Tim Severin - The Book of Dreams

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.