The Book of Dreams(112)

‘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.’

I dragged myself over the rocks, away from the Vascons. I had no idea how far I had the strength to go, and there was no reason that the Vascons would let me escape. But the urge for survival was powerful. I gritted my teeth against the pain and stumbled forward. Twice I tripped and fell on to my knees and, weirdly, an image of Hroudland’s roan stallion came to my mind. I saw the animal, stunned by the slingstone, getting back on its feet. I forced myself to do the same. In the darkness all around me I imagined the shapes and blurred outlines of people and grotesque creatures. One of them was my brother’s fetch. He was seated on a rock ahead of me and I longed for him to come forward and help me. But all he did was watch me in brooding silence as if to chide me for ignoring his warning that I should trust my enemies and beware my friends. Then my legs gave way one last time, and I sank to the ground in a dead faint.





Chapter Twenty




MY SHOULDER WAS ON FIRE. A hand pulled away my eye patch and something wet pressed on my forehead. I opened both eyes and struggled to concentrate on the crooked figure stooping over me. In the thin light of dawn, Osric was using his moistened head cloth to dab my face. I wondered if I was wandering in my wits.

‘Here, Sigwulf, drink,’ he urged. He held a leather water flask against my lips. I sipped and my choking cough produced an agonizing spasm of pain in my shoulder. I was back in the real world. We were still on the mountain roadway, but alone.

‘Where are the others? Where’s Hroudland . . . and Berenger?’ I asked, struggling to connect Osric dressed in Saracen robes with what I remembered from the previous evening.

‘Nothing can bring them back,’ he said. ‘Wali Husayn sent me.’ Osric squatted down on his heels so he could look me directly in the face. ‘The wali asked the Vascons not to harm you. He still values your friendship.’

I winced as yet another stab of pain clawed my shoulder. Osric gently pulled open the rent in my brunia and checked where the Vascon spearhead had pierced my flesh.

‘In the heat of battle it was difficult for every Vascon to remember the wali’s instructions,’ he observed.

‘So the Vascons were fighting on behalf of the wali?’ I mumbled. Every bone and muscle in my body ached.

Osric shook his head.

‘They fought for themselves. After Pamplona, they wanted revenge.’

I remembered the skirmishing Saracens who had tracked the army’s withdrawal from Zaragoza. They would have been providing the Vascons with daily reports of the army’s progress.

‘Try to get to your feet,’ said Osric.

Looking past him, I saw two horses standing patiently. The Vascons must have told him that I had been seen abandoning my comrades, and Osric had brought a spare mount with him.