I walked softly across the room, careful not to wake my new companions, and let myself out. During the night the rain had stopped. The air smelled of dampness and mildew. Only the faintest glow showed where the sun would rise. I made my way cautiously through the shadows, trying to retrace my path to where I had seen the statue of the horse.
I had gone perhaps a hundred paces when I realized that I had lost my way. I decided it would be wiser to wait until the daylight was stronger and I could get my bearings. I stood in silence for some time, watching the buildings gradually take shape out of the darkness. It was a strange sensation to know that I was in the heart of the largest, most powerful kingdom in the western world and had already met its supreme ruler face to face. Yet I knew almost nothing about it. If I was to find my proper place within it, I would have to learn its manners and customs. The prospect excited me.
All of a sudden there came the most hideous scream. It was a cry of such anguish that the hair rose on the back of my neck. Instinctively I reached for my dagger, only to remember that I had left it behind. The source of that terrible scream was very close. Weaponless, I hesitated. Then the ghastly wail came again, even more desperate than before, and I knew I had to intervene. Someone was being attacked and needed urgent help. The screams had come from the far side of a builder’s shed. I took a deep breath and dashed around the corner, my heart pounding, not knowing what I would find. I half-hoped that my sudden appearance might frighten the assailant off his victim, or if I yelled loudly enough to raise the alarm, someone would come to help.
I came skidding around the corner of the hut only to find no one there. There was a large heap of rough-sawn logs and an open muddy space. Pale smears of sawdust showed where the carpenters had been at work. I slithered to a halt, puzzled. The light had strengthened enough to cast faint shadows. Something moved in the gloom, low down beside the timber. I tried to make out what it was, half expecting to see a badly wounded victim lying in the mire. Again nothing. Then out from the shadow strutted a bird. It stood taller than a chicken, with large feet and a small, fine head on a gracefully curved neck. The body was almost the size of a goose and, though it did not waddle, the creature had a stilted, ungainly walk. The tail was very odd. The bird dragged behind it a drooping train of feathers out of all proportion to its size. I was still puzzling about this strange creature when it raised its head and uttered that same spine-chilling, ugly scream. Once again my heart raced, but by then I knew what was in front of me. Near my father’s house had been the ruins of an old Roman villa, once the home of a rich merchant. On its mosaic floor had been depicted all manner of exotic creatures, lions, sea monsters, fish, ducks and . . . peacocks.
‘Escaped from the king’s zoo,’ said a voice I recognized, and Alcuin materialized from the shadows, giving me yet another scare that morning. ‘I’m sorry if I startled you. I take a stroll after lauds. It helps clear the mind.’
‘That creature has a shocking call,’ I commented.
‘The voice of the devil, the gait of a thief, and the body of an angel,’ replied Alcuin.
The bird heard our voices, turned towards us and slowly raised its tail into an enormous fan. Straining with effort, for a moment the creature looked as if it would topple forward on its beak. Despite the comic stance, I was impressed. The Roman mosaics had not come near capturing the magnificence of the live display.
‘The hundred eyes of Argos,’ I said.
Alcuin gave me a shrewd glance.
‘Where did you learn that?’
‘A tale my tutor told me at home. He loved the ancient stories,’ I replied.
‘A priest?’
I nodded.
‘He would have done better to tell you that the patterns of the peacock’s fan represent the all-seeing eye of God.’
I decided to tease.
‘And the flesh of the dead peacock doesn’t corrupt? So it mimics the eternal body of Christ.’
Alcuin showed a flash of irritation.
‘Pure myth. If this bird is mauled by one of the king’s hunting dogs, you will find that the body rots just like any other fowl.’
He began herding the peacock across the ground, as if he was a goose girl, and I helped him.
‘What other animals does the king have in his collection?’ I asked.
‘Bears, a leopard or two, cranes, wolves, some monkeys, several types of snake – most of them survive only a year or two before they die.’
‘How do they get here?’
‘Some are brought by hunters who’ve heard of the royal menagerie. The more exotic animals are sent by foreign rulers, as gifts.’
I saw my opening.