Osric gave a slight shake of his head. We had left the burgh at daybreak two days earlier. There my father and two brothers lay side by side under a single, fresh barrow grave. I had buried them hastily with the few paltry goods that had survived the Mercian sack – a handful of damaged and long-discarded weapons, some cheap ornaments, a few pottery jugs and bowls and the bones of the pigs slaughtered for the funeral feast. These would have to suffice for their banquet in the afterlife. The only item of real value in the grave was my father’s best hunting hound. A courser with a glossy dark-red coat and a nervous temperament, the creature had panicked and run off during the battle and had escaped becoming part of the Mercian plunder. We were digging the burial pit when the hound reappeared, slinking on its belly across the raw earth, whining as it sought its master. I coaxed the dog closer, looped a cord around its neck and strangled it. Then I carefully laid the body at my father’s feet. He had loved the hunt. Now he would at least be accompanied in the afterlife by his favourite hound.
Only a handful of our people had attended the funeral rites. They were too scared of incurring my uncle’s displeasure. He was their new master, and their daily drudgery would continue as before. Slave or freeman, it was better not to anger him. Their taxes would be heavier now that King Offa would demand his share.
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.