered that the same scene was carved on the oliphant
itself, and that long ago in Aachen the king himself had dreamed of a huntsman standing on a rock surrounded by wolves and blowing a horn calling for help. But Hroudland was not summoning help. He
was announcing his own passing.

‘Do you remember when I first laid eyes on you,’ Berenger suddenly asked. The question was completely unexpected and his voice sounded strained, almost as if he was ashamed to speak.
‘It was evening. You walked into our living quarters, unannounced. None of us had any idea who you were.’

‘You, Gerin, Anseis and the others were playing a game. Asking one another riddles,’ I said.

Berenger’s voice sank almost to a whisper as he began to recite:

I knew the words.

‘That was the riddle I set. Hroudland was the only one who knew the answer,’ I said.

‘That was the moment I began to fear you,’ he murmured.

I was so astonished that I could only blurt, ‘Why?’

I heard him shift uncomfortably. Another shaft of pain must have struck him.

‘I was terrified that you would take Hroudland away from me.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I said, baffled.

‘Jealousy feeds easily. Hroudland paid you every attention from the moment you arrived.’

‘He saw that I was a stranger and in an alien land. He only wanted to help me,’ I said.

‘I know that now,’ Berenger answered, ‘but not then. The very next day I walked in on you at the bath. He was half-naked, holding you by the arm.’

I was appalled.

‘He was trying to drag me into the water, that’s all. I didn’t want to go. I have a fear of water.’

In the darkness Berenger laughed mirthlessly.

‘As time passed I persuaded myself that you were luring him on. I decided I had to get rid of you and waited for a suitable opportunity.’

The memory of the banquet when I had nearly died came back clearly. Berenger had been seated next to me.

‘So you were the one who put poison in my food. I never thought of you as a murderer,’ I told him.

‘Neither did I. I had the poison hidden in my sleeve and even at the very last moment I hesitated. Then I had to listen to you brazenly telling the story of Troilus and Achilles to
everyone at the banquet. That was too much for me.’

I remembered seeing a tapestry depicting the same story hanging in Hroudland’s room in his great hall. Achilles’s lust for the beautiful youth Troilus lay at the core of the Greek
tale. Berenger, already jealous, must have been driven to distraction.