Saxon: The Book of Dreams (Saxon 1)

by Tim Severin

  I kept my expression neutral but, strange to say, his judgement caused a sudden thrill of excitement to run through me. I was to be an exile without hope of return, a wanderer. Offa had not demanded my allegiance, and therefore I no longer had a lord. To many in our close-knit society, this would have been a terrible sentence. There is a special term for such an outcast. I would be winelas guma, a ‘friendless man’, living without protection, prey to all who would harm or exploit him. Yet for as long as I could remember, I had wanted to travel to foreign lands and see how others lived. Here was my chance. Perhaps I would even find a place where I would feel less of an outsider and my mismatched eyes would not arouse such unease.

  The court of the Frankish king was as promising a destination as I could have wished for. Even our rustic villeins had heard of Carolus. For more than a decade he had ruled Europe from the dark forests beyond the Rhine to the sunlit plains of Lombardy and west to the ocean. It was such an enormous area that there were rumours that one day he would be crowned the emperor of Europe, the first true emperor since the days of Rome. His court must surely attract all manner of exotic and unusual folk. Perhaps I would blend in with them despite my unusual appearance.

  ‘You have three days for the funeral rites,’ Offa grunted. With a twinge of conscience I realized that I had been thinking only of myself. My father and two brothers had been proud of their warrior heritage. They would want that I gave them a fitting burial rather than lament their passing.

  ‘A request,’ I said.

  Offa’s chin came up as he glared at me. A scruffy and defeated youth whose life he had just spared was not expected to make requests.

  ‘What is it?’ His tone was truculent. For a moment I thought he was going to change his mind about my exile and order my execution instead.

  ‘That my personal slave goes with me,’ I said.

  Once again Offa glanced towards my uncle.

  ‘Is this slave of any value?’

  ‘Hardly, my lord,’ answered Cyneric. He did not bother to keep the sneer from his face. ‘He’s a defective cripple. An out-lander who can barely string two words together.’

  ‘He looked after me throughout my childhood,’ I interrupted. ‘I am in his debt.’

  ‘And you in mine,’ said Offa coldly. ‘Take your worn-out slave with you, but he has cost you a day’s grace. The day after tomorrow you will be escorted to the coast and put on the first ship sailing for Frankia.’

  Chapter Two

  OSRIC, MY BODY SLAVE, had been to sea before, that I knew. My father had bought him from a travelling dealer who must have heard that the woman looking after my brother and me was refusing to touch us after she noticed something strange about our eyes. The other household servants had been equally frightened.

  ‘Make a good babysitter, he would. He’s quiet and gentle and, with that gammy pin, not likely to run away,’ the slaver had said as he showed off a battered-looking, scrawny man, perhaps thirty years old with skin the colour of a fallen autumn leaf. The unfortunate man had evidently been in a very bad accident, for his head was permanently canted over on a slant and his left leg broken and set so badly that it was crooked.

  ‘Where does he come from?’ my father had asked.

  The dealer had shrugged.

  ‘I got him down in the west country, part exchange for a couple of brawny lasses fit for mine work. Locals found him washed up on the rocks, like a half-dead mackerel. Probably off a tin ship that wrecked.’

  My father had looked doubtful.

  ‘Worth owning someone as hardy as that,’ the slave dealer had wheedled. ‘Any other man would have died. Besides, he doesn’t understand any speech so he won’t be taking up any wild ideas and gossip.’

  My father had allowed himself to be persuaded. He’d paid a few coins and named his new slave Osric as a joke; his namesake was a rival kinglet in neighbouring Wessex, a man famously vain of his good looks.

  Over the years Osric became an essential, silent member of our household. He spoke so rarely that many visitors thought he was a mute. Growing up in his care, however, I knew that he learned our language in secret. When alone with his two charges, he would talk with us, though only a few words at a time. As I grew older I came to the conclusion that he preferred to stay withdrawn, locked away in his battered body.

  ‘Are you afraid of the sea after what it did to you?’ I asked Osric as we had our first glimpse of the distant blue line on the horizon. We were travelling on foot, since Offa had seen no reason to provide us with horses, only a couple of Mercian armed guards plodding along behind us, out of earshot.

  Osric gave a slight shake of his head. We had left the burgh at daybreak two days earlier. There my father and two brothers lay side by side under a single, fresh barrow grave. I had buried them hastily with the few paltry goods that had survived the Mercian sack – a handful of damaged and long-discarded weapons, some cheap ornaments, a few pottery jugs and bowls and the bones of the pigs slaughtered for the funeral feast. These would have to suffice for their banquet in the afterlife. The only item of real value in the grave was my father’s best hunting hound. A courser with a glossy dark-red coat and a nervous temperament, the creature had panicked and run off during the battle and had escaped becoming part of the Mercian plunder. We were digging the burial pit when the hound reappeared, slinking on its belly across the raw earth, whining as it sought its master. I coaxed the dog closer, looped a cord around its neck and strangled it. Then I carefully laid the body at my father’s feet. He had loved the hunt. Now he would at least be accompanied in the afterlife by his favourite hound.

  Only a handful of our people had attended the funeral rites. They were too scared of incurring my uncle’s displeasure. He was their new master, and their daily drudgery would continue as before. Slave or freeman, it was better not to anger him. Their taxes would be heavier now that King Offa would demand his share.

  With Osric limping beside me, I came down the worn track that led to the cove where the trading ships called. A tubby, high-sided vessel lay on the damp sand of the shoreline, tipped awkwardly on one side. At first I thought something was wrong and the vessel had run aground, but then I noticed the rim of seaweed further up the beach and realized that the water’s edge must advance and recede. I had never seen the tide before.

  The captain of the vessel had set up his tent at the spot where the track came down to the strand. A heavy-set man, his pot belly held in by a thick leather strap, he had a notched stick and a knife in his hand for counting off the bundles of fleeces and hides his crew were busy sorting through. He turned and scowled at us as we approached.

  ‘What do you want?’ he snapped. His gaze went past me and took in our two Mercian guards. Clearly he recognized them as King Offa’s retainers. It was in his interest not to offend the most powerful ruler along the coast but he resented being interrupted.

  ‘Passage for myself and my slave,’ I said, keeping my chin down. It was an old trick I had learned. It meant my long fringe of hair flopped forward and concealed one eye.

  ‘Where to?’ The response was blunt.

  ‘Any port on the mainland. I am on my way to the Frankish capital.’ I tried to make it seem as though the two Mercians were my honour escort, not my guards.

  ‘I don’t take passengers.’ He hooked a thumb in his belt and looked me up and down. He was calculating what fare he could extract from me. The clothes that Offa had provided were far from luxurious. My only baggage was a leather satchel, supplemented by the pack that Osric carried. Altogether I cut a seedy figure.

  ‘I am travelling at King Offa’s request. Here is his authority,’ I said grandly, pulling out a parchment from my satchel. It was nothing more than the brief letter written by Offa’s scribe, introducing me to the court of the Frankish king. I gambled that a captain who needed a tally stick would not be able to read. ‘We can pay for our passage,’ I added sweetly. Offa’s reeve had grudgingly provided a few silver coins for travelling expenses, sca
rcely enough to cover our costs.

  The captain took a half-step forward, trying to snatch a glimpse inside my satchel to see if it contained anything of value. I closed the flap quickly.

  ‘All right. Four pence for each of you,’ he said after a pause.

  ‘Four pence for the both of us,’ I countered.

  The captain’s eyes flicked back towards our two guards. They were leaning on their spears, looking bored. One was picking his nose.

  ‘Payment in advance.’

  I counted out the coins – Offa’s currency, of course – and dropped them into the out-thrust palm. The captain belched as he slipped them into the purse that he then tucked inside the front of the tunic. ‘We leave on the next high water.’ He nodded in the direction of Osric standing silently a few paces to one side. ‘Your slave can help load cargo.’

  I bridled at his tone.

  ‘He will do no such thing,’ I snapped.

  The captain treated me to a look of such insolence that I was about to drop my hand to the dagger in my belt. Then I remembered that Offa had not trusted me with a sword or knife in case I tried to attack my guards and escape.

  The captain shrugged and deliberately turned his back on me, before bellowing at his sailors to hurry up with the work.

  It was dusk by the time the cog – as I later learned was the name for such a vessel – was loaded. I could see her beginning to lift and rock on the incoming tide. The captain was ignoring us so Osric and I waded out thigh deep and hauled ourselves aboard. Behind us the two guards, their task accomplished, began making their way back up the path. Doubtless they would report to Offa and my uncle that they had seen us safely on our way.

  There was a good deal of grunting as the sailors came aboard and hauled on a heavy, wet rope hanging over the vessel’s side. It must have been tied to an anchor set some distance off the beach. The cog bumped several times on the sand, and then began to back her way out into deeper water. The moment she was properly afloat, there was a different flurry of activity. The men ran here and there, unfastening, hauling and re-fastening ropes, untying the sail, hoisting it, fitting a long wooden handle into the shaft of a massive paddle that hung down into the water. I presumed it was the device which guided the ship. The captain shouted and swore, directing his men to their tasks with strange commands whose meanings were a mystery to me. I understood about one word in five. I looked on, trying to grasp what was happening, and every few moments I was shouldered out of the way by an impatient sailor.

  Eventually the big, single sail flapped and banged, then filled with a great groaning of the mast and a twanging of ropes. All of a sudden the deck tilted beneath my feet and I had to sit down on the planking before I fell over. Out to sea the sky was darkening, and the wind seemed stronger than it had been on land. There was nothing to be seen ahead of the ship except an expanse of grey-blue water flecked with an occasional wave. I was feeling queasy already. I wedged myself in a corner and fought down my rising panic. A wave slapped against the side of the ship which gave a shudder, and a few flecks of spray fell on my face. I licked my lips and tasted the saltiness.

  I closed my eyes and an image swam up into my mind. I could not push it away. It was my brother’s face, greyish white, the sodden hair clinging to the scalp. It was how he had looked when I found him. Both hands grasped tendrils of the weed he must have seized as he tried to claw his way to the surface. Around one ankle looped a single thick, slimy snake: the massive lily root that had wrapped around his foot and held him down as he gulped desperately for air.

  It was only a small pond. In summer, clouds of gnats and midges danced above its surface like swirls of smoke. In winter, it froze over, and the cowmen smashed the ice so that their beasts could drink. The pond was as much a part of our lives as the sheep pens and the cattle byres, and we had known it since early childhood. As toddlers we had made mud pies on its rim, and in later years tested our aim by throwing stones at floating twigs. The still water was so black that it was impossible to judge the depth. Nothing and no one warned of its dangers.

  We were six years old and that afternoon we were climbing in an ancient alder tree. It was early autumn and the deep green leaves were still thick on the branches. They concealed just how far the alder overhung the pond. Normally Osric would have been in attendance but was suffering one of his recurrent fevers and had stayed in the slave quarters. My brother and I were alone when the branch beneath him broke. He gave a cry of surprise and crashed down through the foliage. I heard the heavy splash as he struck the water. I swarmed back to the ground as fast as I could, skinning my hands and knees on the tree bark. The moment my feet touched the ground I ran to the edge of the pond. The inky black water was swirling and eddying, but there was no sign of him. Dismayed, I stepped into the water. Immediately my feet sank deep into the sucking slime, and in another two paces I was up to my waist. I lost my footing and fell backwards, the water closing over my head. Neither my brother nor I could swim and I panicked. I scrambled back to safety and crawled out on the bank on all fours. Then I ran home, seeking help.

  There was only one person in our inland burgh that could swim – Osric – and he was handicapped by his deformity. It was he who dived down again and again until we recovered my brother’s body. We dragged it out and lay on the bank. The water trickled from his clothing and he was utterly limp. His head flopped over to one side. A pinkish froth oozed out from his mouth and nostrils. He looked small and helpless. I was numb with shock and pain. It was as if half my existence had been torn away, and I turned aside unable to watch. On the ground nearby lay the broken alder branch that had caused the accident. The raw splintered end was changing in colour from a creamy white to reddish-orange. According to our village elders, it was Nature’s warning that the alder tree harbours evil in its veins.

  *

  I must have passed out with sea-sickness. The next thing I knew was someone kicking hard on my outstretched foot to rouse me. It was shortly after dawn on a dreary overcast morning and I was still seated on the deck. I could not remember ever feeling so ill. My limbs would not move, and there was a nasty sour taste in my mouth. I must have vomited in my wretchedness. I looked up at the captain of the cog who stood over me, gloating.

  ‘Too rough for you, pretty boy? That was nothing more than a little chop,’ he said, smirking. ‘Get up!’ He kicked me again, even harder.

  The ugly menace on his face made me reach feebly for a handhold. Shakily I pulled myself to my feet. My knees were weak and I swayed, unable to keep my balance. An abrupt heave in my gut caused me to turn and grab the edge of the ship. I thrust my head out over the sea, closed my eyes and retched violently. I felt as though I wanted to die.

  The captain hauled me back by the collar. ‘Tie him up,’ I heard him say. ‘We’ll see what he’s got in that satchel. Later we can find what price he’ll fetch. Some dried-up old spinster might like to have him close to hand.’

  I turned to face my tormentor, hoping perhaps that the sight of my ill-matched eyes might deter him. But the brute noticed nothing. The daylight was too murky to make colours stand out clearly.

  ‘Get me a length of codline,’ he shouted to one of his crew standing a few feet away. As the man hurried off, I saw a hand rise up behind the captain’s head as if from nowhere. An instant later an arm clamped around the captain’s neck and jerked his head backward. There was a quick glint of something sharp and pointed, the hand struck forward, and all of a sudden the captain was frozen in place, his eyes bulging in shock. Whatever was held in that hand was now against his throat, just below his right ear. A bright red squirt and then a trickle of blood dripped down on the soiled fabric of the captain’s tunic.

  Osric’s dark face appeared over the captain’s shoulder. No one had paid him any attention until now. He must have scuttled across from wherever he had spent the night. Now he was clamped like a deadly spider on the captain’s broad back.

  The sailor sent to fetch the codline took a half-s
tep towards the pinioned captain as if to go to his help. His movement produced a scream of pain, and a gurgled command for the sailor to stay back. The flow of blood onto the captain’s collar increased a fraction.

  I had no idea where Osric had obtained his weapon. It must have been a tiny dagger or a sharpened spike. Perhaps he always carried it on his person. The sailors had not bothered to search a crippled slave. Certainly they hadn’t expected him to spring to the defence of his master.

  ‘Knife,’ Osric said to me. Shakily I reached out and took the captain’s knife from his belt.

  The captain gave another squeal of anguish as Osric dug the point of his weapon a little deeper.

  The crew of the cog gathered in a threatening group, barely a couple of yards away. They had recovered from the shock of seeing their captain taken prisoner and were watching us closely, calculating how to rescue him. I counted five men and one further sailor at the wooden bar that steered the ship. One of the men closest to us made a furtive gesture. He was signalling something to the steersman, who in turn jerked the wooden bar abruptly. The big sail above my head flapped thunderously and the slope of the deck beneath my feet suddenly altered. I clutched for support. But whatever it was that the sailors had planned, Osric knew what they were doing. He kept his fierce grip on the captain and shouted some sort of command. He emphasized the order by twisting the point of the blade in the captain’s neck. His victim let out another yelp of pain, and his back arched in anguish. The steersman hurriedly pushed the wooden bar back to its previous position, and the angle of the deck returned to what it had been before.

  ‘Pull in the little boat,’ said Osric to me. He nodded towards the back of the ship. I looked in that direction and saw that the cog was towing a small open boat behind her. I had been too seasick to notice such matters before.

  Unsteadily I made my way to the rope tied to the boat and began to haul it in. It was surprisingly difficult, but the effort made me feel a lot better. When the boat was close under the side of the cog I fastened the rope tight and stood waiting.