Tim Severin - The Book of Dreams

‘Any good on a horse, Patch?’ asked Hroudland. He pushed aside his empty bowl and stood up. He was almost as tall as his uncle, though not as heavily built.

‘Just the basics,’ I said, thinking of the dozen horses we’d owned at home; they had been ordinary nags that we’d ridden when hunting and they’d served as pack animals to carry back the deer and wild pig we’d killed.

‘Then you have much to learn,’ said Hroudland, laying his hand on my shoulder in an unexpected gesture of friendship.

There was good-natured banter as all of us, including white-haired Gerard, filed outside where a cluster of servants was waiting. They were burdened down with an impressive assortment of weapons — helmets and body armour, swords and shields, javelins and heavy lances. Only Osric was empty handed. Followed by our attendants we set off along the muddy footpaths, and once again Hroudland picked me out to say a few words, but quietly this time.

‘Expect a little foolery.’ His glance indicated Engeler and Oton walking ahead of us.

‘I hope I didn’t give offence last night,’ I said.

‘Some people are touchy, or they resent a quicker wit than their own. You would do well to doubt the first beast that is offered to you.’

We reached the edge of a paddock. A herd of some thirty excited horses was milling around, whinnying and occasionally baring their teeth at one another, their hooves splattering mud. The animals were larger, stronger and more spirited than any I had seen at home. Most were stallions. Grooms darted here and there to catch particular animals, and even to my untrained eye, the horses that they led out were clearly the best ones in the herd. Meanwhile our attendants were busy helping their masters to put on padded surcoats and mailed jackets, baldricks, helmets and thick gloves. Finally they assisted them into the saddles of their selected horses and handed up the weapons.

I stood apart, watching warily.

‘Patch needs a horse, too.’ My armed companions had gathered in a group and were looking down at me. I could not make out who had spoken, but it sounded like Berenger. Two of the grooms ran back into the paddock and, after an interval, led out a spare horse, ready saddled and bridled. They held the animal, waiting for me to mount. I walked towards them, knowing that I had to go through with the performance. Any fool would have known that they were restraining an animal that was difficult, perhaps dangerous. The creature was very angry. Stiff-legged and tense, it was showing the whites of its eyes, with nostrils dilated, and lips drawn back to show yellow teeth. Each groom had one hand on the bridle, the other tightly grasping the horse’s ear, twisting it downward to induce submission.

A third groom helped me up into the saddle, and even before I was settled in place, the beast was let loose. The grooms dove for safety, and immediately the horse beneath me bucked violently. I made no effort to stay in the saddle, but let myself be thrown clear, dropping one shoulder as I cartwheeled through the air so I landed unscathed into the soft mud. I had not expected the horse then to launch an attack. The animal spun round and, as I was trying to rise, lashed out at me with its rear hooves. Fortunately I was still on all fours, and I felt the hooves slash past my head. Next the horse bolted off for a short distance and turned, whinnying with rage, ready to rush at me. By that time I was running through the muck and climbing up the wooden fence of the paddock like a frightened squirrel.

My mounted companions had broad grins on their faces.

‘You knew that was coming, didn’t you?’ Oton said. He sounded disappointed.

Walk, trot, canter, gallop, and stand — the rest of the morning was spent in a series of mounted exercises on a nearby training field. Again and again my companions divided into opposing teams, rode to the opposite ends of the field, then turned, levelled their lances, and came charging towards one another. At the last moment before collision, the team’s leader gave a great yell, he and his companions suddenly pulled up their horses, spun round and galloped away, pretending to flee and draw on their opponents. Then, moments later, they would wheel about and face their rivals again, weapons ready. It was all about keeping formation, controlling the horses, riding knee to knee, coordinating their manoeuvres. The air was filled with excited shouts and commands, the snorting of the horses, and the thud of hooves. Then, in smaller groups, they rode at straw-filled dummies and either hurled their javelins, or if they were carrying lances thrust and stabbed before withdrawing to reform and attack again with swords and axes. Finally they divided into pairs and, this time with wooden blades, they chopped and hacked at one another’s shields until exhausted.

I took no part in the war drill. Instead I observed, with Osric standing at my shoulder.

‘He’s more accustomed to a pony,’ observed my slave. He was watching Ogier who rode his horse, leaning far back, his legs extended straight downward as if he was walking. Unlike the others, he rode without stirrups.

I was curious to know how my slave was so knowledgeable but at that moment Hroudland came thundering past us at a gallop, cocked his arm and hurled a javelin. It thumped into the target, dead centre. He let loose a great full-throated whoop of triumph.

‘What about him?’ I asked. I could see that the king’s tall nephew was a first-class horseman. He guided his animal with the lightest pressure on the reins as if he and his mount were one.

‘He’s good, but impetuous,’ Osric answered.

‘Then who’s the most competent among them?’ I enquired.

‘That one there,’ he replied. He nodded towards a man to whom I had paid little attention the previous evening. Gerin was a taciturn, rather grim figure, a big loose-limbed man with close cropped hair and hard eyes. Now he carried a plain, red shield and I had noticed his tendency to hang back and watch his companions in their manoeuvres.

‘He doesn’t need to practise,’ said Osric, ‘he’s a professional warrior.’

Hroudland rode up to us. His horse was very distinctive, a roan stallion with dark patches on its neck and rump.

‘Time to get you cleaned up, Patch,’ he said in a friendly voice. I was still grubby with mud from my tumble in the paddock. He jumped down from his horse and handed his war gear to an attendant and pointed towards a low red-roofed building in the distance. ‘I’ll introduce you to my uncle’s main indulgence.’

Side by side, we walked towards the building, leaving our servants to catch up with us. The rain clouds had gone, and the earth steamed gently in the hot sunshine. Hroudland waved a hand, taking in the construction work going on around us.

‘It’ll be years before this place is completed to my uncle’s satisfaction. Sometimes I feel as cooped up as one of the animals in his menagerie.’

‘I met the king yesterday,’ I said. ‘There was a young woman with him. She looked so much like him that I guessed she was his daughter.’

‘That could have been Theodrada or Hiltrude or Gerswinda. I’ve several female cousins. It’s difficult to keep track.’

‘She wore her hair in two long braids.’

He pulled a face.

‘Most of them do. It’s the fashion.’

‘Are any of them married?’

He gave me a sideways glance of amusement.

‘Thinking of a local bride already?’

‘No. Just curious.’

Hroudland’s face took on a more serious expression.

‘The king’s not keen on having sons-in-law.’

I was dull enough to ask, ‘Why’s that?’

‘Possible rivals to the throne. He keeps the girls at home and close to him.’

‘How do they feel about that?’