I shook my head.
‘Something to do with a dragon flying through the air, diving underwater,’ was Oton’s suggestion.
Again I shook my head.
‘Give us a clue,’ said Berenger.
Unexpectedly, the shaggy-looking fellow spoke up. He put aside the piece of wood he was carving and said, ‘You use words to describe things without saying what they are.’ He spoke in a heavy, deliberate way.
‘Sounds crazy to me, Ogier,’ observed Berenger.
‘At home our poets do it all the time,’ Ogier said. ‘They say the sea is the whale road; the sun is the sky candle.’ He resumed his whittling of the piece of wood.
I didn’t want to make the company feel foolish so I said, ‘Ogier is right. In my riddle the “bird’s support” is a feather, and the diligent warrior is a “man’s arm”.’
A voice behind me said, ‘Then the four curious creatures travelling together are a scribe’s four fingers, and the feather is a writing quill leaving an inky trail.’
I turned to see who had worked out the correct answer. Tall and good looking, he had just emerged from one of the sleeping cubicles and held himself with an easy grace. Fair skinned, he had a straight nose and grey eyes and hair the colour of ripe wheat. Also, there was something vaguely familiar about him. It took me a moment to realize that he reminded me of King Carolus. It was as if the newcomer was the king as a younger man. I tried to stand up from my bench, ready to bow to him, but I was awkwardly placed and came up against the table and fell back on my seat. My clumsiness brought a smile to his face. He showed white, even teeth.
‘Don’t get up,’ he said. ‘My name is Hroudland.’
‘I’m Sigwulf,’ I replied, ‘and you have the correct answer.’
Hroudland came and sat down across the table from me.
‘A lucky guess,’ he said. ‘But I haven’t worked out what you meant by “beaten gold”.’
‘My riddle was an image of a man writing in ink with a quill on parchment that has gold illumination,’ I answered him.
‘You should try that out on my uncle. He’s keen on anything that’s got a religious slant,’ Hroudland said.
‘Your uncle?’
‘My mother is one of King Carolus’s sisters.’
I had just opened my mouth to respond when I was interrupted by Anseis asking, ‘Is it true that the king is planning a campaign against the Saracens in Hispania, Hroudland?’
‘Not this year. The season’s too late,’ said Hroudland.
‘In the south you can keep an army in the field almost until Christmas,’ observed Berenger.
‘That’s something you should discuss with Gerard,’ said Hroudland looking across at the white-haired older man.
The riddles were forgotten. The conversation veered off into a discussion of how long it would take to raise an army, the speed of its supply train, the correct proportion of archers to foot soldiers to cavalry, the correct tactics for fighting Saracens. As they talked and argued, I learned that the old man Gerard came from the south and that when King Carolus went to war, my fellow royal guests served as officers in his army.
The discussion was bringing back bitter memories of the only battle I had ever fought in, and I excused myself from the table. Osric had returned from the royal stores with an armful of clothes, and I found myself a vacant sleeping cubicle where he laid out my new wardrobe. When he withdrew, I lay down on the cot and closed my eyes. It had been a long day and I was tired. Almost instantly I was asleep.
My twin joined me or, rather, his fetch came to sit on the side of my cot. He looked as he always did when he visited me in my dreams – pensive and calm, not the ghastly corpse of his death. He had aged at the same pace as myself, and sometimes I wondered if I was looking in a mirror, rather than seeing someone who had been dead these past ten years.
For a long time he sat without speaking, occasionally looking around the little alcove. ‘What do you make of them?’ he eventually asked.
As always, I did not reply. There was no need. My brother always answered his own question.
‘Learn what you can about them. Suspect the one you come to trust, and trust the one you suspect.’
Then he stood up and left.
*
I was awake before sunrise. For a few moments I lay snug in my cubicle, recollecting where I was. Then I rose and dressed quietly in the Frankish costume that Osric had delivered for me – linen undertrousers and shirt under a belted tunic, and woollen leggings held in place by criss-cross garters. Osric had located a pair of laced leather boots of the right size, and only the long cloak in the shape of a double square delayed me. It took some time in the darkness to work out that I should place it over my shoulders so that it hung in front and behind, with a slit on each side.