The Vascons harassed us every step of the way. Inside the ravine they could only attack us on a narrow front but they were recklessly brave and showed no mercy. Any Frank who slipped and fell, or dropped his guard for a moment, was despatched on the spot. As the afternoon wore on and the light began to fade, we fought and retreated, turned and fought again. Our numbers dwindled as we grew more and more weary. I allowed my shield to droop and felt an agonizing pain in my left shoulder. A Vascon, screaming with anger, had run his spear point over its rim. Beside me Berenger was clumsy in countering a thrust from a Vascon dagger. He was stabbed, low down on his right side. Only Hroudland continued to wield his sword as if he would never tire, but with every pace he left a bloody foot print on the ground. I could not see where he had been injured, but he was losing blood rapidly.
The Vascons drove us along the ravine like obstinate sheep until our backs came up against the barrier of boulders that they had created earlier. By then it was almost dark and only four of us were still standing — Hroudland, Berenger, myself, and an unknown trooper with a hideous stomach wound. As if to gloat, the Vascons drew back so we would know that they had us at their mercy. Occasionally one of them let out the dreadful wolf’s howl in victory. During the retreat I had seen such hatred in their faces that I knew that they would not let us live.
‘We managed to hold them off,’ said Hroudland proudly. He was leaning on his sword, his chest heaving as he sucked in great breaths of air. Beside me, Berenger slumped on a boulder, a wet bloodstain seeping down his leg. I too found a place to sit as I was dizzy from the pain of my wounded shoulder.
I looked at Hroudland. There was just enough light to see how he was deathly pale. He was smiling and his eyes held a faraway look that convinced me that he had lost touch with reality. I wondered if he still clung to the idea that he could never be defeated in battle by a horde of uncouth mountain men.
With an effort he turned his back on me and began to climb up on to the rock barrier behind us. The oliphant hung on a cord around his neck. When he reached the highest boulder, he stood up on it, raised the great horn to his lips and blew a long, quavering blast, which echoed and re-echoed down the ravine.
‘What in God’s name is he doing?’ I demanded of Berenger. He was gazing up at Hroudland, awestruck.
Berenger turned to face me, his eyes shining.
‘Listen!’ he exclaimed.
Hroudland sounded the horn again, and I recognized the notes. It was the call when a huntsman announces the death of a great stag. In the deepening gloom there were only shades of black and grey. There, up above me, I could only make out the outline figure of the Margrave of Brittany. A cold lump gathered in my guts as I remembered that the same scene was carved on the oliphant itself, and that long ago in Aachen the king himself had dreamed of a huntsman standing on a rock surrounded by wolves and blowing a horn calling for help. But Hroudland was not summoning help. He was announcing his own passing.
‘Do you remember when I first laid eyes on you,’ Berenger suddenly asked. The question was completely unexpected and his voice sounded strained, almost as if he was ashamed to speak. ‘It was evening. You walked into our living quarters, unannounced. None of us had any idea who you were.’
‘You, Gerin, Anseis and the others were playing a game. Asking one another riddles,’ I said.
Berenger’s voice sank almost to a whisper as he began to recite:
‘Four strange creatures travel together, their tracks were very swart.
Each mark very black. The bird’s support moves swiftly, through the air, underwater.
The diligent warrior works without stopping, directing the four over the beaten gold.’
I knew the words.
‘That was the riddle I set. Hroudland was the only one who knew the answer,’ I said.
‘That was the moment I began to fear you,’ he murmured.
I was so astonished that I could only blurt, ‘Why?’
I heard him shift uncomfortably. Another shaft of pain must have struck him.
‘I was terrified that you would take Hroudland away from me.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I said, baffled.
‘Jealousy feeds easily. Hroudland paid you every attention from the moment you arrived.’
‘He saw that I was a stranger and in an alien land. He only wanted to help me,’ I said.
‘I know that now,’ Berenger answered, ‘but not then. The very next day I walked in on you at the bath. He was half-naked, holding you by the arm.’
I was appalled.
‘He was trying to drag me into the water, that’s all. I didn’t want to go. I have a fear of water.’
In the darkness Berenger laughed mirthlessly.
‘As time passed I persuaded myself that you were luring him on. I decided I had to get rid of you and waited for a suitable opportunity.’
The memory of the banquet when I had nearly died came back clearly. Berenger had been seated next to me.
‘So you were the one who put poison in my food. I never thought of you as a murderer,’ I told him.
‘Neither did I. I had the poison hidden in my sleeve and even at the very last moment I hesitated. Then I had to listen to you brazenly telling the story of Troilus and Achilles to everyone at the banquet. That was too much for me.’
I remembered seeing a tapestry depicting the same story hanging in Hroudland’s room in his great hall. Achilles’s lust for the beautiful youth Troilus lay at the core of the Greek tale. Berenger, already jealous, must have been driven to distraction.
‘And when poison didn’t work, did you also try to have me killed while hunting in the forest?’ I said.
‘Yes.’
From above us came the sounds of the oliphant. Hroudland was blowing the same hunting call again and again, each time less vigorously. He was tiring.
‘First I thought it was Gerin who wanted to do away with me on King Offa’s orders,’ I said, ‘More recently I believed it was Ganelon who was trying to have me murdered. And all along it was you. You even tried to have me killed here in these mountains by that Vascon slinger.’
‘There you are wrong,’ Berenger said. ‘I had no hand in that. It must have been a genuine attack, though I did roll some rocks down on you when we were on our way here into Hispania.’
Hroudland had come to the end of his strength. Halfway through the next hunting call, the notes died away in an ugly rasp. From the darkness where the Vascons waited came a derisive spine-chilling howl of wolves.
Ignoring the pain in my shoulder, I twisted around so I could look up towards Hroudland. The moon had risen above the lip of the ravine and its cold light showed Hroudland facing towards the enemy. He was swaying on his feet. With an effort he raised his sword Durendal in defiance, and then smashed it down on the rock, trying to break the blade. He failed. Twice more he tried to destroy his sword, and then he gave up the attempt. He knelt down and laid the sword on the boulders before him. Then with the oliphant still hanging against his chest, he lay face down, the sword beneath his body. With an awful sick sensation I knew that he would never rise again.
‘Patch, you are a hard man to kill,’ hissed Berenger.
He managed to struggle to his feet. His injured leg was too weak for him to remain standing so he put his back against the rock barrier. He had his sword in hand, and I thought he was about to attack me. Instead he croaked, ‘I die here with Hroudland. You have no right to be here at his side. Go! I will make sure you are not followed.’