At that moment, Walo, who had not spoken all morning, suddenly broke his silence. I did not make out the exact words but he called out some sort of command. At the same time he threw a leg across his saddle and slid down from his horse, leaving the reins dangling. He then strode straight towards the angry dogs. I was sure they would rush him and attack, but he called out again and they backed away. He kept walking forward, both hands held out palms down, and his voice dropped to a more normal tone. As he spoke, the frenzied barking subsided to low, frustrated growls. Walo moved even closer, and the dogs’ hackles sank down. Finally, when Walo was standing right over them, he gestured at them to return to where they had come from. Silently the brutes trotted off to the side of the farmyard, heads low and their tails drooping.
Without a backward glance, Walo returned to his horse and gathered up the loose reins.
‘Not as addled as he appears,’ the trooper who had nearly been bitten observed grudgingly. The dogs had settled themselves down at the far side of the yard. Their ears were pricked and they were watching Walo’s every movement, ignoring the rest of us.
A farm servant eventually emerged to give us permission to water our horses and, with my eye patch back in place, I negotiated the purchase of a couple of loaves and a large chunk of cheese for ourselves. We removed our horses’ packs and saddles, found ourselves a shady spot beside a barn, and began to eat our midday meal.
‘What’s the plan when we reach Dorestad?’ Osric asked me. The bread was stale and he dipped his crust into a cup of water to soften it.
I spat out a morsel of grit. The mix of rye and barley flour had been poorly sieved. ‘In Dorestad we locate a shipowner called Redwald. He makes the voyage to Kaupang every year.’
‘What about our escort?’ Osric flicked a glance towards the two troopers who were throwing crumbs to the farm doves that had fluttered down to peck at the leftovers.
‘They’ll help us load the wine aboard, then return to Aachen with the horses.’
‘Leaving us to the tender mercies of this Redwald.’
‘The mews master assures me that Redwald can be trusted,’ I replied. Osric had good reason to be suspicious. The ship captain who had carried Osric and me into our exile had tried to rob us and sell us into slavery.
‘And what if this Redwald learns just how much coin we are carrying? Never underestimate the power of silver and gold to make a man change his loyalty—’
A peculiar sound made me stop and look up. At first I thought it was the cooing of one of the doves that were strutting around our feet. Then I realized that someone was blowing on a musical instrument. It was Walo. He had wandered off by himself and was leaning up against the wall of the barn in the sunshine, his eyes closed. He held a simple deerhorn pipe to his lips and was gently playing the same few notes, over and over again.
*
After five uneventful days on the road we arrived at Dorestad. It was one of those clear windless June mornings when a handful of small, puffy clouds hang almost motionless in a sky of cornflower blue. The port was an untidy sprawl of warehouses, sheds and taverns that spread along the bank of the Rhine for more than a mile. Dozens of staithes and jetties projected out into the dark waters of the broad river like the teeth of a gigantic comb. They had been built on wooden posts hammered into the soft stinking ooze of the foreshore. Moored against them were watercraft of every description ranging from rafts and river wherries to substantial seagoing cogs. Not wanting to attract attention, I was reluctant to ask for Redwald by name so we picked our way along the riverbank between heaps of discarded rubbish, broken barrels, handcarts and wheelbarrows while I tried to identify those vessels that looked large enough to make the voyage to Kaupang. We had gone nearly the full length of the waterfront when a gangling, ruddy-faced man with a bulbous nose and unkempt, thinning grey hair stepped out from behind a pile of lumber and caught my horse by the bridle.
‘Another two tides and you’d have been too late,’ he said.
I looked down at him in surprise. I judged him to be a dock worker. He was wearing a labourer’s grubby canvas smock and heavy wooden clogs.
‘Too late for what?’
‘A passage to Scringes Heal.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ I said curtly. He showed no sign of letting go the bridle so I was forced to add, ‘Can you tell me where I can find shipmaster Redwald?’
‘You’re speaking to him,’ the man replied. ‘You must be Sigwulf. I had word that you’ll be needing passage. Scringes Heal is what the northmen call Kaupang.’
Behind me Osric gave an unhappy cough. Clearly we had failed in our attempt to keep our mission secret.