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, scarcely 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.