The Book of Dreams(97)

On the afternoon Hroudland got back, I was camped beside a shepherd’s hut close to the pass where the road ran between high cliffs in a narrow defile. It was the same hut where Wali Husayn and I had discussed the slinger who had attacked me in the mountains. I had gone there with Eggihard to investigate an accident with the baggage train. An ox cart had smashed a wheel at a narrow section of the track and was blocking the roadway. Fortunately the damaged cart was one of the last transports in the column, and there were only three more carts behind it. Alarmingly we discovered that the stranded vehicles carried the ransom money from Zaragoza though they should have been in the well-protected centre of the column. The group of four carts was becoming increasingly isolated, and Eggihard decided that we should stay with them until the wheel was repaired, and the order of march could be rearranged.

So we greeted Hroudland’s arrival with relief. He came clattering up the rock-strewn trail at the head of his troops and immediately agreed to detach fifty men to stand guard over the stranded vehicles. The remainder would ride on and rejoin the main force. Their horses were lathered and exhausted and their riders seemed reluctant to talk about the raid on Pamplona.

Hroudland’s unkempt appearance was shocking. His eyes were raw and red-rimmed, staring from a face where every line was engrained with soot. His yellow hair, normally clean and lustrous, was streaked with ash. When he passed a hand across his face to rub away the dirt, I saw that the nails were jagged and grimy. In his sweat-stained and crumpled clothes he looked nothing like the handsome nobleman who had ridden out so jauntily to win his wardenship of the Spanish March. The only fine thing about him was the splendid hunting horn of carved ivory. He wore it like a badge of conquest, slung from a silk cord across his chest.

His companions were even worse for wear. A rough bandage on Gerin’s left arm partially covered a painful looking burn that extended from his elbow to his wrist. Berenger had lost most of his eyebrows. They had been scorched away and only the stubble remained. Their clothes reeked of smoke and there were holes where sparks or hot cinders had landed.

The sun had dropped behind the mountain ridge and the air was turning so chilly that Eggihard suggested we discuss the next day’s plans in front of the hearth in the shepherd’s hut.

‘We wondered why the Saracen skirmishers disappeared this morning,’ said Eggihard, as we took our places on the rickety benches. He was eyeing the oliphant horn with more than a touch of envy. ‘They must have known you were coming up behind them.’

Hroudland had found himself a wineskin. He held it up to his face and squirted out a long draught into his mouth before wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

‘If they return,’ he growled, ‘we’ll soon see them off.’

Eggihard bridled at Hroudland’s bluntness.

‘I take it, then, that you’ve also disposed of the Vascon threat?’ The simmering antagonism between the two men was close to boiling over.

The count gave a bitter laugh.

‘Pamplona will no longer bother us.’

There was an awkward pause, and then Berenger broke the silence.

‘Pamplona has been taught its lesson.’

Eggihard turned towards him, eyebrows raised.

‘Or have you only succeeded in rousing the citizens against us?’ His voice was waspish.

‘There’s not much left to rouse,’ Berenger answered. ‘Their fault for neglecting the walls. We were charging down the streets before they could put together a defence.’

‘And then?’

‘Some idiot set the place on fire. The blaze spread too fast.’

‘Too fast for what?’

‘For us to sack the place properly.’

Eggihard smirked. I wondered if he was pleased that his earlier caution about attacking Pamplona had been proved right.

‘Poorly handled, then. A pity.’

Hroudland flared.

‘Better handled than this botched withdrawal. If we hadn’t got here today, you might have lost the Zaragoza ransom, taken back by the Saracens.’

The two men bristled at one another, and then out-faced by Hroudland and his comrades, Eggihard got to his feet and stalked out of the hut.

Hroudland shot me a resentful glance.

‘Can’t see how you put up with that incompetent fool,’ he said.

I kept silent. I was reminded of my father’s bad temper, quarrelsome and tetchy, when he came back from an unsuccessful day out hunting.

Hroudland squeezed another drink from the wineskin, and then spat into the flames of the fire.

‘The loot we took from Pamplona wouldn’t pay a month’s expenses.’

‘Thankfully you can look forward to your share of Wali Husayn’s ransom money,’ I ventured.