Tim Severin - The Book of Dreams

‘Even the Falcon would have trouble storming a city like that,’ commented Hroudland with grudging admiration. He turned to me. ‘Patch, ride up to the main gate. They might know who you are. Announce our arrival and say that we have come to relieve the city.’

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when one half of the main gate swung open, and a man on horseback came out and began to make his way towards us at a sedate trot.

Even from that distance I knew at once that it was Osric. His misshapen leg stuck out awkwardly to one side, and he held himself slightly aslant to allow for his crooked neck. His ungainly posture was in stark contrast to the perfect proportions and elegant gait of his horse, a pure white Saracen stallion that must have come from the wali’s personal stable.

When Osric was some fifty paces away, I heard an angry intake of breath and realized Hroudland had just recognized who it was.

‘What’s this insult, sending a slave to greet me?’ he growled.

I stole a quick sideways look at him. Hroudland had removed his helmet so that his yellow hair hung around his shoulders. Mounted on his war horse and still in full armour, he cut an imposing figure, but the effect was ruined by his expression: his face was red with anger and pouring with sweat.

‘Osric is no longer a slave,’ I reminded him quietly. ‘He deserved his freedom and I gave it to him.’

Hroudland responded with a low grunt of disdain and spat deliberately on the ground.

Osric came to a halt a few feet from us. He was wearing the full livery of the wali, crimson turban and sash, soft leather boots patterned with matching red silk stitching. The rest of his garments, the baggy trousers and loose shirt, were made of fine white cotton and his short over-jacket was embroidered with silver thread. He looked more like a rich Saracen nobleman than the former house slave of a Saxon kinglet.

After acknowledging Hroudland’s presence with a slight bow, he addressed me.

‘I bring a message from His Excellency, the Wali Husayn of Zaragoza,’ he said in Frankish.

Hroudland broke in rudely.

‘Go back and tell your wali that we have come two months’ journey to meet him and to confirm our alliance with him and his fellow governors in Barcelona and Huesca. We look forward to being received by him,’ he rasped. I knew that Hroudland was annoyed that Osric had chosen to speak to me and not to him.

Osric ignored the outburst.

‘My master, His Excellency the wali trusts that your journey was not too uncomfortable.’

Hroudland shifted impatiently in his saddle.

‘You can also tell the wali that we encountered a patrol from Cordoba and have put them to flight,’ he snapped.

Again Osric was imperturbable though I noticed his eyes flick towards the Saracen horse I was riding.

‘His Excellency the wali is aware that the emir’s troops are in the vicinity. That is one reason why he ordered the city gates to be closed. He anticipates that they will soon be discouraged and go away.’

I knew from Hroudland’s tone of voice that he was close to losing his temper. Before the storm broke, I intervened.

‘Please inform the wali that we would be grateful for food and lodging in the city for our men, and for the army which follows,’ I said.

There was a long, meaningful pause before Osric said quietly.

‘His Excellency the wali regrets that will not be possible.’

I could hardly believe my ears. I asked Osric to repeat what he had just said.

‘Husayn, Wali of Zaragoza, has told me to inform you that your army may not enter Zaragoza. The city is closed to all Franks.’

Hroudland exploded.

‘What nonsense is this!’ he roared.

‘On my master’s orders,’ Osric said firmly, ‘the gates will remain closed. Anyone coming within range of the archers on the city wall will be regarded as hostile.’

‘Osric, can you explain this?’ I asked, using his name for the first time.

‘It is repayment for treachery,’ he replied simply.

I goggled at him.

‘Treachery?’

There was a trace of sympathy in his dark eyes as he looked straight at me.

‘Then you have not heard?’ he asked.

I shook my head.

‘King Karlo has betrayed Wali Suleyman of Barcelona. The wali has been seized by force and is now a prisoner of the Franks.’

I gaped at him.

Beside me Hroudland guffawed in utter disbelief.

‘Nonsense! We come as friends and allies.’

Osric raised an eyebrow.

‘That is what my lord the wali truly wished to believe. Unfortunately your king acted otherwise. He has broken faith. His army has done great harm to Barcelona and now he holds the wali captive.’

‘I don’t believe a word of this,’ snarled Hroudland, swinging round to glare at me. ‘Slaves are natural liars.’

Osric did not flinch.

‘You do not have to believe me. At this very moment your King Karlo is marching here with his army. When he arrives, you will see for yourself that Wali Suleyman is his prisoner. Perhaps you now understand why my lord will not open the gates of his city to your people.’

Osric turned his attention back to me. He seemed reproachful.

‘It was written,’ he said simply.

For a moment I thought he was talking about the Saracens’ holy book, their divine scripture revealed by a desert prophet. Then with a jolt I realized he meant the Book of Dreams. In Zaragoza I had dreamed of the snake, the sign of impending treachery. Stupidly I had presumed it meant that the Saracens would betray Carolus. But it was the Franks who had behaved treacherously. I had ignored Artimedorus’s statement that when a snake slithers away from the dreamer, it signifies that the treachery will be found elsewhere.

I must have been silent for quite some time because it was Hroudland who spoke next, his voice thick with anger.

‘You insult my family. My uncle would never commit such a base act.’

Osric shrugged.

‘Then he was badly advised.’

‘By whom?’ The count’s voice dripped disbelief.

‘I understand it was by one of his chief counsellors. A man named Ganelon.’

Hroudland looked as if he had been struck across the face. There was a long pause, and then he spoke again, slowly.

‘Now perhaps I might believe you.’

‘As you wish,’ said Osric drily. He touched his reins to his stallion’s neck and as the horse obediently turned aside, he added, ‘Make no mistake, the gates of Zaragoza stay closed.’

For a long moment we all sat on our horses watching him ride back to the city. I had no idea what Hroudland was thinking, but my own thoughts were in turmoil. I had been looking forward so much to meeting Osric again, renewing our friendship, and learning about his life at the wali’s court. Now it seemed that Frankish double-dealing meant we were on opposing sides. I regretted that I had ever tried to use the Oneirokritikon to help me understand my visions. I had allowed myself to be led disastrously astray with my interpretation of the snake dream. Was I also wrong about other dreams where I had found explanations? I had jumped to the conclusion that my own adventure in the hunting forest explained the king’s vision of the huntsman attacked by wolves and desperately blowing his horn to summon help. Lost in the forest I had sounded the horn dropped by my unknown attacker, hoping to hear an answering call. But I had seen no wolves in the forest. Perhaps the huntsman in the royal dream was someone else entirely.

A clammy chill spread into the pit of my stomach as I recalled those other troubling visions that still haunted me — the rider on the great horse crying blood, and the ghoulish incident when Hroudland and I were on a mountainside and attacked by monsters and flying demons. I had no idea what either dream meant, though I knew now that they were of great significance. But I did not know whether I wanted to understand what they might foretell, or if I should throw the Oneirokritikon into the fire and give up the interpretation of dreams entirely.