by Tim Severin
‘I meant no harm.’ I said.
‘No one touches those beasts, except me,’ said the stranger. A gross reddish-purple birthmark disfigured the left side of his face, extending from his hairline down to his neck where it disappeared under his collar. In his heavy wooden clogs, homespun breeches and smock he looked like a farm worker rather than a priest, and his Latin was heavily accented and clumsy.
‘I was trying to find the guesthouse. Perhaps you can direct me?’ I said.
‘How should I know? I sleep next to my cattle,’ he answered rudely.
I left the stable and found Lothar outside, looking for me.
‘I see you’ve met Arnulf,’ he said.
The surly stableman was standing in the doorway of the stable, hands on hips, making it plain that I was not to come back and bother his precious oxen.
‘Perhaps someone should remind him that an abbey is a place of welcome,’ I grumbled. I was still smarting from the rebuff.
‘Arnulf’s not with the abbey. That’s his wagon there.’ He pointed towards a vehicle standing in one corner of the yard. It had the usual four large, solid, wooden wheels and a single shaft. Someone had fixed an enormous coffin-shaped wooden box on the flat bed where the load was normally stowed.
‘For our eels,’ explained Lothar. ‘Arnulf has been hired to carry them to Aachen. That’s what Abbot Walo meant when he offered you a way of getting there.’
*
I had difficulty getting to sleep that night. Every time I closed my eyes I was tormented by unpleasant images of eels knotting and unknotting, and I was fearful of the nightmare that awaited me. Curiously, when I did eventually fall asleep I dreamed instead of an enormous horse made of metal that gleamed and sparkled. It came towards me at a ponderous walk. On its back was a bearded rider, also made of metal. He was dressed in a short cloak and a military-looking tunic. The beast came closer and closer until it loomed over me. I could feel the warm breath from each nostril so large that a bird could have nested there. The giant rider’s legs were bare and his feet, encased in heavy boots, hung level with my face. I sank to my knees, fearful that I would be crushed. At the last moment the horse stopped and stood still, one enormous hoof raised over me. I looked up, shivering with fear. The rider was staring down. His face was unknown to me. He raised an arm in a gesture which I did not understand and drops of blood seeped from his eyes.
I awoke to find that I had overslept. Sunlight was pouring in through the guesthouse window and with it the sound of splashing water and a strange thumping sound. I rose hurriedly and went to the door and looked out on the courtyard. A gang of workers, slaves by the look of them, was standing in line and passing bucket after bucket of water drawn from the well. The last man in the chain was up on the wagon next to the wooden chest. Another slave stood next to him. Each time a full bucket arrived, he lifted up a heavy wooden lid for a moment, the water was tipped in, and the lid was slammed shut. It was this that made the thumping noise. I guessed that the eels had already been transferred into their new home.
Osric was beside the tail of the wagon. He had spent the night in the servants’ dormitory and our pack lay on the ground beside the wagon. Arnulf had already harnessed his two oxen to the shaft, and the two beasts were standing motionless, drools of saliva hanging from their jaws. I called to Osric that I would join him in a moment, and was rewarded with a black look from Arnulf as though I was about to cause a delay. The wagoner carried a long light wand in his hand.
The water carriers finished their labour. The man dealing with the lid banged it closed one last time, hammered in a wedge, then jumped down to the ground. I watched as Arnulf took up his position, facing his two huge beasts. He made a low clucking sound with his tongue, and the two oxen stepped forward with surprisingly short dainty paces. Behind them the massive vehicle rolled forward on its thick wooden wheels as though it was weightless. Arnulf walked backwards, facing his animals. He reached out with his long wand and very gently touched it to the outside ear of the right-hand animal. Without changing gait the two oxen shifted the balance between them so that the wagon turned away from his touch and headed directly for the abbey gate. Behind them a thin, dark trail was drawn across the earth of the courtyard as water dripped from the eel tank.
I wasted several minutes going in search of Lothar. I wanted to thank him and to say goodbye but there was no sign of him, nor of Abbot Walo. Slinging my satchel over my shoulder, I ran out through the gate to catch up with Osric. The wagon had gone barely fifty yards. It occurred to me that I had no idea how far it was to Aachen, or how long we would take to get there at a stately walking pace.
Chapter Four
AS IT 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 twis
ting 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.
