Tim Severin - The Book of Dreams

‘There’ll be many more waiting at whatever place they’ve selected for an ambush,’ he said calmly. He beckoned to Gerin to come to join us.

‘Patch tells me that there are Vascon watchers on the slopes above us,’ he told Gerin. ‘Is there someone who might know where their attack is likely to take place?’

Gerin signalled to one of the guards to join us. The man’s battered face with its broken nose seemed familiar. I recalled him as the Burgundian sergeant I had seen marching at the head of his troop on the way to Hispania. He had his short-handled axe slung from his belt. I wondered why he was now a mounted soldier and what had happened to the rest of his unit.

‘What’s your name?’ Hroudland asked him.

‘Godomar, my Lord.’

‘You came with Count Anselm?’

‘I did, my lord.’ The man spoke with an unnaturally husky voice and there was the scar of an old wound on his throat.

‘So you’ve travelled this road a couple of times,’ said Hroudland. ‘If you were to set an ambush, where would it be?’

‘About half a mile ahead, my lord,’ the Burgundian replied without hesitation. ‘The road runs through a small ravine, low cliffs on either side. Ideal spot.’

‘Any way we can avoid it?’

Godomar shook his head.

‘Gerin, I’m putting you in charge of the vanguard,’ said Hroudland briskly, ‘with Godomar as your second in command. You’ll have ten men.’ He sounded purposeful, almost eager. ‘Expect an attack. It’s likely to come from both sides — arrows and slingstones followed by a charge.’

The Burgundian’s eyes flicked to where Anselm stood with Eggihard. He was worried about taking orders directly from Hroudland.

The count noted his hesitation.

‘Godomar, the king appointed me to command the rearguard,’ he said firmly.

The veteran raised his hand in a salute and was about to leave when Hroudland warned, ‘The Vascons will try to block the road with boulders. Tell your men that they will have to clear away any obstacle. The treasure carts must get through, at whatever cost.’

As the Burgundian went off to carry out Hroudland’s instruction, Gerin’s mouth twisted in a sardonic smile.

‘Cavalry men won’t like getting off their horses in order to roll boulders around.’

‘By the time the Vascons have finished with us, we’ll be lucky if there are enough horses left for anyone to ride,’ retorted Hroudland grimly. He was in his element, issuing orders. ‘Berenger, I’m putting you and Patch on either side of the carts. I’ll assign five troopers to each of you. The enemy will try to cripple the draught animals. Your job is to protect the oxen.’

‘Where will you be?’ I asked him. My horse, the bay gelding, was tethered at the tail of a cart. I had left my sword for safekeeping with the carter.

‘At the rear with the rest of the troopers. That’s where the Vascons will concentrate their attack.’

The halt was over. The drovers were fussing around their oxen, getting ready to move off. Godomar was talking quietly to several of the troopers and they were mounting up and taking their position ahead of the carts.

Eggihard and Anselm sauntered across, making it obvious from their casual manner that they did not care much for Hroudland or his leadership.

Hroudland allowed his irritation to show.

‘It’s time you were mounted up. I’m assigning you to the rearguard,’ he snapped at them. He deliberately turned his back and put a foot into the stirrup of his roan, ready to climb into the saddle.

Eggihard paused for a moment. Then he observed in a voice loud enough for the nearest soldiers to hear him, ‘I would have despatched a messenger to the king by now.’

Hroudland’s back went rigid. He removed his foot from the stirrup and swung round to glower at Eggihard.

‘A messenger to say what?’ he demanded icily.

‘To ask the army to turn back and assist.’

Two red spots of anger appeared on Hroudland’s cheeks.

‘I have not the slightest intention of running to the king asking for help,’ he snapped.

Eggihard raised an eyebrow insolently.

‘And if we are outnumbered, what then?’

‘We fight our way through. That’s what the king expects of us.’ Hroudland pointedly allowed his gaze to settle on Anselm’s bulging waistline. ‘Unless you and your companion no longer have the stomach for it.’

Anselm looked as though he would explode with anger.

‘I’ll hold my own against any man who cares to go against me,’ he spluttered.

‘Then I suggest you reserve your fighting prowess for the coming battle,’ snarled Hroudland. Without bothering to put a foot into the stirrup, he vaulted into the saddle. A moment later he was trotting off, shouting encouragement at the ox drovers, encouraging them to pick up the pace.

Riding beside the treasure carts brought back memories of the days when Osric and I had tramped along behind Arnulf’s eel wagon. There was the familiar farmyard smell from the oxen, and the four heavily laden carts rumbled along at the same sedate walking pace. The road surface was very rough, and their solid wheels juddered and shook as they rolled over small rocks or dropped into pot holes. Arnulf had handled his well-trained oxen by himself, but here in the mountains each cart needed two men, one walking beside the animals, the other seated on the cart and armed with a whip to urge the animals on. The axles worn down by months of travel produced a continuous, high-pitched squealing that announced our presence to anyone within half a mile and set one’s teeth on edge.

It was unnerving to know that the Vascon sentinels were watching our every step. I found myself wondering how often they had tracked the progress of other travellers labouring along the same narrow road. Perhaps this was how the stone platter and the little chalice had come into their possession, looted from victims of an ambush sometime in the distant past. I had no doubt that the Vascons knew about the ransom that Wali Husayn had paid. The bags of silver would be sufficient enticement for an attack, and Hroudland’s brutal sack of Pamplona had given the Vascons a powerful reason to wreak bloody revenge.

So, despite the blazing sunshine, I wore an iron helmet over a felt skull cap. The metal plates of a brunia protected my body. Thick, padded gauntlets covered my hands and forearms. Only my legs felt vulnerable. I sweltered in the searing heat and the perspiration ran down my body until my saddle was slippery with sweat. Like the troopers riding with me, I knew there would be no time to don our war gear when the Vascons chose to launch their assault.

It was the trooper just behind me who first spotted the danger. He gave a sharp cry of alarm and pointed up to our right. I swivelled in the saddle and looked up the steep slope of the mountain. The Vascons had struck early, well before we reached the gorge. The mountainside was sprouting men, a hundred or more. They had been lying in wait, concealed among the rocks. Now they rose from the ground and began to descend, leaping and slithering. As they advanced they raised a war cry, the most chilling sound I had heard. It was a terrible wolfish howl, mournful and without pity.

There was momentary panic along our line. The drovers struck out with their long whips. Troopers cursed as they swung their shields off their backs and slid their arms through the straps. Everyone grabbed for their weapons. Hroudland was bellowing at us to close ranks and keep moving and face the danger.

The Vascons had another surprise for us. We had expected their first attack to come as a hail of sling stones and arrows. But we had misjudged their ferocity. There was a clatter of slingstones, though only a few. At the same time a couple of dozen arrows fell among us without doing much harm, though a wounded horse screamed. It was the reckless savagery of the Vascon charge that was dismaying. They came seething down the hill in a surge of raw hatred and hostility. They were determined to engage us hand to hand. At that moment I knew for certain that it was not the wali’s ransom that drew them on but the burning desire to exact retribution for the destruction we had inflicted on their city.