‘Are you saying that today you killed two beasts, each fit to be royal quarry?’
‘I intended no disrespect.’
The king studied me for a long moment, scowling. Then Vulfard coughed discreetly.
‘I think he tells the truth, Your Majesty.’ He indicated to one side. Walo and Osric were entering the clearing. They were on foot and leading the two horses loaded with great slabs of meat. Dangling from the saddle of my bay gelding was an immense rack of antlers.
The king turned back to face me. He scowled, and for a moment I thought he was going to strike me. Suddenly he threw back his head and burst out in a great roar of laughter.
‘I hereby ban this young man from our forests and any future hunt of ours.’
I bowed my head obediently, and stared at the leaf mould on the ground. If I was forbidden from the forest, then I was unlikely ever to learn the identity of the mysterious archer who might have been an assassin.
Chapter Ten
Next day I was dismissed. I was ordered to Aachen while the king moved camp to a different area of the forest for another week of hunting. Hroudland later told me that his uncle’s good humour was restored when he personally killed a pair of wisents, bull-like animals with great shaggy hides, which ran wild in the forest.
I would have been happier if the king had stayed away even longer. Discipline in the royal household was slack in the king’s absence, and that made it less of a risk to continue my relationship with Bertha. Timing my visits carefully, usually well after dark and when the guards were drowsy, I was able to make my way discreetly to Bertha’s room on the ground floor and spend several nights with her. She encouraged my attendance and I was so smitten by her that I was convinced her affection for me was genuine, whatever Oton and the others claimed about her appetite for men.
‘We must think of an excuse for you to become a regular visitor,’ Bertha murmured. Her father was expected back in the next few hours, and we were lying side by side in her bed, contented and warm in the darkness. Before first light I would creep away to my own quarters.
I yawned and stretched.
‘I hate having to get up in the dark and cold when it is so delightful here.’
‘You were talking in your sleep just now.’
‘I must have been dreaming.’
‘About me, I hope.’ She leaned over and her tongue flicked around my ear. I shivered with delight.
‘I can’t remember.’ I slid my arm under her shoulders and drew her towards me. She pressed herself against me and I gloried in her softness and warmth for a few more precious moments.
At length she drew back so I could get out of bed.
‘You should try to remember your dreams. They could be important,’ she said.
‘I know,’ I said neutrally. With a sudden upwelling of melancholy I recalled my dream of a bull attacking a peaceful stag, and how it had been a portent of my father’s death and the destruction of his kingdom. I did not care to reveal just how important they were.
‘My father believes in his dreams.’
I groped for my shirt where I had dropped it.
‘Does he tell you about them?’
‘Yes. Especially when they worry him.’
‘What was the last dream he confided to you?’
‘A man attacked by a pack of wolves. He could not see who the man was, but it was in a wild place, among rocks and trees. The man was blowing a horn, desperately signalling for help. It never came.’
I smiled into the darkness.
‘Your father won’t be worrying about that dream any longer. I made a fool of myself with a hunting horn recently. I’ll tell you about it some time.’
‘Were you attacked by wolves?’ I was pleased to hear the note of genuine concern in her question.
‘There were no wolves. I was lost.’
‘Then that’s not what the dream was about.’
I decided to tell her about the Oneirokritikon.
‘There’s a book that explains what dreams really mean.’
I heard her sit up in bed.
‘Have you seen that book?’ she asked.
‘I have been given a copy, but it’s written in Saracen.’
‘You must get it translated!’
She sounded excited, and I already knew her well enough to guess that she had some scheme in mind.
‘But I don’t even know if there’s any truth in it. It could all be rubbish, written for the credulous.’
‘You’ll never know until you’ve read it,’ she said.
There was no response to that, so I stayed silent.
‘My father tells his family about his dreams, no one else. He hopes we might be able to explain them to him.’
‘Then perhaps I can write out a translation of the book for him.’
‘My father doesn’t know how to read,’
Now I saw what she had in mind.
‘You mean I would become his interpreter of dreams.’
‘Exactly! Through me.’ There was triumph in her voice. ‘And that way you will become a trusted member of the inner circle.’
Translating the Oneirokritikon was not as difficult as I had feared. Alcuin provided a desk in a quiet side room in the chancery and supplied writing materials. I took Osric’s dictation as he unravelled the sentences.
‘The author’s name is Artimedorus,’ said Osric as we began.
‘He doesn’t sound like a Saracen.’ The goose feather was fresh, and I was having problems getting the ink to flow smoothly.
‘He’s a Greek. He states he will offer proof of the fulfilment of dreams and refute those sceptics who mock the art of divination.’
I wiped the tip of the quill clean with a fresh rag and loaded it again with ink.
Osric ran his eye along the next few lines.
‘Artimedorus claims that for many years he has been collecting books of dream interpretation and consulting diviners of the marketplace, so now he provides a truthful guide on the subject.’
‘Sounds promising.’ I bent to my task.
‘There are two categories of dreams,’ Osric translated. ‘Those which reflect the present, and those which foretell the future. The former need no explanation. Thus a sick man is likely to dream of doctors and his illness; a lover dreams of the person he holds dear. When they awake that was the end of the dream and it had no significance.’
My quill was still giving trouble. I discarded it and cut a replacement.
Osric waited until I had caught up with his dictation.
‘Master, should I summarize the Greek’s ideas?’ he asked. ‘I fear he is rather pedantic.’
‘Pick out the practical advice,’ I replied. Bertha would be expecting quick results on how to interpret dreams.
Osric leafed through the pages.
‘The dreams of the second category can either be literal or allegorical.’
‘Does he give examples?’
‘For a literal dream, he cites the case of a man travelling aboard ship who dreamed he was in a shipwreck. The next day his vessel sank. Artimedorus claims to have spoken to the man himself. He goes on to say that such dreams come true so often that we should not be surprised.’
I had no need to ask Osric how a dream could be an allegory of the future. My dream of the aggressive ox led by a vixen attacking the stag had been an image of King Offa’s invasion of my father’s kingdom. There was a much more important question I had to ask. The answer might protect me against future dangers.
‘Does Artimedorus say whether it is possible to induce a prophetic dream — by swallowing extracts of powerful herbs before sleeping, for example?’ I asked.
I had already told Osric about the unknown archer, and he guessed my thoughts.
‘So you would have been prepared for what happened during the hunt?’
I nodded.
Osric spent a long time searching the pages of the Oneirokritikon. Finally he shook his head. ‘He only warns that dreams that are the result of having eaten or drunk too much are not to be relied on.’