air of someone long in the royal service. His obsequious tone indicated that his query was a customary one, designed to allow Offa to show off his wisdom.
‘He’ll go to live with the Franks. Their king has been asking for someone to be sent from Mercia as an earnest of our good relations. If he’s as educated and personable as is claimed, he’ll make a good impression. Well scrubbed, he could even be quite good-looking. That should keep the Franks off our backs.’
Offa was cleverer than I had given him credit for. It was the custom for rulers to send family members to live in other courts. Officially they went as guests and as a gesture of trust and friendship between kingdoms, but in reality they were kept as hostages. They lived in their new homes until they died or were recalled. Should war break out, they were killed out of hand. As the only surviving scion of a noble family, I could be passed off as a suitable pledge of Mercia’s good neighbourliness as long as my Frankish hosts did not enquire too closely. If they did discover I was not as important as had been made out, they would put an end to me and that would suit Offa just as well.
The king turned towards me again.
‘You will not come back,’ he said flatly. He did not need to say that if I did return, I would forfeit my life.
I kept my expression neutral but, strange to say, his judgement caused a sudden thrill of excitement to run through me. I was to be an exile without hope of return, a wanderer. Offa had not demanded my allegiance, and therefore I no longer had a lord. To many in our close-knit society, this would have been a terrible sentence. There is a special term for such an outcast. I would be
The court of the Frankish king was as promising a destination as I could have wished for. Even our rustic villeins had heard of Carolus. For more than a decade he had ruled Europe from the dark forests beyond the Rhine to the sunlit plains of Lombardy and west to the ocean. It was such an enormous area that there were rumours that one day he would be crowned the emperor of Europe, the first true emperor since the days of Rome. His court must surely attract all manner of exotic and unusual folk. Perhaps I would blend in with them despite my unusual appearance.
‘You have three days for the funeral rites,’ Offa grunted. With a twinge of conscience I realized that I had been thinking only of myself. My father and two brothers had been proud of their warrior heritage. They would want that I gave them a fitting burial rather than lament their passing.
‘A request,’ I said.
Offa’s chin came up as he glared at me. A scruffy and defeated youth whose life he had just spared was not expected to make requests.
‘What is it?’ His tone was truculent. For a moment I thought he was going to change his mind about my exile and order my execution instead.
‘That my personal slave goes with me,’ I said.
Once again Offa glanced towards my uncle.
‘Is this slave of any value?’
‘Hardly, my lord,’ answered Cyneric. He did not bother to keep the sneer from his face. ‘He’s a defective cripple. An out-lander who can barely string two words together.’
‘He looked after me throughout my childhood,’ I interrupted. ‘I am in his debt.’
‘And you in mine,’ said Offa coldly. ‘Take your worn-out slave with you, but he has cost you a day’s grace. The day after tomorrow you will be escorted to the coast and put on the first ship sailing for Frankia.’
Chapter Two
Osric, my body slave, had been to sea before, that I knew. My father had bought him from a travelling dealer who must have heard that the woman looking after my brother and me was refusing to touch us after she noticed something strange about our eyes. The other household servants had been equally frightened.
‘Make a good babysitter, he would. He’s quiet and gentle and, with that gammy pin, not likely to run away,’ the slaver had said as he showed off a battered-looking, scrawny man, perhaps thirty years old with skin the colour of a fallen autumn leaf. The unfortunate man had evidently been in a very bad accident, for his head was permanently canted over on a slant and his left leg broken and set so badly that it was crooked.
‘Where does he come from?’ my father had asked.
The dealer had shrugged.
‘I got him down in the west country, part exchange for a couple of brawny lasses fit for mine work. Locals found him washed up on the rocks, like a half-dead mackerel. Probably off a tin ship that wrecked.’
My father had looked doubtful.
‘Worth owning someone as hardy as that,’ the slave dealer had wheedled. ‘Any other man would have died. Besides, he doesn’t understand any speech so he won’t be taking up any wild ideas and gossip.’
My father had allowed himself to be persuaded. He’d paid a few coins and named his new slave Osric as a joke; his namesake was a rival kinglet in neighbouring Wessex, a man famously vain of his good looks.
Over the years Osric became an essential, silent member of our household. He spoke so rarely that many visitors thought he was a mute. Growing up in his care, however, I knew that he learned our language in secret. When alone with his two charges, he would talk with us, though only a few words at a time. As I grew older I came to the conclusion that he preferred to stay withdrawn, locked away in his battered body.
‘Are you afraid of the sea after what it did to you?’ I asked Osric as we had our first glimpse of the distant blue line on the horizon. We were travelling on foot, since Offa had seen no reason to provide us with horses, only a couple of Mercian armed guards plodding along behind us, out of earshot.
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
