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 drain. 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.
‘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.