‘Did you ever hear anything more about Gerin’s time at King Offa’s court?’ I asked.
Osric’s eyes flicked to where Gerin rode ahead of us.
‘No, but his servant is travelling with us. I’ll see what I can find out,’ he replied.
‘I had a strange dream last night. When we have a chance I want us to see if there is some meaning to it.’
Osric turned his brown eyes towards me.
‘So you are beginning to have faith in the book?’
‘I am, but it would be better if we kept quiet about it, at least for now.’
There was a shouted command from the front of the column. One of the heralds blew a short blast on a horn, and we began to move. I twisted in my saddle and looked back towards the king’s residence, wondering if Bertha was watching us leave. I doubted it. There had been no opportunity to say farewell to her, and my goodbye to Hroudland had been less than satisfactory. The newly appointed Margrave of the Breton March had been stretched out on his bed with his head under a pillow, suffering a bad hangover. He had groaned and with a muffled voice told me to go to the Devil.
The brisk pace of the Saracen riders came as an unwelcome surprise. Their horses moved with short, rapid steps, covering the ground with a smooth, measured beat while their riders sat at ease in their deep, comfortable saddles. To keep up with them the rest of us had to either trot or canter, and this tested our heavier mounts. Soon the muscles in my legs and back were aching and I felt my bay gelding beginning to flag. The groans and muttered curses from other riders told me that they too were suffering. From time to time someone would break the torment by pulling out of line and going up ahead at a gallop. But then his horse would tire and slow to a walk, and not long afterwards the Saracen cavalcade came stepping by at the same brisk rate, apparently unflagging. By the time we stopped for a brief midday break, most of our riders had already changed horses, glad that remounts were available. When we finally halted for the night and slid painfully down from our saddles, we had covered the same distance Arnulf’s eel cart would have travelled in a week.
So it continued, relentlessly, day after day. We rose in the dark, set out on the road in half-light of dawn and often did not reach our day’s destination until well after sunset. Many of our horses broke down or went lame. If they were not immediately replaced, their riders were left behind. Our group steadily dwindled until we numbered less than a score of riders in addition to the Saracens. Not one of them fell by the way. We had no need of guides because our path was along the old Roman roadways. Sometimes the original paving remained, the stone slabs cracked and scored with grooves left by cartwheels over the centuries. Elsewhere the surface had deteriorated into a rutted gravel track that followed the lines of ancient causeways over marsh and bogland, bringing us to sturdy Roman bridges whose solid stone arches still crossed the rivers. During the first week of our journey many of the smaller streams were frozen solid so that we could ride across on the ice. The Saracen horses went ahead on their spiked shoes, while the rest of us dismounted and cautiously crept across, leading our nervous mounts.
The scenery changed very slowly. Our route avoided high ground, as everywhere was in the grip of winter. The trees in the vast forest tracts were leafless and stark, as were the orchards outside the villages. The ploughed fields were bleak expanses of bare soil. Nothing moved. The country people were keeping indoors close to their fires and if no smoke rose from the chimneys we knew they shared their hovels with their cattle, huddling together for warmth. We passed quickly through the towns, having no need to buy supplies or seek lodgings. The king owned royal farms all along our route, some so vast that they rivalled my father’s little kingdom in acreage. Every steward on them was obliged to feed us from his stores and give us shelter. If no royal demesne was convenient, the dukes and counts, who held their lands from the king, provided all we needed. Our progress was so swift and unhampered that I was able to measure it by the way the weather changed. We left Aachen under skies so dull and overcast that it was impossible to tell the direction of the sunrise, and in the evening the daylight ebbed seamlessly into night. Three weeks later we were riding in sunshine so bright that it hurt the eyes, and the night sky was so clear that the stars glittered in the bitter cold with an intensity that I had never seen before. By then we were already within sight of the jagged crests of the snow-covered mountains marking the limit of the king’s realm.
Here, taking us unawares, the Saracens abruptly announced one morning that they would be going their different ways. Suleyman al Arabi, the Wali of Barcelona, was to continue straight ahead, taking the coast road direct to his own country. The governor of Heusca would accompany him. Husayn, the Wali of Zaragoza, intended to turn aside and use a different route home through a mountain pass further west.
We had spent the night in the hamlet that had sprung up at the fork in the road. It was a poverty-stricken place of small houses built of loose unmortared stone, their wooden roof tiles held down with heavy rocks. Ganelon, Gerin and I hurriedly met in a disused building on the central square to discuss the change of plan. Judging by the smell and the droppings underfoot, the place was used as a sheep shed.
‘We have to decide whether to stay together or divide,’ Ganelon announced.
‘We should stay with Suleyman. He’s their leader,’ said Gerin. Throughout the journey he had been his usual taciturn self and had barely exchanged a dozen gruff sentences with me.
Ganelon turned to me.
‘What do you think?’ he asked.
I was surprised to be consulted. Ganelon had treated me as some sort of unwanted addition to the embassy ever since we had set off from Aachen. I recalled my instructions from Alcuin that I was to gather information on the possible routes for an army to enter Hispania.
‘What do we know about the different roads the Saracens will take?’
‘The coast road to Barcelona is well travelled. I have not heard anything about the road through the mountains which Husayn proposes,’ Ganelon told me.
‘Then I will go with Husayn,’ I said promptly. Ganelon studied me for a long moment, his eyes watchful, and I wondered if he knew or had guessed the reason for my choice.
‘I’m for Barcelona,’ Gerin confirmed.
There was a sudden burst of some foreign language from outside. The words sounded angry. One of the Saracens was shouting, probably chasing away a villager who had got too close to their panniers and saddlebags. The Saracens were likely to set out at any moment.
Ganelon came to a quick decision.
‘If Sigwulf is prepared to accompany Husayn to Zaragoza, he can rejoin us in Barcelona in, say, three weeks’ time. I’ll check with the Saracens that they agree to this arrangement.’
As we hurried out into the village square, Osric was standing beside the stone water trough in the centre of the village, talking with Gerin’s servant.
‘Ganelon and Gerin are accompanying Governor Suleyman to Barcelona, and we’ll be taking the road through the mountains with Husayn, direct to Zaragoza,’ I told him.
Osric waited until Gerin’s servant was safely out of earshot before replying.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he said softly.
I gave him a sharp look. There had been no hint of trouble on the journey. No one had attempted to harm me. I was beginning to think that the mushroom poisoning and the attack in the forest were unrelated accidents, or that whoever wished to hurt me had been left far behind.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I’ve learned a little more about Gerin.’
‘He has no reason to do away with me,’ I said.