‘Could you tell me where I might find the office of the court chamberlain?’ I asked.
The taller of the priests, a gaunt man in his fifties with a freckled complexion and a high forehead, gave me a sharp look.
‘Where are you from, young man?’ he asked in a precise, deliberate voice that matched his scholarly appearance.
I explained how King Offa had despatched me to the Frankish court.
‘I thought I recognized the accent, though your Latin is more than adequate. I see you’ve brought your weather with you.’ The priest drew his gown more tightly around him and peered up at the leaden sky. ‘It looks as if this rain’s set in for the rest of the day.’
‘I’m hoping to report my arrival to the chamberlain’s office,’ I reminded him.
He grimaced.
‘You’ll find the government at a standstill. The rain has kept everyone away, and the floods. The fords are impassable and the current in the river runs too strongly for the ferries.’
I wondered whether I should turn round and try to catch up with Arnulf. He should have reached the royal kitchens by now, and at least there would be hot food there.
Osric limped across to join us. He looked woebegone, splatters of yellow mud on his tunic. He seemed to have shrivelled.
‘You’ve done well to get this far,’ observed the priest, eyeing us, ‘one with difficulty seeing, the other walking.’ He seemed to make up his mind about something. ‘If you will follow me . . .’
He set out across the sea of mud towards a substantial two-storey house, one of a handful of newly completed buildings. It stood alongside the great half-finished meeting hall, and two sentries armed with heavy eight-foot long spears guarded the entrance. They seemed to know our guide for they saluted him, banging the hafts of their spears on the ground which sent a spray of rain dripping from the rims of their iron helmets. He led us inside, and then up a staircase. The place had the atmosphere of a private residence rather than any office. Two more guards were stationed each side of a large double door where he knocked. A voice called to us to enter and we stepped into a spacious, plainly furnished room. In the centre was a broad table on which stood a clay model of the palace as it would look when completed. Nearby were a number of low stools and a tall upright wooden chair which reminded me of my father’s high seat in the mead hall. On the walls were a few rather faded hangings depicting hunting scenes. The only colourful item in the room was a large cross, exquisitely carved and gilded and placed at one end of the room on a low plinth.
At the window with his back to us stood a tall, thick-set man gazing moodily at the rain. He had an arm around the shoulders of a young woman.
‘What is it, Alcuin?’ the man asked, turning to inspect us. He stood well over six feet and everything about him was on a similar, rather daunting scale. A big round head sat on a thick neck. He had a prominent nose, large grey eyes, and, though he held himself straight, his stomach protruded slightly. I judged him to be about fifty years old, for the hair at his temples was turning white. His most striking feature was his moustache. Long and luxuriant and blonde, it hung down a good six inches each side of his mouth and was carefully groomed. The two hairy strands provided an unexpectedly close match to the two long, blonde braids of the much younger woman at his side. Glancing between them, I concluded that they were father and daughter, not lovers as I had first suspected.
‘Two travellers who I thought might interest you,’ said our guide.
The big man gazed down at me. He was soberly dressed in everyday Frankish indoor costume of a long, dark-brown belted tunic over grey woollen trousers. His wool socks had leather soles in place of shoes, and were held up by strips of cloth wrapped around his legs. He wore no jewellery, though the young woman had a showy necklace of polished amber pieces, each the size of a pigeon’s egg. She had her father’s sturdy build which, thanks to her belt with its gold filigree, gave her a voluptuous figure, wide-hipped and full-breasted.
‘What is your name?’ the big man asked me. His voice was surprisingly high-pitched for such a big man.
‘Sigwulf,’ I replied, ‘and this is my slave, Osric.’
‘They are just arrived, sent by Offa, the king of the English,’ explained the priest.
Intelligent grey eyes searched my face.
‘I see you had good weather during your travels. You have a deep tan.’
‘Until three days ago we enjoyed nothing but sunshine.’
‘And the sunlight hurts your eyes?’
‘An imperfection from birth I prefer to keep covered,’ I answered cautiously.
‘A strange imperfection. It seems to shift from one eye to the other.’