The count scowled.
‘If Osric is still there, or hasn’t sold it.’
‘I’m sure he would keep it until I return,’ I said.
Hroudland drew a sharp breath, clearly annoyed.
‘I’d rather shatter the blade of my own Durendal than let it fall into the wrong hands.’ He swung round to face me and, in a sudden change of mood, treated me to an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry, Patch, I didn’t mean to be boorish. Of course, it was impractical for you to bring that sword back with you. The Vascon sailors would have cut your throat for it.’ He waved his hand towards the great hall on the crest of the hill. ‘Pick yourself a shield and helmet from my armoury and find yourself a mail coat that fits.’
*
With the prospect of real fighting in Hispania ahead of me, I did as Hroudland suggested: I devoted all my energy to becoming a skilful mounted warrior. There was no time to think of anything else. I pushed aside any thoughts of making contact with Bertha, for I was still wary of palace politics in Aachen. Besides, I suspected that she had long ago found other lovers. I was now the margrave’s man and I owed him my duty, and that meant following him unquestioningly wherever he might lead. After six weeks’ practice with lance and borrowed sword I was fit to accompany the margrave’s cavalry when they set out to join the main invasion force. We struck camp two weeks after the equinox and made an impressive spectacle, the mounted column splashing across the ford at the edge of the training ground in the pale spring sunshine. Hroudland himself took the lead, a stylish figure in a scarlet riding cloak trimmed with marten fur, bareheaded, with his long blonde hair falling to his shoulders. Immediately behind him came his standard bearer holding the staff with the bull’s head banner. Then followed the rest of his entourage – household servants in red and white livery, a groom leading the roan war horse, his councillors and his confidants, of which I was one.
Our supply carts had gone ahead and we followed them southward in easy stages. We were travelling across pleasant wooded countryside, the trees were bursting into leaf and the underbrush was full of small, flitting, rustling creatures and birdsong. The air had a rich, loamy smell of new growth and, except for the occasional heavy rain shower during the first week, the weather was kind to us. Day after day, the sun shone from a clear, pale-blue sky, disappearing only briefly behind the legions of puffy, white clouds that sailed overhead on a westerly wind, their shadows racing across our path and then over the open landscape to our left.
Frequently Hroudland invited me to ride beside him, in full view of the rest of the company, cementing my reputation as his close friend.
‘I’m not sorry to be leaving the Breton land,’ he confided to me on the fourth day of our journey. The road was taking us through a birch forest on the edge of a heathland. The greyish-white bark on the trees reminded me of my stay in Zaragoza. The bark was the same colour as the sheets of unknown writing material I had found in wali Husayn’s guest chamber.
‘Does the winter weather depress you?’ I asked.
‘That and the people. They keep their feelings so shuttered. I’d like to have their loyalty, not just have their sullen obedience. You never know what they are thinking.’ He nodded towards the forest around us. ‘Those birch trees, for example. To me, as a Frank, they are trees full of bright life, hope for the future. But, to the Breton, the birch is a tree that grows in the land of the dead.’
‘My father once told me that the birch is a symbol of a new beginning, a cleansing of the past. Perhaps that is what you need,’ I said.
Hroudland suddenly became very serious.
‘Patch, if I have anything to do with it, this new campaign will indeed provide me with a fresh start.’
I stole a quick sideways glance. His face was clouded.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘Remember our excursion to the forest of Broceliande to investigate the story of Yvain and the fountain and how it ended?’
‘The cup of gold turned out to be made of bronze. I saw it recently with the other tableware in your great hall.’
‘What if we had found a real gold cup?’
‘As I recall, you proposed to have it melted down and added to your treasury.’
‘But supposing the cup had been something of such extraordinary value that no one would ever think of destroying it.’
‘Now you are talking in riddles,’ I said to him.
‘Those Breton bards are always singing about something called a Graal, some sort of a bowl or a platter. It was the most precious object known to their mystical king Artorius.’
‘And what happened to it?’ I asked.