Saxon: The Book of Dreams (Saxon 1) (17 page)

‘I hereby ban this young man from our forests and any future hunt of ours.’

I bowed my head obediently, and stared at the leaf mould on the ground. If I was forbidden from the forest, then I was unlikely ever to learn the identity of the mysterious archer who might have
been an assassin.

N
EXT
DAY
I
WAS DISMISSED
. I was ordered to Aachen while the king moved camp to a different area of the
forest for another week of hunting. Hroudland later told me that his uncle’s good humour was restored when he personally killed a pair of wisents, bull-like animals with great shaggy hides,
which ran wild in the forest.

I would have been happier if the king had stayed away even longer. Discipline in the royal household was slack in the king’s absence, and that made it less of a risk to continue my
relationship with Bertha. Timing my visits carefully, usually well after dark and when the guards were drowsy, I was able to make my way discreetly to Bertha’s room on the ground floor and
spend several nights with her. She encouraged my attendance and I was so smitten by her that I was convinced her affection for me was genuine, whatever Oton and the others claimed about her
appetite for men.

‘We must think of an excuse for you to become a regular visitor,’ Bertha murmured. Her father was expected back in the next few hours, and we were lying side by side in her bed,
contented and warm in the darkness. Before first light I would creep away to my own quarters.

I yawned and stretched.

‘I hate having to get up in the dark and cold when it is so delightful here.’

‘You were talking in your sleep just now.’

‘I must have been dreaming.’

‘About me, I hope.’ She leaned over and her tongue flicked around my ear. I shivered with delight.

‘I can’t remember.’ I slid my arm under her shoulders and drew her towards me. She pressed herself against me and I gloried in her softness and warmth for a few more precious
moments.

At length she drew back so I could get out of bed.

‘You should try to remember your dreams. They could be important,’ she said.

‘I know,’ I said neutrally. With a sudden upwelling of melancholy I recalled my dream of a bull attacking a peaceful stag, and how it had been a portent of my father’s death
and the destruction of his kingdom. I did not care to reveal just how important they were.

‘My father believes in his dreams.’

I groped for my shirt where I had dropped it.

‘Does he tell you about them?’

‘Yes. Especially when they worry him.’

‘What was the last dream he confided to you?’

‘A man attacked by a pack of wolves. He could not see who the man was, but it was in a wild place, among rocks and trees. The man was blowing a horn, desperately signalling for help. It
never came.’

I smiled into the darkness.

‘Your father won’t be worrying about that dream any longer. I made a fool of myself with a hunting horn recently. I’ll tell you about it some time.’

‘Were you attacked by wolves?’ I was pleased to hear the note of genuine concern in her question.

‘There were no wolves. I was lost.’

‘Then that’s not what the dream was about.’

I decided to tell her about the Oneirokritikon.

‘There’s a book that explains what dreams really mean.’

I heard her sit up in bed.

‘Have you seen that book?’ she asked.

‘I have been given a copy, but it’s written in Saracen.’

‘You must get it translated!’

She sounded excited, and I already knew her well enough to guess that she had some scheme in mind.

‘But I don’t even know if there’s any truth in it. It could all be rubbish, written for the credulous.’

‘You’ll never know until you’ve read it,’ she said.

There was no response to that, so I stayed silent.

‘My father tells his family about his dreams, no one else. He hopes we might be able to explain them to him.’

‘Then perhaps I can write out a translation of the book for him.’

‘My father doesn’t know how to read,’

Now I saw what she had in mind.

‘You mean I would become his interpreter of dreams.’

‘Exactly! Through me.’ There was triumph in her voice. ‘And that way you will become a trusted member of the inner circle.’

*

Translating the Oneirokritikon was not as difficult as I had feared. Alcuin provided a desk in a quiet side room in the chancery and supplied writing materials. I took
Osric’s dictation as he unravelled the sentences.

‘The author’s name is Artimedorus,’ said Osric as we began.

‘He doesn’t sound like a Saracen.’ The goose feather was fresh, and I was having problems getting the ink to flow smoothly.

‘He’s a Greek. He states he will offer proof of the fulfilment of dreams and refute those sceptics who mock the art of divination.’

I wiped the tip of the quill clean with a fresh rag and loaded it again with ink.

Osric ran his eye along the next few lines.

‘Artimedorus claims that for many years he has been collecting books of dream interpretation and consulting diviners of the marketplace, so now he provides a truthful guide on the
subject.’

‘Sounds promising.’ I bent to my task.

‘There are two categories of dreams,’ Osric translated. ‘Those which reflect the present, and those which foretell the future. The former need no explanation. Thus a sick man
is likely to dream of doctors and his illness; a lover dreams of the person he holds dear. When they awake that was the end of the dream and it had no significance.’

My quill was still giving trouble. I discarded it and cut a replacement.

Osric waited until I had caught up with his dictation.

‘Master, should I summarize the Greek’s ideas?’ he asked. ‘I fear he is rather pedantic.’

‘Pick out the practical advice,’ I replied. Bertha would be expecting quick results on how to interpret dreams.

Osric leafed through the pages.

‘The dreams of the second category can either be literal or allegorical.’

‘Does he give examples?’

‘For a literal dream, he cites the case of a man travelling aboard ship who dreamed he was in a shipwreck. The next day his vessel sank. Artimedorus claims to have spoken to the man
himself. He goes on to say that such dreams come true so often that we should not be surprised.’

I had no need to ask Osric how a dream could be an allegory of the future. My dream of the aggressive ox led by a vixen attacking the stag had been an image of King Offa’s invasion of my
father’s kingdom. There was a much more important question I had to ask. The answer might protect me against future dangers.

‘Does Artimedorus say whether it is possible to induce a prophetic dream – by swallowing extracts of powerful herbs before sleeping, for example?’ I asked.

I had already told Osric about the unknown archer, and he guessed my thoughts.

‘So you would have been prepared for what happened during the hunt?’

I nodded.

Osric spent a long time searching the pages of the Oneirokritikon. Finally he shook his head. ‘He only warns that dreams that are the result of having eaten or drunk too much are not to be
relied on.’

‘Osric, do you ever dream?’ I ventured to ask.

‘Only nightmares I would sooner forget,’ he replied quietly.

*

We worked on the translation for over a week before I received my next summons to the king’s residence. Leaving Osric to puzzle over obscure Saracen phrases, I set out
across the royal precinct. The weather had turned bitterly cold and a thick coating of frost covered the raw piles of building materials with glittering crystals. I felt sorry for the workmen
balanced on the scaffolding of the half-finished audience hall, their hands wrapped in rags against the chill wind. They were still mixing mortar and setting courses of bricks. The construction
work was behind schedule and the king was insisting on having the building in time for Christmas. To my surprise the guards at the main entrance to the king’s residence directed me to a side
door. Here an under-chamberlain met me and escorted me to a small reception room, comfortably furnished with low stools and soft rugs and with a fire burning in the corner. To my delight, Bertha
was waiting for me. The moment the door closed behind me, I started forward, about to embrace her. The warning look in her eyes stopped me.

‘So this is the man of dreams,’ said a slightly mocking voice. Standing off to one side was a woman who, I guessed at once, had to be one of Bertha’s sisters. The two were very
alike. They had the same fair hair, blue eyes and creamy, slightly freckled skin. But the stranger lacked Bertha’s voluptuous curves and was not as tall. She seemed more mature, more worldly,
and I presumed she was the older of the two. She was eyeing me with an expression of curiosity tempered with disbelief. I wondered if she was comparing me to her sister’s previous lovers.

Bertha wasted no time in coming straight to the point.

‘Sigwulf, this is Adelaide, my sister. Our father has had a dream that could be important.’

I could tell by the way that Bertha held her hands clasped in front of her, her face animated, that she was excited.

‘He told us about it yesterday. We want you to interpret it for us.’ She cast a conspiratorial glance towards her sister.

‘I’m less than halfway through translating the dream book,’ I apologized.

‘I’m sure you can locate the part that matters.’

Her high-handed manner irritated me. Then I remembered that she was a king’s daughter.

‘I’ll do what I can,’ I said.

Adelaide moved across the room to stand beside her sister.

‘Do you find this dream book believable?’ she asked.

‘I haven’t had time to judge.’

‘So now’s the time to put it to the test,’ Bertha interrupted eagerly.

‘It’s not as simple as that . . .’ my voice trailed away. I wanted to please Bertha but I was beginning to wonder if I was wise to have spoken to her about the Oneirokritikon.
I had a feeling that there was more to the sisters’ questions than they were letting on. I sensed that I was approaching something sensitive, a dangerous topic that I was not equipped to
handle.

‘What are these difficulties?’ asked Adelaide. Her voice was low and musical but there was a probing edge.

I prevaricated.

‘The interpretation of a dream depends on so many factors – the time of the dream, the status of the dreamer, his or her health, whether the dreamer has anxieties.’

Adelaide waved aside my excuses.

‘You know my father’s status – he’s the king. He dreamed shortly before midnight. It’s no secret that he’s a light sleeper, and he awoke soon
afterwards.’

It was clear that she was not someone who was easily diverted.

‘Perhaps Your Highness could relate the contents of the dream,’ I suggested.

‘Our father dreamed he was travelling through a foreign country. He had no idea where it was. The people dressed strangely and they spoke in languages he did not understand. He was
invisible to them so they ignored him even when he tried to engage them in conversation.’ Unexpectedly Adelaide hesitated. She flushed slightly as if embarrassed.

‘Go on, Addy,’ said her sister. ‘That patch Sigwulf is wearing is a fake.’

‘What really troubles my father is that in his dream he had only one eye. The other had been lost,’ said Adelaide.

I relaxed. Artimedorus had written about dreams of blindness or the loss of an eye in a chapter that Osric and I had already translated.

‘There are two possible explanations of the dream,’ I began.

Quick as a flash Adelaide gave a sniff of disbelief.

‘Just as I told you, Bertha. Soothsayers are always devious. They’re deliberately vague so you can read into their prophecies whatever you want to believe.’

‘Hear him out, Addy,’ Bertha said, springing to my defence. ‘Give him a chance to explain.’

I gave Bertha a grateful glance and went on.

‘According to Artimedorus, a person who dreams of travelling through a foreign country while having only one eye means the journey will be hindered and full of difficulties.’

Adelaide looked doubtful.

‘I’ve not heard that the king intends a foreign trip.’

‘The interpretation of the dream does not allow one to say when it will come true,’ I cautioned.

‘More weasel words from the soothsayer,’ Adelaide promptly accused.

Her open scepticism prodded me into saying what I had not intended.

‘There is another interpretation of the loss of an eye,’ I said sharply.

‘And what’s that?’ Adelaide scoffed.

‘The loss of an eye means the loss of a member of the family,’ I said quietly.

That caught their attention. The two sisters looked hard at me.

‘What member of the family?’ asked Bertha. Her voice was flinty, but there was a trace of fear.

I was committed now, and could not draw back.

‘A parent or a child.’

‘Well, both the king’s mother and father are already deceased,’ said Adelaide. Her eyes were alert with interest.