The man called Oton nodded towards an empty place at the table.
‘Patch, take a seat. Pay no heed to Anseis here. He’s a thick-skulled Burgundian, and they don’t have much by way of manners.’
‘Oton, you’re keeping us waiting,’ growled Anseis.
I sat down at the table. Oton closed his eyes for a moment’s thought, then opened them and declaimed:
‘I saw a beast whose stomach swelled behind him, fat and bloated.
A strong servant tended to him, and filled his stomach with what came from afar, then travelled through his eye.
He gives life to others but does not die. New strength revives in his stomach.
And he breathes again. .’
Oton looked around the table.
‘What did I see?’ he asked, and I realized the company were amusing themselves by posing riddles. It had been the same in my father’s mead hall after a banquet.
There was a long silence.
‘Come on, you lot. It’s easy enough,’ urged Oton.
‘A stomach swelling behind him,’ murmured the cheerful young man with the curly hair. He raised himself slightly off his bench and let out a long, deliberate fart. ‘Is that a clue?’
‘Berenger, you’re disgusting,’ said Oton.
‘A bellows, that’s what you saw,’ said the dark-skinned man who had been playing the board game.
‘Correct. Your turn, Engeler,’ said Berenger.
Engeler took a moment to smooth down his long, glossy, black hair and adjust the cuffs of his expensive silk shirt. I guessed that he was someone whom women found attractive, and he knew it. He posed his riddle:
‘A queer thing hangs down beside a man’s thigh, hidden by his clothes.
It has a hole in its head, and is stiff and strong, and its firmness brings a reward.
When the man pulls up his clothing, he wants the head of that hanging thing to poke the hole that it fits and has often filled before.’
Berenger guffawed.
‘Trust you to be thinking of sex,’ he said.
‘Not at all,’ replied Engeler with mock seriousness. ‘It’s you who has a dirty mind. There’s nothing lewd about my riddle.’
I knew the answer but held my tongue.
‘The solution is “a key’’,’ said Engeler with a grin. ‘Now have a go at this next one, Berenger, and try to keep your thoughts pure.’ He paused, and then began:
‘A certain something swells in its pouch, grows, and stands erect, lifting its covering.
A proud bride lays hands on that boneless marvel, the king’s daughter covered that swollen object with clothing. .
What is it?’
Berenger sat silent.
Engeler had a sly twinkle in his eye.
‘Anyone know?’ He turned to me. ‘How about you, Patch?’
‘Dough,’ I said quietly.
There was a moment’s silence. I could almost hear the others wondering what to make of me.
‘So Patch, now it’s your turn,’ said Oton.
I thought back to father’s drinking sessions and dredged up one of his favourite puzzles, and said:
‘Four strange creatures travel together, their tracks were very swart.
Each mark very black. The bird ’s support moves swiftly, through the air, underwater.
The diligent warrior works without stopping, directing the four over the beaten gold.’
I sat back on my bench and waited for the solution.
‘A horse and wagon,’ volunteered Engeler.
I shook my head.
‘Something to do with a dragon flying through the air, diving underwater,’ was Oton’s suggestion.
Again I shook my head.
‘Give us a clue,’ said Berenger.
Unexpectedly, the shaggy-looking fellow spoke up. He put aside the piece of wood he was carving and said, ‘You use words to describe things without saying what they are.’ He spoke in a heavy, deliberate way.
‘Sounds crazy to me, Ogier,’ observed Berenger.
‘At home our poets do it all the time,’ Ogier said. ‘They say the sea is the whale road; the sun is the sky candle.’ He resumed his whittling of the piece of wood.
I didn’t want to make the company feel foolish so I said, ‘Ogier is right. In my riddle the “bird’s support” is a feather, and the diligent warrior is a “man’s arm”.’
A voice behind me said, ‘Then the four curious creatures travelling together are a scribe’s four fingers, and the feather is a writing quill leaving an inky trail.’
I turned to see who had worked out the correct answer. Tall and good looking, he had just emerged from one of the sleeping cubicles and held himself with an easy grace. Fair skinned, he had a straight nose and grey eyes and hair the colour of ripe wheat. Also, there was something vaguely familiar about him. It took me a moment to realize that he reminded me of King Carolus. It was as if the newcomer was the king as a younger man. I tried to stand up from my bench, ready to bow to him, but I was awkwardly placed and came up against the table and fell back on my seat. My clumsiness brought a smile to his face. He showed white, even teeth.
‘Don’t get up,’ he said. ‘My name is Hroudland.’
‘I’m Sigwulf,’ I replied, ‘and you have the correct answer.’
Hroudland came and sat down across the table from me.
‘A lucky guess,’ he said. ‘But I haven’t worked out what you meant by “beaten gold”.’
‘My riddle was an image of a man writing in ink with a quill on parchment that has gold illumination,’ I answered him.
‘You should try that out on my uncle. He’s keen on anything that’s got a religious slant,’ Hroudland said.
‘Your uncle?’
‘My mother is one of King Carolus’s sisters.’
I had just opened my mouth to respond when I was interrupted by Anseis asking, ‘Is it true that the king is planning a campaign against the Saracens in Hispania, Hroudland?’
‘Not this year. The season’s too late,’ said Hroudland.
‘In the south you can keep an army in the field almost until Christmas,’ observed Berenger.
‘That’s something you should discuss with Gerard,’ said Hroudland looking across at the white-haired older man.
The riddles were forgotten. The conversation veered off into a discussion of how long it would take to raise an army, the speed of its supply train, the correct proportion of archers to foot soldiers to cavalry, the correct tactics for fighting Saracens. As they talked and argued, I learned that the old man Gerard came from the south and that when King Carolus went to war, my fellow royal guests served as officers in his army.
The discussion was bringing back bitter memories of the only battle I had ever fought in, and I excused myself from the table. Osric had returned from the royal stores with an armful of clothes, and I found myself a vacant sleeping cubicle where he laid out my new wardrobe. When he withdrew, I lay down on the cot and closed my eyes. It had been a long day and I was tired. Almost instantly I was asleep.
My twin joined me or, rather, his fetch came to sit on the side of my cot. He looked as he always did when he visited me in my dreams — pensive and calm, not the ghastly corpse of his death. He had aged at the same pace as myself, and sometimes I wondered if I was looking in a mirror, rather than seeing someone who had been dead these past ten years.
For a long time he sat without speaking, occasionally looking around the little alcove. ‘What do you make of them?’ he eventually asked.
As always, I did not reply. There was no need. My brother always answered his own question.
‘Learn what you can about them. Suspect the one you come to trust, and trust the one you suspect.’
Then he stood up and left.
I was awake before sunrise. For a few moments I lay snug in my cubicle, recollecting where I was. Then I rose and dressed quietly in the Frankish costume that Osric had delivered for me — linen undertrousers and shirt under a belted tunic, and woollen leggings held in place by criss-cross garters. Osric had located a pair of laced leather boots of the right size, and only the long cloak in the shape of a double square delayed me. It took some time in the darkness to work out that I should place it over my shoulders so that it hung in front and behind, with a slit on each side.