Tim Severin - The Book of Dreams

Their leading warriors had concealed themselves within a few yards of the track. They sprang up from the ground and lunged at our horses’ bellies with daggers and short swords. Few succeeded in reaching their targets. Our troopers spitted them on their lances. Their iron sword blades cut down through muscle and bone, severing outstretched hands and limbs. The Vascons wore no armour. They were dressed in jackets of wolfskin and leggings of coarse cloth, and they took fearful losses. The man who had selected my gelding as his victim scuttled out of the roadside ambush and came straight at me like a scorpion, dagger raised. I swung my sword at him and the well-balanced Ingelrii blade made an effortless arc. The razor edge lopped off the man’s dagger hand as easily as a woodsman prunes a small branch. The Vascon reeled away, leaving a smear of blood behind him.

There was a confusion of shouting and the clash of steel from where Gerin was in charge of the vanguard. Near me the trooper who had first seen the Vascon ambush was swearing steadily as he tried to wield his sword and at the same time bring his mount under control. The howls of the Vascons and the smell of blood had panicked the animal. It was skittering from side to side, trying to bolt, hooves scrabbling on the rocky surface of the road. The trooper was roaring angrily and, unbalanced, he failed to connect as he cut at a Vascon lunging at him with a spear. The point of the weapon gouged a deep gash in the horse’s hindquarters before the trooper recovered himself enough to make a backhanded sword swing and hack the man to the ground. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a lad dart past me. He could not have been more than ten years old. He headed for the nearest ox cart and had a small knife in his hand. Before I realized what he was doing, he stabbed the blade into a full water bladder that hung from the side of the cart. Quick as a weasel, he dived under the cart and escaped. Behind him a jet of fresh water sprang from the punctured water bag and splashed to the ground.

All the while the oxen plodded on. Heads held low, they ignored the chaos of battle. Their huge dark eyes were intent on the road immediately ahead of their hooves. Long, glistening strings of drool hung from their muzzles. They toiled forward against the slope, goaded by their frightened drovers.

Gerin was managing to keep the road clear ahead of us. Whenever numbers of Vascons blocked the path, his Frankish lancers formed up and charged. They swept aside the men on foot, killing or wounding those who were too slow to run back up the hillside. Then the troopers reined in, turned and trotted back to resume their station in the vanguard. Each charge left a handful of Vascon corpses on the ground.

‘They’re out of their minds!’ Berenger yelled across to me. He was on the far side of the cart, riding escort. He had seen little action yet because the Vascons had launched their ambush from our right.

‘Hroudland ought to send a messenger to summon help from the main army,’ I shouted back. ‘This is just the first attack.’

Berenger laughed aloud and I heard a note of battle frenzy in his response.

‘Not a chance! The count is much too proud. We can fight our way past this rabble.’

I glanced over my shoulder. The Vascons were concentrating their attack on the rear of our little column. Hroudland and the rear guard were engaged against a grey-clad mob of the enemy. Eggihard and Anselm were mounted on tall, powerful horses so they were very visible. They had been reluctant to take orders from Hroudland, but in battle they were proving fearsome. Both men were using their long swords with deadly effect, slashing and thrusting, forcing back the attackers. A few yards away, Hroudland sat on his roan, roaring encouragement to his troopers as they drove off the Vascons.

It was impossible to tell how long the fury of the initial assault lasted. Eventually the Vascons saw how effectively we resisted and they began to withdraw, though only for a few yards up the mountainside where they were safe from our cavalry. There they kept pace with us, moving across the slope as our column crept forward.

To my surprise Hroudland took advantage of the lull in the fighting to ride up and congratulate me. His face under the rim of his helmet was running with sweat, and his eyes were bright.

‘Well done, Patch!’ he exclaimed. ‘You and your men held our flank.’

‘The enemy are only biding their time,’ I answered.

‘Then we’ll drive them off again and again until they learn that they can’t defeat well-trained cavalry,’ he assured me.

‘We’re not yet at the place Godomar thought suited for an ambush,’ I reminded him.

Hroudland was not to be put off.

‘Then that’s their mistake. They’ve thrown away the advantage of surprise.’

‘Maybe the Vascons are planning to delay us or to wear us down,’ I objected.

Hroudland drew his eyebrows together in a scowl. He did not like his judgement to be questioned.

‘What makes you such an expert soldier, Patch?’ he demanded, his congratulatory tone suddenly gone.

‘One of their lads slipped through our defence earlier. He put a hole in that waterskin over there,’ I said and nodded to where the punctured waterskin hung limp from the side of the cart.

Hroudland shrugged.

‘So we’ll be thirsty for a while,’ he said, though I noted that his eyes flicked towards the other carts. Several of their waterskins were also dangling empty.

I lowered my voice so that no one else could hear.

‘The next water source is the far side of the summit ridge.’

Hroudland recovered his poise.

‘Then all the more incentive to fight our way there,’ he retorted.

While we had been speaking the column had advanced perhaps a hundred paces. I wondered how many more hours it would be until we were out of danger.

The Vascons attacked us twice more before the sun was directly overhead. Each time we succeeded in driving them off though we lost a dozen horses, lamed or disembowelled. Their riders now walked or, if they had been wounded, they rode on the carts. We had not suffered a single death and I began to think that Hroudland was right; we would manage to force our way along the road until we were safely over the pass.

Two miles later everything changed.

Gerin rode back past me, his face grim. He was on his way to report to Hroudland. I was close enough to overhear him say to the count, ‘We’re in sight of the ravine now. It looks very narrow. A dangerous place.’ There was a short pause, and then Gerin added, almost apologetically, ‘We could always leave the carts behind. We still have enough horses to carry everyone to safety if they double up. I’m confident we could slip through.’

Hroudland’s answer was delivered in a harsh whisper.

‘I thought I made it clear: I have no intention of abandoning the treasure we have won. Have the enemy blocked the roadway?’

‘Apparently not, though there’s a bend in the road and I can’t see the full length of the ravine,’ said Gerin.

‘Then the passage lies ahead, and we take it,’ Hroudland confirmed.

‘I will do my best, my lord. But I fear that is what the enemy want us to do,’ Gerin said. He spoke in a flat, resigned tone in contrast to his usual air of steely competence.

He returned past me, looking distracted and chewing his lip. I had a queasy feeling that he was right. We were doing what the Vascons had planned for us. Only Hroudland’s absolute self-confidence kept driving us forward.

The enemy left us alone for the time it took us to reach the point where the road narrowed to no more than four or five paces width, just before entering the ravine itself. To the right was a low cliff, not more than fifteen feet high. To the left a steep broken slope covered with rocks and small loose stones extended all the way up to the mountain ridge. I noticed the troopers casting worried glances from side to side. We were roasting in the summer heat and my mouth was dry. I summoned up some saliva and swallowed in an attempt to moisten my throat.