Saxon: The Book of Dreams (Saxon 1)

by Tim Severin

  ‘If they return,’ he growled, ‘we’ll soon see them off.’

  Eggihard bridled at Hroudland’s bluntness.

  ‘I take it, then, that you’ve also disposed of the Vascon threat?’ The simmering antagonism between the two men was close to boiling over.

  The count gave a bitter laugh.

  ‘Pamplona will no longer bother us.’

  There was an awkward pause, and then Berenger broke the silence.

  ‘Pamplona has been taught its lesson.’

  Eggihard turned towards him, eyebrows raised.

  ‘Or have you only succeeded in rousing the citizens against us?’ His voice was waspish.

  ‘There’s not much left to rouse,’ Berenger answered. ‘Their fault for neglecting the walls. We were charging down the streets before they could put together a defence.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Some idiot set the place on fire. The blaze spread too fast.’

  ‘Too fast for what?’

  ‘For us to sack the place properly.’

  Eggihard smirked. I wondered if he was pleased that his earlier caution about attacking Pamplona had been proved right.

  ‘Poorly handled, then. A pity.’

  Hroudland flared.

  ‘Better handled than this botched withdrawal. If we hadn’t got here today, you might have lost the Zaragoza ransom, taken back by the Saracens.’

  The two men bristled at one another, and then out-faced by Hroudland and his comrades, Eggihard got to his feet and stalked out of the hut.

  Hroudland shot me a resentful glance.

  ‘Can’t see how you put up with that incompetent fool,’ he said.

  I kept silent. I was reminded of my father’s bad temper, quarrelsome and tetchy, when he came back from an unsuccessful day out hunting.

  Hroudland squeezed another drink from the wineskin, and then spat into the flames of the fire.

  ‘The loot we took from Pamplona wouldn’t pay a month’s expenses.’

  ‘Thankfully you can look forward to your share of Wali Husayn’s ransom money,’ I ventured.

  He raised his chin and glared at me.

  ‘When we charged into Pamplona, the place had already been emptied out. Most of the treasure had been carried away to safety.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure,’ he snapped. ‘We got into the cathedral before it burned. Nothing there. All the church plate gone. The same story with the merchant houses. We found just a few baubles.’

  He turned his bloodshot eyes towards me.

  ‘And now there’s a far greater prize.’

  I looked at him baffled.

  ‘What prize?’

  The count leaned forward and tugged a length of firewood clear of the hearth. The end was smouldering. The count blew on it until the first flames began to flicker.

  ‘Patch, think back to your earlier trip through these mountains. We spoke about it when we were riding south. You told me then that the people of these mountains are an ancient race who have lived in their mountain strongholds for centuries.’

  ‘It was how Wali Husayn described them to me,’ I said.

  ‘And didn’t he say that they demanded tolls from the people who used the passes, or robbed them if they did not pay?’

  I was growing uneasy with the line of questioning.

  When Hroudland next spoke, it was in a dreamy tone as if he was far away. He was staring at the flames on the firebrand in a half-trance.

  ‘A priest in Pamplona gloated to me, even as his cathedral burned around his ears. He crowed that their greatest treasure was worthless to us.’ With a sudden fierce gesture, the count jabbed the end of the piece of wood back into the fire, and left it there deep among the glowing embers. ‘The priest should have kept his mouth shut. But he was too intent on having his paltry victory – the church’s spiritual value outweighs any wordly price was how he put it. I asked him what he meant, and he said that their greatest treasure was a chalice fashioned from stone. It came from the Holy Land.’

  I felt the hairs on my neck prickle for now I knew why Hroudland had ridden up into the mountains with such haste.

  The count turned to face me. It was as though he was seeing me for the first time.

  ‘I asked the priest why the chalice was so special. He informed me that Christ had used this very same chalice at the Last Supper.’

  ‘I suppose he even told you where to find it?’ I forced as much disbelief as possible into my voice, but Hroudland ignored my scepticism.

  ‘It took a little persuasion. The chalice doesn’t belong to the cathedral but is brought there for special feast days. For the rest of the year it is kept in a mountain refuge.’ He reached out and caught me by the sleeve. ‘Don’t you see, Patch. Everything fits. The castle in the mountain, the ancient guardians, the chalice from the Holy Land. This has to be the Graal. Somehow the Vascons got hold of it from a group of travellers who were on their way through the pass. If I bring it back to the Bretons, I will become more than just a margrave.’

  I made another attempt to deflect him.

  ‘Everyone knows that Vascon mountain refuges are impregnable.’

  ‘How about robbery by stealth?’ he said, suddenly sly. ‘Less than five miles from here a stronghold matches the description we extracted from the Pamplona priest. It’s worth a look.’ He gave my sleeve a slight shake to emphasize his words. ‘Patch, tomorrow I’m going to see what I can find there. I want you to come with me.’ He called across to Berenger. ‘Fetch in that prisoner.’

  Berenger left the hut and came back moments later, pushing ahead of him a short, wiry man with a weather-beaten look. The side of his face was cut and bruised. Someone had beaten him up badly. A faint memory stirred. He was the Vascon shepherd in whose hut we were sitting.

  ‘We caught this fellow spying on us from the side of the track as we came up the road,’ said Berenger. He kicked the shepherd’s feet from under him so that the man fell heavily to the ground.

  ‘This hut is where the man lives,’ I said defensively.

  ‘Then he must know the mountains as well as anyone. He’ll tell us where we want to go,’ said Hroudland. There was a more ruthless edge to his voice than I had ever heard before.

  I should have refused at that moment, or at very least I should have made another effort to convince Hroudland that the Graal was a fantasy. Yet there was something so intense about his conviction that I knew my words would have no effect. It was the same stubborn, self-obsessed Hroudland that I had seen before. Once he had decided on a course of action, he was adamant. This time he had persuaded himself that the Graal was hidden nearby, and he was determined to take it. I could either stand aside and refuse to be involved in such a madcap venture or I could accompany him and assist in whatever way I could. A quick, stealthy raid might achieve surprise but I doubted it. The mountaineers would be keeping a good lookout, knowing the Frankish army was moving through the pass. If there was fighting, the count’s reckless bravery might win a skirmish. But his rashness could equally draw him far into danger.

  Conscious that I already owed my life and liberty to Hroudland’s impetuous actions, I decided that I would go with him. If I was the cool head by his side, there might come a moment when I could repay the debt.

  *

  Just three of us set out in mid-morning – Hroudland, Berenger and myself. Hroudland had decided to keep our group as small as possible to attract the least attention. Eggihard raised no objection to our departure. Indeed he was so keen to see us go that I suspected he was hoping that Hroudland would get himself killed. Our plan was that we would be back by the time the broken cartwheel was repaired so we could catch up with the main army. Gerin was to stay behind, partly to help stand guard over the disabled treasure carts, but also to make sure that Eggihard kept his word and waited for our return. At Hroudland’s request I carried my bow, and he and Berenger were armed with swords and daggers. None of us wore our armoured jackets for we
intended to travel fast and light, and we left behind our horses for the trail we followed was a thread of a footpath that branched from the main track.

  The path looped its way around the flank of the hillside and by the time we had gone less than a mile, we were out of sight of the main track behind us. The surface was crumbly and treacherous, and we had to walk cautiously. To our right, the land was a series of steep slopes scarred with dry gullies and an occasional deep ravine. In places a few scrubby plants had managed to take root, but in this season they were parched and shrivelled. To our left the mountainside rose so abruptly that the path was often broken in places where land slips had carried away the trail. It was a bleak, rocky wilderness where the only signs of life were a large bird of prey hanging in the air far above us, and, very far in the distance, a small group of animals on an upper slope that I guessed were wild goats. They took fright and went bounding off across a ridge as soon as they detected our presence.

  The weather was in our favour. The day was sunny and bright, and there was enough of a breeze to make the air feel pleasantly cool. I began to hope that Hroudland’s notion of locating the Graal was misplaced, and our venture would prove to be no more than a pleasant stroll. It took us another hour of steady walking before we turned a corner around a spur and Hroudland, who was in the lead, came to a sudden halt. He dropped to one knee and gestured to us to wait where we were. After a few moments he beckoned me forward and pointed. I could just make out some sort of building in the distance. It was perched on a rocky crag that jutted out from the mountainside like the prow of a ship. The building was made of exactly the same grey stone as the surrounding landscape so it was difficult to make out any details. It was much smaller than I had expected, little more than a substantial hut surrounded by what looked like a wall built of boulders. The line of our footpath continued on, doubling back and forth, climbing across the face of the mountain in that direction.

  ‘That has to be the place,’ Hroudland muttered.

  We retreated to a small patch of level ground.

  ‘Berenger,’ instructed the count, ‘you stay here and keep a look out.’

  Berenger started to object but Hroudland cut him short.

  ‘This is our only way back. I trust you to make sure it stays open. Use force if necessary. If that’s impossible, sound a warning.’

  He unslung the oliphant horn from around his neck and handed it to Berenger who accepted it reluctantly.

  ‘I would prefer to go with you,’ Berenger told the count sulkily.

  Hroudland shook his head.

  ‘I need Patch to accompany me. His bow could make the difference.’ Then he turned to me. ‘You and I will climb up the mountainside immediately behind us. We’ll be out of sight from anyone in that building. After we’ve gained enough height, we begin to work our way sideways.’

  I glanced up the rugged slope and must have looked doubtful because he added, ‘There’s no hurry. We must wait until late afternoon before we cross into view of anyone in that building. They’ll have the sun in their eyes, and we’ll be able to take advantage of the longer shadows as we get closer.’

  The boulder-strewn mountainside looming over me brought back a memory of the rock slide that had almost killed me. My attention wavered for a moment as I wondered who had been behind it. Since Zaragoza there had been no attempt on my life, and I had almost forgotten the series of mysterious attacks.

  Hroudland was speaking again.

  ‘In our final approach to the building, Patch, I want you to be higher up the slope from me, looking down so you have a clear shot if necessary.’

  I had removed the bow from its cover to check that everything was in order.

  ‘You’ll need both hands while we’re climbing. So keep your bow slung across your back. When it’s time to take up your position I’ll pause and give you a signal.’

  I selected an arrow and ran my thumb along the barb. It was murderously sharp. I had a vague recollection that I had used the identical arrow to despatch the Vascon slinger who had ambushed me in that same area.

  ‘How many arrows should I carry?’ I asked.

  ‘Four or five. That building looks as if it contains no more than one or two men. If I can get close enough, I should be able to rush the place before anyone knows what is happening.’

  We waited until the sun was dropping towards the horizon before we began our climb. We had to grope our way up the steep face of the mountain, handhold by handhold, and made such slow progress that I feared the count had left it too late. He was in the lead and I tried to avoid being directly behind him because he occasionally dislodged large stones which bounced down around me dangerously. Once or twice I nearly came to grief through my own fault when a stone that I was holding worked loose. There was a very bad moment when my foot slipped and I slid backwards for several yards towards the lip of a small precipice. I came to a stop just short of the edge, my heart pounding. Ahead of me Hroudland paused only to look back down at me, glare, and gesture to me to hurry. Soon the muscles of my arms and shoulders were aching with the strain, and I began to worry that even if we reached our objective before dark, my hands would be shaking so much that I would be useless as an archer.

  Eventually Hroudland halted his upward climb and waited for me to come level with him. Then he began to angle sideways across the face of the mountain. I followed close behind him, hampered by my bow slung across my back. The going was easier now and we made better progress, stretching from one handhold to the next, spread-eagled in our effort to cover the most ground. When we crossed the ridge line and into view of the building we chanced on to the faint vestige of a trail made by sheep or, more likely, by wild goats. It meant we could move more quickly. Otherwise we would have found ourselves scrambling about the mountainside in the gathering dark.

  After we had crept within a long bowshot of our target, Hroudland waited until I was close behind him, and then said quietly, ‘I don’t see any sign of life. Maybe they haven’t posted a lookout.’

  I looked past him. We were high enough to see over the surrounding wall and gain a better idea of the unknown building. It was on the far side of the walled-in enclosure, overlooking the cliff face beyond. Constructed of cut stone blocks, it had an unusual barrel-shaped roof of weathered tiles. It was definitely not a shepherd’s hut. There was no chimney or soot marks from a smoke hole, and, from where I was positioned, I could see only a low wooden door and no window. Nor was there any sign of fortification and it was much too small to hold a garrison.

  ‘More like a tiny chapel than a mountain stronghold,’ I said to Hroudland.

  He turned his face towards me and I saw the gleam of excitement in his eyes.

  ‘Just the place for the Graal!’ he said. ‘Another fifty paces, then I want you to find a spot from where you can put an arrow into anyone who might put his head up over that wall. I’ll go on alone.’

  A slight ruffle of breeze made me glance up at the sky. The weather was changing. The leading edge of a heavy veil of cloud was advancing over the mountain crest to the north. Once it moved over us, we would quickly lose the evening light and then it would be a black and starless night.

  ‘Better hurry. But be careful,’ I told him.

  For a moment he was his old, blithe self as he treated me to a confident, light-hearted smile. Then he scurried off, stooping as he picked his way from boulder to boulder and made towards the building.

  I found my place, half-hidden behind a great slab of tumbled rock, took my bow from my back, and tied on an arm guard of stiff leather. It might help steady my aim. My muscles were still shaking from the exertion of the climb. Below me Hroudland was sprinting in short, quick bursts from one hiding place to the next. There was still no movement from what I now thought of as the mountain chapel. Everything was eerily quiet.

  When Hroudland was not more than twenty paces from the surrounding wall, he stopped, unsheathed his sword, then turned and waved to me. I stepped out into the open, nocked
an arrow to my bow, and took aim at a spot just above the flimsy-looking wooden gate. It would be an easy shot. Hroudland ran the last few yards and I saw him give the gate a heavy kick. It flew open and he dashed inside. Afterwards there was an occasional glimpse of his head and shoulders above the wall as he searched the enclosure.

  In a short while he reappeared at the gate and called up to me, ‘There’s no one here. The place is empty.’

  The tension drained from me. I let my bow go slack, and then began to descend the slope to where Hroudland stood waiting.

  ‘All that climbing and hiding for nothing,’ he smiled ruefully. ‘We could have walked directly here along the path.’

  We went in through the broken gate and I looked round. The enclosure did duty as a sheep pen. The dusty ground was strewn with animal droppings. A length of canvas had been draped over branches propped against the outer wall to make a lean-to shelter. Someone had kindled a fire on the ground in front of it. The charred fragments looked fairly recent.

  ‘Whoever stays here didn’t want to occupy the building itself,’ said Hroudland. He was checking the door. It was locked.

  ‘I would have expected there to be some sort of caretaker or a guard?’ I said. The emptiness of the place struck me as unnatural.

  ‘He could have gone off to Pamplona,’ said Hroudland. He was probing the door jamb with his sword point to see if he could find a weakness. ‘His friends needed help to empty the city of valuables and carry them up into the mountains.’

  ‘No point in damaging Durendal,’ he commented, slipping his sword back into its sheath. He walked over to a boundary wall made of rocks. They were neatly stacked one on top of the other without any mortar. He picked out a large stone and brought it back.

  ‘Stand aside!’ he warned, and then slammed the rock against the timber. The door was sturdy and it took a dozen hefty blows before the lock gave and it finally burst open.

  Hroudland peered inside.

  ‘It’s too dark to see much.’

  The lintel was so low that he had to duck his head as he stepped over the threshold. I followed him cautiously.