A sit turned out, that leisurely journey was a delight. Summer came earlier on the mainland than at home, and the air was warm yet not hot enough to trouble Arnulf’s oxen. An occasional shower kept down the dust along the road without turning it to mud. We walked for up to six hours a day, stopping from time to time to rest the beasts and give them forage and water. At night we camped by the roadside or stayed in the guesthouses of monasteries, of which there were a remarkable number. We were on monastery business so room was always found for us, and we were given food and fodder to take on the next day’s travel. The scenery was very like what I had known at home. The rolling hills were covered with oak and beech forest, and the farmers had cleared the bottom lands for crops of barley, rye and wheat. They lived in small hamlets, surrounded with vegetable plots and orchards, and it was clear that they were prospering. Their houses, built of wood, straw and clay were substantial, and it could take us twenty minutes to walk past the full length of a single field.
It took some time to win Arnulf over. He always went on foot in front of his two beasts, his guide wand over his shoulder like a fishing rod. In the beginning Osric and I ambled along at the tail of the wagon, out of sight and too tactful even to hang our baggage off the vehicle. Arnulf treated us as if we did not exist. At each halt, if he talked, it was only to his animals. He tended to them, petted them, walked around the wagon, carefully checking the wheels and axles and the load. It was not until we came to the first river ford that Osric and I were able to gain his grudging acceptance. Arnulf stopped the wagon in mid-stream to allow the oxen to stand in the water and cool their hooves. I nodded to Osric and took down the bucket which dangled from the tail of the wagon. Moments later the two of us were busily topping up the eel tank with river water. Arnulf did not thank us, but at least he waited until we had finished our work before he clucked his tongue again and the oxen began to move. Later in the afternoon he cut two leafy branches and gestured that we were to walk beside the oxen. We were to use the whisks to keep off the flies and midges that appeared as the sun began to sink.
Each mile increased my sense of well-being. I was in no hurry to reach Aachen and, for the first time in my life, I felt I had some control over my destiny. I was gaining in confidence and the only precaution I took was to replace the makeshift bandage which covered one eye. Passing through a small market town, I found a saddler to make me a proper patch of soft leather with thongs to attach it firmly in place. When I came to pay, there was a difficulty. He refused Offa’s silver coin, saying it was not legal tender. He directed me to a Jewish moneychanger who offered, for a twenty per cent commission, to take in all my Mercian silver and give me King Carolus’s money in its place. Without a moment’s hesitation I tipped out the contents of my purse. While the Jew weighed and scratched each coin to test for purity, it occurred to me that this was the last time I was likely to see King Offa’s image. At least I hoped as much.
Our journey also altered Osric. Exercise and the long days spent in the sunshine began to improve his health and posture. He held his head a little straighter, and by slow degrees his limp became less obvious as his crooked leg strengthened. He became much more relaxed and out-going. Previously he would have restricted himself to a few words at a time. Now it became possible to exchange a few sentences with him, though he would rarely start the conversation.
‘Would you rather have stayed on and served my uncle Cyneric?’ I asked him. It was the third day after leaving Abbot Walo’s monastery and the two of us were seated on the grassy verge of the highway. Arnulf had called a halt in the noonday heat and was fussing over his oxen in the shade of a gigantic chestnut tree.
Osric rubbed a hand along his twisted leg to massage the spot where the bone was crooked. ‘There was nothing to keep me there.’
‘King Offa may yet arrange to have me done away with. What would you do then?’
‘That will be for fate to decide,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Right now I’m looking forward to reaching Aachen and seeing if what I’ve heard about King Carolus is true.’
‘What have you been told?’
‘He has strange habits. He doesn’t keep normal hours, takes naps in the afternoon, wanders about his palace unescorted and wearing normal everyday clothes, nothing to mark him out as being the king, sometimes even summons his council meetings in the dead of night.’
‘It sounds as though you’ve been talking to his servants.’
‘Abbot Walo was several years as an official in the palace administration. When he was appointed to the monastery, he brought his butler and cook with him. They enjoy talking about their time in royal service.’
‘Is that just gossip or did they meet Carolus in person?’
‘The butler claims he met the king once, in a corridor very late at night. Carolus stopped him and asked him a lot of questions about the palace staff, who did what, and where they were from. He apparently likes to know everything that is going on. His staff is in awe of him.’
I thought about Osric’s reply. My father had been respected at a distance by his people. King Offa’s subjects feared their overlord. King Carolus sounded like no monarch I had ever heard about.
‘About the royal family? What are they like?’
‘Carolus has an illegitimate son who, it is widely believed, will inherit the throne.’
Again that sounded unusual. Kings normally did not recognize bastard children.
‘Doesn’t he have anyone closer to him?’
‘He’s a lusty monarch, and has had several concubines and sired several children, most of them girls.’
There was something about the way Osric made the last remark that made me look at him questioningly.
He allowed himself the sliver of a smile.
‘I was told he likes to keep the girls very close. But that’s just gossip.’
With that enigmatic remark, Osric rose to his feet. Arnulf had started his oxen on their steady plodding advance along the highway, heading west.
We met other wayfarers along the road — beggars, itinerant craftsmen, pedlars trudging from hamlet to hamlet, their packs crammed with everything small and portable from knives to needles. Dirge-like songs in the distance warned of the approach of bands of pilgrims on their way to a shrine. On market days there were farm carts laden with produce, children running alongside, live chickens dangling upside down, pigs trussed and squealing in the back. Everyone overtook us if they were travelling in the same direction except for those on crutches or with toddlers in hand. Horsemen swore at us. They shouted at us to clear the road. Arnulf ignored them, and they were forced to find a way around us. As they drew level, his angry scowl and the ugly blotch on his face was enough to deter them from complaining further.
Only once did Arnulf turn his wagon aside for other road users. A small party of mounted men came towards us, ordinary looking except that they had a small escort of soldiers. Arnulf promptly veered his wagon to one side, and they rode on past, stony-faced. Then a hundred yards down the road, one of them turned his horse and came back to us. He was a young man, a clerk perhaps. He reined in and asked Arnulf a series of questions — how long he had been on the road, where he was from, where he was going and how much he had paid at the last three toll points. His answers seemed to satisfy the young man who had given a curt nod and trotted off to rejoin his companions.
‘Who was that?’ I asked. I had never seen Arnulf so respectful.
‘King’s commissioners,’ he said. ‘Sent out with royal orders and the power to demand explanations. They poke and pry, making sure that the kingdom is running smoothly.’
‘Why do they have an armed guard?’
‘For show. No one would dare interfere with them.’
‘Are we near Aachen then?’
‘This forest is the king’s hunting preserve.’
It was a lonely, gloomy place, mile after mile of dense woodland. Evening was coming on and as the light faded I had an uneasy feeling that someone was tracking us from within the forest margin. But whenever I looked, I saw nothing. I mentioned my worries to Arnulf but he only grunted. Eventually we found a clearing where we could halt for the night. It was not worth lighting a fire, so we ate a meal of cold ham and bread provided by the last monastery kitchen, and lay down to sleep under the wagon. The two oxen, obedient as well-trained dogs, ate their forage and then sank down on their knees to rest.
Sometime later a faint scratching sound woke me. I raised myself on one elbow and peered out. A bright moon in a cloudless sky gave enough light to cast shadows. Everything seemed normal. I could make out the bulky outlines of the two oxen, and I heard the faint sound of chewing cud followed by the deep rumble of an animal gut. Beyond the beasts was the black margin of the forest, and somewhere deep in the forest an owl hooted. I sank down and lay quietly, wondering if I had been woken by the sound of a rat or fox investigating our provisions. Abruptly there came a stifled yelp. Two dark figures dropped on the ground beside the wagon and silently ran off into the dark woods. I scrambled to my feet. Looking up at the eel tank, I saw the lid was ajar. My shout woke Arnulf and Osric, and they joined me in time to see the first serpent shape slither out of the tank.
Arnulf let out an oath.
‘Get the lid back on before we lose the lot!’
I reached out to haul myself up on the wagon. In the darkness my hand landed on something wet and slime-covered. It twisted away like a slippery muscular rope. I fought to overcome my revulsion. Putting my foot on the axle hub to use it as a step, I was knocked off-balance by the weight of a large eel which flung itself down the side of the wagon and struck me in the chest. It disappeared into the darkness, snaking rapidly across the ground. I gritted my teeth and swung myself up until I was standing next to the tank. I pressed down hard on the lid, trying to force it shut. It would not close: an eel was trapped halfway. It thrashed in panic, flailing against my arm and gripped itself around my wrist. Then Arnulf was beside me. He had the wooden mallet he used for securing the axle pins. He hit out, striking the escaping eel which twisted clear and was gone. I felt the lid drop into place and dull tremors as more eels attempted to force their way out. Arnulf had located the wedge that the thieves had removed and hammered it fiercely back in place.
‘Bastard thieves must have given themselves a bad fright,’ he said as he finished. He gave me an odd look. I realized that my eye patch had slipped in the excitement. He could see that both my eyes appeared normal. Fortunately it was too dark to make out any colours.
‘I never knew that eels could move so fast,’ I mumbled, turning my head aside.
He spat over the side of the wagon.
‘They go mad when they know that rain is coming.’
It seemed an odd thing to say on such a fine clear night, but the next morning a grey-black line of thunder clouds was massing on the western horizon as Arnulf harnessed the oxen. The clouds spread rapidly, blotting out the sun, and the light dimmed though it was not yet noon. All around us the forest waited in baleful silence until we heard a moaning sound in the far distance. A savage wind came tearing through the trees. The leading gusts ripped off leaves and sent them swirling through the air in a mad dance. A lone raven flashed past, helpless in the gale and was whirled out of sight. Soon the upper branches of the trees were bending and twisting as the main weight of the storm raced across them. There was a random cracking and snapping as twigs, then thick branches, broke free and came spinning to the ground. A long-dead and enormous oak, gnarled and its heart already rotten, leaned sideways until the roots gave way. Then it came crashing down with a thump that shook the ground, half blocking the roadway and prising a massive clump of brown earth, the size of a small cottage. Within the wind’s howl was a drumming noise, and finally the rain arrived. Heavy rain drops rattled on the ground; puddles appeared in an instant and joined together. Rivulets of yellow-brown water raced down the slope and turned into churning streams.
Arnulf’s oxen were halted by the ferocity of the storm. They stood patiently, their tawny hides soaked to a dullish brown, their hooves gradually sinking into the mud. Osric and I crouched in the shelter of the cart, the water rising around our feet. Arnulf pulled up the hood of his cloak and hunched in the lee of his beasts. For perhaps an hour the storm beat down on us, and then eased to a steady, soaking rain. We began to move. The oxen sloshed through the mud, and the wheels of the cart left deep grooves that instantly brimmed with rainwater. I imagined I could hear the eels thrashing and roiling excitedly in their tank.
Heads down, we plodded on, scarcely noticing that we were finally leaving the forest. The rain continued all that day and the next night, a miserable time spent under the wagon once again. At dawn on the second day it was still raining heavily as we took to the road once more. There were no other travellers, and when I finally looked up and took an interest in our surroundings, I saw that we were approaching the outskirts of a large, sprawling township.
Arnulf pointed. A mile ahead of us the ground sloped upward. There, surrounded by a web of scaffold, were by far the largest buildings I have ever seen. Still under construction, they already dominated the town.
‘Big Carl’s newest palace,’ Arnulf said, wiping the rain from his face. His wet birthmark glistened like sliced beetroot.
He led the way deeper into the town. The citizens were all indoors, shutters closed against the sheeting rain. Stray mongrels and pigs scavenged in the miry side lanes and flooded ditches. The closer we came to the new palace the more substantial were the houses. I assumed they belonged to wealthy merchants and members of the royal entourage. Occasionally a servant or a slave on some errand darted between the houses, dodging the spouts of water gushing from the roofs and gutters. Drenched, we slogged on until we had entered on the royal precinct. It was a vast building site. Materials lay everywhere: heaps of timber; piles of cut stone; stack upon stack of bricks. Here at last was some activity. Under long, low shelters and out of the rain carpenters were shaping huge beams with saw and adze. Men heated and hammered metal in a dozen smithies, stonemasons carved and split, and smoke oozed from an odd-shaped building which, to judge by the great heap of clay beside it, was a brick kiln. We passed a makeshift roof under which a team of men was walking round and round a circular pit, pushing on a heavy beam. Glancing into the pit I saw that paddles attached to the beam were mixing a sludge of what looked like grey-brown porridge and realized they were mixing vast quantities of mortar.
As we trudged past them, the function of several different, half-finished structures became apparent. A massive rectangular building had the same proportions as my father’s mead hall. I guessed it would become some sort of grand meeting chamber. Beyond it a large octagonal building was taking shape and was well advanced. The arched framing of its roof was in place and formed the skeleton of a great dome I guessed was destined to be a royal church. I also made out the foundations and lower walls for what would be a long arcade. It was not just the size and scale of the structures that amazed me: I had never seen bricks used in this way. At home we built our walls with wood and clay and capped them with thatched or tile roofs that had to be replaced regularly. Here the monumental walls were being put together with thousands upon thousands of sturdy rust-coloured bricks with an occasional course of cut stone. Any observer would know that the buildings were intended to endure forever.
Arnulf guided his two oxen through the churned-up mud towards a cluster of older buildings. Shortly before reaching them, he halted his beasts.
‘This is where our roads part,’ he said in his usual blunt manner. ‘I report to the seneschal’s office,’ he paused briefly. ‘And thank you for your help on the journey. I doubt we will meet again.’
He walked away to stand beside his oxen, clicked his tongue and the wagon creaked off through the mire. I was sorry to lose his company for he had proved to be an honest man, and had been patient in allowing Osric and myself to use him as our teacher so that we could learn to speak the Frankish tongue. Quite a few of its words were similar to my Saxon speech, and Osric and I had practised together so that we already had a good working knowledge and were improving daily. My last glimpse of Arnulf was the tip of his wand waving above the eel tank, more like a fishing rod than ever.
Osric and I were left standing alone in the rain, and I took the chance to switch my eye patch from one eye to the other. I had discovered that if I left the same eye covered for too long, I had difficulty in seeing with it afterwards.
The nearest shelter was the porch of the part-finished octagonal building I had noted earlier. I ran across and removed my sodden cloak, trying to avoid dripping water on a couple of priests already loitering there.
‘Could you tell me where I might find the office of the court chamberlain?’ I asked.
The taller of the priests, a gaunt man in his fifties with a freckled complexion and a high forehead, gave me a sharp look.
‘Where are you from, young man?’ he asked in a precise, deliberate voice that matched his scholarly appearance.
I explained how King Offa had despatched me to the Frankish court.
‘I thought I recognized the accent, though your Latin is more than adequate. I see you’ve brought your weather with you.’ The priest drew his gown more tightly around him and peered up at the leaden sky. ‘It looks as if this rain’s set in for the rest of the day.’
‘I’m hoping to report my arrival to the chamberlain’s office,’ I reminded him.
He grimaced.
‘You’ll find the government at a standstill. The rain has kept everyone away, and the floods. The fords are impassable and the current in the river runs too strongly for the ferries.’
I wondered whether I should turn round and try to catch up with Arnulf. He should have reached the royal kitchens by now, and at least there would be hot food there.
Osric limped across to join us. He looked woebegone, splatters of yellow mud on his tunic. He seemed to have shrivelled.
‘You’ve done well to get this far,’ observed the priest, eyeing us, ‘one with difficulty seeing, the other walking.’ He seemed to make up his mind about something. ‘If you will follow me. .’
He set out across the sea of mud towards a substantial two-storey house, one of a handful of newly completed buildings. It stood alongside the great half-finished meeting hall, and two sentries armed with heavy eight-foot long spears guarded the entrance. They seemed to know our guide for they saluted him, banging the hafts of their spears on the ground which sent a spray of rain dripping from the rims of their iron helmets. He led us inside, and then up a staircase. The place had the atmosphere of a private residence rather than any office. Two more guards were stationed each side of a large double door where he knocked. A voice called to us to enter and we stepped into a spacious, plainly furnished room. In the centre was a broad table on which stood a clay model of the palace as it would look when completed. Nearby were a number of low stools and a tall upright wooden chair which reminded me of my father’s high seat in the mead hall. On the walls were a few rather faded hangings depicting hunting scenes. The only colourful item in the room was a large cross, exquisitely carved and gilded and placed at one end of the room on a low plinth.
At the window with his back to us stood a tall, thick-set man gazing moodily at the rain. He had an arm around the shoulders of a young woman.
‘What is it, Alcuin?’ the man asked, turning to inspect us. He stood well over six feet and everything about him was on a similar, rather daunting scale. A big round head sat on a thick neck. He had a prominent nose, large grey eyes, and, though he held himself straight, his stomach protruded slightly. I judged him to be about fifty years old, for the hair at his temples was turning white. His most striking feature was his moustache. Long and luxuriant and blonde, it hung down a good six inches each side of his mouth and was carefully groomed. The two hairy strands provided an unexpectedly close match to the two long, blonde braids of the much younger woman at his side. Glancing between them, I concluded that they were father and daughter, not lovers as I had first suspected.
‘Two travellers who I thought might interest you,’ said our guide.
The big man gazed down at me. He was soberly dressed in everyday Frankish indoor costume of a long, dark-brown belted tunic over grey woollen trousers. His wool socks had leather soles in place of shoes, and were held up by strips of cloth wrapped around his legs. He wore no jewellery, though the young woman had a showy necklace of polished amber pieces, each the size of a pigeon’s egg. She had her father’s sturdy build which, thanks to her belt with its gold filigree, gave her a voluptuous figure, wide-hipped and full-breasted.
‘What is your name?’ the big man asked me. His voice was surprisingly high-pitched for such a big man.
‘Sigwulf,’ I replied, ‘and this is my slave, Osric.’
‘They are just arrived, sent by Offa, the king of the English,’ explained the priest.
Intelligent grey eyes searched my face.
‘I see you had good weather during your travels. You have a deep tan.’
‘Until three days ago we enjoyed nothing but sunshine.’
‘And the sunlight hurts your eyes?’
‘An imperfection from birth I prefer to keep covered,’ I answered cautiously.
‘A strange imperfection. It seems to shift from one eye to the other.’
I didn’t know what he was talking about. I fumbled for an answer.
‘The skin around your left eye is lighter where the sun has not touched. Yet you are wearing the patch on the other eye,’ he explained without a trace of irony.
I felt myself flush with embarrassment and glanced across at the priest, Alcuin. He was standing with his hands concealed in his sleeves, looking imperturbable.
‘It would be a courtesy if you removed your eye patch,’ Alcuin suggested.
Reluctantly I reached up and removed the leather cover to my right eye. I remembered how Offa had recoiled.
This time it was very different.
The big man in front of me stared at me closely for several moments.
‘Interesting,’ he said finally. ‘We are told that Alexander of Macedon had just the same condition. His eyes were of different colours. It was a mark of his uniqueness.’ Ignoring Osric, he turned to the priest. ‘We welcome this young man. Find him a place with the paladins and see that he gets fresh clothing.’
It was clear that we had been dismissed, and the priest bowed. Tactfully, I did the same, and the three of us left the room. As the door closed behind us, I remembered Offa’s letter still in my satchel.
‘I forgot to give the chamberlain the letter that King Offa prepared for King Carolus,’ I said to the priest.
The priest raised an eyebrow.
‘That wasn’t the chamberlain. That was Carolus himself, properly known as King of the Franks and Lombards and Patrician of the Romans.’
I was mortified that I had failed to recognize the most powerful ruler in the west.
‘But he was dressed so plainly. .’ I stammered.
‘He loathes wearing costly or fashionable clothing,’ said the priest. ‘Almost as much as he detests being idle. It drives him to distraction. Most of his councillors are using this rain as an excuse to take the day off so he has little to do. I thought he would find your presence a brief diversion.’
I reached into my satchel for the now water-stained parchment.
‘Then shouldn’t I leave this letter with his secretariat.’
‘I’ll deal with it,’ said the priest taking it from me. ‘Incidentally, I come from Northumberland myself. I’m one of the king’s advisers.’
‘Thank you for all your assistance. I hope I will have the chance of meeting you again,’ I said.
Alcuin smiled thinly.
‘You will. Another of my duties is to drum some learning into the heads of royal “guests” like yourself. King Carolus cannot abide idleness in others, any more than in himself.’
I readjusted my eye patch over my left eye.
‘I hope the king will not object if I continue to wear this.’
The priest shrugged.
‘As you wish.’
He escorted us back to the entrance hall and spoke to one of the guards.
‘Have one of your men show this young lord to the quarters for royal guests, and then take his slave to the stores to fetch suitable clothing for him.’
A gust of wind drove the rain horizontally into our faces as we emerged into the open. Osric and I followed the soldier as he ran for the lee of the unfinished meeting hall, then led us around a corner of the building. My eye patch made me blind on my left side and, in trying to keep up with him, I blundered into a massive stone block standing waist high in my path. I was about to step around it when something made me look up. A chill ran down my spine. The stone block was the pedestal of a remarkable statue. It was a bronze horse, twice life size. Every detail was precise — the flaring nostrils, one hoof raised, the arched neck. On its back a rider wore the same short military tunic and heavy military boots I had dreamed of and he was making the same gesture with his arm. The only difference from my dream was the rider’s face. This time he did not look down at me, but stared straight ahead, and it was rain which trickled down from his sightless eyes, not blood.