Tim Severin - The Book of Dreams

‘Which way are they headed?’ asked Hroudland sharply. Even exhausted, he kept his wits about him.

‘Towards the road. They passed me a couple of hours ago. I stayed out of sight until it was safe to sound the alarm.’

‘We press on at once,’ Hroudland announced. It was an order, and he was once again a war leader. ‘I must be back in command of the rearguard before the Vascons fall on us.’

There was no rearguard, as it turned out. The three of us limped out on to the main road just as the first glow of sunrise seeped into the sky. In the cold light we found the treasure carts gone. The area around the shepherd’s hut where we had previously camped was strewn with the usual rubbish left behind by retreating soldiers. The place was abandoned.

Wearily I sat down on a roadside boulder. My knees were sore and bruised and the palms of my hands skinned raw from the number of times I had fallen.

‘Back on your feet!’ Hroudland hissed at me. The gash on the side of his face where the eagle had clawed him was crusted with dried blood. ‘Gerin and the others can’t have gone far and the Saracen skirmishers will be here soon.’

I rose slowly. Every part of my body ached.

‘Over here!’ Berenger shouted. He had gone across to the shepherd’s hut in search of something to eat.

The count and I joined him. Lying in the dust behind the hut was the Vascon shepherd. His throat had been cut. The front of his wolfskin jacket lay open. Someone had searched the corpse for anything worth stealing. Our dispirited soldiers had been reduced to corpse robbers.

We heard the clatter of horses’ hooves. Someone was riding at speed down the road from the direction of the pass. Berenger and Hroudland drew their swords and ran to take up positions where they could defend themselves. With only a dagger in my belt, I considered whether to take refuge inside the hut but thought better of it. I did not want to be accused of cowardice.

The rider came in view. He had a plain red shield on his arm and Hroudland’s roan war stallion on a leading rein. It was Gerin.

‘I thought you might come back,’ he called out. ‘We don’t have much time.’

He tossed the stallion’s reins to Hroudland and leaned down, extending an arm towards me so that I could scramble up behind him.

‘How far ahead are the others?’ Hroudland demanded, settling himself into the saddle of the roan, and then hoisting Berenger up on to the crupper.

‘Five or six miles. Eggihard ordered the carts to move on as soon as the broken wheel was fixed.’

We set off at a canter, the sound of the hooves echoing off steep rocky slopes. Hroudland had to raise his voice to make himself heard.

‘I told you to make him wait for our return.’

Gerin snorted.

‘Carolus sent Count Anselm back to find out what the delay was all about. The king is worried about the gap between the main army and the last of the carts. Anselm accepted Eggihard’s suggestion that the carters should travel through the night.’

Hroudland cursed both Eggihard and Anselm. The latter was count of the palace and could act with the king’s authority.

‘Where’s Carolus now?’ he called to Gerin.

‘Already through the main pass. He’s taken the main cavalry with him and intends to push on to face the Saxons.’

The road was rising steadily, one bend after the other. I was glad I was no longer on foot. I doubted I had enough strength left to have made the climb. I twisted around, looking back over my shoulder, trying to recall what I had seen when coming in the opposite direction with Wali Husayn. The rocks and slopes all looked alike, featureless and forbidding.

Only when we reached the treasure carts did I know where we were. Up to my left I recognized the rocky slope on which I had killed the Vascon slinger who had ambushed me.

The four treasure carts were halted at the place where Husayn and his men had stopped to say their noonday prayers. Here the road widened out, and there was enough space for the drivers and their oxen to pause and rest. Their escort of some thirty heavily armed cavalrymen was standing around, looking bored and impatient, waiting for the journey to continue. I wondered which one of them had murdered the Vascon shepherd.

Hroudland sprang down from his horse and strode off to confront Eggihard and a tubby, balding man in an expensive-looking war coat of chain mail that extended right down to cover his ample thighs. I guessed he was Count Anselm.

Hroudland was furious, and his voice carried clearly.

‘Where are the rest of my men? I left fifty of them as guards. I can see barely a score of them now,’ he snarled.

Eggihard shrugged. He seemed to accept that Hroudland had a right to take charge again.

‘Count Anselm brought more soldiers with him. I relieved the others, and they’ve gone ahead.’ He treated Hroudland to a look full of malice. ‘While you were away on your private escapade, we outstripped any Saracen pursuit by travelling through the night. In a few more miles we’ll be through the pass and back on Frankish soil.’

Hroudland glowered.

I had to get away from the incessant bickering. I slid down from the back of Gerin’s mount and picked my way up the slope and sat down on the exact same spot where I had written up my notes for Alcuin. The rock was already warm from the sun. It was going to be a hot day.

I sat quietly, gazing toward the plains in Hispania just visible in the distant haze. Somewhere out there was Osric. I wondered whether he would spend the rest of his life in Zaragoza as an official of the wali’s court or whether he would eventually find his way back to the city of his birth. It was strange that fate allowed him a choice, while I could not return to my own homeland as long as King Offa ruled. Thinking about Offa reminded me that Gerin had once served the King of Mercia. Looking down towards the road I could see Gerin with his red shield slung on his back. He was chatting to one of the troopers. Previously I had suspected him of being behind the attempts to have me killed. Now that seemed unlikely. He had been just as quick to get me out of danger as to extricate Hroudland and Berenger.

My gaze drifted back to the mountain opposite me, on the far side of the road. The slope was a jumble of boulders and broken rock with an occasional ledge and overhang. There were no trees or shrubs to add a touch of green. Everything was grey, from the darkest shade of slate to the colour of cinders left in a cold hearth. I slid my eyepatch up on my forehead. A speck of grit had worked its way under it and was lodged in the corner of my eye. It pricked painfully and made my eye water. I rubbed the eye to clear it, and before putting the patch back in place I blinked several times to clear my vision. Perhaps because I was using both eyes I saw the far hillside much more clearly. A dark shape that I had thought was a boulder was nothing of the sort. It was a man. He was sitting motionless, his clothing the exact colour of the rocks around him; even his head was swathed in grey material. He was watching the ox carts on the road below him. After I had spotted the first man, it was much easier to see the others. They were spread out across the slope, waiting and watching, not moving. There must have been a dozen or more. My heart thumped wildly, and I replaced my eye patch. Slowly I got to my feet and began to descend the slope, careful not to hurry.

‘There are men lying in wait on the slopes above us,’ I said under my breath to Hroudland, forcing myself to act as though everything was normal.

He did not even glance upward.

‘They’ll be the Vascons that Berenger saw earlier. Any idea how many?’

‘At least a dozen, maybe twice that number.’