All of a sudden, Hroudland banged the handle of his knife down on the table, hard enough to make the nearest plates jump. Immediately everyone fell silent, looking to him. By now my friend was well and truly drunk.
‘I want you all to meet my good and excellent friend, Patch,’ he announced in a slightly slurred voice.
There was a tipsy nodding of heads around the high table. One or two of the more sober guests caught my eye and smiled at me tentatively.
‘Some of you will have heard how he corrected the royal bard in Aachen when he was telling a story during a banquet in front of the king.’ The count raised his voice so he could be heard the length of the great hall. ‘Tonight I have arranged for one of the greatest bards of the Bretons to entertain us so Patch will know that we have storytellers the equal of any in the kingdom.’
There was a scatter of applause, and from behind one of the great pillars stepped a stooped, bony man of middle age. He was dressed in a plain, brown robe and a close-fitting skull cap. In one hand he held a small harp. The other hand rested on the shoulder of a lad no more than ten years old. They walked slowly into the open space in front of the high table, and the boy put down a small three-legged stool he was carrying. The bard took his seat and placed the harp on his lap, ready to begin.
‘Tell us what tale you are going to sing,’ called Hroudland.
The boy leaned forward and spoke quietly to the older man. Not only was the skald blind, but also he did not speak Frankish.
The boy looked up and in his high voice he said, ‘With your permission, my lord, my father will tell a local story; the tale of Yvain.’
My neighbour on my right, a stocky red-faced Frankish stalwart whose sour breath stank of ale, leaned closer and whispered in my ear, ‘Let’s hope this doesn’t go on for too long.’
Hroudland was beckoning to the lad.
‘Come up here,’ he ordered. ‘I want you to translate for my guest.’
Unembarrassed, the boy stepped up on to the dais, came round the end of the table, and stood behind Hroudland and myself.
Without any preamble the blind storyteller plucked a single note on his harp and launched into his tale, speaking in a language that I presumed was the local Breton tongue. He had a fine, strong voice and it carried clearly. On the high table most of the count’s entourage looked bored, but the audience in the hall stayed silent, either out of courtesy or for fear of Hroudland’s displeasure.
The lad was a competent interpreter. The bard would pause between each verse and the boy swiftly summarized the lines in Frankish, speaking quietly in my ear.
The tale itself was a strange one: Yvain, a nobleman, leaves the court of his king to go in search of a magical fountain, deep within a forest. Beside the fountain stands a boulder studded with gems, and a golden cup hangs from the branch of a nearby tree. Directed to the spot by a hideous giant, the nobleman pours water from the cup on the boulder. Immediately a great storm arises, tearing the leaves from the trees. When the storm ceases, flocks of birds descend from the sky, singing and settling on the branches. At that moment an armoured man mounted on a horse appears and proclaims himself the guardian of the fountain. He and Yvain fight until the mysterious stranger is wounded, turning his horse and fleeing, with Yvain in pursuit.
‘Surely Yvain took with him the golden cup? It was his prize,’ Hroudland called out rudely. I had not realized quite how drunk he was.
The skald broke off his recital, offended by the interruption.
Hroudland turned to me, his face flushed.
‘That’s what would have happened at the siege of Troy, wouldn’t it, Patch? To the victor the spoils.’
‘It’s a legend, a fantasy,’ I said, trying to humour him and calm him down.
‘No, my lord, it is how it happened,’ the lad behind us spoke up.
Surprised by his boldness, I turned round to get a good look at him. He was standing with his hands clenched at his side, looking pale and upset.
‘Nonsense,’ snapped Hroudland. He was ready to pick an argument, even with a youngster. ‘The entire yarn is a fabrication.’
‘The fountain is there. You can see for yourself. At Barenton in the forest of Broceliande,’ insisted the lad.
I feared that Hroudland was drunk enough to hit the boy so I waved the youngster away. He turned on his heel and stalked back to his father, his back stiff with anger.
Hroudland’s mood had plummeted. He was aggressive and angry. He picked up his goblet unsteadily and took a long fumbling drink. A trickle of wine ran down his chin. Then he slammed the goblet down and slurred truculently, ‘Patch, tomorrow you and I will search out that fountain and prove there is no magic to it.’
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that the bard had risen from his stool, and he and his son were leaving the hall. The song had not been a success.
Next morning I hoped that Hroudland would have forgotten the episode. But a servant came to the guest chamber where I spent the night and woke me just after dawn to say that the margrave was waiting for me at the stables. Leaving aside my borrowed finery, I pulled on my travelling clothes and joined Hroudland. He seemed little affected by the evening’s carousing and I wondered if he had grown so accustomed to regular drinking bouts that he no longer suffered from hangovers.
‘Patch, I’m told that the magic fountain is no more than a three-hour ride from here,’ my friend said brightly. ‘We can get there and back in daylight.’
A stable-hand led forward two sturdy riding horses, and we rode out of the palisade gate, followed by an escort of four mounted troopers. The morning was dank and misty and beads of condensation glistened on my horse’s mane as we made our way down the hill and through the streets of the little town, deserted except for an occasional thin cur scavenging for scraps.
‘You have no idea how glad I am that soon we will be off to war in Hispania,’ Hroudland confided to me as we rode side by side.
‘In search of glory?’ I asked mockingly.
He turned a serious face towards me.
‘I need money badly. You’d be shocked to know how costly it is to maintain a great hall and its entire staff.’
I could have pointed out that he could save money by not being so lavish, but instead said, ‘I thought the local taxes provided funds for your office as Warden of the March.’
‘Nothing like enough.’
‘Then you should ask the king to relieve you of your post. Go back to court.’
Hroudland shook his head.
‘That would be to admit failure. In any case, being Warden of the March has given me a taste of what it is like to make my own decisions.’