Saxon: The Book of Dreams (Saxon 1) (34 page)

The king looked around the assembly.

‘Does anyone else wish to make a suggestion?’

When there was no reply, he announced that Hroudland’s plan was to be put into immediate effect and declared the meeting closed.

As soon as the king had left, a cheerful group of Hroudland’s supporters clustered around him, congratulating him for his proposal and applauding him for his personal courage. I held back.
I recalled describing Husayn’s splendid palace and its luxury to the count as we rode side by side on our journey to Hispania. I should have known that my description of such wealth would
attract Hroudland’s craving for riches. I had also let slip that Wali Husayn was married to the sister of the governor of Barcelona. That pleasant conversation intended to pass the time would
now lead to the ruin of the wali and Zaragoza. Crassly I had betrayed Husayn’s hospitality and kindness. Perhaps the snake in my dream of treachery should have coiled itself around my leg.
Sick at heart, I felt soiled and dirty.

*

The next morning the army engineers constructed a small ballista capable of throwing a heavy arrow three hundred paces. They dragged it to the edge of the cleared ground around
the city, and Hroudland had me write a note to Wali Husayn outlining the ransom plan. I suggested that it would be easier for a messenger to deliver the message under a white flag, but was told
that the ballista would serve as a reminder to the Saracens that the Frankish army was capable of preparing siege engines.

The arrow carrying the message was shot over the city wall.

The wali’s reply came within an hour, delivered by a messenger who rode out of the city and dropped it disdainfully on the ground. Husayn had agreed to our terms. He would pay four
thousand pounds weight of silver coin for the governor of Barcelona to be handed over, in good health. Additional treasure including silks, gold and jewels to the value of another five thousand
pounds of silver would reimburse Carolus for the expense of bringing his army into Hispania. Husayn made only one condition: he required four days to assemble such a colossal sum.

On the appointed day, Hroudland and I crossed the open ground towards the city gate. The count had chosen to ride his great roan war horse and he towered above me on the small, sturdy cob that
had been provided for me. Neither of us carried weapons, though we wore full armour, intending to put on a brave show. The sun was already well above the horizon so the heavy war gear was hot and
uncomfortable. Behind us was the wreckage of the orchards. The troops had set up camp, hacking down the carefully tended trees to make shelters and for firewood. The irrigation ditches were
crumbling under the constant trampling of horses and men, the water in them was muddy and foul. Swarms of fat flies buzzed over mounds of human filth, and the air reeked with the smell of horses,
men and dung.

‘Let’s get this over as quickly as possible,’ Hroudland muttered to me as we approached Zaragoza’s main gate. The note of resignation in his voice made me take a quick
glance at him. His face had a fixed expression, downcast yet determined. I guessed he was thinking how he had once hoped to become the Margrave of the new Hispanic March. Now he knew that it would
never happen. When the campaign was over, he would be returning to the rain and mists of Brittany.

‘Wali Husayn will keep his word,’ I said, trying to reassure him.

The city gate swung open as we came closer and there waiting on his white horse was Osric, again dressed in the wali’s livery. Beside him was a single mounted cavalryman, also wearing
Husayn’s colours.

I sensed Hroudland’s surprise. He must have expected that we would be met by at least a troop of horsemen to escort us through the city. Instead it seemed that we were being treated as
little more than a passing nuisance.

Osric did not speak a single word in greeting. I felt a pang of acute disappointment at his frigid reception. I had expected at least some small gesture of recognition for the years we had
shared. But he had merely nodded to the both of us and now, stony-faced, he led us in silence.

This impression strengthened as we rode through Zaragoza on Osric’s heels. Life was continuing as normal. It was as if there was no foreign army camped outside the walls. The streets were
crowded with people going about their business, shopping, gossiping, and haggling in the market. The air was full of the rich odour of street food being cooked over open braziers. I even recognized
the same pavement seller with his tray of fruit whom I had noticed when I rode into the city for the first time with Husayn. The vendor’s display of fruit was piled high, and the butchers and
vegetable sellers had no shortage of goods. It was a stark contrast to the camp we had just left where disgruntled soldiers were ravenous for provisions and sweltered in the heat while mounted
patrols scoured the countryside seeking supplies.

The passers-by were as dismissive as Osric. Whenever I caught someone’s eye in the crowded streets, that person would simply turn his back on me. It was very unpleasant to be treated as
being beneath contempt.

Eventually we arrived in the main central square. It was almost deserted of people. I had expected that we would be brought to the arched doorway that was the entry to Wali Husayn’s own
palace. Instead, we crossed towards the mosque that Husayn had told me his father built. Beautifully proportioned, a central dome was tiled in green and blue, spiral patterns in the same colours
twisting up the columns of the four thin spires that surrounded it. To the left was a low, squat building, its thick white-washed walls pierced with a few windows barely large enough to be pigeon
roosts. A horse was tethered in front of it. Hroudland recognized the animal before I did.

‘Patch, that’s the gelding I picked out for you in Aachen,’ he exclaimed.

The horse wore the same saddle I had used on the ride across Frankia. Dangling from it was my curved bow and the sword that Hroudland had selected for me in the royal stores of Aachen the
previous year. I had an uncomfortable feeling that I knew why they were there.

Our little group halted before the building and dismounted. The Saracen trooper took the reins of our horses and led them away while Osric limped ahead of us to the massive iron door and
knocked. It was pulled open from inside and Hroudland and I followed Osric in.

Immediately I was reminded of the strongroom at Hroudland’s great hall. The interior of the building was a single chamber, some fifteen paces squared. The small windows seen from the
outside had been deceptive. The chamber was lit by a dozen shafts of sunlight shining down through a pierced dome in the ceiling. Specks of dust floated in the sunlight, and the thick walls kept
out the noonday heat so that the air inside the room felt slightly chilly. It also had a faint smell that I could not identify. The floor was made of massive stone slabs and there was no furniture
apart from a tall metal-and-wood contraption whose function escaped me until I recognized a set of over-size weighing scales. Waiting for us were two men, dressed in the wali’s livery. One of
them was the grey-bearded steward who had looked after me when I had been Husayn’s guest. Ashamed at my role in this sordid ransom, I could not look him in the eye and could feel the distaste
oozing from him as he stepped around me and firmly closed the heavy door to the outside. We were standing inside Zaragoza’s treasure house.

Arranged on the floor was a neat row of stout leather panniers. They were the size normally carried by mules, and it was the rancid smell of leather saturated with mule sweat that had perplexed
me. The flap of each pannier had been unlaced and thrown back so that their contents glittered dully. Each pannier was full to the brim with silver coins.

At last Osric broke his silence.

‘Each bag contains one hundred pounds weight in silver coin,’ he said. There was no emotion in his voice.

I quickly counted the number of panniers. There were forty of them.

Hroudland bent over the nearest one and plunged both hands into the contents. He held up a double handful of coins and let them trickle through his fingers. They made a rippling, metallic
clatter as they landed.

He looked at me.

‘What do you think, Patch?’

I walked across and picked up one of the coins. Clean and shiny, it looked as if it had been minted very recently. Both sides were stamped with lines of Saracen script across the centre and in a
circle around the rim. I looked questioningly at Osric.

‘A silver dirhem issued last year by the Emir Abd al Rahman. The coins in the bags were struck by many rulers and come from many places, but all are genuine.’ His voice was still
flat and expressionless.

Hroudland moved along the row of panniers, peering into each of them, stirring their contents with his fingers like a grain merchant dabbling in sacks of barley. He beckoned me to stand close to
him. Bending close he whispered in my ear, ‘Maybe there is dross deep down beneath the surface.’

Osric could not have overheard but he knew well enough what was said.

‘We can arrange to have the coins weighed out in front of you, bag by bag, if you wish,’ he announced, disdainfully.

‘That will not be necessary,’ I said firmly. Before Hroudland could raise an objection, I muttered to him, ‘It will take far too long to weigh this amount.’

The count turned to face Osric.

‘What about the rest of the payment?’ he demanded.

The wali’s elderly steward walked to the far side of the chamber where a low shapeless mound was covered by a dark cloth. He took hold of the cloth and, with a sudden swish of silk, drew
it to one side, revealing what it had concealed.

Despite his attempt to remain aloof, Hroudland sucked in his breath with amazement.

‘By our calculation, this should suffice to cover Karlo’s costs,’ observed Osric icily.

Laid out on the stone floor was a sensational array of valuables. Most were made of silver. There were cups and goblets, plates, ewers, censers, bowls and trays engraved with interlocking
geometric patterns. There were belts studded with silver discs, silver scabbards for knives, silver bangles and necklaces, medallions and hanging lamps of silver filigree. A separate much smaller
pile was made of similar objects in gold. Several of these were set with coloured stones. These items had been artfully placed so that the beams of sunlight sparkled off polished surfaces or struck
a glow of colour in their depths. Without examining them more closely it was impossible to tell which were true jewels and which semiprecious. I supposed the dark reds were rubies and garnet, and
here and there was a spark of blue from a stone unknown to me.

Two special items had been arranged on their own, laid out on a square of dark green velvet. Seeing them, I knew instantly that Osric had advised Husayn what would most arouse the greed of any
Frankish envoy.

The first item was a glittering crystal salver. Around the rim ran a band of gold as thick as a man’s thumb and inlaid with intricate enamelwork that captured all the colours of the
rainbow. I had seen its exact twin on display on Carolus’s high table at a banquet in Aachen. How this second crystal salver had found its way into Zaragoza’s treasury was a mystery.
Possibly it had been plundered in the days when the Saracens raided deep into Frankia. What was certain was that Carolus would be delighted to match this crystal salver with the one he already
owned.

The other object lying on the velvet cloth was proof that Osric also knew how to appeal to Hroudland’s aristocratic love of lavish display. It was a superb hunting horn, its surface
embellished with delicate carvings. Its colour was a lustrous pale yellow, almost white, and I supposed that it was made of ivory. Yet I had never seen ivory of such great size. If I had held it
against my arm, the horn would have measured from my elbow to my fingertip. Ivory, as far as I was aware, came from the long teeth in the whiskery mouths of large seal-like creatures far in the
north. The size of the monster which had sprouted such a monstrous tooth was difficult to imagine.

Overcome with curiosity I picked up the hunting horn to look at it more closely. The horn was lighter than its size suggested. The carver had hollowed out the interior so that the instrument
sounded the note he wanted. The ivory was delightful to the touch, cool and smooth yet not slippery. The mouthpiece and the band around the open end of the horn were both of silver. Wonderingly I
turned the horn over in my hand to examine the carvings. They ran almost the full length with an area left clear for the huntsman’s grip. There were hunting scenes, which formed a continuous
story along its length. Near the silver mouthpiece a trio of mounted huntsmen were riding among trees. Further along the horn they were attacked by a shaggy cat-like beast. I suspected it to be a
lion, though I had never seen one. The creature had leaped on the hindquarters of a hunter’s horse and sunk its claws and teeth in the animal’s hindquarters. In the next scene a hunter
had put his arrow into the beast’s chest. The great cat was reared up and arching with pain.

I kept turning the horn in my hand following the story of the hunt until I reached the end of the tale close to the silver rim. I froze in shock.

The final scene showed a lone huntsman. He was no longer mounted. His dead horse lay nearby. He stood with one foot on a rock, his head thrown back, and a hunting horn to his lips. But I knew
for certain he was not sounding the note to announce the successful end of the chase. He was blowing on the horn, calling desperately for help. He was the huntsman Carolus had seen in his dream,
the nightmare his daughters had described to me.

I stood there, dumbstruck, until someone took the hunting horn from my grasp and in a delighted tone said, ‘The tooth of an oliphant!’

It was Hroudland. A moment later he put the horn to his lips and was trying to blow a practice note. He failed. The horn made a low sad sound, half moan, half growl. It was the noise of air
rushing out, expelled uselessly.

The hair rose on the back of my neck. I had heard that sound once before. It was on the day that Hroudland had rescued me from the Saracen troopers after they had dropped my horse with an arrow.
It was the last sound my horse had uttered as she lay on the ground, her final groan.