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a ramp.
Nevertheless, the aurochs still had the strength to try to gore its enemies as they prodded the creature up the slope and into a heavily barred cage on wheels. No one was willing to go down into
the pit and delve into the slimy mud to retrieve what was left of Vulfard. His battered corpse stayed submerged in the muck and excrement as the trap was filled in; there was no Christian
burial.
    All that time Walo refused to leave the scene. He slept in the same little trench where Vulfard had hidden beside me in the ambush, and begged scraps of food from the foresters. Despite their
charity they treated him with caution. At times he ducked and cringed away if anyone came near him, or, without warning, he made sudden aggressive movements as if to strike them. He was
increasingly haggard, his face and clothes filthy. I feared that his mind was close to total collapse. When everyone was ready to depart, I coaxed him into coming with me as we trailed along behind
the aurochs’ cage, its solid wooden wheels creaking with the strain as it was manhandled over tree roots and ruts until we were on the better surface of the road that brought us to Aachen.
There I managed to trace his family, only to learn that his mother had died when he was still an infant. Vulfard had raised him up on his own, almost entirely in the forest, and now no one wanted
to take on the responsibility of looking after him. When we finally returned to Aachen with the aurochs, Walo finished up at my own home, sleeping in an outhouse by his own choice, as he felt more
at ease there than in the main building.
    ‘We could take Walo north with us,’ I suggested to Osric. We were seated on a bench in front of the house, soaking up the sunshine of a spring morning and discussing the journey to
collect the white animals. The sounds of sawyers shaping beams and trusses for yet another royal building carried clearly from the nearest construction site.
    ‘He could turn out to be a liability,’ Osric grunted. Grateful for the warmth, Osric was massaging his crooked leg. In his belted woollen tunic and sturdy leather boots he dressed
like a Frankish tradesman, though his black eyes and swarthy skin hinted at his Saracen origin, as did his habit of wearing a cloth wrapped around his grey felt skull cap.
    ‘His father saved my life,’ I said. ‘And Walo’s showing signs of recovery. He’s speaking an occasional sentence. If we leave him behind, he’ll just slip back
into a wordless daze. There’s no one here to look after him.’
    I tried to sound casual and reasonable but my friend knew me only too well.
    ‘I get the impression that you’ve another reason why you want Walo to accompany us?’ he said pointedly.
    Osric was the only person with whom I regularly discussed my prophetic dreams.
    ‘It was the night after my interview with Carolus,’ I admitted. ‘I dreamed I was trudging through a pine forest and heard a strange buzzing sound – very loud. Two wolves
were running towards me between the trees. The buzzing noise came from a great mass of bees clinging to their fur. The insects covered the wolves so thickly that they seemed to have grown a second
skin that hummed and rippled. The wolves paid no attention to the bees but I was terrified. Out of nowhere, Walo appeared . . .’ I paused, remembering the bizarre scene.
    ‘Go on,’ prompted Osric.
    ‘Walo was acting like a madman. He went straight up to the wolves and stroked their heads, and they sat down obediently, their tongues lolling out. Walo sat himself on the ground between
them and many of the bees swarmed across and onto Walo until he, too, seemed to be wearing a coat of bees. Then I woke up.’
    Osric was quiet for a long moment. ‘What does the Oneirokritikon have to say?’
    I hesitated before replying. Both of us knew that the dream book could be as dangerously ambiguous as any charlatan fortuneteller.
    ‘Artimedorus writes that seeing a madman in a dream is a good