Osric raised an eyebrow.
‘That is what my lord the wali truly wished to believe. Unfortunately your king acted otherwise. He has broken faith. His army has done great harm to Barcelona and now he holds the wali captive.’
‘I don’t believe a word of this,’ snarled Hroudland, swinging round to glare at me. ‘Slaves are natural liars.’
Osric did not flinch.
‘You do not have to believe me. At this very moment your King Karlo is marching here with his army. When he arrives, you will see for yourself that Wali Suleyman is his prisoner. Perhaps you now understand why my lord will not open the gates of his city to your people.’
Osric turned his attention back to me. He seemed reproachful.
‘It was written,’ he said simply.
For a moment I thought he was talking about the Saracens’ holy book, their divine scripture revealed by a desert prophet. Then with a jolt I realized he meant the Book of Dreams. In Zaragoza I had dreamed of the snake, the sign of impending treachery. Stupidly I had presumed it meant that the Saracens would betray Carolus. But it was the Franks who had behaved treacherously. I had ignored Artimedorus’s statement that when a snake slithers away from the dreamer, it signifies that the treachery will be found elsewhere.
I must have been silent for quite some time because it was Hroudland who spoke next, his voice thick with anger.
‘You insult my family. My uncle would never commit such a base act.’
Osric shrugged.
‘Then he was badly advised.’
‘By whom?’ The count’s voice dripped disbelief.
‘I understand it was by one of his chief counsellors. A man named Ganelon.’
Hroudland looked as if he had been struck across the face. There was a long pause, and then he spoke again, slowly.
‘Now perhaps I might believe you.’
‘As you wish,’ said Osric drily. He touched his reins to his stallion’s neck and as the horse obediently turned aside, he added, ‘Make no mistake, the gates of Zaragoza stay closed.’
For a long moment we all sat on our horses watching him ride back to the city. I had no idea what Hroudland was thinking, but my own thoughts were in turmoil. I had been looking forward so much to meeting Osric again, renewing our friendship, and learning about his life at the wali’s court. Now it seemed that Frankish double-dealing meant we were on opposing sides. I regretted that I had ever tried to use the Oneirokritikon to help me understand my visions. I had allowed myself to be led disastrously astray with my interpretation of the snake dream. Was I also wrong about other dreams where I had found explanations? I had jumped to the conclusion that my own adventure in the hunting forest explained the king’s vision of the huntsman attacked by wolves and desperately blowing his horn to summon help. Lost in the forest I had sounded the horn dropped by my unknown attacker, hoping to hear an answering call. But I had seen no wolves in the forest. Perhaps the huntsman in the royal dream was someone else entirely.
A clammy chill spread into the pit of my stomach as I recalled those other troubling visions that still haunted me — the rider on the great horse crying blood, and the ghoulish incident when Hroudland and I were on a mountainside and attacked by monsters and flying demons. I had no idea what either dream meant, though I knew now that they were of great significance. But I did not know whether I wanted to understand what they might foretell, or if I should throw the Oneirokritikon into the fire and give up the interpretation of dreams entirely.
Chapter Seventeen
Carolus arrived a week later at our camp outside Zaragoza’s walls, leading an army that was weary and much reduced in size. Many of his levies had returned to Frankia, having completed their days of service. Others had deserted. The great baggage train had dwindled to less than a hundred ox carts and the accompanying herd of cattle no longer existed. The troops had eaten every last animal and were now living off the land like locusts.
The king lost no time in summoning a council of war. It was held in the same royal pavilion, its bright colours now faded by sun and rain, and once again Hroudland required Berenger and me to attend him.
This time, as I entered the great tent, I saw Ganelon. He was dressed in exactly the same clothes he had been wearing at the first banquet in Aachen. Apart from a deep tan on his bearded face he appeared to have changed not at all since he rode off with Gerin to negotiate with — or rather betray — the Wali of Barcelona. I quietly took my usual place in the outer circle of attendants and stood watching him, waiting for his reaction when he noticed me. Halfway through a conversation with his neighbour, he happened to look up and saw me. His eyes widened and for a fraction of a moment he froze. Then he recovered himself and glanced briefly towards Hroudland. If he was busy calculating whether or not the count knew of the plot to discredit him, it did not show on his face. Without the slightest change of expression he turned back to continue his conversation with his companion. At that moment Carolus appeared from behind the velvet curtain.
In just a few months, the king looked as though he had aged by ten years. He no longer walked with quite the same confident stride, and his face was more deeply lined than I remembered. His long moustache, once straw-yellow, held flecks of grey and he looked tired. As usual he was dressed in the ordinary cross-gartered leggings, tunic and trousers of a well-to-do Frankish noble, though, as a concession to the heat of Hispanian summer, the cloth was now of light linen rather than heavy wool. In his right hand he carried a mace of dark wood, gnarled and polished and banded with gold. I imagined it was some sort of sceptre.
He walked across to his portable gilded throne and took his seat. His attendants had already set up the trestle table with the map of tiles, and Carolus looked across it at the assembled company. His gaze was the same as ever, the grey eyes shrewd and penetrating, knowing each and every one of the people before him. Despite myself I held my breath and stood straighter as I waited for his pronouncement.
‘I have summoned you to council,’ he began, ‘to hear your advice on how we should proceed with the campaign. As you are aware, our allies are in disarray. The Emir of Cordoba has defeated the Wali of Huesca in battle. The Wali of Barcelona was unable to offer us the help he promised. Our original plan for Hispania must now be modified.’
The king’s words made me realize how little I knew of the overall progress of the campaign. Evidently the Falcon of Cordoba had moved decisively against the rebellious Saracen governors before the Franks had arrived.
‘We now find ourselves in front of Zaragoza, whose governor is the third of our so-called allies,’ Carolus continued. ‘He has closed its gates to us. I await your suggestions as to what we should do next.’
There was a long awkward silence. I sensed the Frankish nobles trying to gauge the king’s frame of mind. None of them wanted to speak up and risk the king’s wrath by making an unwelcome proposal. It was the ever-cautious and practical Eggihard who spoke first.
‘Your Majesty, we are running low on supplies. The army cannot keep in the field for more than a few weeks.’
Carolus toyed with his wooden sceptre, stroking the polished surface.
‘So how do we put those few weeks to good use?’
‘We teach the Saracens a lesson they will remember so they never cross into Frankia again,’ called out a swarthy, heavily built nobleman I did not recognize.
‘How?’ grunted the king.
‘We’ve already dealt with the Wali of Barcelona as he deserved. Now we should do the same to the Wali of Zaragoza. Take his city, and hold him to account.’
The man looked around for the support of his fellows. Most of them avoided his gaze and stared instead at the map table. The mood of the meeting was decidedly pessimistic, even sombre.