Hroudland went to report to the official in charge of the practical arrangements for the campaign, a man named Eggihard who held the title of seneschal to the king. Meanwhile Berenger and I set off in search of the other paladins. We found them drinking wine and lounging around a camp fire close to an enormous square pavilion, striped in red, gold and blue with the royal standard flying from the centre pole. Several paladins I remembered from the winter in Aachen were there — Anseis of Burgundy, handsome and swaggering Engeler, and Gerer, Gerin’s friend. Old Gerard was missing and I was saddened to be told that he had never fully recovered from the poison he had eaten at the banquet. His agonizing stomach cramps had returned and his new doctor had advised him to chew laurel leaves, swallow the juice and then lay the wet leaves on his stomach. This treatment had been no more help than the prayers of the attendant priests, and a winter chill took him off while he was still in a weakened state.
Guiltily I wondered if I had been selfish to have taken Osric with me on the mission to Zaragoza. If Osric had stayed behind, perhaps his medical skill would have saved the old man. Now, even if I had wished to return the Book of Dreams, it was impossible.
‘Patch, Berenger! I want you to hear our orders from the king.’ Hroudland was standing at the entrance to the royal pavilion and summoning us. All thoughts of Gerard vanished from my mind. Inside the tent I might come face to face with Ganelon and he was a man best avoided. I had not seen him since he had gone off to Barcelona with Gerin. Even if Ganelon was not responsible for the attack by the Vascon slinger in the mountains and the earlier attempts on my life, he would see me as a threat to his plan to discredit Hroudland as a traitor in the pay of the Wali of Zaragoza.
So I stepped cautiously into the royal pavilion. The interior was more spacious than most houses. I caught a whiff of some sort of incense, and I guessed that the royal chaplain had recently been conducting a service inside. The evening light filtering through the canvas was strong enough to show a heavy curtain of purple velvet partitioned off the far end. Beyond it, I presumed, were the king’s private quarters. The rest of the pavilion was arranged as a council room. Wooden boards had been laid to make a temporary floor. In one corner two clerks sat at a portable desk with parchment and pens. A travelling throne of gilded, carved wood stood on a low plinth, and the centre of the room was entirely taken up by a familiar object — the great tile map that I had last seen in the Aachen chancery. It had been reassembled on trestle tables.
A dozen senior officers and court officials were already standing around the map, talking quietly among themselves. My heart was in my mouth as I scanned their faces, looking for Ganelon. But he was not there, nor among the outer circle of lesser attendants and advisors. I quietly joined them just as the velvet curtain was abruptly pulled aside and the king strode into the room. Carolus was bare-headed and dressed in his usual workday clothing, brown woollen tunic and hose with cross garters of plain leather, and he wore no badges of rank. Outside the tent one might have mistaken him for a common soldier; tall but unremarkable.
His glance swept round the assembled company and I could have sworn that it lingered for a moment on my face as he recalled who I was. Ignoring the wooden throne, he walked straight to the map table, and was straight down to business.
‘I have summoned this meeting so that you are all familiar with our plan for the campaign in Hispania,’ he announced in his strangely high, thin voice, so much in contrast with his air of authority. He gestured toward the map on the table beside him. ‘I want you to take careful note of our dispositions because tomorrow I propose to divide the army.’
All around me was a collective intake of breath. Men shifted uncomfortably, clearly disturbed by the royal decision.
Carolus was aware of the disquiet he had caused.
‘I know it is considered foolhardy to divide one’s forces, but now that my nephew Count Hroudland has arrived with his Breton cavalry we have sufficient numbers to do so.’ Again he indicated the map. ‘A wall of mountains lies between us and the Saracens in Hispania who seek our help, here at Barcelona, Huesca and Zaragoza.’
I was standing too far away to be sure, but I had the impression that he was pointing out the three cities on the map without reading their names on the tiles because he could not do so.
Carolus paused briefly while he looked at his senior officers. He had their full attention.
‘I myself will lead that part of the army — the larger part — that will go around the eastern end of the mountains. We head directly for Barcelona to meet with the wali there.’
There was complete silence in the room. No doubt many of his audience were silently wondering which units would be detached from the main force.
The king turned to face Eggihard.
‘You as seneschal will lead the western division that will go around the mountains and head for Zaragoza where the wali is expecting us. The margrave will be your second in command.’
I felt a glow of satisfaction. It meant that I was likely to see Osric again.
Carolus once again addressed his wider audience.
‘Our spies tell us that our entry into Hispania may encounter opposition. By entering Hispania from two directions we will crush our opponents between us like a nutcracker. That is why I divide the army.’
His audience relaxed. There were murmurs of approval.
The king held up a warning hand and the assembly immediately fell silent.
‘The success of my plan depends on both halves of the army acting in concert.’
‘Your Majesty, what about the supply train?’ asked Eggihard.
‘Allocate the vehicles by their size. The smaller, lighter carts will go with the western division as it has further to travel and must move more quickly. Those details I leave to you and my other captains to arrange.’
Amid the general shuffling and conversation which followed, I heard someone ask his neighbour, ‘Anyone know who we’re likely to be fighting?’
The questioner was a pear-shaped, rather worried-looking man with a strong accent. I guessed he was the commander of one of the contingents from the further reaches of the kingdom, possibly Lombardy.
I missed the answer because Carolus had disappeared behind the velvet curtain and Hroudland was beckoning to me and Berenger. We pushed our way through the press of people and caught up with the count as he was leaving the pavilion and heading in the direction of the tents allocated to the Breton cavalry. The count was in a foul mood and scowling.
‘Eggihard knows how to put pottage into soldier’s bellies and boots on their feet, but if it comes to a fight, he’ll be useless.’
It was obvious that Hroudland resented Eggihard’s appointment over him. I also wondered if the count would have preferred staying with the main army where he would have been more directly under his uncle’s eye to impress the king with his military prowess.
‘Maybe there won’t be any fighting,’ I suggested. ‘We are entering Hispania at the invitation of the Saracens.’
Hroudland gave a snort of disbelief.
‘The Falcon of Cordoba won’t stand by idly.’
‘Who’s he?’ I asked.
‘The most dangerous man in Hispania. He claims that he is rightful overlord of those three rebellious Saracen walis who have invited us to help them. The last time there was an uprising against him, he lined up a hundred of their leaders, kneeling on the ground, and had their heads chopped off.’
‘Then all the more renown for us when we defeat him,’ boasted Berenger.
This was dangerous vainglory, but I held my tongue. Besides, something was nagging at the back of my mind. We were walking past the horse lines and a tall, big-boned stallion had caught my attention. It had its head in a feed bag while a groom brushed its coat. I had seen that same horse on the day I had gone to hunt deer near Aachen; it was the horse that the king had ridden. The memory brought a shiver to my spine. The next animal in the line was another stallion, not as tall as its neighbour, but broader and more heavily muscled, a true war horse. There was something eerily familiar about it, too. I stared long and hard at the creature, wondering where I had seen it before. With a sudden lurch of recognition, I knew. It was the same animal I had seen in my nightmare many months ago, looming over me, one hoof raised. I had looked up in terror and seen blood seeping from the eyes of the rider. It was also the bronze horse of the statue Carolus had brought from Ravenna, the statue I had seen dragged across the sheet ice.