In just a few months, the king looked as though he had aged by ten years. He no longer walked with quite the same confident stride, and his face was more deeply lined than I remembered. His long moustache, once straw-yellow, held flecks of grey and he looked tired. As usual he was dressed in the ordinary cross-gartered leggings, tunic and trousers of a well-to-do Frankish noble, though, as a concession to the heat of Hispanian summer, the cloth was now of light linen rather than heavy wool. In his right hand he carried a mace of dark wood, gnarled and polished and banded with gold. I imagined it was some sort of sceptre.
He walked across to his portable gilded throne and took his seat. His attendants had already set up the trestle table with the map of tiles, and Carolus looked across it at the assembled company. His gaze was the same as ever, the grey eyes shrewd and penetrating, knowing each and every one of the people before him. Despite myself I held my breath and stood straighter as I waited for his pronouncement.
‘I have summoned you to council,’ he began, ‘to hear your advice on how we should proceed with the campaign. As you are aware, our allies are in disarray. The Emir of Cordoba has defeated the Wali of Huesca in battle. The Wali of Barcelona was unable to offer us the help he promised. Our original plan for Hispania must now be modified.’
The king’s words made me realize how little I knew of the overall progress of the campaign. Evidently the Falcon of Cordoba had moved decisively against the rebellious Saracen governors before the Franks had arrived.
‘We now find ourselves in front of Zaragoza, whose governor is the third of our so-called allies,’ Carolus continued. ‘He has closed its gates to us. I await your suggestions as to what we should do next.’
There was a long awkward silence. I sensed the Frankish nobles trying to gauge the king’s frame of mind. None of them wanted to speak up and risk the king’s wrath by making an unwelcome proposal. It was the ever-cautious and practical Eggihard who spoke first.
‘Your Majesty, we are running low on supplies. The army cannot keep in the field for more than a few weeks.’
Carolus toyed with his wooden sceptre, stroking the polished surface.
‘So how do we put those few weeks to good use?’
‘We teach the Saracens a lesson they will remember so they never cross into Frankia again,’ called out a swarthy, heavily built nobleman I did not recognize.
‘How?’ grunted the king.
‘We’ve already dealt with the Wali of Barcelona as he deserved. Now we should do the same to the Wali of Zaragoza. Take his city, and hold him to account.’
The man looked around for the support of his fellows. Most of them avoided his gaze and stared instead at the map table. The mood of the meeting was decidedly pessimistic, even sombre.
To my surprise, it was the normally aggressive Hroudland who urged caution.
‘I have seen the walls of Zaragoza,’ he said. ‘Believe me, without large siege engines we cannot take the city in less than six months.’
‘Then our engineers must build siege engines,’ insisted the swarthy nobleman. He scowled angrily at Hroudland. The man was evidently another of the margrave’s rivals at court.
‘It will take far too long to construct heavy siege engines,’ argued Eggihard. ‘By the time they are ready, our supplies will be finished.’
There was another long interval as no one else spoke. The king stirred restlessly on the wooden throne. Close to me someone coughed nervously. I was aware of the faint, musty smell of mildew; the canvas of the great royal tent had begun to rot. It occurred to me that this decay symbolized the threadbare, worn-out state of the Frankish army.
Finally Hroudland again spoke. He raised his voice so everyone could hear him clearly, and his words were delivered with a confident flourish.
‘I suggest, Your Majesty, that instead of laying siege to Zaragoza, we extract its wealth like honey from the hive, and leave the city so impoverished that it will be unable to trouble us in the future.’
‘And how do we keep the bees at bay?’ demanded his uncle. I could see a glint of interest, even affection, in the gaze he turned on Hroudland.
‘We have the Wali of Barcelona as our prisoner. He is both the brother-in-law and the close ally of the Wali of Zaragoza,’ the count answered. ‘I’m told that there is a strong bond between the two men. I propose that we demand a very great ransom for the release of the Wali of Barcelona plus an additional sum to recompense the expenses for bringing the army into Hispania.’
Like a shaft of sunlight suddenly lighting up gloomy countryside, his words lifted the atmosphere in the pavilion. Noblemen exchanged knowing glances. Most of them had come to Hispania for loot, not to stay and settle. There was a mutter of excitement; they could carry back the spoils without having to fight for them.