I walked softly across the room, careful not to wake my new companions, and let myself out. During the night the rain had stopped. The air smelled of dampness and mildew. Only the faintest glow showed where the sun would rise. I made my way cautiously through the shadows, trying to retrace my path to where I had seen the statue of the horse.
I had gone perhaps a hundred paces when I realized that I had lost my way. I decided it would be wiser to wait until the daylight was stronger and I could get my bearings. I stood in silence for some time, watching the buildings gradually take shape out of the darkness. It was a strange sensation to know that I was in the heart of the largest, most powerful kingdom in the western world and had already met its supreme ruler face to face. Yet I knew almost nothing about it. If I was to find my proper place within it, I would have to learn its manners and customs. The prospect excited me.
All of a sudden there came the most hideous scream. It was a cry of such anguish that the hair rose on the back of my neck. Instinctively I reached for my dagger, only to remember that I had left it behind. The source of that terrible scream was very close. Weaponless, I hesitated. Then the ghastly wail came again, even more desperate than before, and I knew I had to intervene. Someone was being attacked and needed urgent help. The screams had come from the far side of a builder’s shed. I took a deep breath and dashed around the corner, my heart pounding, not knowing what I would find. I half-hoped that my sudden appearance might frighten the assailant off his victim, or if I yelled loudly enough to raise the alarm, someone would come to help.
I came skidding around the corner of the hut only to find no one there. There was a large heap of rough-sawn logs and an open muddy space. Pale smears of sawdust showed where the carpenters had been at work. I slithered to a halt, puzzled. The light had strengthened enough to cast faint shadows. Something moved in the gloom, low down beside the timber. I tried to make out what it was, half expecting to see a badly wounded victim lying in the mire. Again nothing. Then out from the shadow strutted a bird. It stood taller than a chicken, with large feet and a small, fine head on a gracefully curved neck. The body was almost the size of a goose and, though it did not waddle, the creature had a stilted, ungainly walk. The tail was very odd. The bird dragged behind it a drooping train of feathers out of all proportion to its size. I was still puzzling about this strange creature when it raised its head and uttered that same spine-chilling, ugly scream. Once again my heart raced, but by then I knew what was in front of me. Near my father’s house had been the ruins of an old Roman villa, once the home of a rich merchant. On its mosaic floor had been depicted all manner of exotic creatures, lions, sea monsters, fish, ducks and. . peacocks.
‘Escaped from the king’s zoo,’ said a voice I recognized, and Alcuin materialized from the shadows, giving me yet another scare that morning. ‘I’m sorry if I startled you. I take a stroll after lauds. It helps clear the mind.’
‘That creature has a shocking call,’ I commented.
‘The voice of the devil, the gait of a thief, and the body of an angel,’ replied Alcuin.
The bird heard our voices, turned towards us and slowly raised its tail into an enormous fan. Straining with effort, for a moment the creature looked as if it would topple forward on its beak. Despite the comic stance, I was impressed. The Roman mosaics had not come near capturing the magnificence of the live display.
‘The hundred eyes of Argos,’ I said.
Alcuin gave me a shrewd glance.
‘Where did you learn that?’
‘A tale my tutor told me at home. He loved the ancient stories,’ I replied.
‘A priest?’
I nodded.
‘He would have done better to tell you that the patterns of the peacock’s fan represent the all-seeing eye of God.’
I decided to tease.
‘And the flesh of the dead peacock doesn’t corrupt? So it mimics the eternal body of Christ.’
Alcuin showed a flash of irritation.
‘Pure myth. If this bird is mauled by one of the king’s hunting dogs, you will find that the body rots just like any other fowl.’
He began herding the peacock across the ground, as if he was a goose girl, and I helped him.
‘What other animals does the king have in his collection?’ I asked.
‘Bears, a leopard or two, cranes, wolves, some monkeys, several types of snake — most of them survive only a year or two before they die.’
‘How do they get here?’
‘Some are brought by hunters who’ve heard of the royal menagerie. The more exotic animals are sent by foreign rulers, as gifts.’
I saw my opening.
‘What about that metal horse, the big statue? Was that a gift?’
‘That came from Italy, from Ravenna. It represents a Roman emperor, Theodosius. Carolus asked for it to be sent to him.’
‘A strange request.’
‘Not really. Theodosios was a Christian emperor in Rome. He spread the word of Christ with his conquests. Carolus sees him as an example.’
I said nothing, wondering whether my dream was of the Roman or the Frank.
The peacock stalked ahead of us, not hurrying. Now it stopped and uttered another of its raucous wails. In response a servant appeared at a run. He must have been one of the keepers of the royal menagerie because he had a small bag of grain in his hand. He sprinkled a trail of seeds on the ground and the peacock pecked at them until he was close enough to grab the bird.
Alcuin watched the captive being carried away.
‘How are you settling into your new quarters with your new companions?’ he asked.
‘I’m still trying to put names to faces.’
‘Their families are influential and from all over the kingdom and beyond.’
‘The one called Hroudland claims to be the king’s nephew.’
‘That’s correct but his mother remarried; he doesn’t get on with his stepfather who is one of the king’s chief ministers. Life is quieter if they are kept apart.’
‘There’s a big, shaggy fellow in our lodgings who doesn’t say much. Just watches.’
‘Son of the Danish king. He’s a hostage for his father’s good behaviour. But a steady man and reliable.’ Alcuin stopped and faced me. ‘Sigwulf, if you take my advice you will do the same. Look and listen and keep your own counsel. Among the so-called royal guests there are rivalries and hatreds swirling beneath the surface. Beware of them.’ Somewhere in the distance a church bell sounded. ‘That’s the signal for a royal council. I’ll see you this afternoon, in class.’
I watched him walk away. He had the confident stride of a man who knew his own mind. His warning had been remarkably like my brother’s.
I got back to my new companions in time for a breakfast of meat broth thickened to a porridge with barley meal and washed down with beer. There was a cheerful atmosphere at the table.
‘Any good on a horse, Patch?’ asked Hroudland. He pushed aside his empty bowl and stood up. He was almost as tall as his uncle, though not as heavily built.
‘Just the basics,’ I said, thinking of the dozen horses we’d owned at home; they had been ordinary nags that we’d ridden when hunting and they’d served as pack animals to carry back the deer and wild pig we’d killed.
‘Then you have much to learn,’ said Hroudland, laying his hand on my shoulder in an unexpected gesture of friendship.
There was good-natured banter as all of us, including white-haired Gerard, filed outside where a cluster of servants was waiting. They were burdened down with an impressive assortment of weapons — helmets and body armour, swords and shields, javelins and heavy lances. Only Osric was empty handed. Followed by our attendants we set off along the muddy footpaths, and once again Hroudland picked me out to say a few words, but quietly this time.