King's Man (37 page)

Grimly I battled on, remembering my days in Iceland when I had taken part in the water games when the young men competed at wrestling as they swam, the winner attempting to hold his opponent underwater until he gasped for mercy. I recalled how to hold my breath, and so I kept my nerve as the waves crashed over me, trying to smother me, but also washing me closer to the shore. I was an old man, I cautioned myself, and I should dole out my last remaining strength like a miser. If I could stay afloat, the sea might deliver me to land. Had Niord and his handmaidens, the waves, wanted to drown me, they would have done so long ago.

I was on the point of abandoning the struggle when suddenly a pair of hands gripped me painfully under the shoulders and I found myself being hauled ashore, up the sloping beach. Then the hands abruptly released their grip, and I flopped face down on wet sand, while my rescuer, speaking in thickly accented Frankish, said, "What shitty luck. All I've got is a useless priest.' At that moment I closed my eyes and passed into a haze of exhaustion.

A kinder voice awoke me. Someone was turning me on my back, and I could feel the clinging wetness of my monk's gown against my skin. 'We must find some dry clothing for you, brother. The good Lord did not spare you from the sea just to let you die of ague.'

I was looking up into the anxious face of a small, wiry man kneeling beside me. He wore a monk's habit of black cloth over a white gown, and was tonsured. Even in my exhausted condition I wondered to which monastic order he belonged, and how he came to be on a windswept beach, the scene of a shipwreck.

'Here, try to stand,' he was saying. 'Someone nearby will provide shelter.'

He slipped one arm under me and helped me rise to a sitting position. Then he coaxed me to my feet. I stood there, swaying.

My body felt as though it had been thrashed with a thick leather strap. I looked around. Behind me the waves still rumbled and crashed upon the sand, and some distance away I could see the wreck of our cog. She was well and truly aground now, lying askew. Her single mast had snapped and fallen overboard. Closer, in the shallows, the upturned hull of the ship's skiff was washing back and forth in the surge and return of the breakers. Occasionally, a large crest half rolled the little boat, and she gyrated helplessly. A group of about a dozen men was standing knee-deep in the sea, their backs turned towards me. Some were staring intently at the little skiff, others were watching the waves as they came sweeping towards the shore.

'No use asking them for help,' said my companion.

Then I noticed the two bodies lying on the sand, just a few yards away from the watchers. I guessed they were corpses of sailors from the cog who had drowned when the skiff capsized. When last I saw them, they were fully dressed. Now they were stripped naked.

'Wreckers and scavengers. Heartless men,' lamented my companion. 'This is a dangerous part of the coast. Yours is not the first ship to have come to grief here.' Gently he turned me around, and helped me stumble towards the distant line of cliffs.

A fisherman took pity on us. He had a small lean-to against the foot of the cliffs, where he kept his nets and other fishing gear. Over a small charcoal fire he heated a broth of half-cured fish and onions, which he gave us to eat while I sat shivering on a pile of sacks. A cart would be coming shortly, he said. The driver was his cousin, who passed by at the same time each day, and he would carry us into town. There the church priest would assist us. Listening to him, I found I was able to follow his words as they were mainly of the Frankish tongue, though mixed with a few words I recognised from my own Norse, as well as phrases I had heard when I lived in England. With my companion, I conversed in Latin.

'Where am I?' I asked the fisherman.

He looked surprised. 'In Ponthieu, of course. In the lands of Duke Guy. By rights, I should take you to his castle at Beaurain and deliver you as sea flotsam. Everything which is washed up by the sea is the duke's by right. That's the law of lagan. But I wouldn't be thanked for that, not since that business with the Englishman. The one who's now scrambled on to the throne over there, though he has no right. '

Odinn had a hand in my shipwreck, I thought to myself. The broth was warming me and I could feel the strength beginning to seep back through my limbs. 'What's his name, this Englishman?' I continued to enquire through lips that were painfully cracked and tasted salty.

'Harold Godwinsson,' answered the fisherman. 'He was cast up on the shore, just like you, along with half a dozen of his attendants. We get a dozen or so ships wrecked here every year, always on a north-west gale. He was a nobleman all right, anyone could see that from his fancy clothes. Even those plunderers, the wreckers, knew that they would have to take a care. No knowing what would happen if they messed about with the castaway. Too rich a fish altogether. Might stick in their gullets. So straightaway they took him to the duke, expecting a reward, though little good it did them. The duke stowed the man and his attendants in his dungeon while he made some enquiries as to who he was, and when he found out how important and wealthy he really was, he sent a ship over to England — my oldest brother was the first mate on her — asking for a good fat ransom. But our duke got no more profit out of it than the wreckers. Word of the castaway reached William the Bastard, and before you know it, a gang of his men-at-arms is on our doorstep telling our duke that he has to hand over the captive, or his castle will be torched and his head will be on a pole. Not a threat you ignore if Bastard William is behind it. Also he's Duke Guy's overlord, so he had a right to tell him what to do. So this captive is released from the dungeons, dressed up in a new set of finery, and the last we saw of him he was being escorted off to Rouen as though he was William's long-lost brother.'

The fisherman hawked to clear his throat, turned his head and spat a gob of phlegm accurately through the door of his shack. 'That's my cousin now, coming along with the ass and cart. You better get moving.'

'Bless you,' said my companion. 'Thrice bless you. You have done a Christian act today, for which God will reward you.'

'More than the duke would. He's a mean sod,' commented the fisherman sourly.

The little cart made slow progress. Its ill-shaped wheels wobbled on a single axle, and the vehicle lurched and slewed as it bumped across the tussocks of sea grass. I felt so sorry for the struggling donkey that I slid down from the pile of damp and smelly nets and walked beside the tailgate, holding on to the cart for support. I must have given the impression that I had recovered from my near drowning, because my companion could no longer restrain his curiosity.

'How came you to be upon that ship, and what is your name, brother?' he asked.

I had been expecting the question and had prepared what I hoped was a satisfactory reply.

'My name is Thangbrand. I have been preaching in the northern lands on behalf of our community in Bremen, though I fear that the word fell on stony ground.'

'Bremen indeed. I have heard that the bishop there holds authority over the northern kingdoms. But you are the first of his people that I have met.'

I relaxed. I doubted there were any survivors from the shipwreck who could throw doubt on my story.

'But you did not say why you were aboard the boat that wrecked.'

'The bishop sent me to seek out more recruits for our mission.

The northerners are a stubborn people, and we need help if we are to succeed in spreading the word of our Redeemer.'

My companion sighed. 'How true. Minds and ears are often closed to the magnificent and awesome mystery. Truly it is said that Christ was facing westward when he hung from the cross. All can see how in that direction the word of God has spread most easily. His almighty right arm pointed to the north which was to be mellowed by the holy word of the faith, and his left hand was for the barbaric peoples of the south. Only the peoples of the east are condemned, for they were hidden behind his head.

'And you, brother, how came you to be on the beach in my hour of need?' I asked, anxious to turn the conversation away from my own background and learn more about my pious companion.

'My name is Maurus and I am named for the assistant to the teacher of the Rule. I come from the region of Burgundy where its governance has long flourished.'

Baffled by his reply, I remained silent and hoped that he would provide a few clues as to what he was talking about.

'I was on my way to the Holy and Undivided Trinity to present to Abbot John a chronicle which celebrates the life of his predecessor, the saintly Lord Abbot William. I do this on behalf of the chronicler himself as he is no longer able to travel due to advancing years and ill health.'

'And this chronicler?'

'My mentor and friend, Rudolfus Glaber. Like myself he is from Burgundy. For years he has laboured compiling and writing a Life of Lord Abbot William. In addition he has written five books of Histories to relate the lives of the other important men of our time. Even now he is engaged in writing a sixth book, for he is determined to leave a written record for posterity of the many events which have occurred with unusual frequency since the millennium of the Incarnation of Christ our Saviour.'

I took a closer look at Mauru
s. He was, I guessed, somewhere
between forty and fifty years old, small and sinewy, with a brick-red complexion that was either scorched by long exposure to the sun and wind or was the result of too much strong drink.

'Forgive me for my ignorance, brother,' I said, 'but this Rule you mentioned. What is that?'

He looked mildly shocked by my ignorance. 'That the brethren of a monastery obey one common will, are equal in agreement, and work and follow a uniform way of prayer and psalmody, eating and dress.'

'That makes them sound like soldiers,' I commented,

He beamed with approval. 'Exactly, servant soldiers of Christ.'

'That is something I would like to see.'

'You shall!' Maurus said enthusiastically. 'Why don't you travel with me to the Holy and Undivided Trinity? The monastery is second only to my own monastery of Cluny for the renown of its strict rule and discretion, the mother of virtues.'

It was precisely what I hoped he would say, because to travel in the company of a genuine priest would be excellent camouflage. His next words were even more encouraging.

'The monastery is at Fecamp, in Duke William's lands.'

THIRTEEN

I
t took us
a week to reach Fecamp, walking by day and taking rides on farm carts when they were offered. At night we stayed with village priests, and twice we slept under hedges as it was now early summer and the night was mild. Throughout our journey
I
looked about me, trying to assess the resources which might allow Duke William to launch an invasion of England. What
I
saw impressed me. The countryside was fertile and well farmed. Rolling hills were cultivated for large fields of wheat, and every village was surrounded by carefully tended orchards. There were also large tracts of forest, mainly oak trees, and frequently we passed groups of men carrying saws and ropes, or we heard the sound of axes in the distance and encountered timber wagons drawn by oxen and piled high with raw logs, sawn baulks of wood, and the crooks and roots of large trees.
I
could recognise boat-building timber when
I
saw it, and
I
noted that the timber cargoes were all heading north, towards the coast of what the local people called 'the sleeve', the narrow sea separating Frankia from England.

Several times small groups of heavily armed men passed us. The weapons they carried looked well cared for, and
I
guessed them to be mercenary soldiers. Eavesdropping on their conversation as they passed,
I
identified men who came from Lotharingia,