Osric opened the book without a word, and glanced inside. Then he raised his head and looked straight at me.
‘Gerard supposes that your homeland may be Hispania or Africa,’ I said, feeling the colour rising to my cheeks.
Osric did not move a muscle.
I grew more embarrassed under his silent gaze.
‘Whether he’s right or wrong makes no difference to me. I’m just trying to help him.’
Eventually Osric let out a long, slow breath.
‘It has been a long, long time since I held a book like this in my hands. I should be able to read what is written here, provided the content is uncomplicated.’ He looked down at the volume and slowly turned the pages.
I waited for his assessment. The time dragged by.
Finally he said. ‘Gerard is wrong. This is not a book of medicine.’
I was crestfallen. Worse, I regretted that I had intruded on Osric’s life before he was enslaved. If he had wanted me to know about his origins, he would have told me long ago.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know for sure. There are some words that I do not know.’ He pointed. ‘Here it says that a man who dreams he is flying means that he will gain great riches.’ He turned over several more pages and selected another section. ‘Here is something about clouds and wind.’
He closed the book and handed it back to me.
‘If I had enough time perhaps I could make sense of it.’
I took the volume from him.
‘Osric, whether you are Saracen, Christian or pagan matters not to me.’
‘Where I come from, it would be said that is God’s will,’ he assured me with a wan smile.
I left Osric at the stables and went in search of Alcuin. He was standing before the porch of the chancery, deep in conversation with another priest whom I recognized as Odo, the king’s chief architect. They must have been discussing the next stage in the construction work because they turned to face the chapel and pointed upward at the new roof and were exchanging comments. I waited until they had finished their conversation, then approached Alcuin and asked if he could help me with the meaning of a Greek word.
‘What word is that?’ asked Alcuin.
‘Oneirokritikon’ I said.
My pronunciation must have been astray, for he asked me to repeat slowly what I had said.
It took me three attempts before I got it right, then Alcuin smiled and said, ‘Ah! I have it now. “Oneir” is a dream or vision. “Kriticon” comes from “kritikos”, which means able to discern or judge. So your word means something like “the interpretation of dreams”. Does that make sense?’
I felt a shiver of apprehension. I had never breathed a word to anyone, even Osric, about my disturbing dreams, or how my dead brother’s fetch sometimes appeared to me. If this alien book was genuine, it would allow me to unravel what my visions signified.
Suddenly, I was not at all sure that I wanted to be able to peer into the future. I feared that I would become a helpless onlooker, condemned to watch events unfold, knowing the outcomes, however sinister, yet tortured with the knowledge that I was unable to alter them.
Chapter Nine
I had little opportunity to brood on what I should do with the book. Two days later I was riding out of Aachen with a cluster of courtiers, setting out for the first royal hunt of the season. The company fairly buzzed with excitement. An untold number of verderers, trackers, dog handlers and huntsmen had spent weeks preparing for the great occasion. The weather was clear and crisp, with a lingering trace of early morning mist, and the tall figure of king was in the lead. He was mounted on a towering, big-boned stallion and setting a brisk pace.
After two hours in the saddle we were deep within the royal hunting preserve. I recognized the road; it was the same track that the eel wagon had travelled to reach the capital, and I wondered if we would get as far as the place where the brigands had attempted to rob us. I doubted if I would be able to identify the exact spot because everything looked so different from what I remembered of those rain-sodden days. Then the forest had seemed heavy and foreboding, pressing in on us. Now it had an awe-inspiring majesty. The centuries-old trees were enormous. Their upper branches thick as a man’s waist were still green with the last of the summer foliage. But the leaf fall had begun so the ground below them was russet and brown stretching away between the huge moss-covered tree trunks as far as the eye could see, deep into the gloom of primal woodland. Our cavalcade was no more than a temporary disturbance in this immensity. We brought a bubble of cheerful noise and activity — the thudding of hooves, creaking leather, snatches of conversation, bursts of laughter, a sudden oath as someone swore at a clumsy horse that stumbled. Yet as soon as our company had passed, a vast and timeless silence would seep back, only broken by the brief, ancient noises of the forest.
I was thinking how insignificant was our intrusion into such surroundings when Oton rode up beside me. He reined in his horse so we were riding knee to knee. His chubby face was pink from the rattling motion of our trot.
‘Patch, how are you and the delicious Bertha getting along?’ he asked.
I was startled out of my reverie.
‘I haven’t seen her since I left the royal household,’ I answered.
‘Berenger tells me that she was at your bedside,’ he said with a spark of mischief in his eyes.
‘She came to see how I was getting on,’ I retorted, trying to keep my voice dispassionate.
‘Only as far as your bedside?’
I coloured.
‘I have no idea what you mean.’ I knew I sounded less than convincing.
‘Bertha is not easily denied,’ he said, laughing.
I gritted my teeth. The truth was that I would have much preferred to stay back in Aachen with the chance of meeting the princess again. But that had been impossible. All royal guests were required to attend the hunt. Only Gerard had been excused, on the grounds of ill-health.
‘Oton, leave off teasing him. You’re just jealous,’ said Hroudland’s voice, and the count rode up on my other side. His roan stallion stood several inches taller than my bay, and I found myself looking up at my friend.
‘Jealous?’ Oton sniggered. ‘Not me. But perhaps you should tell him. Could save him from a broken heart.’ He pulled his horse’s head aside and dropped back out of earshot.
‘What’s he talking about?’ I asked Hroudland.
‘Bertha’s reputation as a man-eater,’ said the count curtly.
I gaped at him.
‘But she’s the king’s daughter!’
‘Precisely. She gets what she wants.’
A hollow feeling grew in the pit of my stomach. I had been cherishing what had occurred between me and Bertha, every moment of it. I was smitten with her.
Hroudland saw my distress.
‘Patch, don’t take it to heart. Bertha and her sisters treat the court as their private hunting preserve, rather like this forest around us.’
‘But surely their father does not allow it,’ I protested.
‘Rather the reverse.’ Hroudland was matter of fact. ‘The king knows his daughters have a healthy appetite in that direction. They’ve inherited it from him. He prefers they indulge themselves casually, rather than marry and produce children who would complicate the succession.’
I was speechless.
Hroudland lowered his voice.
‘A word of advice, Patch. The king looks the other way, but he does not want to be made a fool of. So be discreet. And remember that you are not the only one.’
I turned aside, unable to face my friend. I was appalled that my affair with Bertha was neither secret nor special. I wondered how many of my companions had been her lovers before me. At the same time I wanted desperately to believe that what had passed between the two of us was genuine. Buffeted by these conflicting thoughts, I had to admit that I knew very little about women, least of all what to make of Bertha’s behaviour. I angrily kicked my horse into a canter.