He nodded, seemingly satisfied. ‘Well, if there is something I should know about, please tell Alcuin. He will keep me informed.’
I left the audience chamber feeling distinctly queasy. I had always thought of Carolus as a benign and understanding overlord. Now I was not so sure. This time he had been self-absorbed and imperious, even threatening. Perhaps that was the inevitable result of more than twenty years on the throne, ruling such a vast kingdom. Day after day he was dealing with a multitude of problems and had to manage a circle of courtiers with their competing rivalries and jealousies. I was glad to be out of his sight.
I collected my cloak from the under-steward and, deep in thought, descended the stairs. The wind had got up and was driving a chill, slanting rain between the pillars of the arcade at ground level. The corrupt guardsman gave me a sly wink as I walked past him, and his gesture confirmed my worries: I had allowed myself to drift dangerously close to the intrigues and conspiracies of court. I should be thankful that the king had jolted me out of my seductively comfortable life. In Aachen I was achieving nothing of note, and the mission he had given me was my chance to put my abilities to the test, engage myself in something worthwhile, and indulge my curiosity for seeing new countries and my love of travel. Not least, it was the ideal excuse to put a safe distance between Bertha and myself.
Stepping out from the shelter of the building, I turned and looked into the wind. The night sky was velvety black. Tilting back my head I let the cold raindrops splatter on my face and trickle down my neck. It was time I woke up.
Chapter Three
Now that the aurochs was their captive, they starved the beast of food and water. Only after three days, when the animal was close to collapse, did the foresters drop a loop of rope around the deadly horns and tangle its legs with heavy cords. Then, very cautiously, they began to dig away one wall of the pit, bevelling the earth into a ramp. Nevertheless, the aurochs still had the strength to try to gore its enemies as they prodded the creature up the slope and into a heavily barred cage on wheels. No one was willing to go down into the pit and delve into the slimy mud to retrieve what was left of Vulfard. His battered corpse stayed submerged in the muck and excrement as the trap was filled in; there was no Christian burial.
All that time Walo refused to leave the scene. He slept in the same little trench where Vulfard had hidden beside me in the ambush, and begged scraps of food from the foresters. Despite their charity they treated him with caution. At times he ducked and cringed away if anyone came near him, or, without warning, he made sudden aggressive movements as if to strike them. He was increasingly haggard, his face and clothes filthy. I feared that his mind was close to total collapse. When everyone was ready to depart, I coaxed him into coming with me as we trailed along behind the aurochs’ cage, its solid wooden wheels creaking with the strain as it was manhandled over tree roots and ruts until we were on the better surface of the road that brought us to Aachen. There I managed to trace his family, only to learn that his mother had died when he was still an infant. Vulfard had raised him up on his own, almost entirely in the forest, and now no one wanted to take on the responsibility of looking after him. When we finally returned to Aachen with the aurochs, Walo finished up at my own home, sleeping in an outhouse by his own choice, as he felt more at ease there than in the main building.
‘We could take Walo north with us,’ I suggested to Osric. We were seated on a bench in front of the house, soaking up the sunshine of a spring morning and discussing the journey to collect the white animals. The sounds of sawyers shaping beams and trusses for yet another royal building carried clearly from the nearest construction site.
‘He could turn out to be a liability,’ Osric grunted. Grateful for the warmth, Osric was massaging his crooked leg. In his belted woollen tunic and sturdy leather boots he dressed like a Frankish tradesman, though his black eyes and swarthy skin hinted at his Saracen origin, as did his habit of wearing a cloth wrapped around his grey felt skull cap.
‘His father saved my life,’ I said. ‘And Walo’s showing signs of recovery. He’s speaking an occasional sentence. If we leave him behind, he’ll just slip back into a wordless daze. There’s no one here to look after him.’
I tried to sound casual and reasonable but my friend knew me only too well.
‘I get the impression that you’ve another reason why you want Walo to accompany us?’ he said pointedly.
Osric was the only person with whom I regularly discussed my prophetic dreams.
‘It was the night after my interview with Carolus,’ I admitted. ‘I dreamed I was trudging through a pine forest and heard a strange buzzing sound – very loud. Two wolves were running towards me between the trees. The buzzing noise came from a great mass of bees clinging to their fur. The insects covered the wolves so thickly that they seemed to have grown a second skin that hummed and rippled. The wolves paid no attention to the bees but I was terrified. Out of nowhere, Walo appeared . . .’ I paused, remembering the bizarre scene.
‘Go on,’ prompted Osric.
‘Walo was acting like a madman. He went straight up to the wolves and stroked their heads, and they sat down obediently, their tongues lolling out. Walo sat himself on the ground between them and many of the bees swarmed across and onto Walo until he, too, seemed to be wearing a coat of bees. Then I woke up.’
Osric was quiet for a long moment. ‘What does the Oneirokritikon have to say?’
I hesitated before replying. Both of us knew that the dream book could be as dangerously ambiguous as any charlatan fortuneteller.
‘Artimedorus writes that seeing a madman in a dream is a good omen. He points out that madmen are not hindered in anything they have set their hearts on. So to dream of someone who is insane means that a business venture will succeed.’
‘An unlikely argument,’ Osric observed sardonically.
‘Enough to persuade me that taking Walo along with us would be more than repaying his father’s sacrifice. Walo could prove a lucky mascot.’
‘You’ll be exposing him to situations for which he is completely unprepared, perhaps to a new danger.’
Puzzled, I looked at my friend. ‘What do you have in mind?’
‘The last I heard, King Offa still rules Mercia as ruthlessly as before. He has his informants at Carolus’s court. He’s still your enemy, and he might well still be thinking that he was foolish for not killing you when he wiped out the rest of your family. Now he has his chance to finish the job.’
‘But we’re not going anywhere near Mercia.’
Osric’s face clouded momentarily. ‘Offa will have heard about the caliph’s splendid gifts to Carolus and the preparations to send a mission to Baghdad in return. His agents may even have reported that you have been put in charge of the mission. Mercia and Frankia are on good terms.’
It was true. Relations between the two kings, Carolus and Offa, had become increasingly cordial of late. They were exchanging letters regularly and recently there had been a formal trade agreement between their kingdoms. All of a sudden I felt foolish. If Offa knew how high I had risen in Carolus’s favour he might now see me, the legitimate heir to the plundered throne, as a threat. Offa was brutal and ruthless. Regretting that he had let me live, he might try and undo his mistake.
‘I doubt that the spies will think it’s worth reporting that I’m being sent to gather together the white animals,’ I replied.
‘Offa hasn’t tried to harm you while you are at Carolus’s court. That would be an insult to the Franks. But once you’re away from Frankish territory on this animal-collecting trip, you’ll be vulnerable . . .’ Osric let his voice trail off.
‘Then we’ll make sure he doesn’t know exactly where or when we are going,’ I said firmly. Osric’s caution was oppressive.