Tim Severin - The Book of Dreams

A raw wind was lifting little spirals of powdered snow, sending them spinning across the frozen ground in front of the great hall as I joined the other members of Carolus’s delegation to Hispania assembling on horseback. The icy blast was making my eyes stream and, although I was wearing heavy gauntlets, I had already lost all feeling in my fingers. It was only an hour after sunrise and Osric had brought my bay gelding from the stable and was riding a rangy-looking chestnut mare. He held a laden pack animal on a lead rope, and I noted a long package which I guessed contained my bow and sword. I had packed the Book of Dreams in my saddlebags, together with pages of the translation I had made so far. All around me the other riders were bundled up in thick clothes. I recognized Ganelon by the glimpse of a black beard poking out from the hood of his heavy jacket, and Gerin by the red shield slung across his back. The Saracens had not yet mounted but were holding their horses by the reins; there seemed to be some sort of problem.

An official emerged from the portico of the great hall and hurried across to Ganelon and said something to him. I saw Ganelon jerk the reins in an angry gesture, then wheel his horse round and come trotting across to shout to Gerin.

‘The Saracens are refusing to leave until we have more horses,’ he called.

‘What’s the matter with them?’ asked Gerin. He sounded grumpy.

‘They say we need to bring spare mounts, or we’ll slow them down. They’ve already refused a cavalry escort for the same reason.’

I looked across at the Saracens. They wore heavy riding cloaks and soft boots, and carried short whips. Their small horses were no longer decked out in the finery of their arrival. Manes and tails were neatly plaited and tied up. Bridles and saddles were workmanlike, and when one of the Saracens picked up his horse’s hoof to check, I saw a half hoop of metal armed with short spikes. I had never seen a horseshoe before. A Saracen was talking with a palace official and pointing with his whip towards the king’s residence. The official set off at a run.

‘What’s going on?’ demanded Ganelon. His horse was skittish. It stamped and snorted, edging sideways.

‘They are insisting you bring couriers’ horses as remounts,’ the official called out, heading towards the outbuilding that housed the horses kept ready for the king’s messengers.

‘Impudence,’ growled Gerin. He leaned forward and patted the neck of his tall stallion. With its shaggy winter coat, the animal looked even more powerful than when he rode it during our fighting practice.

Ganelon shifted in his saddle to make himself more comfortable. Apart from one slight nod, he had ignored me entirely.

‘No point in making a fuss,’ he said quietly to Gerin. ‘We’ll be in one another’s company for a long time.’

After a short delay, a gang of palace ostlers appeared, leading a string of horses from the couriers’ stables. They distributed the animals among us, handing out the lead ropes, and at last we were ready to set out.

We formed up in a ragged column, two royal heralds in the lead. Immediately behind them were the Saracens. Discreetly I took up my place towards the rear, just ahead of the grooms and servants. Osric was at my side and glancing at him I could see the resemblance to the Saracens in the embassy. His face had the same sharply defined features and dark complexion.

‘Did you ever hear anything more about Gerin’s time at King Offa’s court?’ I asked.

Osric’s eyes flicked to where Gerin rode ahead of us.

‘No, but his servant is travelling with us. I’ll see what I can find out,’ he replied.

‘I had a strange dream last night. When we have a chance I want us to see if there is some meaning to it.’

Osric turned his brown eyes towards me.

‘So you are beginning to have faith in the book?’

‘I am, but it would be better if we kept quiet about it, at least for now.’

There was a shouted command from the front of the column. One of the heralds blew a short blast on a horn, and we began to move. I twisted in my saddle and looked back towards the king’s residence, wondering if Bertha was watching us leave. I doubted it. There had been no opportunity to say farewell to her, and my goodbye to Hroudland had been less than satisfactory. The newly appointed Margrave of the Breton March had been stretched out on his bed with his head under a pillow, suffering a bad hangover. He had groaned and with a muffled voice told me to go to the Devil.

The brisk pace of the Saracen riders came as an unwelcome surprise. Their horses moved with short, rapid steps, covering the ground with a smooth, measured beat while their riders sat at ease in their deep, comfortable saddles. To keep up with them the rest of us had to either trot or canter, and this tested our heavier mounts. Soon the muscles in my legs and back were aching and I felt my bay gelding beginning to flag. The groans and muttered curses from other riders told me that they too were suffering. From time to time someone would break the torment by pulling out of line and going up ahead at a gallop. But then his horse would tire and slow to a walk, and not long afterwards the Saracen cavalcade came stepping by at the same brisk rate, apparently unflagging. By the time we stopped for a brief midday break, most of our riders had already changed horses, glad that remounts were available. When we finally halted for the night and slid painfully down from our saddles, we had covered the same distance Arnulf’s eel cart would have travelled in a week.

So it continued, relentlessly, day after day. We rose in the dark, set out on the road in half-light of dawn and often did not reach our day’s destination until well after sunset. Many of our horses broke down or went lame. If they were not immediately replaced, their riders were left behind. Our group steadily dwindled until we numbered less than a score of riders in addition to the Saracens. Not one of them fell by the way. We had no need of guides because our path was along the old Roman roadways. Sometimes the original paving remained, the stone slabs cracked and scored with grooves left by cartwheels over the centuries. Elsewhere the surface had deteriorated into a rutted gravel track that followed the lines of ancient causeways over marsh and bogland, bringing us to sturdy Roman bridges whose solid stone arches still crossed the rivers. During the first week of our journey many of the smaller streams were frozen solid so that we could ride across on the ice. The Saracen horses went ahead on their spiked shoes, while the rest of us dismounted and cautiously crept across, leading our nervous mounts.

The scenery changed very slowly. Our route avoided high ground, as everywhere was in the grip of winter. The trees in the vast forest tracts were leafless and stark, as were the orchards outside the villages. The ploughed fields were bleak expanses of bare soil. Nothing moved. The country people were keeping indoors close to their fires and if no smoke rose from the chimneys we knew they shared their hovels with their cattle, huddling together for warmth. We passed quickly through the towns, having no need to buy supplies or seek lodgings. The king owned royal farms all along our route, some so vast that they rivalled my father’s little kingdom in acreage. Every steward on them was obliged to feed us from his stores and give us shelter. If no royal demesne was convenient, the dukes and counts, who held their lands from the king, provided all we needed. Our progress was so swift and unhampered that I was able to measure it by the way the weather changed. We left Aachen under skies so dull and overcast that it was impossible to tell the direction of the sunrise, and in the evening the daylight ebbed seamlessly into night. Three weeks later we were riding in sunshine so bright that it hurt the eyes, and the night sky was so clear that the stars glittered in the bitter cold with an intensity that I had never seen before. By then we were already within sight of the jagged crests of the snow-covered mountains marking the limit of the king’s realm.