The bard cleared his throat, placed one foot on the stool, set his harp upon his knee, and after plucking a few chords, launched into his tale. I watched the king’s face as I tried to decide whether he was genuinely enjoying the performance. He sat expressionless, not eating, only toying with a piece of bread with a large, powerful hand on which a massive gold ring was set with a large ruby.
I already knew the Troilus story. It had been a favourite of my old teacher, Bertwald.
The bard droned on. He had a high-pitched, rather irritating voice, and an unfortunate tendency to lay the stress on the wrong words. I began to sympathize with Berenger’s dismay, and wondered how long the performance would last. The wooden bench was uncomfortable.
The bard plodded through his narrative: Troilus was the most beautiful youth in Troy, a famous warrior, and an adept handler of horses. Daily he went beyond the city walls to exercise his chariot team on the plain before Troy. Afterwards he brought them to a sacred grove to water them at a spring. Knowing his routine, the Greeks set upon him. But he defeated them, wounding king Menalaus, and even put the renowned Myrmidons to flight. When word of this humiliation reached Achilles, the greatest champion of the Greeks, he vowed to exact revenge. He put on his armour and hid in ambush at the sacred grove.
The bard paused. He took a sip of water and fiddled with his harp, tightening a couple of strings. I knew he was doing it for dramatic effect.
Incautiously I muttered to Hroudland, ‘He’s not mentioned the main reason why Achilles had to kill the youth.’
Either the king’s hearing was abnormally acute or I had taken too much of Anseis’s wine and spoken louder than intended. A high-pitched royal voice barked, ‘You! If you know the story so well, why don’t you finish it?!’
I looked up, dismayed. Carolus was glaring at me with those large pale eyes, his mouth set in an angry line.
‘Go on, young man,’ he rasped. ‘Show us you can do better.’
I felt the blood drain from my face. The king continued to stare angrily at me. I was aware of the sudden silence, the entire company watching and waiting for my reaction. Engeler made a faint, clucking sound with his tongue. He was enjoying my humiliation.
Perhaps it was a further effect of the wine, but somehow I found the courage to get to my feet. Without looking at the king, I walked over to where the bard was standing, harp in hand, a look of disgust on his face.
With an ironic gesture he offered me the harp, but I waved it aside. I was no musician. Smirking, he retreated a few paces and stood with arms folded waiting for me to make a fool of myself.
I drew several deep breaths as Bertwald had taught me to do if I was to speak in public.
‘My Lord,’ I addressed the king. ‘There was a prophecy known to all the Greeks. It said that if the beautiful youth Troilus lived to reach full manhood, Troy would never fall. For that reason — above all others — Achilles knew he had to slay the golden youth. So Achilles lay in wait at the sacred grove, and when Troilus came there with his servant, he burst from ambush.’
I saw the king relax. He sat back in his seat, and nodded.
‘Go on,’ he commanded.
By now the wine had certainly gone to my head. The audience seemed to soften and blur around me. I knew they were still there, waiting and listening. But I was in my own empty space and I could fill it with my words. I raised my voice.
‘Achilles fell upon Troilus. He caught him by his long and lustrous hair, and dragged him off his horse. Then on the sacred soil he beheaded him. Then he cut off his parts and hung them beneath the armpits of the corpse so that Troilus’s ghost would never come to haunt him.’ I paused and licked my dry lips. The spirit of tipsy courage had taken complete control. ‘Troilus’s mutilated corpse was carried back into the city, and the Trojans raised a great wailing. They lamented the loss of their youthful prince, but above all they remembered him for his grace and for his surpassing beauty. He was the darling of the people, and none grieved him more than Polyxena, princess of the Trojans. She was the fairest of all her sisters, tall and beautiful. Her eyes were lovely, her long hair the colour of ripe wheat, and her body was well-proportioned. She melted men’s hearts.’
I finished the final sentence and bowed to the king. As I lowered my head, I deliberately allowed my eyes to rest for a brief moment on Bertha. She was staring at me, her eyes wide.
The bard treated me to a look of pure loathing as I walked past him and returned to my seat. The hum of general conversation resumed. Hroudland thumped me on the back as I sat down beside him. My knees were shaking.
‘Well done, Patch!’ he chortled.
The servants had already begun ladling out the next course of the banquet. I picked up my spoon and took a mouthful. It was an evil-tasting pottage of chicken in a spinach and bean broth, heavily flavoured with garlic. Vaguely I heard the musicians start up again. I was too spent to say anything and I kept my head down, eating quietly.
All of a sudden, there was an agonizing spasm in my stomach as if a dagger had been jabbed into my gut. Bile surged up. My throat constricted and I felt I could not breathe. Next there came a great roaring in my head and a red curtain descended across my eyes. I felt myself falling forward, and everything went black.
Chapter Eight
Something hard was forced between my teeth, and then a trickle of fluid ran down the back of my throat. I coughed and nearly choked. I did not have the strength to lift my eyelids. Worse, my heart was pounding in a frightening way, its beat irregular.
A faraway voice said calmly, ‘You must swallow.’ I knew the speaker but I was too confused to remember who it was. I swallowed.
Time must have passed, for when I regained the strength to open my eyes, it was to see Osric’s familiar face. He was leaning over me, a narrow tube in his hand. He inserted it again into my mouth.
‘Drink as much of this as you can,’ he said.
Obediently I sucked on the liquid. It had no taste and left a sticky coating on the inside of my mouth. My stomach churned and my bowels had turned to water. I felt so weak that I could not move my limbs.
‘Lie quietly,’ said Osric.
I must have drifted off to sleep for when I came to my senses again, it was night. By the light of a single candle Osric sat beside me, and once again he made me drink the sticky liquid. I was lying on some sort of bed and had soiled myself. The bed linen stank. Feebly I tried to sit up, but he pushed me back down with his hand.
‘Here, chew,’ he said, and dropped into my mouth a lump of some substance which crumbled into powder as I bit into it. He held a cup of water to my lips and I swirled down the thin paste. It tasted of nothing. Again I drifted off into blackness.
When I awoke a second time, it was to find that I had been washed and dressed in a clean bed gown. Osric was gone, but Alcuin was sitting patiently on a stool, his face grave.
I looked about me. I was lying in a small, plainly furnished room. Daylight entered through a window in the whitewashed walls.
‘Where am I?’ I asked.
‘The king’s house, a room where the crown couriers rest between trips.’
‘What happened?’
‘You ate something which made you so violently sick that you were brought here, the nearest place.’ The priest folded his hands in his lap. ‘Perhaps it was a food which you were not accustomed to. There were times when it was thought you might die. Prayers were said for you.’
I detected a hesitation in his voice.
‘Was anyone else taken ill?’ I asked.
‘The old man, Gerard of Roussillon, suffers the same symptoms, but they began some hours later. He managed to get back to his own bed. He breathes with difficulty and is getting weaker.’