Tim Severin - The Book of Dreams

‘The king is not yet back, but I’m sure he will want to meet you as soon as he hears how you interpreted his dream,’ she said.

I recalled Gerard’s warning about the dangers of being recognized as an expert in dream prediction.

‘There’s more than one way to interpret a dream,’ I protested.

‘That’s why you must talk with the king,’ she insisted. ‘He will want to hear from you the different meanings.’

She laid a hand on my sleeve.

‘Don’t worry, Sigwulf. It will be for the king to decide which outcome to believe.’

The summons from the king came a week later. Whatever had been discussed with the Saracen embassy was kept confidential to the king and his advisors, so I had no idea what to expect when I entered the royal chambers. It was the same room where I had first met the king more than half a year before, and little had changed. The clay model of the palace was still on the central table, and Carolus, standing by the window, was again dressed in the belted tunic and leggings of an ordinary citizen. I noted that he had less of a paunch, doubtless the result of so much energetic hunting in the forests. As I bowed, I realized that his view from the window overlooked the private entrance that I used for my visits to Bertha. I felt suddenly uncomfortable.

To my surprise, Gerard was in attendance. The old man was seated in a chair, a heavy woollen shawl wrapped around his thin shoulders. I had not thought him well enough to leave his sick bed.

‘Count Gerard has been sharing his knowledge of the Saracens with me,’ began the king briskly. ‘My daughter tells me that you foretold the arrival of their embassy.’

‘You foretold their coming yourself, Your Majesty,’ I said diplomatically. ‘I merely interpreted your dream with the help of a book.’

The king looked unimpressed.

‘You also claim that their visit will have important results.’

‘That is what your dream would indicate, sire. But there is no clue as to what those results will be.’

The king turned to Gerard.

‘What do you make of them?’ he asked, referring to the three Saracen ambassadors.

‘I do not know them personally, my lord,’ Gerard said. ‘I understand that they are seeking your help against their overlord.’

‘And I have to decide whether to give it to them,’ the king grunted. He began to pace up and down the room with long, heavy strides. Occasionally a floorboard creaked beneath his weight. ‘The Saracen Lord of Barcelona takes the lead. He asks me to bring an army in Hispania to aid him against his rival, the Emir of Cordoba.’

‘There is always much rivalry among the Saracens,’ Gerard agreed. ‘They form factions and fight among themselves. It was what saved Septimania in my father’s day. The leaders of the Saracen invasion quarrelled among themselves.’

‘So you don’t think this embassy is here to draw us into a trap?’

‘Treachery is possible, but unlikely,’ said Gerard.

The king stopped his pacing and studied me, his grey eyes shrewd and probing.

‘If I had more dreams to tell you, young man, perhaps they would reveal what answer I should give these Saracens.’ He treated me to a sour smile. ‘Or should I try taking one of those potions which produce strange and peculiar visions.’

‘Only a dream that comes naturally to the sleeper can possess meaning. The author of the dream book is clear on that,’ I replied meekly.

‘But is it not also true that a person often dreams of people and places known from real life?’

‘That is the case,’ I agreed.

‘You yourself dream.’ It was more a statement than a question.

‘I do, my lord.’

The king gave a short, mirthless laugh.

‘So, if I cannot force myself to have a dream that will reveal the true intentions of these Saracens, I can do the next best thing.’

My heart sank as I realized what he was about to say.

‘I can place a dreamer among them, someone to get to know them so well that they appear in his dreams, and he will learn what they intend.’ He chuckled softly. ‘You might say that I will have an insight into their minds as well as into the future.’ The king shouted for an attendant, and a man appeared instantly at the door. ‘Escort this young man to the chancery. I am attaching him to the mission that returns with the Saracens. They leave in two days’ time.’ Carolus looked down at me from his great height, his face a mask of royal authority. ‘Speak with Alcuin. Tell him why you are going to Hispania. He will give more detailed instructions.’

I bowed and began to walk towards the door.

‘And be sure to take your crippled servant with you,’ the king added. ‘He may overhear some useful information. I’ll tell Bertha you may be absent for some time.’

I left the chamber, stunned. The king must have spies and informants everywhere. It was reasonable to suppose that Gerard had told him that Osric was a Saracen by origin, but I wondered how often the king had stood at the window looking down at my comings and goings to his daughter’s chamber.

Alcuin greeted me without enthusiasm when I tracked him down in the chancery. He was deep in conversation with two clerks from the office of records. They were discussing the correct wording for a charter document, and I had to wait until they had finished and moved away before I told him what the king intended for me.

‘So that’s why you asked about the meaning of Oneirokritikon,’ the priest said. ‘If I’d known, I’d not have told you.’

‘I thought it would be a leech book, not a book of dreams,’ I said.

‘The Church does not approve of such writings.’

‘I’m sure that the Oneirokritikon is harmless.’

Alcuin arched his brows in disbelief.

‘Dreams are the raw material of necromancy and superstition. Often the Devil works through them.’

‘Yet an angel of the Lord used a dream to tell Joseph the husband of Mary that her unborn child was conceived by the Holy Spirit,’ I objected.

He drew a sharp breath of displeasure and stepped past me.

‘If you will follow me, I will do my best to carry out the king’s instructions.’

He led me to where the great map of tiles was still laid out on the trestle table. Instinctively I looked towards the range of mountains where I had pricked my finger. Today there was no glint of light.

Alcuin’s sandals clacked softly as he made his way round to reach over the map and point to a spot on the coast of Hispania.

‘The leader of the embassy, Suleyman al Arabi, governs this region centred on the two cities of Barcelona and Girona. He is accompanied by the governors of Zaragoza and Huesca. All three are at war with their overlord, the Emir of Cordoba. His name is Abdurahman.’ Alcuin hitched back the sleeve of his gown. ‘They are asking Carolus to bring an army into Hispania to aid them. In return they promise to place their lands under his protection. Note how their lands lie just beyond this mountain range which presently forms our border with Hispania.’

He brushed his hand across the tiles and I half expected him to flinch and draw back, his finger bleeding. But nothing happened.

‘The allegiance of these Saracens would be immensely valuable,’ Alcuin continued. ‘It would provide Frankia with a broad march, a protective frontier zone, on the far side of the mountain range.’ He stepped back from the map, allowed his sleeve to fall, and thrust both hands into the sleeves. There were cold draughts in the chancery. ‘Equally, this might be a trap. The Saracens may be seeking to lure our army across the mountains so that they can fall on our troops and slaughter them. They consider us to be infidels, enemies ripe for destruction.’

He gazed for a moment at the map, shoulders sagging slightly as if imagining the dreadful consequences. I recalled how I had once pointed out the danger of over-extending the kingdom.