One day it was Alcuin himself who emerged to tell us that our topic for the day was to be geography.
Beside me Berenger muttered, ‘Thank the Lord! I feared it would be theology.’
Alcuin pretended not to have heard.
‘I will detain you only a few minutes, but it will be long enough to demonstrate that geography has its uses in war as in peace,’ he said coolly. He gave no hint that he already knew me, and he brought us into the chancery and led us directly to a broad trestle table covered with biscuit-coloured tiles of baked clay laid side by side like the squares on a games board.
I studied what was scratched on them — the names of towns, rivers, provinces. I was looking at a great map of the kingdom of the Franks and the neighbouring lands, a portable map ingeniously made so it could be dismantled and reassembled wherever it was needed.
‘We use this for planning, both civil and military,’ Alcuin was saying. He walked round the table to its far side. ‘Here, for example, is Byzantium, the capital of the Eastern Emperor. Over there,’ he waved his hand, ‘is the northern sea.’
I recalled the model of the palace I had seen in the king’s chambers. There had been no documents or written material in his room. It occurred to me that Carolus could neither read nor write, and that this map of tiles was as much for his benefit as for the clerks in the chancery.
Alcuin reached into a small wooden box and produced a number of figurines, miniatures of men, horses and oxen.
‘What sort of child’s toys are those?’ interrupted Anseis rudely.
Alcuin remained unflustered.
‘Do you play tafl?’ he asked.
‘Of course.’
‘In that game you calculate which of your opponent’s squares are vulnerable and which squares hold threats?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Then think of this map in the same way. It tells you who lies beyond your immediate neighbour, and with whom you should form alliances.’
Anseis snorted with disdain.
‘I don’t need that map to tell me what I already know.’
‘But this device will also allow you to plan your campaigns and plot your strategy-’ Alcuin paused for dramatic effect ‘-which is why our king and lord asked me to teach you some geography. He may want your advice about where he should next send his armies.’
Alcuin now had their complete attention; they were like a pack of hounds that have heard the first, faint sound of the huntsman’s horn.
‘If you were to advise the king, what would you say should be his priority?’ he asked.
‘Finish off the heathen Saxons,’ grunted Gerin. ‘We’ve been fighting them for years. One last push should do it.’
Alcuin placed the clay figures of a man, a horse and an ox, facing outward on the tile labelled SAXONIA.
‘So here we assign some infantry, cavalry and a supply train for the task. You will have to bear in mind that the king’s host will be entering densely wooded country. It will be slow work for them.’ He indicated some cross-hatching incised in the tiles. I guessed it represented forests.
‘I disagree,’ said Gerard. ‘The Saracens are a greater threat than the Saxons. They’ve attacked us once and will do so again.’
I recalled that Gerard’s home was in the far south bordering on the Mediterranean and had been ravaged by Arabs from Africa.
Alcuin placed several more figurines on the tile marked SEPTIMANIA.
Hroudland was stalking eagerly around the table, looking at the map from every angle.
‘The best campaign is one that brings glory and also pays for itself. If we overrun the Avars, their treasure will fill our coffers for years to come.’
Alcuin arranged some miniatures, this time in the east, on CARINTHIA.
‘What is your suggestion?’ asked Alcuin. He was looking directly at me.
The little figures on the table were facing in opposite directions, widely scattered and vulnerable. My reply would sound cautious and dull compared to the opinions of my companions.
‘I would begin by asking the king whether he really needs to extend his kingdom. It is already immense and it prospers.’
‘And if he does decide to send out his army?’ Alcuin asked softly.
‘Then he must first secure his borders; make sure that no enemy invades while his troops are elsewhere.’
‘Which is precisely what I and the other members of his council have been telling him,’ said Alcuin. He began collecting up the figurines and returning them to the box.
My companions sensed that the lesson was over and began to head for the door. A clerk came over and requested Alcuin’s presence at a nearby conference with some other priests. But I lingered beside the table, staring down at the map. It was more detailed than I had first noticed. Thin, meandering grooves were rivers; straight lines almost certainly the old Roman roads. Someone had drawn a comb through the wet clay before it was fired, leaving ridges and furrows to indicate the extent of mountain ranges. I allowed my imagination to wander across the modelled landscape as I devised a make-believe itinerary for myself. I sidled slowly around the table, selecting which of the towns and cities I would choose to visit. Their names were not always easy to make out. I bent over the table, concentrating so hard with my single eye that it made me light-headed and giddy. In places the tiles had dark blotches where the clay was poorly mixed, and the lettering was indistinct. The tile labelled SAXONIA, for instance, showed an irregular dark stain the colour of dried blood where Gerin had proposed mustering an invasion army. I shivered, not knowing if this was a portent. Then a glint from the far side of the map caught my attention. It was a pin prick of light, unmissable. Curious as to what caused it, I walked around the table and looked closer. A speck of shiny material had been exposed when the mapmaker scraped his comb through the clay to mark the range of mountains dividing the kingdom from the Franks from the lands of the Saracens. The speck glittered, both malevolent and enticing. Gently I touched my index finger to it and was shocked to feel a tiny pinch of pain. As I withdrew my hand, a single drop of my bright red blood dripped on the tile. This time I knew, without question, it was an omen.
In early September came my first royal banquet and my life changed yet again. The feast was to celebrate the completion of the cupola on top of the royal basilica. For weeks the masons had been attached like spiders by safety ropes around their waists as they nailed in place the last tiles, the sound of their hammering drifting down to us. The banquet was to be held in the as-yet-unfinished Council Hall, the massive rectangular building whose shape had reminded me of my father’s mead hall, though on a far larger scale.
‘Don’t expect too much,’ Hroudland said to me as we loitered with the other guests outside the entrance, waiting to be summoned inside. ‘This place is little more than a shell, and the builders are standing by to stretch a canvas awning to keep us dry.’
I glanced up at the sky. It was midday and the air had the first edge of autumn’s chill, but the few clouds did not threaten rain. I felt self-conscious in a short cloak of very expensive dark blue velvet trimmed with marten fur which Hroudland has loaned me for the occasion.
‘Who’s going to be there?’ I asked.
‘Carolus, of course, with Queen Hildegard, and young Pepin, whom everyone presumes is the heir to the throne, though it’s not official. Plus whichever of his other children care to come along.’
‘It sounds rather casual,’ I said, feeling relieved.
‘Carolus dislikes formal banquets. He much prefers taking his meals with just his family.’
‘And what’s your opinion of your cousin Pepin?’
‘It’s difficult to think of him as my cousin. Carolus never formally married his mother though she was his concubine for years.’
‘I thought the king was deeply religious, a devout Christian who believed in marriage.’
Hroudland gave a cynical laugh.