After some hours the path finally began to descend. We left the high moorland and emerged from the worst of the mist. About that time my brother’s fetch vanished. He disappeared in much the same manner as he had first arrived, showing himself indistinctly for a few moments, then vanishing, only to reappear for another brief glimpse. When he did not show himself for several long minutes, I knew that I would not see him again that day.
We had reached a fold in the land, which sheltered a hamlet of a dozen small cottages. The two dogs ran ahead of us, straight to one of the buildings, and scratched at the door. A voice called out and when Gallmau answered, the door was opened by a bald, very overweight man of middle age. He had a round head, a neck that spilled over his collar in folds of fat, and his small sharp eyes looked as if they had been set in a pudding. His gaze travelled slowly over me, and then to Gallmau before he gestured at us to enter. We stepped into a room starkly furnished with a wooden table, a bench and three stools. There was a door to an inner room, a fire burning in the hearth and several farm tools propped in a corner. Gallmau’s two dogs promptly ran to the hearth and lay down on the earth floor as if they owned the place. Soon the room filled with the smell of drying dog.
Gallmau spoke briefly to the fat man, who then turned to me.
‘You travel to the king’s palace at Aachen?’ he enquired. He spoke far better Frankish than Gallmau’s wife.
‘I carry a sacred book for the library of the new chapel,’ I said. I was uneasy. Something about the fat man made me distrust him.
He waved a chubby hand towards the bench by the table.
‘Take a seat. It’s a long walk from the coast, and you must be tired. I’ll get something for you and Gallmau to eat and drink.’
He waddled out of the room and I went across to the bench, removed my cloak and sat down heavily. It was true. I was exhausted. I was also aware of Gallmau’s interest in my satchel so I placed it on the bench beside me, trying not to make it obvious that I was keeping it very close.
Gallmau removed his dripping hat and took his seat on a stool opposite me.
We sat in strained silence, waiting for our host to return. Surreptitiously I scanned the room hoping to see some sign of another person living in the house — a wife, children. There was nothing. The fat man lived by himself, and I began to wonder if I should get up and leave while I still could. I was alone, a stranger in an unknown house and an easy target for a robbery, if not worse. Yet I had not seen anyone else in the hamlet as we arrived, and I knew that country people were clannish. There was no certainty that I would find a better reception elsewhere.
The fat man came back into the room. He was carrying three scuffed, leather tankards in one hand, and in the other a large earthenware jug. He put them down on the scarred table top and, wheezing slightly, pulled up a stool and sat down. His flabby bulk overflowed the stool. He tipped a stream of some pale straw-coloured liquid from the jug into each of our tankards. I sniffed it suspiciously. It smelled of apples, pears and honey. A quick taste confirmed that it was mead mixed with fermented apple and pear juice, something that had been my father’s favourite. I took a long draught. It had been months since I had tasted strong drink. The tiny bubbles tickled the back of my throat as I swallowed. The sweet heady liquid was delicious.
The fat man was eyeing me speculatively. He reminded me of a large boar inspecting its next meal. He put down his tankard and licked his lips, about to speak. I forestalled him.
‘Those big boulders up on the moor, what are they?’ I began.
He blinked.
‘Menhirs, the long stones.’ He sounded as if he did not want to talk about them.
‘Who put them there?’
‘No one knows. They’ve always been there.’
‘And do they have a purpose?’ I asked.
He shrugged fleshy, round shoulders.
‘Some believe that they are grave markers of giants.’
‘Not only giants,’ I said in a solemn voice. He looked at me curiously. I took another drink from my tankard and set it down carefully on the table. I had not eaten all day and could sense the strong drink taking effect. My tongue felt slightly thick and I knew I was already getting tipsy.
‘I saw my twin brother at the menhirs this afternoon,’ I said.
His piggy eyes opened wide in surprise.
‘Your brother?’ he asked.
‘He walked with us for a while. The dogs saw him.’ I nodded towards the two animals now asleep in front of the fire.
The fat man muttered something to Gallmau who shook his head, then looked flustered and ill at ease.
‘Are you sure it was your brother?’ asked the fat man.
‘Of course. I haven’t seen him for more than a week. He doesn’t visit me that often,’ I said, trying to sound casual.
The fat man’s eyes flicked towards the satchel.
‘Are you not a Christian?’ he asked.
I belched softly. Judging by the aftertaste, the mead had been brewed with clover honey.
‘My being a Christian has nothing to do with it. My brother visits me as often as he wishes,’ I said. ‘He drowned when we were youngsters.’
The fat man’s eyes darted nervously around the room. A bead of sweat broke out on his scalp.
‘Will he call on us tonight?’ he asked.
I shrugged.
‘Who knows.’
My host got up from his stool.
‘Then we must not be found wanting,’ he muttered, and shuffled his way out of the room.
In a short while he came back with four wooden plates, a loaf of stale-looking bread and some cheese, and an extra tankard. He set four places on the table, and we began to eat. Each time there was a sound outside, both my companions started. We hurried through our meal, and when I had finished, I drained my third tankard of the cider-mead and reached up and removed my eye patch. Then I turned to face my companions, staring straight at them for a long moment, unblinking so they could not help but notice the mismatched colours of my eyes.
‘Leave my brother’s place at the table as it is,’ I said, ‘in case he joins us later.’
Without asking, I stretched myself out on the bench, with my satchel as a pillow and allowed myself to drift off to sleep, confident that neither of them would dare harm someone who bore the Devil’s mark and was the twin brother of a fetch.
A low growling awoke me, followed by a thud as a heavy boot kicked the front door, making it rattle in its frame.
‘Wake up you tub of lard,’ shouted a voice.
I sat up. I was still on the bench and had spent a quiet night. My brother’s wooden plate and tankard sat on the table untouched.
The boot thumped into the door again. Gallmau was climbing to his feet from where he had been sleeping on the floor. The two dogs were barking furiously and dancing round the door, which shook to another heavy blow. The fat man was nowhere to be seen.
I put on my eye patch and went across to the door and pulled it open. Outside stood a thick-set, scowling man with a short, neatly trimmed beard and the weather-beaten skin of someone who spent his days in the open air. Behind him I saw two men-at-arms with spears. Further down the street, the faces of villagers were peering out from their front doors.