The Book of Dreams

posts holding up the timber roof. The walls were lined by sleeping booths. There were damp areas on the earth floor where the thatch had failed. A fire trench held cold cinders and ash. The place not only looked like a barracks but had the same smell and fug.

A dozen or more men were idling away their time on a rainy day. Most were about the same age or a few years older than me and I took particular note of one shaggy fellow, off by himself to one side. He was seated on a wooden stool and moodily whittling a piece of wood. A much older white-haired man was playing a board game against a dashing-looking opponent whose skin was almost as dark as Osric’s. The others were seated at the central table, leather bottles, drinking horns, cups and bowls in front of them.

‘Hello, Patch,’ said one of them, noticing me hesitating in the doorway. He had curly chestnut hair and an open, smiling face. ‘Come to join the palace companions?’

‘As King Carolus wishes,’ I replied, hoping my Frankish, learned from Arnulf, was not too rustic to be understood.

‘And where are you from?’

‘King Offa of the English sent me.’

‘Isn’t that where that curmudgeon Alcuin comes from?’ asked his companion, a chubby, soft-looking individual with melancholy brown eyes.

‘He’s from further north,’ I said.

‘Stop blathering, Oton, it’s your turn,’ snapped a man I judged to be approaching middle age. His thick, black eyebrows over deep-set eyes made him look fierce and short-tempered, an impression enhanced by his impatient tone.

The man called Oton nodded towards an empty place at the table.

‘Patch, take a seat. Pay no heed to Anseis here. He’s a thick-skulled Burgundian, and they don’t have much by way of manners.’

‘Oton, you’re keeping us waiting,’ growled Anseis.

I sat down at the table. Oton closed his eyes for a moment’s thought, then opened them and declaimed:

‘I saw a beast whose stomach swelled behind him, fat and bloated.

A strong servant tended to him, and filled his stomach with what came from afar, then travelled through his eye.

He gives life to others but does not die. New strength revives in his stomach.

And he breathes again. .’

Oton looked around the table.

‘What did I see?’ he asked, and I realized the company were amusing themselves by posing riddles. It had been the same in my father’s mead hall after a banquet.

There was a long silence.

‘Come on, you lot. It’s easy enough,’ urged Oton.

‘A stomach swelling behind him,’ murmured the cheerful young man with the curly hair. He raised himself slightly off his bench and let out a long, deliberate fart. ‘Is that a clue?’

‘Berenger, you’re disgusting,’ said Oton.

‘A bellows, that’s what you saw,’ said the dark-skinned man who had been playing the board game.

‘Correct. Your turn, Engeler,’ said Berenger.

Engeler took a moment to smooth down his long, glossy, black hair and adjust the cuffs of his expensive silk shirt. I guessed that he was someone whom women found attractive, and he knew it. He posed his riddle:

‘A queer thing hangs down beside a man’s thigh, hidden by his clothes.

It has a hole in its head, and is stiff and strong, and its firmness brings a reward.

When the man pulls up his clothing, he wants the head of that hanging thing to poke the hole that it fits and has often filled before.’

Berenger guffawed.

‘Trust you to be thinking of sex,’ he said.

‘Not at all,’ replied Engeler with mock seriousness. ‘It’s you who has a dirty mind. There’s nothing lewd about my riddle.’

I knew the answer but held my tongue.

‘The solution is “a key’’,’ said Engeler with a grin. ‘Now have a go at this next one, Berenger, and try to keep your thoughts pure.’ He paused, and then began:

‘A certain something swells in its pouch, grows, and stands erect, lifting its covering.

A proud bride lays hands on that boneless marvel, the king’s daughter covered that swollen object with clothing. .

What is it?’

Berenger sat silent.

Engeler had a sly twinkle in his eye.

‘Anyone know?’ He turned to me. ‘How about you, Patch?’

‘Dough,’ I said quietly.

There was a moment’s silence. I could almost hear the others wondering what to make of me.

‘So Patch, now it’s your turn,’ said Oton.

I thought back to father’s drinking sessions and dredged up one of his favourite puzzles, and said:

‘Four strange creatures travel together, their tracks were very swart.

Each mark very black. The bird ’s support moves swiftly, through the air, underwater.

The diligent warrior works without stopping, directing the four over the beaten gold.’

I sat back on my bench and waited for the solution.

‘A horse and wagon,’ volunteered Engeler.

I shook my head.

‘Something to do with a dragon flying through the air, diving underwater,’ was Oton’s suggestion.

Again I shook my head.

‘Give us a clue,’ said Berenger.

Unexpectedly, the shaggy-looking fellow spoke up. He put aside the piece of wood he was carving and said, ‘You use words to describe things without saying what they are.’ He spoke in a heavy, deliberate way.

‘Sounds crazy to me, Ogier,’ observed Berenger.

‘At home our poets do it all the time,’ Ogier said. ‘They say the sea is the whale road; the sun is the sky candle.’ He resumed his whittling of the piece of wood.

I didn’t want to make the company feel foolish so I said, ‘Ogier is right. In my riddle the “bird’s support” is a feather, and the diligent warrior is a “man’s arm”.’

A voice behind me said, ‘Then the four curious creatures travelling together are a scribe’s four fingers, and the feather is a writing quill leaving an inky trail.’

I turned to see who had worked out the correct answer. Tall and good looking, he had just emerged from one of the sleeping cubicles and held himself with an easy grace. Fair skinned, he had a straight nose and grey eyes and hair the colour of ripe wheat. Also, there was something vaguely familiar about him. It took me a moment to realize that he reminded me of King Carolus. It was as if the newcomer was the king as a younger man. I tried to stand up from my bench, ready to bow to him, but I was awkwardly placed and came up against the table and fell back on my seat. My clumsiness brought a smile to his face. He showed white, even teeth.

‘Don’t get up,’ he said. ‘My name is Hroudland.’

‘I’m Sigwulf,’ I replied, ‘and you have the correct answer.’

Hroudland came and sat down across the table from me.

‘A lucky guess,’ he said. ‘But I haven’t worked out what you meant by “beaten gold”.’

‘My riddle was an image of a man writing in ink with a quill on parchment that has gold illumination,’ I answered him.