The Book of Dreams(72)

The count gave me a wicked smile.

‘Carolus decided on war in Hispania long ago, well before the Saracens showed up to ask for his help. Despatching you and the other two to make a report was just a ruse, a way of concealing his intentions.’

From somewhere outside came the sound of a horn. The margrave’s guests were being summoned to their places in the great hall. I heard someone else coming up the wooden stairs and Berenger appeared in the room with the words, ‘Time to get ready.’

‘Patch, any more trouble with people trying to kill you?’ Hroudland asked.

I would have preferred if his enquiry had sounded less casual.

‘There was an attempt when I was travelling through the mountains,’ I said and told him about the Vascon slinger.

‘Sounds like Ganelon at work,’ said Hroudland. ‘Berenger, what do you think?’

‘Just like him,’ replied Berenger, who was helping the count get his arms into a fresh shirt.

‘Well, Patch,’ said my friend, as he selected a belt studded with semi-precious stones from his wardrobe in the alcove, ‘at least you don’t have to worry about being poisoned at today’s banquet. The cook and every scullion are on my staff.’ He buckled on the belt, picked up a short cloak of white silk with a crimson lining and threw it over his shoulder. It was time to descend into the great hall and begin the banquet.

*

I was seated in the place of honour on Hroudland’s right, while Berenger was on his left. The rest of the high table was occupied by senior members of Hroudland’s entourage. Some of them I recognized from the mock battle earlier. There were no women. All of us sat facing down the hall so that the guests could look up and see us and their overlord. The table setting was as ostentatious as I now knew to expect from the margrave; plates and ewers of silver, drinking vessels of horn banded with gold and silver or made of coloured glass, candle holders with gold inlay or decorations of semi-precious stones. The food, by contrast, was disappointing. Pottage, lumpy and bland, was served with root vegetables. The bread was coarse and gritty. Hroudland grumbled to me that the local farmers were unable to grow good wheat due to the climate and poor soil. He was drinking heavily, right from the start of the meal, and Berenger and the others at the table kept pace with him. As more and more wine and beer was consumed, their raised voices and shouted conversations drowned out the efforts of a small group of musicians who were trying to keep us entertained. From the packed hall in front of us rose the steady babble of conversation as the margrave’s less exalted guests ate their way stolidly through the meal. More than once I found myself having to stifle a yawn.

All of a sudden, Hroudland banged the handle of his knife down on the table, hard enough to make the nearest plates jump. Immediately everyone fell silent, looking to him. By now my friend was well and truly drunk.

‘I want you all to meet my good and excellent friend, Patch,’ he announced in a slightly slurred voice.

There was a tipsy nodding of heads around the high table. One or two of the more sober guests caught my eye and smiled at me tentatively.

‘Some of you will have heard how he corrected the royal bard in Aachen when he was telling a story during a banquet in front of the king.’ The count raised his voice so he could be heard the length of the great hall. ‘Tonight I have arranged for one of the greatest bards of the Bretons to entertain us so Patch will know that we have storytellers the equal of any in the kingdom.’

There was a scatter of applause, and from behind one of the great pillars stepped a stooped, bony man of middle age. He was dressed in a plain, brown robe and a close-fitting skull cap. In one hand he held a small harp. The other hand rested on the shoulder of a lad no more than ten years old. They walked slowly into the open space in front of the high table, and the boy put down a small three-legged stool he was carrying. The bard took his seat and placed the harp on his lap, ready to begin.

‘Tell us what tale you are going to sing,’ called Hroudland.

The boy leaned forward and spoke quietly to the older man. Not only was the skald blind, but also he did not speak Frankish.

The boy looked up and in his high voice he said, ‘With your permission, my lord, my father will tell a local story; the tale of Yvain.’

My neighbour on my right, a stocky red-faced Frankish stalwart whose sour breath stank of ale, leaned closer and whispered in my ear, ‘Let’s hope this doesn’t go on for too long.’

Hroudland was beckoning to the lad.

‘Come up here,’ he ordered. ‘I want you to translate for my guest.’

Unembarrassed, the boy stepped up on to the dais, came round the end of the table, and stood behind Hroudland and myself.