‘He sells his sword to whoever pays him. King Offa hired him during a border quarrel with the Welsh. Gerin served as leader of a war band.’
I recalled Gerin’s expertise with lance and javelin.
‘How long ago was that?’
‘Maybe five or six years ago.’
‘Poison is not his style; an arrow in the back, maybe.’
‘Gerin was present at the hunt and also at the banquet,’ Osric reminded me.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ganelon walking across the square to where the Saracens were clustered. They were tightening their saddle girths, getting ready to depart.
‘There’s something more. Ganelon has already had a private meeting with Husayn,’ he said.
That startled me.
‘Do you know what was discussed?’
‘No, Gerin’s servant was up early, tending to a horse with saddle sores. He saw Ganelon go and return. The meeting lasted less than an hour.’
There was a flurry of activity on the far side of the square. The Saracens were mounting up. A gaggle of villagers surrounded them, some begging, others holding up lumps of hard cheese and strips of dried mutton, hoping for a sale. Now we were in the borderlands, we were having to purchase our own supplies.
‘Everything’s arranged,’ Ganelon shouted at me. ‘I’ll see you in Barcelona in three weeks’ time! Go with God!’ He hurried to where Gerin and the rest of our group were already mounted and circling their animals, preparing to head off. Osric and I had to grab the reins of our own horses and hold them back to prevent them joining the others. After three weeks on the road our animals had become used to travelling together.
I watched my comrades clatter out of the village at a trot. Gerin still rode like a cavalryman on campaign. He sat square and upright in the saddle, his plain red shield bouncing against his horse’s flank, with his long heavy sword slung across his back. The handle projected above his left shoulder like a cross.
Deep in thought, I turned my attention to the Saracens who had stayed behind. Four of them were sitting quietly on their horses on the far side of the square, the hoods of their riding cloaks pulled up against the chill air. They were waiting for Osric and me to join them.
‘Greetings, fellow travellers,’ said the nearest Saracen in good Latin as we approached. He was a little older than me, perhaps in his early twenties, plump and expensively dressed. From his air of confidence I presumed that I was being addressed by Husayn, Wali of Zaragoza. This was the first time I had seen him close up and face to face. He had a clear olive skin and large dark eyes made even darker by the application of black dye around them. He had also painted his small, delicate mouth. His lips were a striking shade of pink. If I had not known that he had just ridden across Frankia in less than three weeks, I would have mistaken him as being effeminate.
‘Ambassador Ganelon tells me that you wish to accompany me to Zaragoza. I look forward to your company, so let us be friends,’ he said.
‘Your Excellency is to be congratulated on his excellent command of my language,’ I answered diplomatically. I was thinking that Husayn’s Latin was so fluent that Ganelon would not have required an interpreter at their private discussion.
The wali smiled delicately, showing small, even white teeth.
‘Then we shall be able to converse as we ride.’
‘Does Your Excellency know how long the journey will take?’ I asked.
‘A week at the most. We are fortunate there is so little snow this year.’
Husayn, his curiosity evident, turned his gaze on Osric.
‘Your Excellency. This is Osric, my servant. He has been with me for many years,’ I explained.
Abruptly the wali switched into what must have been the Saracen tongue and asked Osric a direct question.
There was an awkward pause as Osric looked across at me. I nodded.
When Osric had finished his reply, the wali treated me to another of his engaging smiles.
‘Now it is you who must be congratulated. Your servant tells me that you are a good master, and he is happy to serve you. Come, let us get started!’
Thankfully, riding in company with Husayn was less gruelling than what had gone before. The young wali rode at a steady walk so that I could match the pace of my gelding to his mount and he encouraged me to ride by his side. He asked many questions about my life and later, when I ran out of answers, we continued together in companionable silence, the white-capped mountains gradually coming closer and the land wilder and less inhabited. Recalling Hroudland’s comment that the Saracens could turn nasty and cut my throat, it occurred to me that no one would be any the wiser if it happened in these remote borderlands. Yet I sensed no threat from the Wali of Zaragoza. Husayn was courteous and friendly and, as it turned out, also very devout. Whenever we stopped for him and his people to say their prayers, they took a long time. This gave me a chance to dismount and wander away from our little group under the pretence that I needed to stretch my legs. Then, privately, I wrote down my observations for Alcuin.
Our route continued westward for two days before turning south and beginning to climb steadily through the foothills. The landscape was a dreary succession of barren hills slashed by steep-sided ravines. Watering sources were few, forage non-existent and, in many places, the road narrowed to a single track difficult for carts. The inhabitants were a sturdy, taciturn people living in small, scattered settlements located on spurs of high ground. They provided food and shelter for us and our animals in return for generous payments in silver coins from a heavy purse carried by one of Husayn’s attendants, but they showed no interest in who we were or where we were going.
On the fourth day of our journey, we passed above the snow line. Now the mountain slopes were speckled with boulders poking up through the snow crust. But the track itself was almost clear. It was another cold, crisp day of bright sunshine, and we had not seen a living soul since setting out that morning. I judged that we were approaching the crest of the pass itself and I could see that Husayn was pleased with our progress.
‘Normally I would be worried that snow would block the road. But tomorrow we will be over the worst and our path will begin to slope downhill,’ he said cheerfully. For the past mile he had been glancing up at the sun to determine when to halt and recite the Saracen prayers that are said just after noonday. I waited patiently. I had slipped behind in writing up my notes and this was the most crucial stage of the road through the mountains.
At length we came to a narrow defile, warmed by the sun but sheltered from the wind.
‘This is a good place to halt,’ Husayn announced. ‘After prayers, we can take some food and rest the horses.’
I dismounted stiffly and handed the reins of the bay gelding to Osric.
‘I think I’ll go for a stroll,’ I said.
‘Stay close,’ warned Husayn. ‘There are bears in these mountains, and wolves. They have been known to attack travellers.’
I laughed.
‘I haven’t seen a bear or a wolf since we began our journey.’
‘Then at least take a weapon with you, just in case,’ Husayn insisted.
Dutifully, I unstrapped my bow case from the packhorse and took out the weapon and a couple of arrows. I noticed the look of mild interest on Husayn’s face when he saw the type of bow I was using.
Leaving the others, I walked off, picking my way carefully over the loose rocks. Behind me I could hear the sounds of the Saracens unsaddling their horses. From past experience I expected we would halt for at least an hour.
The bare hillside was open and exposed, and I was obliged to walk a little distance to find somewhere to sit privately and write my notes. I angled up the slope until I could no longer be seen from the defile. There, I found myself a patch of ground free of snow in the lee of a large boulder. I laid down my bow and arrows, sat down and took the flat box containing my writing materials from the inner pocket of my coat.