Without question I owed him my liberty and very likely my life as well.
The count and the others rode back into the clearing some time later, their horses flecked with lather. There were no Saracen prisoners.
‘They got away,’ Berenger called, frustrated.
The group gathered round me and dismounted. Their presence was comforting. Never before had I felt so close to my Frankish colleagues.
‘Who were they?’ I asked through dry cracked lips. My throat felt raw and I was parched with a sudden, fierce thirst.
‘A patrol of the Emir of Cordoba’s cavalry, probably.’ Berenger lifted off his helmet and removed the felt cap he wore under it. He ran his hand through his crop of curls.
‘How did they come to be here?’ I wondered.
‘The Falcon didn’t get his nickname for nothing. He strikes fast. They must have been probing the defences of Zaragoza.’
One of the men sauntered over to the corpse of the young Saracen I had killed. Doubtless he was checking what there might be worth plundering from the body. With his foot he rolled the body over on its back. Now I saw the face clearly. It was indeed that of a young man, not old enough to have grown a full beard. He had smooth skin and fine, regular features. As I watched, the head lolled loosely to one side. My downward stroke had nearly decapitated the trooper. A great red gash opened, and I saw the white gleam of bone.
My stomach heaved. I doubled over and threw up its thin, slick contents at the feet of my rescuers.
‘Here, take a drink.’ Hroudland was holding out a waterskin to me. I straightened up and took it from him. The water had a rancid taste and was lukewarm. I drank it gratefully.
‘No point in hanging around,’ Hroudland said. ‘We ride ahead to the city and let them know we are here. They’ll be grateful to know we’ve driven off the Falcon.’
Instinctively I looked around for my horse, forgetting for a moment that the creature lay dead. Hroudland noted my error.
‘We caught one of the Saracen cavalry mounts running loose. You can ride that.’
One of his escorts led forward the animal. It was the thoroughbred that the Saracen officer had been riding. Someone helped me up into the saddle, another man handed up my helmet and shield, then the sword. The blade was chipped where it must have struck the neck bone. I hung it from a loop on the Saracen saddle, settled the helmet on my head, and rode after Hroudland who was already moving away at a brisk trot.
Half a mile further on we emerged from the orchard and there ahead of us was the city wall of Zaragoza just as I remembered — huge blocks of yellow stone carefully fitted to form a sheer rampart forty feet high with circular watch towers at regular intervals. Husayn’s crimson banner flew above the arch of the main gate. The great double doors with their iron sheets were firmly shut.
We sat on our horses, taking in the spectacle. Unlike Pamplona with its semi-derelict defences, the walls of Zaragoza were in perfect condition. There was no sign of dilapidation or weakness. The ground around the city wall had been cleared for the distance of a long arrow flight, and an occasional glint of sunlight on a metal helmet or spear point marked where Husayn had posted his soldiers along the ramparts. Doubtless they were watching us.
‘Even the Falcon would have trouble storming a city like that,’ commented Hroudland with grudging admiration. He turned to me. ‘Patch, ride up to the main gate. They might know who you are. Announce our arrival and say that we have come to relieve the city.’
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when one half of the main gate swung open, and a man on horseback came out and began to make his way towards us at a sedate trot.
Even from that distance I knew at once that it was Osric. His misshapen leg stuck out awkwardly to one side, and he held himself slightly aslant to allow for his crooked neck. His ungainly posture was in stark contrast to the perfect proportions and elegant gait of his horse, a pure white Saracen stallion that must have come from the wali’s personal stable.
When Osric was some fifty paces away, I heard an angry intake of breath and realized Hroudland had just recognized who it was.
‘What’s this insult, sending a slave to greet me?’ he growled.
I stole a quick sideways look at him. Hroudland had removed his helmet so that his yellow hair hung around his shoulders. Mounted on his war horse and still in full armour, he cut an imposing figure, but the effect was ruined by his expression: his face was red with anger and pouring with sweat.
‘Osric is no longer a slave,’ I reminded him quietly. ‘He deserved his freedom and I gave it to him.’
Hroudland responded with a low grunt of disdain and spat deliberately on the ground.
Osric came to a halt a few feet from us. He was wearing the full livery of the wali, crimson turban and sash, soft leather boots patterned with matching red silk stitching. The rest of his garments, the baggy trousers and loose shirt, were made of fine white cotton and his short over-jacket was embroidered with silver thread. He looked more like a rich Saracen nobleman than the former house slave of a Saxon kinglet.
After acknowledging Hroudland’s presence with a slight bow, he addressed me.
‘I bring a message from His Excellency, the Wali Husayn of Zaragoza,’ he said in Frankish.
Hroudland broke in rudely.
‘Go back and tell your wali that we have come two months’ journey to meet him and to confirm our alliance with him and his fellow governors in Barcelona and Huesca. We look forward to being received by him,’ he rasped. I knew that Hroudland was annoyed that Osric had chosen to speak to me and not to him.
Osric ignored the outburst.
‘My master, His Excellency the wali trusts that your journey was not too uncomfortable.’
Hroudland shifted impatiently in his saddle.
‘You can also tell the wali that we encountered a patrol from Cordoba and have put them to flight,’ he snapped.
Again Osric was imperturbable though I noticed his eyes flick towards the Saracen horse I was riding.
‘His Excellency the wali is aware that the emir’s troops are in the vicinity. That is one reason why he ordered the city gates to be closed. He anticipates that they will soon be discouraged and go away.’
I knew from Hroudland’s tone of voice that he was close to losing his temper. Before the storm broke, I intervened.
‘Please inform the wali that we would be grateful for food and lodging in the city for our men, and for the army which follows,’ I said.
There was a long, meaningful pause before Osric said quietly.
‘His Excellency the wali regrets that will not be possible.’
I could hardly believe my ears. I asked Osric to repeat what he had just said.
‘Husayn, Wali of Zaragoza, has told me to inform you that your army may not enter Zaragoza. The city is closed to all Franks.’
Hroudland exploded.
‘What nonsense is this!’ he roared.
‘On my master’s orders,’ Osric said firmly, ‘the gates will remain closed. Anyone coming within range of the archers on the city wall will be regarded as hostile.’
‘Osric, can you explain this?’ I asked, using his name for the first time.
‘It is repayment for treachery,’ he replied simply.
I goggled at him.
‘Treachery?’
There was a trace of sympathy in his dark eyes as he looked straight at me.
‘Then you have not heard?’ he asked.
I shook my head.
‘King Karlo has betrayed Wali Suleyman of Barcelona. The wali has been seized by force and is now a prisoner of the Franks.’
I gaped at him.
Beside me Hroudland guffawed in utter disbelief.
‘Nonsense! We come as friends and allies.’