The Book of Dreams

Начало книги

Sorely wounded, Roland felt his death coming upon him.

He made his way to where a great block of marble stood.

Raising Durendal, he struck the stone with all his strength.

The sparks flew and the rock was scored, but Durendal did not break.

Three times he struck the rock.

Still the blade did not shatter.

Lamenting, Roland laid himself face down on the grass,

his sword and the oliphant beneath him,

and prepared to give up his soul to God.

I put down my pen and wait for the ink to dry. I am pleased to see that my letters are neat and evenly spaced. I learned the new script under the critical eyes of the men who persuaded the king that it should be made standard throughout his realm. I sit straighter on my stool to ease the nagging cramp in my spine and try to ignore the low incoherent muttering to my right. An Irish priest, ruddy cheeked and bald, has an irritating habit of talking to himself at his desk. It is mid-January in Aachen and the royal chancellery is full of draughts; every few minutes the priest wipes his streaming nose on the sleeve of his gown. He is making notes of what he has seen and heard at court, and has already confided to me that he is writing a biography of our lord and master.

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