by Tim Severin
‘Sounds crazy to me, Ogier,’ observed Berenger.
‘At home our poets do it all the time,’ Ogier said. ‘They say the sea is the whale road; the sun is the sky candle.’ He resumed his whittling of the piece of wood.
I didn’t want to make the company feel foolish so I said, ‘Ogier is right. In my riddle the “bird’s support” is a feather, and the diligent warrior is a “man’s arm”.’
A voice behind me said, ‘Then the four curious creatures travelling together are a scribe’s four fingers, and the feather is a writing quill leaving an inky trail.’
I turned to see who had worked out the correct answer. Tall and good looking, he had just emerged from one of the sleeping cubicles and held himself with an easy grace. Fair skinned, he had a straight nose and grey eyes and hair the colour of ripe wheat. Also, there was something vaguely familiar about him. It took me a moment to realize that he reminded me of King Carolus. It was as if the newcomer was the king as a younger man. I tried to stand up from my bench, ready to bow to him, but I was awkwardly placed and came up against the table and fell back on my seat. My clumsiness brought a smile to his face. He showed white, even teeth.
‘Don’t get up,’ he said. ‘My name is Hroudland.’
‘I’m Sigwulf,’ I replied, ‘and you have the correct answer.’
Hroudland came and sat down across the table from me.
‘A lucky guess,’ he said. ‘But I haven’t worked out what you meant by “beaten gold”.’
‘My riddle was an image of a man writing in ink with a quill on parchment that has gold illumination,’ I answered him.
‘You should try that out on my uncle. He’s keen on anything that’s got a religious slant,’ Hroudland said.
‘Your uncle?’
‘My mother is one of King Carolus’s sisters.’
I had just opened my mouth to respond when I was interrupted by Anseis asking, ‘Is it true that the king is planning a campaign against the Saracens in Hispania, Hroudland?’
‘Not this year. The season’s too late,’ said Hroudland.
‘In the south you can keep an army in the field almost until Christmas,’ observed Berenger.
‘That’s something you should discuss with Gerard,’ said Hroudland looking across at the white-haired older man.
The riddles were forgotten. The conversation veered off into a discussion of how long it would take to raise an army, the speed of its supply train, the correct proportion of archers to foot soldiers to cavalry, the correct tactics for fighting Saracens. As they talked and argued, I learned that the old man Gerard came from the south and that when King Carolus went to war, my fellow royal guests served as officers in his army.
The discussion was bringing back bitter memories of the only battle I had ever fought in, and I excused myself from the table. Osric had returned from the royal stores with an armful of clothes, and I found myself a vacant sleeping cubicle where he laid out my new wardrobe. When he withdrew, I lay down on the cot and closed my eyes. It had been a long day and I was tired. Almost instantly I was asleep.
My twin joined me or, rather, his fetch came to sit on the side of my cot. He looked as he always did when he visited me in my dreams – pensive and calm, not the ghastly corpse of his death. He had aged at the same pace as myself, and sometimes I wondered if I was looking in a mirror, rather than seeing someone who had been dead these past ten years.
For a long time he sat without speaking, occasionally looking around the little alcove. ‘What do you make of them?’ he eventually asked.
As always, I did not reply. There was no need. My brother always answered his own question.
‘Learn what you can about them. Suspect the one you come to trust, and trust the one you suspect.’
Then he stood up and left.
*
I was awake before sunrise. For a few moments I lay snug in my cubicle, recollecting where I was. Then I rose and dressed quietly in the Frankish costume that Osric had delivered for me – linen undertrousers and shirt under a belted tunic, and woollen leggings held in place by criss-cross garters. Osric had located a pair of laced leather boots of the right size, and only the long cloak in the shape of a double square delayed me. It took some time in the darkness to work out that I should place it over my shoulders so that it hung in front and behind, with a slit on each side.
I walked softly across the room, careful not to wake my new companions, and let myself out. During the night the rain had stopped. The air smelled of dampness and mildew. Only the faintest glow showed where the sun would rise. I made my way cautiously through the shadows, trying to retrace my path to where I had seen the statue of the horse.
I had gone perhaps a hundred paces when I realized that I had lost my way. I decided it would be wiser to wait until the daylight was stronger and I could get my bearings. I stood in silence for some time, watching the buildings gradually take shape out of the darkness. It was a strange sensation to know that I was in the heart of the largest, most powerful kingdom in the western world and had already met its supreme ruler face to face. Yet I knew almost nothing about it. If I was to find my proper place within it, I would have to learn its manners and customs. The prospect excited me.
All of a sudden there came the most hideous scream. It was a cry of such anguish that the hair rose on the back of my neck. Instinctively I reached for my dagger, only to remember that I had left it behind. The source of that terrible scream was very close. Weaponless, I hesitated. Then the ghastly wail came again, even more desperate than before, and I knew I had to intervene. Someone was being attacked and needed urgent help. The screams had come from the far side of a builder’s shed. I took a deep breath and dashed around the corner, my heart pounding, not knowing what I would find. I half-hoped that my sudden appearance might frighten the assailant off his victim, or if I yelled loudly enough to raise the alarm, someone would come to help.
I came skidding around the corner of the hut only to find no one there. There was a large heap of rough-sawn logs and an open muddy space. Pale smears of sawdust showed where the carpenters had been at work. I slithered to a halt, puzzled. The light had strengthened enough to cast faint shadows. Something moved in the gloom, low down beside the timber. I tried to make out what it was, half expecting to see a badly wounded victim lying in the mire. Again nothing. Then out from the shadow strutted a bird. It stood taller than a chicken, with large feet and a small, fine head on a gracefully curved neck. The body was almost the size of a goose and, though it did not waddle, the creature had a stilted, ungainly walk. The tail was very odd. The bird dragged behind it a drooping train of feathers out of all proportion to its size. I was still puzzling about this strange creature when it raised its head and uttered that same spine-chilling, ugly scream. Once again my heart raced, but by then I knew what was in front of me. Near my father’s house had been the ruins of an old Roman villa, once the home of a rich merchant. On its mosaic floor had been depicted all manner of exotic creatures, lions, sea monsters, fish, ducks and . . . peacocks.
‘Escaped from the king’s zoo,’ said a voice I recognized, and Alcuin materialized from the shadows, giving me yet another scare that morning. ‘I’m sorry if I startled you. I take a stroll after lauds. It helps clear the mind.’
‘That creature has a shocking call,’ I commented.
‘The voice of the devil, the gait of a thief, and the body of an angel,’ replied Alcuin.
The bird heard our voices, turned towards us and slowly raised its tail into an enormous fan. Straining with effort, for a moment the creature looked as if it would topple forward on its beak. Despite the comic stance, I was impressed. The Roman mosaics had not come near capturing the magnificence of the live display.
‘The hundred eyes of Argos,’ I said.
Alcuin gave me a shrewd glance.
‘Where did you learn that?’
‘A tale my tutor told me at home. He loved the ancient stories,’ I replied.
‘A
priest?’
I nodded.
‘He would have done better to tell you that the patterns of the peacock’s fan represent the all-seeing eye of God.’
I decided to tease.
‘And the flesh of the dead peacock doesn’t corrupt? So it mimics the eternal body of Christ.’
Alcuin showed a flash of irritation.
‘Pure myth. If this bird is mauled by one of the king’s hunting dogs, you will find that the body rots just like any other fowl.’
He began herding the peacock across the ground, as if he was a goose girl, and I helped him.
‘What other animals does the king have in his collection?’ I asked.
‘Bears, a leopard or two, cranes, wolves, some monkeys, several types of snake – most of them survive only a year or two before they die.’
‘How do they get here?’
‘Some are brought by hunters who’ve heard of the royal menagerie. The more exotic animals are sent by foreign rulers, as gifts.’
I saw my opening.
‘What about that metal horse, the big statue? Was that a gift?’
‘That came from Italy, from Ravenna. It represents a Roman emperor, Theodosius. Carolus asked for it to be sent to him.’
‘A strange request.’
‘Not really. Theodosios was a Christian emperor in Rome. He spread the word of Christ with his conquests. Carolus sees him as an example.’
I said nothing, wondering whether my dream was of the Roman or the Frank.
The peacock stalked ahead of us, not hurrying. Now it stopped and uttered another of its raucous wails. In response a servant appeared at a run. He must have been one of the keepers of the royal menagerie because he had a small bag of grain in his hand. He sprinkled a trail of seeds on the ground and the peacock pecked at them until he was close enough to grab the bird.
Alcuin watched the captive being carried away.
‘How are you settling into your new quarters with your new companions?’ he asked.
‘I’m still trying to put names to faces.’
‘Their families are influential and from all over the kingdom and beyond.’
‘The one called Hroudland claims to be the king’s nephew.’
‘That’s correct but his mother remarried; he doesn’t get on with his stepfather who is one of the king’s chief ministers. Life is quieter if they are kept apart.’
‘There’s a big, shaggy fellow in our lodgings who doesn’t say much. Just watches.’
‘Son of the Danish king. He’s a hostage for his father’s good behaviour. But a steady man and reliable.’ Alcuin stopped and faced me. ‘Sigwulf, if you take my advice you will do the same. Look and listen and keep your own counsel. Among the so-called royal guests there are rivalries and hatreds swirling beneath the surface. Beware of them.’ Somewhere in the distance a church bell sounded. ‘That’s the signal for a royal council. I’ll see you this afternoon, in class.’
I watched him walk away. He had the confident stride of a man who knew his own mind. His warning had been remarkably like my brother’s.
*
I got back to my new companions in time for a breakfast of meat broth thickened to a porridge with barley meal and washed down with beer. There was a cheerful atmosphere at the table.
‘Any good on a horse, Patch?’ asked Hroudland. He pushed aside his empty bowl and stood up. He was almost as tall as his uncle, though not as heavily built.
‘Just the basics,’ I said, thinking of the dozen horses we’d owned at home; they had been ordinary nags that we’d ridden when hunting and they’d served as pack animals to carry back the deer and wild pig we’d killed.
‘Then you have much to learn,’ said Hroudland, laying his hand on my shoulder in an unexpected gesture of friendship.
There was good-natured banter as all of us, including white-haired Gerard, filed outside where a cluster of servants was waiting. They were burdened down with an impressive assortment of weapons – helmets and body armour, swords and shields, javelins and heavy lances. Only Osric was empty handed. Followed by our attendants we set off along the muddy footpaths, and once again Hroudland picked me out to say a few words, but quietly this time.
‘Expect a little foolery.’ His glance indicated Engeler and Oton walking ahead of us.
‘I hope I didn’t give offence last night,’ I said.
‘Some people are touchy, or they resent a quicker wit than their own. You would do well to doubt the first beast that is offered to you.’
We reached the edge of a paddock. A herd of some thirty excited horses was milling around, whinnying and occasionally baring their teeth at one another, their hooves splattering mud. The animals were larger, stronger and more spirited than any I had seen at home. Most were stallions. Grooms darted here and there to catch particular animals, and even to my untrained eye, the horses that they led out were clearly the best ones in the herd. Meanwhile our attendants were busy helping their masters to put on padded surcoats and mailed jackets, baldricks, helmets and thick gloves. Finally they assisted them into the saddles of their selected horses and handed up the weapons.
I stood apart, watching warily.
‘Patch needs a horse, too.’ My armed companions had gathered in a group and were looking down at me. I could not make out who had spoken, but it sounded like Berenger. Two of the grooms ran back into the paddock and, after an interval, led out a spare horse, ready saddled and bridled. They held the animal, waiting for me to mount. I walked towards them, knowing that I had to go through with the performance. Any fool would have known that they were restraining an animal that was difficult, perhaps dangerous. The creature was very angry. Stiff-legged and tense, it was showing the whites of its eyes, with nostrils dilated, and lips drawn back to show yellow teeth. Each groom had one hand on the bridle, the other tightly grasping the horse’s ear, twisting it downward to induce submission.
A third groom helped me up into the saddle, and even before I was settled in place, the beast was let loose. The grooms dove for safety, and immediately the horse beneath me bucked violently. I made no effort to stay in the saddle, but let myself be thrown clear, dropping one shoulder as I cartwheeled through the air so I landed unscathed into the soft mud. I had not expected the horse then to launch an attack. The animal spun round and, as I was trying to rise, lashed out at me with its rear hooves. Fortunately I was still on all fours, and I felt the hooves slash past my head. Next the horse bolted off for a short distance and turned, whinnying with rage, ready to rush at me. By that time I was running through the muck and climbing up the wooden fence of the paddock like a frightened squirrel.
My mounted companions had broad grins on their faces.
‘You knew that was coming, didn’t you?’ Oton said. He sounded disappointed.
Walk, trot, canter, gallop, and stand – the rest of the morning was spent in a series of mounted exercises on a nearby training field. Again and again my companions divided into opposing teams, rode to the opposite ends of the field, then turned, levelled their lances, and came charging towards one another. At the last moment before collision, the team’s leader gave a great yell, he and his companions suddenly pulled up their horses, spun round and galloped away, pretending to flee and draw on their opponents. Then, moments later, they would wheel about and face their rivals again, weapons ready. It was all about keeping formation, controlling the horses, riding knee to knee, coordinating their manoeuvres. The air was filled with excited shouts and commands, the snorting of the horses, and the thud of hooves. Then, in smaller groups, they rode at straw-filled dummies and either hurled their javelins, or if they were carrying lances thrust and stabbed before withdrawing to reform and attack again with swords and axes. Finally they divided into pairs and, this time with wooden blades, they chopped and hacked at one another’s shields until exhausted.
I took no part in the war drill. Instead I observed, with Osric standing at my shoulder.
‘He’s more accustomed to a pony,’
observed my slave. He was watching Ogier who rode his horse, leaning far back, his legs extended straight downward as if he was walking. Unlike the others, he rode without stirrups.
I was curious to know how my slave was so knowledgeable but at that moment Hroudland came thundering past us at a gallop, cocked his arm and hurled a javelin. It thumped into the target, dead centre. He let loose a great full-throated whoop of triumph.
‘What about him?’ I asked. I could see that the king’s tall nephew was a first-class horseman. He guided his animal with the lightest pressure on the reins as if he and his mount were one.
‘He’s good, but impetuous,’ Osric answered.
‘Then who’s the most competent among them?’ I enquired.
‘That one there,’ he replied. He nodded towards a man to whom I had paid little attention the previous evening. Gerin was a taciturn, rather grim figure, a big loose-limbed man with close cropped hair and hard eyes. Now he carried a plain, red shield and I had noticed his tendency to hang back and watch his companions in their manoeuvres.
‘He doesn’t need to practise,’ said Osric, ‘he’s a professional warrior.’
Hroudland rode up to us. His horse was very distinctive, a roan stallion with dark patches on its neck and rump.
‘Time to get you cleaned up, Patch,’ he said in a friendly voice. I was still grubby with mud from my tumble in the paddock. He jumped down from his horse and handed his war gear to an attendant and pointed towards a low red-roofed building in the distance. ‘I’ll introduce you to my uncle’s main indulgence.’
Side by side, we walked towards the building, leaving our servants to catch up with us. The rain clouds had gone, and the earth steamed gently in the hot sunshine. Hroudland waved a hand, taking in the construction work going on around us.
‘It’ll be years before this place is completed to my uncle’s satisfaction. Sometimes I feel as cooped up as one of the animals in his menagerie.’
‘I met the king yesterday,’ I said. ‘There was a young woman with him. She looked so much like him that I guessed she was his daughter.’
‘That could have been Theodrada or Hiltrude or Gerswinda. I’ve several female cousins. It’s difficult to keep track.’