by Tim Severin
‘Who’s the girl with the amber necklace?’ I muttered to Hroudland as we resumed our places.
‘That’s Bertha. If she’s the girl who caught your fancy, you’ll have your hands full. That’s true, isn’t it, Oton?’
Oton, who was seated opposite us, rolled his eyes in mock horror.
‘She’d eat you alive, Patch.’
A relay of servants was passing along our table, serving food and drink. I sipped cautiously at what was poured into my cup. It was red wine, the best I had ever tasted.
‘We never drank anything like that at home,’ I commented approvingly.
‘You’ve got Anseis to thank for that,’ said Oton. ‘His family’s Burgundian estates are obliged to send fifty barrels a year to the king.’
I noticed Anseis scowl; he must have been thinking that the vintage was wasted on foreigners like myself.
Oton reached for a loaf of bread and broke off a chunk, then passed it to me.
‘Here, Patch, have some of this. It’s flavoured with caraway and poppy seeds. The trouble with banquets is that Carolus only likes boiled or roast meat, no fancy sauces.’
A large dish had been set down in the middle of the table, heaped with what appeared to be a heap of twisted, dark-brown sticks.
‘Can you pass me a couple of those,’ I asked Berenger, who was seated on my other side. I had recognized smoked eel and wondered if it was a relic of my trip with Arnulf and his ox wagon.
‘Can’t wait for the hunting season to begin,’ complained Berenger, regarding with distaste the boiled pork and dumplings that had been put on our plates. ‘Venison and wild boar on a spit is something the cooks can’t ruin.’ He called across to Gerard, ‘I’ve a riddle for you:
‘I am black on the outside, wrapped in a wrinkled skin,
Inside I contain a fiery marrow . . .
I season delicacies and the banquets of kings,
But you will find in me no quality of any worth . . .’
Gerard gave a rueful smile and said, ‘No need to go on. You’ve made your point.’
He produced a small pouch from his sleeve and carefully extracted three or four black seeds which he passed across. Berenger laid them on the table and smashed them to powder with the handle of his dagger. He saw me watching him.
‘Patch, you’re good at solving riddles. What’s the answer to mine?’
‘I have no idea,’ I said.
Berenger picked up a few of the broken grains on the tip of his knife and said, ‘Put these on your tongue.’
I did so. The fiery taste made me grab my wine cup. I took a deep gulp to wash out my burning mouth.
‘The answer is “pepper”,’ said Berenger, grinning.
As we ate, a group of musicians entered the hall and began to play. The noise of their fiddles, pipes and drums made conversation difficult so I covertly studied the guests at the councillors’ table. Several important-looking men wore chains of office. I supposed they were the high officers of state, the seneschal, the count of the palace, the high chamberlain, and the keeper of the royal stables. This last individual, Hroudland had told me, commanded the royal guard. Alcuin and his fellow priests sat in a group, forming a sombre block of brown and drab among the other splendidly dressed dignitaries, whose costumes were bright with rich reds and blues, their necks and fingers heavy with gold jewellery. I presumed they were the dukes and counts whom the king appointed to rule the provinces. Among them the foxy-faced man whom I had noticed earlier was in earnest conversation with his neighbour, but something told me that he was very aware that I was watching him.
‘Who’s that in the yellow tunic, the one with the shock of grey hair?’ I asked Hroudland when the musicians finally began to put away their instruments.
Hroudland glanced across the hall.
‘That viper is my stepfather, Ganelon,’ he said icily. ‘He’s a charlatan and opportunist.’
I would have liked to have found out the reason for his dislike but a hush fell on the assembly. A man carrying a stool in one hand and a small harp in the other had walked into the open space between the tables.
Berenger gave a low groan of dismay.
‘This will be worse than theology,’ he said.
The newcomer set the stool down, bowed to the king, and announced loudly, ‘With your permission, my Lord, today I tell of the great warrior Troilus, son of King Priam, and how he met his death at the hands of the noble Achilles.’
Beside me, Hroudland said in a low voice, ‘Another of my uncle’s foibles. At meal times he loves to hear the tales of ancient heroes.’
The bard cleared his throat, placed one foot on the stool, set his harp upon his knee, and after plucking a few chords, launched into his tale. I watched the king’s face as I tried to decide whether he was genuinely enjoying the performance. He sat expressionless, not eating, only toying with a piece of bread with a large, powerful hand on which a massive gold ring was set with a large ruby.
I already knew the Troilus story. It had been a favourite of my old teacher, Bertwald.
The bard droned on. He had a high-pitched, rather irritating voice, and an unfortunate tendency to lay the stress on the wrong words. I began to sympathize with Berenger’s dismay, and wondered how long the performance would last. The wooden bench was uncomfortable.
The bard plodded through his narrative: Troilus was the most beautiful youth in Troy, a famous warrior, and an adept handler of horses. Daily he went beyond the city walls to exercise his chariot team on the plain before Troy. Afterwards he brought them to a sacred grove to water them at a spring. Knowing his routine, the Greeks set upon him. But he defeated them, wounding king Menalaus, and even put the renowned Myrmidons to flight. When word of this humiliation reached Achilles, the greatest champion of the Greeks, he vowed to exact revenge. He put on his armour and hid in ambush at the sacred grove.
The bard paused. He took a sip of water and fiddled with his harp, tightening a couple of strings. I knew he was doing it for dramatic effect.
Incautiously I muttered to Hroudland, ‘He’s not mentioned the main reason why Achilles had to kill the youth.’
Either the king’s hearing was abnormally acute or I had taken too much of Anseis’s wine and spoken louder than intended. A high-pitched royal voice barked, ‘You! If you know the story so well, why don’t you finish it?!’
I looked up, dismayed. Carolus was glaring at me with those large pale eyes, his mouth set in an angry line.
‘Go on, young man,’ he rasped. ‘Show us you can do better.’
I felt the blood drain from my face. The king continued to stare angrily at me. I was aware of the sudden silence, the entire company watching and waiting for my reaction. Engeler made a faint, clucking sound with his tongue. He was enjoying my humiliation.
Perhaps it was a further effect of the wine, but somehow I found the courage to get to my feet. Without looking at the king, I walked over to where the bard was standing, harp in hand, a look of disgust on his face.
With an ironic gesture he offered me the harp, but I waved it aside. I was no musician. Smirking, he retreated a few paces and stood with arms folded waiting for me to make a fool of myself.
I drew several deep breaths as Bertwald had taught me to do if I was to speak in public.
‘My Lord,’ I addressed the king. ‘There was a prophecy known to all the Greeks. It said that if the beautiful youth Troilus lived to reach full manhood, Troy would never fall. For that reason – above all others – Achilles knew he had to slay the golden youth. So Achilles lay in wait at the sacred grove, and when Troilus came there with his servant, he burst from ambush.’
I saw the king relax. He sat back in his seat, and nodded.
‘Go on,’ he commanded.
By now the wine had certainly gone to my head. The audience seemed to soften and blur around me. I knew they were still there, waiting and listening. But I was in my own empty space and I could fill it with my words. I raised my voice.
‘Achilles fell upon Troilus. He caught him by his long and lustrous hair, and dragged him off his horse. Then on the sacred soil he beheaded him. Then he cut off his parts and hung them beneath the armpits of the corpse so that Troilus’s ghost would never come to haunt him.’ I paused and licked my dry lips. The spirit of tipsy courage had taken complete control. ‘Troilus’s mutilated corpse was carried back into the city, and the Trojans raised a great wailing. They lamented the loss of their youthful prince, but above all they remembered him for his grace and for his surpassing beauty. He was the darling of the people, and none grieved him more than Polyxena, princess of the Trojans. She was the fairest of all her sisters, tall and beautiful. Her eyes were lovely, her long hair the colour of ripe wheat, and her body was well-proportioned. She melted men’s hearts.’
I finished the final sentence and bowed to the king. As I lowered my head, I deliberately allowed my eyes to rest for a brief moment on Bertha. She was staring at me, her eyes wide.
The bard treated me to a look of pure loathing as I walked past him and returned to my seat. The hum of general conversation resumed. Hroudland thumped me on the back as I sat down beside him. My knees were shaking.
‘Well done, Patch!’ he chortled.
The servants had already begun ladling out the next course of the banquet. I picked up my spoon and took a mouthful. It was an evil-tasting pottage of chicken in a spinach and bean broth, heavily flavoured with garlic. Vaguely I heard the musicians start up again. I was too spent to say anything and I kept my head down, eating quietly.
All of a sudden, there was an agonizing spasm in my stomach as if a dagger had been jabbed into my gut. Bile surged up. My throat constricted and I felt I could not breathe. Next there came a great roaring in my head and a red curtain descended across my eyes. I felt myself falling forward, and everything went black.
Chapter Eight
SOMETHING HARD WAS forced between my teeth, and then a trickle of fluid ran down the back of my throat. I coughed and nearly choked. I did not have the strength to lift my eyelids. Worse, my heart was pounding in a frightening way, its beat irregular.
A faraway voice said calmly, ‘You must swallow.’ I knew the speaker but I was too confused to remember who it was. I swallowed.
Time must have passed, for when I regained the strength to open my eyes, it was to see Osric’s familiar face. He was leaning over me, a narrow tube in his hand. He inserted it again into my mouth.
‘Drink as much of this as you can,’ he said.
Obediently I sucked on the liquid. It had no taste and left a sticky coating on the inside of my mouth. My stomach churned and my bowels had turned to water. I felt so weak that I could not move my limbs.
‘Lie quietly,’ said Osric.
I must have drifted off to sleep for when I came to my senses again, it was night. By the light of a single candle Osric sat beside me, and once again he made me drink the sticky liquid. I was lying on some sort of bed and had soiled myself. The bed linen stank. Feebly I tried to sit up, but he pushed me back down with his hand.
‘Here, chew,’ he said, and dropped into my mouth a lump of some substance which crumbled into powder as I bit into it. He held a cup of water to my lips and I swirled down the thin paste. It tasted of nothing. Again I drifted off into blackness.
*
When I awoke a second time, it was to find that I had been washed and dressed in a clean bed gown. Osric was gone, but Alcuin was sitting patiently on a stool, his face grave.
I looked about me. I was lying in a small, plainly furnished room. Daylight entered through a window in the whitewashed walls.
‘Where am I?’ I asked.
‘The king’s house, a room where the crown couriers rest between trips.’
‘What happened?’
‘You ate something which made you so violently sick that you were brought here, the nearest place.’ The priest folded his hands in his lap. ‘Perhaps it was a food which you were not accustomed to. There were times when it was thought you might die. Prayers were said for you.’
I detected a hesitation in his voice.
‘Was anyone else taken ill?’ I asked.
‘The old man, Gerard of Roussillon, suffers the same symptoms, but they began some hours later. He managed to get back to his own bed. He breathes with difficulty and is getting weaker.’
I remembered Osric dosing me.
‘My slave Osric must treat him with the same medicine he gave me. It seems to have been effective.’
‘As could have been our prayers,’ Alcuin reminded me quietly, but he agreed to my request and got to his feet. ‘When you are strong enough, you will be able to return to your own quarters.’
No sooner had he left the room than a worried-looking Count Hroudland and Berenger appeared in the doorway. I managed to raise my head and greet them. Hroudland’s face lit up with relief.
‘Patch, it’s good to see you awake,’ said Hroudland. ‘There were times when we thought you were finished.’ He came across to my bed and laid a hand on my brow. ‘The fever has broken, thank God.’
‘Fallen on your feet again, Patch,’ Berenger said, his usual jaunty self. ‘Convalescing in the royal household.’ He grinned. ‘I always knew that banquet food was bad, but I had no idea quite how awful it could be.’
I smiled weakly. My stomach felt as though a horse had kicked me in the gut.
‘Get well quickly, Patch,’ Berenger continued. ‘There’s to be a grand hunt in two weeks’ time, the first of the season. You wouldn’t want to miss that.’
Hroudland was pacing up and down the room, looking agitated.
‘Patch, do you have any idea what could have poisoned you?’ he asked.
I shook my head. I could remember eating smoked eel, pig meat with dumplings, and then some of the chicken and vegetable pottage.
‘Perhaps it was something I drank,’ I said.
‘All of us enjoyed Anseis’s wine, yet only you and Gerard are sick.’
‘What are you trying to tell me?’
Hroudland chose his words carefully.
‘That someone may have harmed you deliberately.’
It took me a moment to grasp his meaning.
‘Are you saying that someone tried to poison me? Why would they want to do that?’ I was astonished.
He hesitated.
‘You are known to be my close friend. It could have a warning aimed at me, or simply an act to hurt me.’
‘I still don’t understand.’
‘The king has said that he will appoint me to the next important post that falls vacant. Others seek that post for themselves. They see me as an obstacle to their own ambitions.’
I thought back to Alcuin’s opaque warning about dangers lurking in the court.
‘That seems a very vague threat,’ I said.
‘Then there’s Ganelon.’
It took me a moment to realize whom he was talking about.
‘You mean your stepfather?’
‘He loathes me. The feeling is mutual. He thinks I’m trying to turn my mother against him. He’ll lose much of his wealth and power if she divorces him.’
I recalled how the man in the yellow jerkin had watched me during the banquet. But surely it was impossible that Ganelon would have been able to carry out a deliberate poisoning so quickly. Also I found it difficult to believe that that a family feud could be so bitter that it would extend to murder. I told myself that my illness was probably an accident and I would be more careful what I ate in future. First, though, I would check with Osric. He had known how to cure me, so he might know what had harmed me.
Berenger had started to tell a bawdy joke when the door opened and my fourth visitor of the day swept in, someone so completely unexpected that I goggled: it was Princess Bertha.
Berenger immediately broke off his tale and bowed.
‘We were just leaving, your highness,’ he said smoothly. At the same time he treated Hroudland to a meaningful glance. The two of them made for
the door and, just as they were leaving, I was startled to see Berenger turn round and, behind the princess’s back, wink.
I had still not got over my surprise when the princess said, ‘I am so pleased to see that you are recovering.’
She was looking lovely in a pale-blue gown of some soft, clinging material gathered at the waist with a thin silver belt. Her long yellow plaits hung free as when I had first seen her, though now the amber necklace was missing.
‘It is kind of you to come to see me,’ I mumbled.
‘You told the story of Troilus so beautifully. My father says you are a natural storyteller.’
The princess’s voice was husky and musical, and she had the same direct manner of speaking as her father. She walked over and sat down beside my bed on the stool that Alcuin had used. A hint of rose perfume reached me. She smoothed the front of her gown over her bosom.
‘His regular bard is furious.’
Briefly I wondered if he had been furious enough to warn me off with something poisonous in my food.
‘Sigwulf is a nice name. It’s a pity that everyone calls you Patch.’
I wondered how she came to know this detail, but already she was reaching to remove my eye bandage.
‘That should be more comfortable.’
I felt vulnerable without the eye patch, almost naked. Then I remembered that she had been in the room when her father had commented on my different-coloured eyes.
Now she was looking at me with great interest, searching my face. She was so close I could see that her own eyes, which I had thought were blue, verged on grey like her father’s. The lashes were as blonde as her hair, the eyelids faintly freckled. Her broad well-shaped brow, fair skin and straight nose made her very attractive in the way the Franks admired. I found myself trying to decide whether she had used berry juice to add colour to her lips.