Tim Severin - The Book of Dreams

‘Look out!’ I yelled.

Again the boulder was careering a deadly path down the slope.

By then I knew it was no accident. Someone on the crest was trying to kill us.

For a second time the boulder missed. It leaped through the gap between us, bounding down the slope with a great crashing. Shards of rock flew up whenever it struck another boulder.

I bellowed at the trooper to come back. He flung himself sideways from his saddle, landing on the slope above him. He had the reins in hand, hauling on them, trying by brute force to make his horse turn on the narrow path. The animal gave a whinny of protest and spun on its haunches, turning so that its front hooves were clawing on the loose gravel of the upper slope as it tried to find a purchase. At that moment the trooper himself lost his footing and, arms flailing, slid down under the belly of the horse.

The tangle proved fatal. A third rock came tumbling down. It was larger than the others, and halfway towards us it struck an outcrop of rock and split into two. The smaller part, no larger than a blacksmith’s anvil, bounced higher and higher until it struck the trooper squarely and with tremendous force. I felt the thud of the impact, and then the scream of the horse as in the same instant the collision smashed the beast over the edge of the path. The trooper, his hand still twisted in the reins, was dragged away with his mount. Beast and man went slithering down the slope in a sickening whirl of hooves, arms and legs, bouncing off the rocks as they followed the fatal boulder that had outstripped its victims. Finally they came to a rest in the bottom of the ravine. Neither could have survived that terrible fall.

Now the hidden enemy turned his attention on me. I was the only target remaining. I kicked my feet out of the stirrups and swung myself down from the saddle, stumbling as I landed on the broken ground. I made no attempt to make the mare turn but pushed past her flank, leaving her where she was as I ran for my life back the way we had come. The loose ground crunched and shifted beneath my boots, though thankfully not loudly enough to drown out the warning thud and clatter of the next boulder as it was launched down the slope. I looked up and judged its path. Then I dived to one side, flattening myself against the hillside, feeling the ground shudder beneath me as the rock careered off the rocks. It missed me by a yard or more, and then I was up and running, away down the path and around the next corner in terror.

I had gone perhaps twenty paces when, to my horror, I heard someone chasing down the track behind me. I dared not look over my shoulder and expected a lance point in my back at any moment. Then, to my relief, my panic-struck mare came slamming and barging past me, almost knocking me off the trail. The creature had managed to turn herself around unaided, and was bolting. I reached out, grabbed a stirrup with both hands as she pushed past me and clung on. I was bounced and dragged beside her down the path, and I feared she would run off the track and fall, taking us both down to our deaths. But somehow she managed to carry me, half running, half dragged, for more than a mile before she slowed enough for me to heave myself back into the saddle and gather up the reins.

By then we were well away from the ridge, and I rode on shakily until I caught up with the trooper walking his lame horse. By a stroke of luck we came across Hroudland very soon afterwards. He was out with a score of cavalrymen, checking on his patrols.

As soon as the count heard what had happened, he went galloping off at full tilt, hoping to catch the hidden attackers before they left the scene.

But it was too late. He returned some hours later, riding up to our camp at the head of his men, faces covered in dust, their horses lathered and weary. His first words were, ‘Patch, you were lucky. We found marks up on the ridge where a lever was used to dislodge the rocks. But the enemy was gone.’

‘What about the trooper who was knocked off the track?’ I asked.

‘A mangled corpse. One of my men clambered down to take a look. All blood and broken bones.’ He swung himself down from the saddle and walked over to the campfire, his face serious. ‘Tomorrow I’ll call the men together and warn them to be more on their guard.’

‘Any sign of a village where the attackers could have come from?’ asked Berenger, who had been scouting out on our left flank.

The count shook his head.

‘If there had been, I’d have got the truth out of them.’

Then I noticed something odd. One of Hroudland’s riders had come back with an extra brunia tied to his saddle which, I presumed, he had salvaged from the corpse of the dead man. A brunia was a costly piece of equipment and most of the mailed jackets worn by the men were on loan from the royal armoury; it seemed strange that the mysterious assailants had not stayed long enough to plunder their victim.

The ambush and the trooper’s death cast a shadow over our advance. We were still in Vascon land, yet to enter Saracen territory. So we should have had a peaceful journey because the Vascons were Christians like ourselves. Instead with every mile we travelled, we were met with increasing hostility. The Vascons hid their stores of food, blocked or polluted wells, and if we asked directions, they sent us in the wrong direction. Hroudland had begun drinking heavily again and, in keeping with the prickly mood of our troops, he became erratically aggressive and surly. When we reached the Vascon capital at Pamplona, he proposed to Eggihard that the army should storm and ransack the city to repay the Vascons for all the trouble they had caused us. The city walls were still as derelict as when I had seen them on my way to Brittany; they would not have withstood a determined assault. Eggihard bluntly told the count that the army had come to Hispania to assist the rebel Saracens, not plunder the Vascons, and there was a blazing row between them. Hroudland stormed out of the meeting and rode away with his vanguard, leaving the main army to fend for itself.

With Hroudland in such an ugly mood I made a habit of keeping out of his way as we pushed on to Zaragoza. I was thinking about Osric and wondering what had happened to him. It was three months since I had given him his freedom and left him with Wali Husayn. Part of me hoped that he had been able to leave Zaragoza and return to the place where he had grown up, but another part of me was looking forward to meeting him again. I had come to appreciate that nothing had replaced his companionship since the days when King Offa had sent me into exile. I suppose that I was falling victim to long-delayed feelings of loneliness. No longer having Osric by my side had made me realize just how much I had relied on him as a mentor and a confidant, and so I eagerly anticipated our meeting and the renewal of trust that it would bring.

With this in mind I rode ahead of everyone else during the final few miles of our approach to Zaragoza, through the orchards that surrounded the city. After several days of uncomfortably hot sunshine, the sky had partially clouded over and a slight breeze made the morning pleasantly cool. I had decided to put on full armour, helmet and brunia, and was carrying my battle shield and sword, hoping to impress any herald that Husayn would send out to welcome us, for the wali would surely know of the approach of Hroudland’s vanguard, even if Eggihard and the main force lagged several days behind.

Riding through the lines of plum and orange trees, I was reminded of the day I had first come there with Wali Husayn after our journey through the mountains. We had used the very same track for I recognized a small wooden bridge that crossed one of the many irrigation channels. Now, of course, the trees were in full leaf, their fruit nearly ripe, and there was just enough breeze to gently sway the laden branches. I was happy and relaxed as I rode, turning over in my mind what I might discuss with Wali Husayn. I hoped there would be the chance to share another pleasant evening meal beside the reflecting pool in his palace. All around me the orchards were very quiet except for the croaking of several ravens that circled over me. I saw no one. The hoof beats of my horse, the same nervous mare that had saved my life, were muffled by the soft earth between the fruit trees. I savoured the calm and stillness, glad to be clear of Hroudland and his snappish temper. He and his escort of riders would be at least a mile behind me. I felt an unexpected surge of pride at the idea that after two months’ march from Brittany, I would be the first person in the army to sight Zaragoza.