‘So it’s plunder rather than renown that you want from Hispania.’
‘I hope to win both,’ he answered bluntly.
We made good progress along a rutted highway, which took us across low round hills covered with scrubby woodland. The only travellers we saw were on foot, walking between the small hamlets. Often they would deliberately leave the road, vanishing into the bushes, avoiding us. Eventually we overtook a family of father and mother and three small children trudging slowly along. One of our escorts spoke enough Breton to glean from them that the fountain at Barenton lay some distance off to our right.
The low cloud was thinning and a watery sun had begun to show itself as we left the main road and turned into an area of true forest. The ancient oaks intermingled with beech reminded me of the place the mysterious archer had tried to kill me while out hunting with the king. But here the trees were less majestic; they were gnarled and stunted, and the space between their thick, mossy trunks was choked with undergrowth. Little by little, the track narrowed until it became no more than a footpath, and the branches above the height of a man’s head reached out and scratched our faces as we pushed our horses forward.
‘Can’t be much further now,’ said Hroudland, finally dismounting when progress on horseback became too difficult. He handed the reins to our escort and told them to wait. Stiffly I got down from my horse and followed the count as he strode briskly onward. The forest smelled of earth and wet leaves, and — oddly — there was no sound of wildlife, no birdsong, not even the faint rustling of a breeze in the stagnant, still air. It was eerie, and I grew uneasy.
Hroudland did not appear to notice the silence. He drew his sword and, when the path became very overgrown, slashed back the undergrowth.
‘If the legend was true, this is where we should encounter an ugly giant,’ he joked to me over his shoulder. ‘Someone to show us on our way.’
But we saw no one, though I thought I detected the occasional faint trace of a footprint on the muddy track we were following.
Eventually, just as I was about to suggest that we turn back, we emerged into a clearing. It was no more than twenty paces across and open to the sky. It had the serene, tranquil air of an ancient place. In the centre stood a great upright stone. The boulder was similar to the menhirs I had seen on the moors in the mist, but here it stood alone, its rough grey sides speckled with pale circular patches of lichen growth. Close to the foot of the boulder was a shallow pool, little more than a large puddle. In the stillness of the glade the only movement was a faint ripple disturbing the water’s surface. A spring was bubbling out of the ground. My spine prickled.
‘This must be the place,’ said Hroudland confidently. He sheathed his sword and looked around at the bushes. ‘But I don’t see a golden cup hanging from a branch.’
He crossed to the stone and examined it more closely. ‘Nor is it studded with gems,’ he added with a derisive snort. ‘Another fable.’
I walked across to join him. A small trickle of water overflowed from the pool and drained out of the glade to where it was soon lost under some bushes. Something caught my eye, a small shadow under the surface of the rill, a dark patch that came and went as the water washed over it. I leaned in closer. Lying on its side, submerged in the water, was a metal beaker. Reaching in, I picked it up tentatively. I knew instinctively that it was extremely old. It was the size and shape of a small tankard or a large cup without a handle. I shook off the drops of water and turned it this way and that, searching for distinguishing marks in the dull surface. The cup was made seamlessly from a single sheet of metal, without joints or rivets; there were only patterns of dots, pecked into the surface with a pointed instrument. They swirled around it in mysterious whorls.
‘What have you got there?’ demanded Hroudland. He strode across, taking the cup from my grasp. ‘Probably a drinking cup dropped here by a woodsman.’
‘My guess is that it’s bronze,’ I said.
My friend pulled out a dagger from his belt and scratched the surface of the cup with the tip of the blade. It left no mark.
‘It’s not Yvain’s cup of gold, that’s for sure. Far too hard.’
He grinned at me mischievously.
‘Let’s see if it will work its magic as it did for Yvain.’
Hroudland knelt down by the little pool and filled the cup with water. Walking across to the great boulder, he tossed the contents over the grey rock, stood back, and looked up at a sky still covered with its thin veil of cloud through which the disc of the sun could just be seen.
Nothing happened. The forest around us remained completely still and silent, the air pressed down on us, heavy and clammy.
‘There you are, Patch,’ Hroudland declared. ‘It can’t even summon up a storm.’
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when, without any warning, there came a hard pattering noise all around us. It was the sound of a myriad of fat, heavy rain drops striking the branches and bushes, splattering on the soggy carpet of dead leaves. There was not a breath of wind so the rain fell straight, as if tipped directly from the sky. The freakish shower lasted only a few minutes, five at most. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the downpour stopped. The eerie silence returned.
Hroudland looked down at the bronze cup in his hand and gave a nervous laugh.
‘Coincidence, Patch. What about the gale? The story of Yvain says that when he poured the water on the stone, a great gale arose and ripped the leaves from the trees.’
‘There are no leaves. It’s winter,’ I pointed out.
We looked at one another, both silent for a moment.
And into that silence came another sound, a hollow rushing noise. It filled the air, coming closer and louder though it happened so quickly and without warning that there was no time to say from which direction the sound was coming. Then my skin crawled as a shadow passed across me, momentarily darkening the sky above the glade.
I looked up. A great flock of birds, thousands of them, was swirling over the clearing. We were hearing the beating of their wings, a noise that rose and fell as the flock circled twice and then came spiralling around our heads to land on the boughs and twigs of the trees and bushes around us. There were so many birds that it was impossible to count their number. They settled on every possible perch until the thinner branches began to sway and sag under their weight. I had never before seen birds like them. They were the size of thrushes, brownish-black and with short yellow beaks. They clung on their perches, seeking to keep their balance, occasionally shifting to get a firmer grip with their feet or to allow yet another bird to land beside them, but never settling on the ground. Then a faint, subdued chatter arose, and the entire circle of the glade seethed with birdlife.
Hroudland and I stood motionless for the few moments it took for the vast flock to rest. Then, just as abruptly as they had arrived, the birds took wing. They leapt from the branches and twigs in a great rustling and flutter of feathers, and a moment later they were climbing up into the air and streaming away over the tree tops like a thick plume of dark smoke.
Hroudland gave a short, staccato laugh.
‘They knew about the pool. They probably came wanting to drink, but our presence frightened them away,’ he said.
‘There were far too many to drink at that tiny pool. And there must be other pools and lakes all over the forest.’
Hroudland looked down at the cup still in his hand.
‘Can you imagine anything more pointless? Even if this thing does summon rain and storms, it would be far more valuable to this soggy country if it caused the clouds to roll away and the sun to shine.’
He tossed the cup into the air, and caught it as it spun back down to his hand.
‘I think I’ll keep this, and wave it under the nose of the next fool who tries to tell me that there is truth in the childish tales of these Bretons.’