The nearest instructor, a lean, grizzled fellow with a horseman’s bow legs, had his sword slung across his back. The handle protruding over his shoulder reminded me of the last time I had seen Gerin as he rode away with Ganelon in the company of the Wali of Barcelona. The instructor was standing with the reins of his horse looped over his arm and holding up a small iron hoop, about the size of his palm. One side of it was flattened.
‘Any of you know what this is?’ he was demanding of his listeners.
One or two members of his audience looked down at the ground and shifted awkwardly. No one made any reply. I guessed that many of them knew the answer but did not want to risk being singled out later.
‘It’s a stirrup,’ announced the instructor. ‘Now some of you think that stirrups are womanly, that a good rider doesn’t need them.’ He jabbed a stubby finger at a tall, rangy recruit in the front row who had removed his helmet to reveal a shock of red hair. ‘Carrot Top, you’re a big lad. Mount up and let me show why every one of you will have stirrups attached to his saddle by tomorrow morning.’
The red-headed recruit put on his helmet and vaulted on to his horse. He was an accomplished rider and sat easily in his saddle though I noticed that his legs hung down each side of the animal, without the benefit of stirrups.
By now the instructor was also on horseback. He drew his sword and nudged his mount forward until the two riders were facing one another, knee to knee.
‘Strike at me, lad!’ he commanded.
The redhead pulled out his own blade and aimed a halfhearted blow that the instructor easily blocked with his shield. Then the instructor rose in his stirrups until he was half a head taller than his opponent. Reversing his sword, he thumped the pommel down hard on his opponent’s helmet. Dazed, the redhead reeled in the saddle.
A hand clapped me on the shoulder, making me jump. Hroudland had walked up behind me.
‘Skulking on the sidelines, Patch, instead of training?’ he queried cheerfully.
‘Where are those men from?’ I asked.
‘They’re locals. I’ve stripped the March of men and animals. The king’s marshals want cavalry, not foot soldiers, for the expedition to Hispania.’ He turned to look at the recruits who were now lining up under their instructor’s eye, ready to tilt at a line of straw dummies. ‘Let’s hope this latest batch of levies are quick learners. We don’t have enough fodder to keep so many animals for more than a few weeks.’
‘If you want me to join them, I’ll need to borrow some armour from you, as well as a sword,’ I said.
‘What happened to the sword I selected for you from the royal armoury in Aachen?’ he demanded, his face suddenly serious.
‘I left it in Zaragoza with my servant Osric. He’s a free man now. I also gave him my horse.’
For a moment the count was lost for words. Then he snapped angrily, ‘You blockhead. That sword was something special. Have you forgotten that it is forbidden to export such weapons from Frankia?’
His outburst was so unexpected that it took me a moment to respond.
‘I’ll ask Osric for it back when we get to Zaragoza,’ I said.
The count scowled.
‘If Osric is still there, or hasn’t sold it.’
‘I’m sure he would keep it until I return,’ I said.
Hroudland drew a sharp breath, clearly annoyed.
‘I’d rather shatter the blade of my own Durendal than let it fall into the wrong hands.’ He swung round to face me and, in a sudden change of mood, treated me to an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry, Patch, I didn’t mean to be boorish. Of course, it was impractical for you to bring that sword back with you. The Vascon sailors would have cut your throat for it.’ He waved his hand towards the great hall on the crest of the hill. ‘Pick yourself a shield and helmet from my armoury and find yourself a mail coat that fits.’
With the prospect of real fighting in Hispania ahead of me, I did as Hroudland suggested: I devoted all my energy to becoming a skilful mounted warrior. There was no time to think of anything else. I pushed aside any thoughts of making contact with Bertha, for I was still wary of palace politics in Aachen. Besides, I suspected that she had long ago found other lovers. I was now the margrave’s man and I owed him my duty, and that meant following him unquestioningly wherever he might lead. After six weeks’ practice with lance and borrowed sword I was fit to accompany the margrave’s cavalry when they set out to join the main invasion force. We struck camp two weeks after the equinox and made an impressive spectacle, the mounted column splashing across the ford at the edge of the training ground in the pale spring sunshine. Hroudland himself took the lead, a stylish figure in a scarlet riding cloak trimmed with marten fur, bareheaded, with his long blonde hair falling to his shoulders. Immediately behind him came his standard bearer holding the staff with the bull’s head banner. Then followed the rest of his entourage — household servants in red and white livery, a groom leading the roan war horse, his councillors and his confidants, of which I was one.
Our supply carts had gone ahead and we followed them southward in easy stages. We were travelling across pleasant wooded countryside, the trees were bursting into leaf and the underbrush was full of small, flitting, rustling creatures and birdsong. The air had a rich, loamy smell of new growth and, except for the occasional heavy rain shower during the first week, the weather was kind to us. Day after day, the sun shone from a clear, pale-blue sky, disappearing only briefly behind the legions of puffy, white clouds that sailed overhead on a westerly wind, their shadows racing across our path and then over the open landscape to our left.
Frequently Hroudland invited me to ride beside him, in full view of the rest of the company, cementing my reputation as his close friend.
‘I’m not sorry to be leaving the Breton land,’ he confided to me on the fourth day of our journey. The road was taking us through a birch forest on the edge of a heathland. The greyish-white bark on the trees reminded me of my stay in Zaragoza. The bark was the same colour as the sheets of unknown writing material I had found in wali Husayn’s guest chamber.
‘Does the winter weather depress you?’ I asked.
‘That and the people. They keep their feelings so shuttered. I’d like to have their loyalty, not just have their sullen obedience. You never know what they are thinking.’ He nodded towards the forest around us. ‘Those birch trees, for example. To me, as a Frank, they are trees full of bright life, hope for the future. But, to the Breton, the birch is a tree that grows in the land of the dead.’
‘My father once told me that the birch is a symbol of a new beginning, a cleansing of the past. Perhaps that is what you need,’ I said.
Hroudland suddenly became very serious.
‘Patch, if I have anything to do with it, this new campaign will indeed provide me with a fresh start.’
I stole a quick sideways glance. His face was clouded.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘Remember our excursion to the forest of Broceliande to investigate the story of Yvain and the fountain and how it ended?’
‘The cup of gold turned out to be made of bronze. I saw it recently with the other tableware in your great hall.’
‘What if we had found a real gold cup?’
‘As I recall, you proposed to have it melted down and added to your treasury.’
‘But supposing the cup had been something of such extraordinary value that no one would ever think of destroying it.’
‘Now you are talking in riddles,’ I said to him.
‘Those Breton bards are always singing about something called a Graal, some sort of a bowl or a platter. It was the most precious object known to their mystical king Artorius.’
‘And what happened to it?’ I asked.
He did not answer my question directly but said, ‘Many of Artorius’s best men went looking for this Graal. Yet only a couple of them ever laid eyes on this mysterious object.’