It was a woodland scene. A beautiful maiden was seated beneath a tree laden with ripe fruit. The artist had shown her wearing a long, soft flowing gown and her hair hung loose around her shoulders. She looked exceptionally demure. There was an impression of grassy sward and bright flowers around her bare feet. In the background were low bushes. At the far left of the picture appeared the edge of a forest, and among the tree trunks lurked two men dressed as huntsmen. One was holding a spear, the other a rope noose. They were obviously hiding in ambush and about to pounce. Their intended prey was not the vulnerable-looking young woman, but a graceful four-legged animal that at first glance was either a young stag or a fine pure-bred horse. It was shown in the very centre of the composition, part kneeling and part lying on the grass and had laid its head trustingly in the young woman’s lap. This placed her in some danger because from the centre of the animal’s brow protruded a wicked looking spike, a single long horn with a distinctive spiral.
The animal was white.
A large blunt finger tapped the page. ‘Find me a unicorn.’
The king was so certain of what he wanted that I knew it would be wise to conceal my astonishment. Of course I had heard about the unicorn, just as I had heard about elephants. But I had never heard of anyone who had actually seen a living unicorn any more than someone who had seen a real elephant. Dimly I recalled my teacher telling me of a wild beast with a single horn that the Romans put on display in their circus games. As I looked at the vicious spike on the forehead of the creature in the picture it occurred to me that the same Romans also should have trained such an animal for war. It would have been at least as deadly as an elephant.
‘As Your Majesty commands,’ I said with a confidence I did not feel.
Immediately he detected the uncertainty of my response. ‘Is there a problem?’
I took a deep breath. ‘Your Majesty has mentioned that white animals are commonly found in the lands of ice and snow. Their colour matches their surroundings. But it seems to me from this picture that the unicorn lives in places where the climate is quite warm, a place of forests and flowers and fruit-bearing trees.’
Carolus took another look at the picture of the unicorn, and for a moment I thought he was about to change his instructions. But obtaining a unicorn was too close to his heart for him to abandon the idea entirely. ‘I admit that a unicorn will be difficult to obtain. By all accounts it is a notoriously shy and timid beast. So just one example of the animal will be sufficient. I don’t expect you to bring back two of them.’
I dared one last attempt to get him to re-consider. ‘Your Majesty, would not a professional huntsman have a better chance of capturing a unicorn? Someone like Vulfard?’
I had gone too far. The king brought down his heavy eyebrows in a scowl.
‘After Vulfard has secured the aurochs,’ I amended hastily.
The king regarded me for a long moment, and, despite the warmth of the room, I felt a sudden cold chill in the air. ‘I think you, Sigwulf, would be more suited than Vulfard for this enterprise. The unicorn has a weakness: it cannot control its animal passion. If it sees a young maiden, it will emerge from hiding and lay its head adoringly on the maiden’s lap. Then it can be taken.’
The goosebumps rose on my skin. I wondered how much Carolus knew about my affair with his daughter. This interview was getting more difficult by the minute, and it was time to leave the room. I bowed again and began to sidle towards the door. He stopped me with a single barbed phrase, ‘Sigwulf, there’s one more thing to discuss . . .’
I braced myself. This surely had something to do with Bertha.
‘Have you had any more dreams that I should know about?’ he asked.
I swallowed with relief. Carolus knew my dreams. They were strange and vivid and, if interpreted correctly, foretold the future. But interpretation was very difficult, often contradictory, and to help me I had used the Oneirokritikon, an ancient book on how to interpret dreams, written by a Greek named Artimedorus. The copy that had come into my possession was in Arabic and Osric had translated it for me. But less than twenty pages of our translation survived – the rest had been lost during the war in Hispania – and we kept them hidden beneath a floorboard in the house.
‘I’ve had very few dreams in recent times. Nothing of note,’ I answered truthfully.
He nodded, seemingly satisfied. ‘Well, if there is something I should know about, please tell Alcuin. He will keep me informed.’
I left the audience chamber feeling distinctly queasy. I had always thought of Carolus as a benign and understanding overlord. Now I was not so sure. This time he had been self-absorbed and imperious, even threatening. Perhaps that was the inevitable result of more than twenty years on the throne, ruling such a vast kingdom. Day after day he was dealing with a multitude of problems and had to manage a circle of courtiers with their competing rivalries and jealousies. I was glad to be out of his sight.