The Book of Dreams s-1

by Tim Severin

  I still had the captain’s large knife in my hand. The cog’s crew had murder in their eyes as they watched me begin to saw through the heavy rope. It took several minutes. When the last strands gave way, I had the good sense to jump backwards. The big sail came slicing downward and collapsed in a great heap on the deck.

  I ran back to rejoin Osric and the captain.

  ‘Now take away the helm,’ Osric told me. I had no idea what he was talking about until I followed his glance and realized he meant the big wooden handle controlling the ship’s direction.

  I walked across the deck towards the steersman and when he hesitated to step aside I raised the blade of the captain’s knife menacingly; I was beginning to enjoy myself. He retreated, and I found I was able to pull the wooden bar free. Osric did not need to tell me what to do next. I threw it overboard.

  In a couple of strides I was back with Osric and the captain, whose tunic front was now stained with blood. The cog was no longer moving through the water but was wallowing awkwardly, heaving up and down, turning this way and that, pushed by the wind.

  ‘You first,’ said Osric to me. I scooped up my satchel and Osric’s pack and dropped them into the little boat. I swung myself over the side of the ship, hung for a moment, then let go. I landed awkwardly in the little boat, falling in an ungainly heap. I recovered myself as Osric joined me, dropping nimbly down from the cog. Without a word he took the captain’s knife from my hand and slashed through the rope that fastened us to the larger vessel. Instantly the gap between us widened as the wind blew our boat away.

  I looked to Osric for guidance. He was busily untying a pair of oars that had been lashed in the boat. Only then did it occur to me how Osric’s broken leg and twisted head had made very little difference to his agility aboard the cog. For a man with his handicap, being on a ship was altogether different from being on land.

  Something plunged into the sea nearby, throwing up a little spout of water. I looked up. Someone on the crippled cog had found a bow and arrows, and in his rage was shooting at us. But we made an almost impossible target, and very soon we were out of range. The last I saw of her, the cog was drifting helplessly away into the distance, the small figures of her crew gathered on deck trying to raise sail.

  I took the oars from Osric and he showed me how to slide them through two rope loops to hold them in place as I settled on the bench and made ready to row.

  ‘Which way?’ I asked.

  He pointed. I could see only the waves around us. Then the rowing boat rose on the crest of a large wave, and far in the distance I saw a low grey line. It had to be the coast of Frankia.

  I turned to my task and took a pull at the water. One oar dug into the sea, the other waved in the air. I nearly fell off my bench. Rowing a boat at sea was not going to be easy.

  Osric had found a wooden implement that looked like a grain shovel with a short handle. He began using it to scoop loose water from the bottom of the boat and back into the sea. He paused for a moment and reached inside his shirt. He pulled out a purse that I recognized had belonged to the captain of the cog, and passed it across to me. As I took it, I opened my mouth, about to thank him for saving our lives, when I saw that my words were not needed. Osric was doing something which I had not seen since the day my brother drowned, a death for which he had blamed himself.

  Osric was smiling.

  Chapter Three

  We came ashore on a beach of round, smooth grey stones. Two urchins stood up to their knees in the shallows and watched me clumsily row the last few yards. The boys had been gathering shellfish and cautiously retreated as I climbed out of the little boat. The land swayed slightly as I walked towards the boys with a smile fixed on my face.

  ‘Can you take us to your homes?’ I asked.

  They looked at me blankly. Without a word, they turned and ran, the stones clattering under their bare feet as they disappeared over the dunes at the back of the beach.

  Osric and I picked our baggage out of the boat and began to trudge after them. With an afterthought, I stopped.

  ‘Let me have that pack for a moment,’ I said. He took off the pack and I searched among the garments that I had managed to save from my home: shirts and underclothes; a pair of spare shoes and a rolled-up cloak; an extra tunic and sandals for Osric; an embroidered belt; leggings. There was nothing else. I used the captain’s dagger to trim a strip of cloth off an old shirt and wrapped it around my head, covering one eye. At home everyone had known about the colour of my eyes, but now I was among strangers and it would be best to leave it to others to suppose that the bandage concealed an empty socket.

  Osric looked on and said nothing. He closed the pack and swung it on his back, and together we resumed our journey. We crested the slope and, a short distance away, hurrying towards us across an expanse of boggy ground thick with reeds was one of the two lads we had seen on the beach. He was accompanied by a man dressed in the long brown robe of a priest.

  They halted in front of us, barring our way. The priest was an old man, so bony and shrunken with age that his threadbare gown hung loose upon him. His face was deeply lined and only a few wisps of grey hair surrounded his tonsure. He regarded us with a mixture of curiosity and mild suspicion. He had lost most of his teeth so he mumbled as he spoke. It hardly mattered. I did not understand what he was saying, only that he was asking a question, and his tone was not hostile.

  ‘We would welcome your help,’ I said in Latin.

  He looked at me in surprise, as I did not have the appearance of someone with an education.

  ‘The lad tells me that you came out of a small boat,’ he said, switching to the same language.

  ‘We’re travelling to the court of the Frankish king,’ I replied.

  Again he looked surprised.

  ‘I supposed you are shipwrecked mariners or perhaps pilgrims. We sometimes see pilgrims from across the water, on their way to Rome.’

  ‘We had to abandon ship,’ I lied.

  I was met with a puzzled look.

  ‘There has been no storm.’

  ‘A fire on board,’ I invented hastily. ‘The cook was careless. The other passengers and crew got away in another boat. If you could set us on our way, I would be grateful.’

  The old priest hesitated, looking uncertain.

  ‘Carolus, our king, could be in any of a dozen places. He has no fixed residence.’

  It was my turn to be taken aback. I had imagined the great ruler of the Franks to be living in a splendid palace in a settled capital, not wandering from place to place like a nomad. Life would be more difficult if Osric and I had to go searching his vast kingdom to catch up with him.

  ‘But most likely he is at Aachen in this season,’ said the priest. ‘He is engaged in building works there, an extraordinary project I understand.’

  ‘Then perhaps you could tell me the best way there, and how far we must travel,’ I said.

  ‘What about your boat? Will you be leaving it behind?’

  I guessed that the priest considered a small boat to be an item of considerable value.

  ‘I will be glad if you accept the boat as a thankgift. I have no further use for it,’ I said magnanimously.

  The priest glanced at Osric standing crookedly a pace behind me.

  ‘You will need the permission of my abbot if you and your companion are to go any further.’

  He spoke a few words to the boy. Doubtless he was telling him to go to the beach and secure the boat before it drifted off for the lad scampered away over the dunes.

  ‘Come with me!’ he said, ‘There’s a village nearby where you can rest. Tomorrow we will go on to the monastery and meet the abbot.’

  We squelched along the footpath which wound through the reed beds. The priest led the way, splashing through the puddles. The ragged hem of his gown was dark and sodden. We skirted several large ponds, their dark brown water still and silent. I shivered at the memory of my brother’s death.

  ‘My name is Lothar
,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘You were fortunate that I was in the area when you arrived, or no one would have understood you — they speak their own local dialect. The village belongs to my monastery and is a very poor place. The families live by fishing and by collecting whatever is cast up along the shoreline.’

  From his tone of voice I gathered that he was still not fully convinced that Osric and I were genuine castaways.

  ‘I didn’t see any fishing harbour,’ I said.

  ‘The coast here is too exposed to heavy winter storms. The villagers keep their boats in a river mouth nearby, and in bad weather they net the inland ponds.’ He could no longer restrain his curiosity. ‘Where did you learn to speak Latin so well?’

  ‘My father arranged for a priest to teach me.’ I did not say that the priest had been on the run. Bertwald was being pursued by the Church for theft and had arrived with his mistress in tow, a wild-looking slattern with a dramatic bush of wiry, auburn hair. My father, who believed in the Old Ways, took pleasure in giving shelter to a renegade from a religion for which he had no use. Bertwald had stayed with us for nearly ten years, with little to do except breed children and instruct me, his only pupil. Together he and Osric had been the two great influences of my growing up and I was only just beginning to appreciate how good a teacher Bertwald had been. Besides Latin, he had taught me how to read and write and even some grammar and logic. When he was drunk he would boast about the importance of the foundation to which he had once belonged. He’d claimed it had its own school and a library with fifty books. But in the end his loose talk undid him. One of our local Christians betrayed him to his former bishop and he had left as hastily as he had arrived.

  We reached the fishing village, a huddle of small huts thatched with reeds. There were nets everywhere. They were heaped outside doors, draped over roofs, stretched between posts to dry, and strung out at a convenient height so they could be repaired. Every able-bodied man who was actively employed was mending nets. Unsurprisingly, the place reeked of fish.

  Our supper was stale bread and shellfish stew, and we passed the night in one of the huts, asleep on mattresses of discarded nets. When we rose in the morning, we too had a distinctly fishy smell.

  ‘We’ll bathe when we reach the monastery,’ Lothar assured me. It was not yet full daylight, and a dozen villagers joined us. In the half-darkness each man was bent forward under the weight of a large wickerwork pannier strapped to his back. I thought I heard a faint creaking as if their burdens were alive.

  The dawn came, dull and grey and with not a breath of wind as we walked inland. The ground rose gently, the landscape changing from wet marsh to dry uncultivated heath. Flocks of small birds rose from the low bushes on either side of the path, and a large hare lolloped away before stopping and turning to look back at our little column as we tramped along. It was a wild and desolate place and we saw no sign of human habitation. After three hours we stopped briefly for a meal of chewy strips of dried fish washed down with lukewarm water from leather bottles. There was no conversation. The accompanying villagers were a taciturn lot. They sat on the ground, not removing the panniers from their backs. Eventually, soon after midday, we came to an area of open woodland and finally saw some buildings. Our guide quickened his pace. ‘We should arrive in time for nones,’ he said.

  I had been expecting his abbey to be something substantial and impressive, yet the place could have been mistaken for a large farm sheltered by an outer wall.

  We plodded in through the gate and found ourselves in a large unpaved courtyard surrounded by stables, cattle byres and storage sheds. The abbey itself formed one side of the yard and was no bigger than my father’s great hall. A priest on his way in through the abbey’s entrance door turned and called out greetings. Lothar waved to him but our silent companions who had tramped up from the coast ignored him. They went directly to a large stone trough set to one side of the yard. One by one, they halted in front of the trough, bent forward at the waist, and a colleague unfastened the lid of the pannier. Out from the basket poured a writhing brown and black mass. It cascaded over the porter’s head and landed wetly into the trough and slithered and thrashed. An image flashed into my mind of the lily root that had drowned my brother and my stomach heaved. The villagers had been carrying a delivery of live eels, most of them as long as my outstretched arms. They knotted and wriggled, vainly trying to climb up the sides of the trough and escape.

  Relieved of their burdens, the porters were already making their way back towards the gate. They wanted to be back in their homes by nightfall.

  ‘How often do they bring eels up here?’ I asked the priest.

  ‘Every second month. They net them in the ponds and keep them until it is time to pay their tithe.’ He looked pleased with himself. ‘One of God’s wonders. Fish of the sea and fish of the rivers come and go with the seasons, but eels are always there. A constant crop.’

  A strikingly dressed figure emerged from the doorway of the main abbey building and darted across the courtyard to inspect the roiling mass of eels. A short, balding, rotund man, he wore a pink tunic of fine wool with dark-blue leggings and orange cross garters. His fashionable shoes had long, pointed upturned toes and were bright yellow. There was an expensive looking chain around his neck.

  ‘There’s Abbot Walo. You can explain yourselves to him,’ said Lothar.

  I noted a jewelled Christian cross suspended from the neck chain.

  ‘You have done well, Lothar,’ said his abbot, rubbing his hands together briskly. The crucifix bobbed up and down on his paunch. ‘There is enough here to meet our obligation.’

  Abbot Walo reminded me of an active plump bird with bright plumage, an impression strengthened by the beady-eyed look he gave me.

  ‘And who are you?’ he demanded.

  ‘He came ashore near the village and says he is on his way to the king’s court,’ explained Lothar.

  ‘My name is Sigwulf,’ I broke in. ‘I am travelling to the Frankish court at the request of King Offa of Mercia.’ I had no need to mention Osric. Clearly he was my attendant, however worse for wear.

  ‘Any proof of this?’ demanded the abbot.

  I produced the letter that Offa’s scribe had provided me. The abbot’s flamboyant taste in clothes was misleading. There was evidently a sharp mind behind the colourful exterior. He quickly scanned the document and handed the parchment back.

  ‘King Offa’s mark is known to me.’ He stepped back a half a pace though not before I caught a whiff of his perfume. ‘Lothar will see you to our guesthouse after a visit to the lavatorium.’

  Before I could apologize for my own smell, he added, ‘If you’re not in a hurry to get to Aachen, you can accompany my eels. They leave in the morning.’ With that, he turned on his heel and strode off.

  ‘A remarkable man,’ said Lothar, watching his superior leave.

  ‘How long has he been your abbot?’ I asked. Walo did not strike me as very devout.

  ‘Less than three years. He was sent here to improve the revenues.’

  ‘His previous abbey must have been sorry to lose him,’ I said tactfully.

  ‘Oh no, he was directly created abbot by the king. Previously he was assistant to the royal chamberlain. Very efficient.’

  I tried to recall whether Walo had a tonsure. Probably not. I sensed that Lothar was getting fidgety and remembered that he was keen to attend afternoon prayers.

  ‘I don’t want to delay you any further,’ I said. ‘My servant and I can look after ourselves now.’

  Lothar brightened, evidently relieved to be rid of us.

  ‘I’ll show you to the lavatorium before I go to chapel.’

  He led me and Osric into a small outbuilding attached to the main abbey. Bertwald had described how his grand abbey had a washroom with running water delivered through lead pipes and running down a stone trough. Here, though, were just four large wooden tubs of water standing on a stone flagged floor with a hole cut in the outside wall as a dr
ain. Lothar splashed water on his face and hands, and then hurried off to his devotions. I washed more thoroughly, Osric handing me fresh clothes. As soon as Lothar was out of sight, I gestured to Osric that he could also use a tub. I knew that my slave was meticulous in his personal cleanliness.

  Afterwards, as I waited for Lothar to reappear, I wandered about the courtyard, peering into various outhouses and sheds. I had never before been in an abbey or even in a Christian church, and, in truth, I had no religion, but Bertwald had talked enough about the Christian life for me to pretend that I was a believer.

  I discovered the well, a bakery and a smithy, and also the laundry room where I left Osric to wash our dirty clothes. Everything seemed to be very well-run and orderly, a testament to the efficiency of Abbot Walo. With divine service in progress, there was no one about, and I finished up in the stables, enjoying the peaceful sounds of the animals as they snuffled and munched and moved about on their straw bedding. Unusually, two oxen were stalled beside the half dozen horses. At home my father’s tenants had kept plough oxen: working animals which were well treated in return for good service. By contrast these two beasts were more like pampered pets. Their tawny coats had been brushed until they gleamed, coloured thread wound around their horns, and their hooves had been oiled and polished to a shine. I gathered up a handful of hay and went to offer it to them.

  ‘Keep your hands off!’ warned an angry voice. I was so startled that I jumped. A squat, powerfully built man had appeared in the doorway behind me. He set down the wooden water bucket he was carrying and scowled as he stepped past me and took the hay from my grasp.

  ‘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.