‘For a literal dream, he cites the case of a man travelling aboard ship who dreamed he was in a shipwreck. The next day his vessel sank. Artimedorus claims to have spoken to the man himself. He goes on to say that such dreams come true so often that we should not be surprised.’
I had no need to ask Osric how a dream could be an allegory of the future. My dream of the aggressive ox led by a vixen attacking the stag had been an image of King Offa’s invasion of my father’s kingdom. There was a much more important question I had to ask. The answer might protect me against future dangers.
‘Does Artimedorus say whether it is possible to induce a prophetic dream – by swallowing extracts of powerful herbs before sleeping, for example?’ I asked.
I had already told Osric about the unknown archer, and he guessed my thoughts.
‘So you would have been prepared for what happened during the hunt?’
I nodded.
Osric spent a long time searching the pages of the Oneirokritikon. Finally he shook his head. ‘He only warns that dreams that are the result of having eaten or drunk too much are not to be relied on.’
‘Osric, do you ever dream?’ I ventured to ask.
‘Only nightmares I would sooner forget,’ he replied quietly.
*
We worked on the translation for over a week before I received my next summons to the king’s residence. Leaving Osric to puzzle over obscure Saracen phrases, I set out across the royal precinct. The weather had turned bitterly cold and a thick coating of frost covered the raw piles of building materials with glittering crystals. I felt sorry for the workmen balanced on the scaffolding of the half-finished audience hall, their hands wrapped in rags against the chill wind. They were still mixing mortar and setting courses of bricks. The construction work was behind schedule and the king was insisting on having the building in time for Christmas. To my surprise the guards at the main entrance to the king’s residence directed me to a side door. Here an under-chamberlain met me and escorted me to a small reception room, comfortably furnished with low stools and soft rugs and with a fire burning in the corner. To my delight, Bertha was waiting for me. The moment the door closed behind me, I started forward, about to embrace her. The warning look in her eyes stopped me.
‘So this is the man of dreams,’ said a slightly mocking voice. Standing off to one side was a woman who, I guessed at once, had to be one of Bertha’s sisters. The two were very alike. They had the same fair hair, blue eyes and creamy, slightly freckled skin. But the stranger lacked Bertha’s voluptuous curves and was not as tall. She seemed more mature, more worldly, and I presumed she was the older of the two. She was eyeing me with an expression of curiosity tempered with disbelief. I wondered if she was comparing me to her sister’s previous lovers.
Bertha wasted no time in coming straight to the point.
‘Sigwulf, this is Adelaide, my sister. Our father has had a dream that could be important.’
I could tell by the way that Bertha held her hands clasped in front of her, her face animated, that she was excited.
‘He told us about it yesterday. We want you to interpret it for us.’ She cast a conspiratorial glance towards her sister.
‘I’m less than halfway through translating the dream book,’ I apologized.
‘I’m sure you can locate the part that matters.’
Her high-handed manner irritated me. Then I remembered that she was a king’s daughter.
‘I’ll do what I can,’ I said.
Adelaide moved across the room to stand beside her sister.
‘Do you find this dream book believable?’ she asked.
‘I haven’t had time to judge.’
‘So now’s the time to put it to the test,’ Bertha interrupted eagerly.
‘It’s not as simple as that . . .’ my voice trailed away. I wanted to please Bertha but I was beginning to wonder if I was wise to have spoken to her about the Oneirokritikon. I had a feeling that there was more to the sisters’ questions than they were letting on. I sensed that I was approaching something sensitive, a dangerous topic that I was not equipped to handle.
‘What are these difficulties?’ asked Adelaide. Her voice was low and musical but there was a probing edge.
I prevaricated.
‘The interpretation of a dream depends on so many factors – the time of the dream, the status of the dreamer, his or her health, whether the dreamer has anxieties.’
Adelaide waved aside my excuses.
‘You know my father’s status – he’s the king. He dreamed shortly before midnight. It’s no secret that he’s a light sleeper, and he awoke soon afterwards.’
It was clear that she was not someone who was easily diverted.