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.