Chapter Sixteen
The ambush and the trooper’s death cast a shadow over our advance. We were still in Vascon land, yet to enter Saracen territory. So we should have had a peaceful journey because the Vascons were Christians like ourselves. Instead with every mile we travelled, we were met with increasing hostility. The Vascons hid their stores of food, blocked or polluted wells, and if we asked directions, they sent us in the wrong direction. Hroudland had begun drinking heavily again and, in keeping with the prickly mood of our troops, he became erratically aggressive and surly. When we reached the Vascon capital at Pamplona, he proposed to Eggihard that the army should storm and ransack the city to repay the Vascons for all the trouble they had caused us. The city walls were still as derelict as when I had seen them on my way to Brittany; they would not have withstood a determined assault. Eggihard bluntly told the count that the army had come to Hispania to assist the rebel Saracens, not plunder the Vascons, and there was a blazing row between them. Hroudland stormed out of the meeting and rode away with his vanguard, leaving the main army to fend for itself.
With Hroudland in such an ugly mood I made a habit of keeping out of his way as we pushed on to Zaragoza. I was thinking about Osric and wondering what had happened to him. It was three months since I had given him his freedom and left him with Wali Husayn. Part of me hoped that he had been able to leave Zaragoza and return to the place where he had grown up, but another part of me was looking forward to meeting him again. I had come to appreciate that nothing had replaced his companionship since the days when King Offa had sent me into exile. I suppose that I was falling victim to long-delayed feelings of loneliness. No longer having Osric by my side had made me realize just how much I had relied on him as a mentor and a confidant, and so I eagerly anticipated our meeting and the renewal of trust that it would bring.
With this in mind I rode ahead of everyone else during the final few miles of our approach to Zaragoza, through the orchards that surrounded the city. After several days of uncomfortably hot sunshine, the sky had partially clouded over and a slight breeze made the morning pleasantly cool. I had decided to put on full armour, helmet and brunia, and was carrying my battle shield and sword, hoping to impress any herald that Husayn would send out to welcome us, for the wali would surely know of the approach of Hroudland’s vanguard, even if Eggihard and the main force lagged several days behind.
Riding through the lines of plum and orange trees, I was reminded of the day I had first come there with Wali Husayn after our journey through the mountains. We had used the very same track for I recognized a small wooden bridge that crossed one of the many irrigation channels. Now, of course, the trees were in full leaf, their fruit nearly ripe, and there was just enough breeze to gently sway the laden branches. I was happy and relaxed as I rode, turning over in my mind what I might discuss with Wali Husayn. I hoped there would be the chance to share another pleasant evening meal beside the reflecting pool in his palace. All around me the orchards were very quiet except for the croaking of several ravens that circled over me. I saw no one. The hoof beats of my horse, the same nervous mare that had saved my life, were muffled by the soft earth between the fruit trees. I savoured the calm and stillness, glad to be clear of Hroudland and his snappish temper. He and his escort of riders would be at least a mile behind me. I felt an unexpected surge of pride at the idea that after two months’ march from Brittany, I would be the first person in the army to sight Zaragoza.
A movement some distance ahead caught my attention. A small troop of horsemen was moving at a walk across my path. They appeared and disappeared among the lines of tree trunks. It was difficult to tell their exact number but I recognized them immediately as Saracens; their mounts were their typical small, high stepping horses. They wore flowing mantles and I identified them as cavalrymen, for they wore helmets and carried lances. I congratulated myself that Wali Husayn had sent out an escort to greet Hroudland and bring him into the city, showing the count the same honour that the wali received from his own followers. For days I had been telling the count that Husayn was a civilized and cultured nobleman and I was hopeful that such a courtesy would help dispel Hroudland’s sour temper.
The riders were crossing my path about a hundred paces ahead and had not seen me. Perhaps they were not expecting a lone rider. So I called out a greeting. I saw the little group stop and turn in my direction. I reined in my horse and sat quietly as they trotted towards me. In my mind I was already rehearsing the formal phrases of welcome in the Saracen tongue which Osric had taught me.
The Saracen cavalrymen must have been fifty paces from me when I noted the colour of the scarves around their helmets and the banners tied around their lances. It was a plain green. With a sudden lurch in my stomach I recalled that every one of Husayn’s servants and soldiers had worn crimson.
Something was very wrong.
The riders were still coming towards me at a purposeful trot. My alarm sharpened my senses. Even at that distance I could detect that they were deliberately keeping their horses in check. It was not the disciplined riding of well-trained cavalry. Belatedly it dawned on me that they were hoping to get very close before I realized who they were — the enemy.
I snatched on the reins and wrenched my horse’s head around and kicked hard. The mare threw up her head in outrage and broke into a gallop. I leaned forward in the saddle and shouted in her ear, urging her on as we flew between the trees. Behind me I heard a triumphant cry and then whoops of excitement as the troopers took up the chase.
For them it must have been as easy as running down a wounded deer. My mare was not a creature to win races. She was very ordinary, more suited to a thirty-mile march than a mad, short sprint. Her timidity gave her extra speed at the outset, but she could never outpace the Saracen horses now in pursuit.
I stayed low, ducking under the branches of the fruit trees, occasionally feeling the lash of twigs and foliage whipping across my helmet. I felt the mare leap an irrigation ditch, and urged her on. The whoops and yells grew louder and nearer, and in what seemed only a few minutes I could feel the mare tiring beneath me. Her head began to droop and her breath was coming in gasps. I knew that very soon she would stumble and go down. We came to a clearing in the orchard, no more than thirty paces across, and rather than take a spear in the back, I pulled up the exhausted beast, and turned.
If I was to die, I thought to myself, I preferred to be facing the enemy. In a sudden flashback to my childhood, I knew my martial father would have wanted it to be that way.
My pursuers had strung out in a line. The leader was a lancer mounted on a small chestnut horse. He gave a shout of confident anticipation as he saw that I had turned and was at bay. Scarcely breaking stride he lowered his lance and rode straight at me. The point with its fluttering scrap of green cloth was aimed squarely at my chest.
Whether it was luck or the hours of practice I had spent on the training ground below Hroudland’s great hall, I responded as the instructors had taught me. I gripped my horse with my knees and thankfully the mare steadied for a moment, too tired to fidget. I concentrated fiercely on the lance tip. The green cloth tied around it made it so much easier. As it came darting towards me, I swung up my shield and slapped aside the point so that it missed entirely. My enemy was riding at a full gallop and went racing past me on my left hand side, lying forward in the saddle so that the small round shield slung between his shoulder blades protected his back. He was a youngster, scarcely into his teens, and his lighter weight had brought him to the front of the pursuit. He was probably in his first hand to hand combat, for when I looked into his brown eyes for an instant I saw they were bright with the excitement of battle.