Tim Severin - The Book of Dreams

‘He’s about halfway through. It’s not a leech book. It’s about how to understand the meaning of dreams,’ I answered.

‘Does it contain any truth?’

I decided to take Gerard into my confidence. The old man was wise in the ways of palace politics. Maybe he could suggest how I could deal with the consequences should Bertha and her sister speak to others about my interpretation of their father’s dream.

‘I’ve put it to the test, but it’s too early for any result.’ I told him how I had used the book to interpret the king’s dream of losing the sight of one eye.

Gerard sat very still, his face grave.

‘If your interpretation is accurate, that book is more powerful than any sword.’

‘Double-edged, then. Every dream has more than one explanation, and I’ll need to learn how to choose the right one.’

When the old man next spoke, he was deadly serious.

‘Patch, if the dream book is genuine, others will want to get their hands on it. The more you learn how to use it, the more danger you will be in.’

Proof of the dreambook’s accuracy came in mid-January when Bertha asked me to explain another of her father’s dreams. The winter, though intensely cold, had brought very little snow to interrupt the king’s favourite sport. Day after day he was away at hunting camp, returning to Aachen briefly to attend to affairs of state. In his absences I had spent several more nights with Bertha for I was far too besotted with her to pay any heed to the sly comments of Oton and the others. But on this occasion I was summoned in mid-morning and arrived to find her sister with her in the same reception room as before. Both women were dressed against the cold in long gowns of heavy velvet, the bands of embroidery at the neckline almost hidden beneath short fur capes.

‘Last night the king dreamed of a strange horse,’ Bertha informed me.

I had a momentary qualm, recalling my own vision of the bronze horse, its rider weeping blood. Her next words reassured me.

‘It was a beautiful animal, a glossy, dark chestnut with white blaze on its nose. It had neither saddle nor bridle. Yet it was not wild, for its coat and mane were brushed and well cared for.’

‘And what happened?’

‘The horse came walking quietly towards where he was standing, and turned in through the gate of a paddock. My father was intrigued. He did not recognize the horse and he had no idea who owned such a magnificent creature.’ She looked at me expectantly. ‘What does your dream book have to say about that?’

I relaxed. The appearance of a riderless horse was one of the visions that the author of the Oneirokritikon had dealt with.

‘Your father’s dream means that he will receive a visitor, a person of importance. The more splendid the horse, the more powerful the visitor.’

Adelaide was as sceptical as before. She gave a sigh of exasperation.

‘Bertha, I don’t know why you pay any attention to this nonsense. Of course the king will have an important visitor. He receives important visitors all the time, whether from Byzantium or Rome or a hundred other places.’

I had to defend myself.

‘But this visitor will arrive when he is not expected and the outcome could be far-reaching.’

Adelaide did not bother to conceal her disbelief.

‘And when will this mysterious visitor grace our presence?’ she asked. Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

‘When did your father have this dream?’

‘Last night, as Bertha just told you.’

I ignored her rudeness.

‘That is not what I meant. Did the king have this dream last night soon after he retired, or in the middle of the night? The timing is all-important.’

‘In the morning, shortly before he woke. He told us about it at breakfast,’ snapped Adelaide.

‘Then the visitor will arrive very soon, in the next day or two,’ I said firmly.

‘Why couldn’t you say when the earlier dream would be fulfilled?’ Adelaide asked caustically. ‘The dream of my father losing an eye?’

‘Because I had not yet come across the passage in the book that deals with the timing of dreams and their fulfilment,’ I said.

‘And now what can you add?’ Adelaide demanded.

‘The earlier in the night one has a dream, the longer it will take to come true,’ I said.

Adelaide turned to her sister, and again I detected that air of conspiracy between the two sisters.

‘Did the king mention at what time he had the dream?’ I asked.

Bertha thought for a moment.

‘I think it was soon after he retired to bed.’

Adelaide swung back to face me.

‘How much longer could it be before the king loses a son?’

I did not like the ambitious look in her eyes.

‘According to the book, the longest time between a dream and its fulfilment is twenty years.’

Her lip curled in disbelief.

‘So no one would be around to see it come true.’

I held my ground.

‘If you remember, Joseph dreamed of seven years of plenty in Egypt, followed by seven years of famine. So it was fully fourteen years between the dream and when the final year of near-starvation came about.’

She glared at me angrily, and then strode out of the room.

‘Let’s hope your interpretation of my father’s latest dream is correct,’ said Bertha. She was looking nervous, fearful of her older sister. ‘Otherwise Adelaide may no longer keep our secret.’

The very next morning the stone masons and bricklayers on the scaffolding of the great hall stood gaping down at a foreign-looking cavalcade of strangers riding into the royal precinct. It was a Saracen embassy from Hispania. The newcomers had thrown open their heavy sheepskin riding coats to reveal long flowing gowns and broad silver-studded belts. Their heads were wrapped in great white turbans that contrasted with their dark skins and thick, immaculately barbered black beards. Two musicians preceded them blowing wind instruments of wood that looked like reed pipes and made an unearthly wailing sound.

The king had not received notice of their approach. He was away in the forest, hunting.

‘Look at their horses. No wonder they made such good time,’ muttered Berenger as he stood beside me in the small crowd, observing the spectacle. The embassy’s horses were small and neat, with high arched necks and well-muscled hindquarters. They moved with a high-stepping grace, almost dancing, and their well-brushed manes had been allowed to grow like curtains until they reached almost to the ground. With bright red bridles and saddle cloths edged with gold braid, they made a splendid sight in the wintry sunshine.

The flamboyant procession made its way past the admiring spectators as far as the portico of the great hall. There the visitors dismounted in a swirl of expensive silks to be greeted by the count of the palace and led inside.

‘Their leader is the governor of Barcelona, name of Suleyman al Arabi.’ said Engeler. He had spoken with one of the officials making hasty preparations to accommodate the embassy. ‘He’s brought with him two other walis, as they call their governors, from Zaragoza and from Huesca.’

‘What could possibly bring them all the way here in midwinter?’ asked Berenger.

‘Whatever it is, this is more than a courtesy visit,’ said Gerin.

A royal messenger was hurrying across to intercept us. He headed straight for me and said in a loud voice.

‘Your presence is requested by the Princess Bertha.’

Otto sniggered.

I gave him a nasty look and followed the messenger to the side entrance of the royal apartments. Bertha was waiting for me in the private audience chamber. She was jubilant, eyes sparkling with triumph. Adelaide was nowhere to be seen.