He shook his head.
‘They will know only that they must give your despatches to their courier who in turn will hand it on to me. The courier, of course, will be bringing only a verbal report to His Majesty. Neither of his envoys is comfortable with pen and paper.’
‘Who are these two envoys?’
Alcuin’s reply shook me to the core.
‘The king has selected Ganelon and Gerin.’
Chapter Twelve
‘Ganelon! That devious reptile!’ Hroudland let out a string of oaths. ‘The king must be out of his mind sending him with the Saracens. There’ll be double-dealing and lies. The only person who will come out of it unscathed will be Ganelon, that slimy bastard.’
My friend was falling-down drunk when I finally located him and told him my news. It was late afternoon and he was lolling with Berenger on a bench in the changing room of the thermae. The water in the pool was pleasantly warm even in mid-winter, and the count sometimes went there to swim and then carouse with his close companions. The baths, being some distance from the main palace, were a place to go for heavy drinking sessions as the king was known to discourage drunkenness.
Hroudland waved his cup, slopping the contents.
‘Patch, you couldn’t have a worse travelling companion,’ he announced, slurring his words.
‘He can’t be that bad,’ I protested.
Even intoxicated, Hroudland still had the look and manner of the handsome aristocrat despite the flushed face and owlish expression.
‘Don’t you believe it. Ganelon will always try to save his own skin. He tried to get the king to send me with the Saracens. Serve him right that he’s been given the job instead.’
‘I don’t understand.’ The sight of Hroudland helpless and groggy made me uncomfortable.
‘The journey to Barcelona could prove to be a suicide mission. The Saracens turn against you, and you’re done for.’ Hroudland drew his finger across his throat and made a gurgling sound. He swayed on the bench and would have slipped off it if Berenger had not caught him and held him upright.
Hroudland belched and rose to his feet. He staggered forward and threw an arm around my shoulders and hugged me to him. Judging by the smell of his breath he was drinking hot red wine flavoured with blackthorn berries.
‘Poor Patch, this may be the last time I see you. You will come to visit me in Brittany, won’t you?’
Embarrassed, I pushed him away.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Berenger, who was more sober, explained: ‘The king has appointed Hroudland to be the new Margrave of the Breton March. He leaves next week to take up his post.’
‘So, Patch, you ride off to the sunshine, and I’ll be heading for the rain and drizzle of the west,’ said Hroudland.
My friend’s melancholy was contagious. All of a sudden I felt depressed. I knew I would miss Hroudland. I valued him as a confidant and comrade.
‘I’ll have Gerin for company. He’s being sent to Hispania as well,’ I said.
Hroudland swayed back and hiccupped.
‘Pity the king didn’t think to send him to Brittany with me. Gerin gave Offa a hand with sorting out his neighbours.’
It was the first time that I had heard any reference to link Gerin to Offa since Osric had told me that one of Gerin’s servants was curious whether I had ever been at Offa’s court. But I had no chance to ask any questions because Hroudland had begun taking off his clothes.
‘Come on, Berenger! Time for another swim,’ he said with another drunken hiccup. ‘We won’t have thermae in Brittany. Let’s make the most of it.’
I turned away dejectedly. I had not got over my dread of the murky green waters of the pool, and I had to go and find Osric and tell him to be ready to leave early next morning.
That night was my last in Aachen for many months and it was filled with foreboding. I had great difficulty in falling asleep, and when I did so I dreamed that I was on the side of a strange and barren mountain. It was in near-darkness and Hroudland was with me. Together we scrambled down the steep slope, descending at breakneck speed, careering off rough boulders, bruising hands and knees as we slipped and fell, then getting back to our feet and hurtling onward. Dragons with armoured scales flew around our heads and from clefts in the rocks sprang loathsome creatures that snarled and showed their fangs. I awoke drenched in sweat and wondering if the Book of Dreams could explain such grotesque fantasies.
One thing was certain: I would take the Oneirokritikon with me to Hispania so that Osric and I could finish the translation. I needed Artimedorus’s writings to help me to spy into the minds of the Saracens as King Carolus had instructed.
A raw wind was lifting little spirals of powdered snow, sending them spinning across the frozen ground in front of the great hall as I joined the other members of Carolus’s delegation to Hispania assembling on horseback. The icy blast was making my eyes stream and, although I was wearing heavy gauntlets, I had already lost all feeling in my fingers. It was only an hour after sunrise and Osric had brought my bay gelding from the stable and was riding a rangy-looking chestnut mare. He held a laden pack animal on a lead rope, and I noted a long package which I guessed contained my bow and sword. I had packed the Book of Dreams in my saddlebags, together with pages of the translation I had made so far. All around me the other riders were bundled up in thick clothes. I recognized Ganelon by the glimpse of a black beard poking out from the hood of his heavy jacket, and Gerin by the red shield slung across his back. The Saracens had not yet mounted but were holding their horses by the reins; there seemed to be some sort of problem.
An official emerged from the portico of the great hall and hurried across to Ganelon and said something to him. I saw Ganelon jerk the reins in an angry gesture, then wheel his horse round and come trotting across to shout to Gerin.
‘The Saracens are refusing to leave until we have more horses,’ he called.
‘What’s the matter with them?’ asked Gerin. He sounded grumpy.
‘They say we need to bring spare mounts, or we’ll slow them down. They’ve already refused a cavalry escort for the same reason.’
I looked across at the Saracens. They wore heavy riding cloaks and soft boots, and carried short whips. Their small horses were no longer decked out in the finery of their arrival. Manes and tails were neatly plaited and tied up. Bridles and saddles were workmanlike, and when one of the Saracens picked up his horse’s hoof to check, I saw a half hoop of metal armed with short spikes. I had never seen a horseshoe before. A Saracen was talking with a palace official and pointing with his whip towards the king’s residence. The official set off at a run.
‘What’s going on?’ demanded Ganelon. His horse was skittish. It stamped and snorted, edging sideways.
‘They are insisting you bring couriers’ horses as remounts,’ the official called out, heading towards the outbuilding that housed the horses kept ready for the king’s messengers.
‘Impudence,’ growled Gerin. He leaned forward and patted the neck of his tall stallion. With its shaggy winter coat, the animal looked even more powerful than when he rode it during our fighting practice.
Ganelon shifted in his saddle to make himself more comfortable. Apart from one slight nod, he had ignored me entirely.
‘No point in making a fuss,’ he said quietly to Gerin. ‘We’ll be in one another’s company for a long time.’
After a short delay, a gang of palace ostlers appeared, leading a string of horses from the couriers’ stables. They distributed the animals among us, handing out the lead ropes, and at last we were ready to set out.
We formed up in a ragged column, two royal heralds in the lead. Immediately behind them were the Saracens. Discreetly I took up my place towards the rear, just ahead of the grooms and servants. Osric was at my side and glancing at him I could see the resemblance to the Saracens in the embassy. His face had the same sharply defined features and dark complexion.