Saxon: The Book of Dreams (Saxon 1) (10 page)

‘That must take a lot of organization.’ I had been wondering how the Franks came to dominate less purposeful nations.

The count was dismissive.

‘A swarm of inky clerks keep endless lists of everything from beds and mattresses to spare sets of harness and carts. The chief nobles are obliged to hold stockpiles of material whether
it’s barrels of wine or bundles of firewood.’

On the far side of the royal precinct we arrived before a substantial building of cut stone with barred windows that I would have mistaken for a prison. A small, unsmiling man with the guarded
look of a store clerk was waiting outside in the evening sunshine, holding his wax tablet and a bunch of keys on a large ring. He had two attendants with him.

‘Good afternoon, my lord,’ he said to Hroudland. ‘I understand you wish to take away a full set of weapons for a cavalryman.’

‘Indeed, I do. I will select the items myself,’ answered Hroudland curtly.

‘The law requires me to remind you that any arms that are issued must remain within the kingdom. They cannot be loaned or sold abroad.’

‘I know, I know,’ said the count testily. ‘The weapons are for my companion here. I can vouch for him.’

The clerk unlocked a stout wooden door and led us inside and I saw at once the orderly hand of the ledger-keepers. The armoury was arranged in sections. Nearest were the projectile weapons
– javelins, bows, bundles of arrows. Beyond them stood stack after stack of spears, neatly sub-divided according to length and weight, as pikes for foot soldiers or lances for cavalry. Next
came edged weapons – swords, axes and daggers. Finally there was the defensive equipment with rows of wooden shields and a small pile of helmets and some body armour.

Hroudland walked slowly along the array of weaponry. Quickly he found me a lance and a couple of javelins. He rejected an axe as unnecessary and picked out a plain shield with an iron boss which
he said needed a new leather strap. The clerk made a note on his tablet and said it would be provided. Finding the right armoured jacket took longer. The metal plates sewn to the fabric made the
garment very stiff and restricted the wearer’s movement unless the fit was correct. The choice of helmets was very limited – the clerk made cautionary noises about how expensive they
were – and Hroudland reluctantly agreed to take one under which I had to wear thick wool and leather skull cap. A pair of heavy gauntlets completed the outfit. By then the two attendants had
their arms full of my war gear.

‘Now for the most important item – his sword,’ announced Hroudland.

We were escorted to the farthest corner of the armoury where a dozen swords were racked. Hroudland scanned the selection with a critical eye.

‘Is that all you’ve got?’ he demanded.

‘Fine craftsmanship, every single one of them,’ said the clerk primly.

Hroudland reached out and removed a sword from the rack.

‘Antique!’ he announced, hefting it in his hand.

He held it out to me.

‘Look, Patch, the edges of the blade run parallel almost to the tip. That makes a sword heavy and awkward to use.’

The clerk bridled.

‘A fine weapon nevertheless.’

‘But no use to my friend here,’ retorted the count, replacing the weapon. ‘I’ve heard that you’ve got one of those new Ingelrii swords here.’

There was a distinct intake of breath by the store keeper.

‘Not a genuine Ingelrii,’ he said.

‘Let me be the judge of that,’ said the count.

Reluctantly, the clerk went to a large wooden chest, unlocked it, and lifted out a long item wrapped in cloth. I could smell oil.

‘This is it,’ he said, handing the object to Hroudland.

The count unwrapped the oiled cloth and revealed a sword, its blade the length of my arm. I was disappointed. From the clerk’s behaviour I had expected something much more spectacular,
perhaps a glittering blade and a handle encrusted with jewels. Instead I saw a workaday weapon with a plain iron handle. The only decoration was a small, insignificant crystal set into the
triangular pommel.

Hrouldland swung the sword through the air, testing its balance. Then he examined the blade closely.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘This is not an Ingelrii blade. He would have signed it.’

The clerk gave a self-satisfied smile.

‘As I told you. We received the sword as a tithe payment from one of the Burgundian monasteries. We have no idea who was the swordsmith.’

The count whipped the sword through the air, and then said, ‘It’s not an Ingelrii. But it’s as good. We’ll take it.’

‘I do not have the authority to let it out of the armoury,’ snapped the storekeeper.

Hroudland fixed him with a glare.

‘Would you like me to raise the subject with my uncle?’

‘No, no. That won’t be necessary.’ The man was clearly unhappy with the arrangement.

Hroudland put the sword hilt in my hand.

‘Now, Patch, how does that feel?’

I swung the sword tentatively in a small arc. It was remarkably light and well balanced.

‘Note the difference in the blade, Patch,’ Hroudland said. ‘It tapers all the way to the point. That makes the weapon an extension to your arm. Also the quality of the steel is
exceptional.’ He peered inside the sword chest. ‘I see there is a scabbard and baldrick to go with it,’ he said.

Knowing he was beaten, the clerk nodded to one of the attendants and the sword’s fittings were added to our collection.

Hroudland was looking pleased with himself as we walked back down the length of the armoury.

‘I should have driven a harder bargain with you, Patch. That sword is unique. You’ll have to find a name for it.’

‘A name?’

He laughed.

‘Every really good sword has its own name. Mine is Durendal, “the enduring one”. The king presented it to me personally, a great honour. He has its twin, Joyeuse.’

I rather doubted that I would ever be enough of a warrior to wield a famous sword, and was about to say that ‘Joyful’ was a strange name for a deadly weapon, when I was distracted by
Osric calling out, ‘Master, this would be useful.’

My slave had veered off towards a rack of bows and was tugging something out from behind the display. It was another bow but not like all the others. Their staves were as tall as a man and
either straight or slightly curved. He had spotted a bow at least a third shorter in length and its stave had a peculiar double curve. He held it up to show me.

Osric’s interruption annoyed Hroudland.

‘A bow is a foot soldier’s weapon. Your master rides into battle on horseback,’ he snapped.

Osric ignored him, and before Hroudland could say anything more, I said quickly to the storekeeper, ‘Would it be possible to take that bow as well?’

The storekeeper looked between us, obviously enjoying the apparent disagreement between his visitors.

‘Of course. Bows are cheap, and that one is worthless.’

‘And a quiver with a raincover and couple of dozen arrows,’ Osric insisted.

The clerk treated him to a sour glance and nodded. Osric began to search through bundles of arrows, picking out the ones he thought suitable.

The clerk added these final items to his list on the wax tablet, snapped the cover shut, and escorted us from the building, clearly eager to see us on our way.

As Hroudland and I left the armoury, Osric was arranging with the two attendants that my new equipment should be delivered to him for cleaning and safe keeping. Hroudland insisted that I keep
the sword with me.

‘Your slave and the bow are too misshapen to be of much use,’ he observed unkindly as we headed back to our quarters.

I resented the malice in his remark.

‘Osric may be a cripple, but I trust him to know what he is doing. He’s saved my life once already.’

Hroudland gave an apologetic smile.

‘Sorry, Patch. I didn’t mean to offend you. If that bow keeps you safe from danger, then your slave is welcome to it.’

His remark left me wondering, once again, what danger he had in mind.

T
HE
SUMMER
PASSED
, the great storm and flood forgotten as I settled into the daily routine of my
companions. I discovered that the bay gelding knew more about cavalry manoeuvres than I did, and I scarcely had to touch the reins in the mock charges and retreats. Instead I could concentrate on
handling lance, javelin and shield. But I still felt clumsy compared to my companions, though I did better in the single-handed contests with blunted weapons, improving until I could hold my own
with the likes of Oton and Berenger, the weaker members of our company. However, I never matched experts like Gerin or Hroudland, even though the latter showed me how to favour my left-hand side
where my eye patch always left me exposed.

During those sham fights it was never far from my mind that King Offa might decide one day that it was better if I was dead. It was not unknown for there to be a fatal accident on the practice
field, and I found it strange to be swinging a blunt sword blade or feinting a jab with a lance at someone who might possibly become an agent for the Mercian king. Afterwards, relaxing in the royal
guesthouse, I developed a habit of watching my companions and trying to gauge just how much I could rely on them, because I was very conscious that I was a latecomer to their fellowship.

Berenger, always cheerful and open, was very easy to get on with. His sense of humour appealed to me. I was often the first person to laugh at his jokes so that he would fling an arm around my
shoulders and proclaim that I must be his long-lost brother. The older man Gerard of Roussillon was more difficult to get to know, yet behind his reserve lay a kind heart and a tolerance born of
long experience. I spent many evenings talking quietly with him, learning more about the Frankish world, and he appreciated the deference I showed him. But it was with Hroudland that I soon fell
into an easy friendship despite the difference in our backgrounds. The count was open-handed and impulsive. One day, at his own expense, he sent his tailor to measure and make me a new and
fashionable wardrobe. On another occasion he suddenly insisted that I accompany him to a meeting with a high-ranking official, telling me that it was the best way for me to see how the court
worked. During those evenings when the paladins stayed in their quarters, discussing or arguing among themselves, he would often turn to me and for my opinion as if I was his advisor and confidant.
Eventually I found a quiet moment, away from the others, to ask him why he was so considerate to me.

‘Patch, one day my uncle will give me a province to govern in his name,’ he answered. ‘When that day comes, I will need to be accompanied by men on whom I can depend for good
council.’

‘But you have other comrades who can give good advice. Berenger, for example; you’ve known him far longer than you’ve known me.’

Hroudland treated me to one of his aristocratic stares, part amused, part condescending.

‘I recall the first evening when you arrived among the paladins and they were exchanging riddles. I remember noting that you were both quick-witted and level-headed. I value that
combination.’

‘I hope I won’t disappoint you,’ I replied, for the truth was that I was flattered that the count had singled me out to be his particular friend after such brief acquaintance,
and I already knew that there was one way in which I could be of use to him. Hroudland was headstrong and outspoken. From time to time he offended men like Engeler. They resented his royal
connections and were jealous that he was so handsome and gifted. In future I would take it upon myself to smooth over the quarrels that the count left in his wake.

*

Some days after Hroudland had taken me to the royal armoury to select weaponry, Osric arranged to meet me at a wooded area close to the king’s animal park. It was a quiet
place, away from prying eyes, and he arrived carrying a long, thin object concealed in sacking. I guessed it contained the curiously shaped bow he had found.

‘I’ve managed to restore it to working condition,’ he said, extracting it from its wrapping. The bow was a little over four feet long and, to my eye, its design seemed to be
back to front. The hand grip in the centre of the bow was where it should be held, but the stave curved in the wrong direction, away from the archer.

Osric saw that I was bemused. He reached into the neck of his tunic and pulled out a length of cord. ‘Count Hroudland wouldn’t be happy if he knew that one of his better shirts
provided this thread. I’ve made a bowstring from silk.’

He dropped one of the bowstring’s end loops over the tip of the bow stave and settled it into a notch. Then he placed the end of the bow stave on his instep and pressed down strongly. The
bow bent, reversing its curve so he was able to slip the other end of the bow string in place.

‘A long soaking in warm oil has brought the limbs back to life,’ he murmured, running a finger lovingly along the gleaming length of the weapon.

He handed it to me.

‘Try it.’

I gripped the weapon firmly with my left hand and pulled back on the cord. I was able to bend the weapon into a gentle curve, no more. Osric gave me the single, iron tipped arrow that he had
brought with him.