Tim Severin - The Book of Dreams

At last I understood.

‘So you went to the fountain intending to discredit the stories about Artorius. You knew that there would be neither a gem-studded stone nor a golden cup. They were as fanciful as the legend of Yvain himself, and as he was supposed to be one of Artorius’s men, then he and his lord were both make-believe.’

Hroudland casually tossed the cup into the air and caught it again. ‘You hoped to show that the gem-studded stone and golden cup did not exist. Yvain was one of his men.’

‘And I found that the famous gold cup is nothing but a small, bronze beaker. I think I’ll put it on display in the great hall or I might even drink from it at my next banquet. That will make both the priests and the pagan stone-worshippers think again about the truth in the wonderful adventure of Yvain.’

‘What about the strange shower of rain, and the flock of birds?’

He shrugged.

‘There are natural explanations for both of them, but neither you nor I need mention them.’

I was silent for several moments as I thought over his reply.

‘And if the story had been true? If we had found a cup of gold and a stone studded with gems?’

He showed his teeth in a wolfish grin.

‘That would have been even better. I would have prised out the gems with my knife and brought them and the gold cup back with me as plunder. As I said, I need the money badly.’

He spurred his horse into a canter, cramming the bronze cup back into his saddlebag.

Next morning, having risen early and feeling in need of fresh air, I climbed the wooden ladder to the lookout platform on the palisade surrounding the great hall. The day had dawned cold and clear, and a shallow bank of fog pooled in the valley floor below me, obscuring the soldiers’ camp. Judging by the noise, the camp had grown in size in the short time that Hroudland and I were away investigating the fountain. From the fog rose a medley of sounds: shouted commands, ribald laughter, axes chopping into wood, the distinctive ring of a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil, the neighing of many horses. Shivering in the chill, I descended the ladder and fetched myself a breakfast of hot milk and bread from the kitchen beside the great hall. Then, loaf in hand, I strolled down the slope to get a closer view of the preparations for the expedition to Hispania.

Where the ground levelled out, I found myself walking between dimly seen rows of army tents. They stood empty, their door flaps fastened open and I could see the baggage of the occupants whom I supposed were now out and about on their duties. Occasionally the ghostly figure of a man appeared on foot leading a saddleless horse on halter, only to disappear into the mist without a word of greeting. When the smell of manure grew overpowering I knew I had reached the horse lines. The picket ropes to which the animals were tethered hung slack, but somewhere in the mist, a handful of horses was still being groomed. I heard the impatient stamping of hooves, the occasional vibrating fart of a horse breaking wind and the soothing sounds made by unseen ostlers, whistling between their teeth or murmuring soft nonsense as they attended to their animals. Finally I came to the river bank where the ground was churned to deep mud by the animals brought there to drink.

Here I turned to my left, intending to walk upriver. Before I had gone a couple of hundred paces a breeze sprang up and began to clear away the fog in slow-moving tendrils. I discovered that I had ventured on to a broad open expanse of turf and mud — the cavalry training ground. Men on foot were gathered in groups of about twenty, holding their horses’ reins while they listened to instructors. Compared to the escort of smart troopers that had greeted Wali Husayn when we had reached Zaragoza, the men were very scruffy. They wore an assortment of helmets and mailcoats, no two of them alike, and their mounts were shaggy in their winter coats.

The nearest instructor, a lean, grizzled fellow with a horseman’s bow legs, had his sword slung across his back. The handle protruding over his shoulder reminded me of the last time I had seen Gerin as he rode away with Ganelon in the company of the Wali of Barcelona. The instructor was standing with the reins of his horse looped over his arm and holding up a small iron hoop, about the size of his palm. One side of it was flattened.

‘Any of you know what this is?’ he was demanding of his listeners.

One or two members of his audience looked down at the ground and shifted awkwardly. No one made any reply. I guessed that many of them knew the answer but did not want to risk being singled out later.

‘It’s a stirrup,’ announced the instructor. ‘Now some of you think that stirrups are womanly, that a good rider doesn’t need them.’ He jabbed a stubby finger at a tall, rangy recruit in the front row who had removed his helmet to reveal a shock of red hair. ‘Carrot Top, you’re a big lad. Mount up and let me show why every one of you will have stirrups attached to his saddle by tomorrow morning.’

The red-headed recruit put on his helmet and vaulted on to his horse. He was an accomplished rider and sat easily in his saddle though I noticed that his legs hung down each side of the animal, without the benefit of stirrups.

By now the instructor was also on horseback. He drew his sword and nudged his mount forward until the two riders were facing one another, knee to knee.

‘Strike at me, lad!’ he commanded.

The redhead pulled out his own blade and aimed a halfhearted blow that the instructor easily blocked with his shield. Then the instructor rose in his stirrups until he was half a head taller than his opponent. Reversing his sword, he thumped the pommel down hard on his opponent’s helmet. Dazed, the redhead reeled in the saddle.

A hand clapped me on the shoulder, making me jump. Hroudland had walked up behind me.

‘Skulking on the sidelines, Patch, instead of training?’ he queried cheerfully.

‘Where are those men from?’ I asked.

‘They’re locals. I’ve stripped the March of men and animals. The king’s marshals want cavalry, not foot soldiers, for the expedition to Hispania.’ He turned to look at the recruits who were now lining up under their instructor’s eye, ready to tilt at a line of straw dummies. ‘Let’s hope this latest batch of levies are quick learners. We don’t have enough fodder to keep so many animals for more than a few weeks.’

‘If you want me to join them, I’ll need to borrow some armour from you, as well as a sword,’ I said.

‘What happened to the sword I selected for you from the royal armoury in Aachen?’ he demanded, his face suddenly serious.

‘I left it in Zaragoza with my servant Osric. He’s a free man now. I also gave him my horse.’

For a moment the count was lost for words. Then he snapped angrily, ‘You blockhead. That sword was something special. Have you forgotten that it is forbidden to export such weapons from Frankia?’

His outburst was so unexpected that it took me a moment to respond.

‘I’ll ask Osric for it back when we get to Zaragoza,’ I said.

The count scowled.

‘If Osric is still there, or hasn’t sold it.’

‘I’m sure he would keep it until I return,’ I said.

Hroudland drew a sharp breath, clearly annoyed.

‘I’d rather shatter the blade of my own Durendal than let it fall into the wrong hands.’ He swung round to face me and, in a sudden change of mood, treated me to an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry, Patch, I didn’t mean to be boorish. Of course, it was impractical for you to bring that sword back with you. The Vascon sailors would have cut your throat for it.’ He waved his hand towards the great hall on the crest of the hill. ‘Pick yourself a shield and helmet from my armoury and find yourself a mail coat that fits.’