“It was chloroform,” said Nielsen. “He had an entire bottle of it. That’s what put you to sleep. Tell me more about this man in white clothes.”
I thought hard. “He had brown hair. He looked about forty, forty-five years old. Everything he wore was white, even his shoes. It looked like a uniform, a male nurse’s uniform, perhaps.”
“How tall was he?”
“Shorter than I am. Say five-five, five-six. He moved very quickly. And he seemed extremely tough. I’m a handy boxer, but when I hit him he didn’t make a sound. Not even a whimper.”
“You had consumed several pints of beer before this. Do you think you simply didn’t hit him particularly hard?”
“No. I distinctly remember hitting him very hard in the ribs with my knee. Another thing I noticed was that the room smelled completely disgusting when I got there.”
“That was the old man’s small intestine.”
“What do you mean?”
“The small intestine is full of half-digested food. If it is split open, it releases a foul smell, a mixture of excrement and stomach acids.”
Remembering the smell made me feel unwell, and I sipped my tea as though its bitterness would wash my palette clean. It didn’t. It tasted awful. But Nielsen did not give me the chance to dwell on it.
“Is there anything else you remember about him, sir?”
“His eyes were extraordinarily bloodshot, and he had a strange look on his face.”
“Please be more specific than that.”
“He looked …” I paused, searching for the right word. “Ah, he looked cold.”
“Cold, sir?”
“It looked as though he had no feelings at all. He did not look angry, or hateful, as you might expect a murderer to look. His face was blank, as though he was in a trance of sorts.
There was simply nothing in him. And he moved so quickly, it was -”
Nielsen stopped me. “Please finish your tea, Mr Haye. You must translate something for me.”
11
To his most beloved master, bishop Ecgwulf, invested with authority by Christ’s love; Ohthere, priest and humble servant of the servants of the Lord, sends greetings and expressions of unfailing devotion.
My lord, forgive me for permitting a full year to pass before I wrote to you again. I confess that I have been angry with you, my dear old and trusted friend, for keeping me away from home. For many months, it felt as though my heart would lack the will to beat again if I could not see Eulalia.
I will also confess that I have thought often and violently of prince Sigeheard. And I have struggled to forgive myself. The trouble I have caused! Now that some time has passed, I have come to understand that it is well that I am here. I cannot help but love Eulalia more with every moment. I have found it hard to never tell her how she lifts me with her company; how I have longed to claim her for my own since the first spring of our meeting many years ago. Perhaps, if I were still the Prior of the men at Barking Abbey, the situation would be exactly as you feared. I ask you, as your friend, to know what I have felt and forgive me.
Of course, not all has been ugly since receiving your letter. I began preparing the mission you have commanded me to undertake, and Duggo’s good cheer was tremendously comforting to me during those first few dark months. Through his agency, I found twelve brothers to aid me in bringing the Word to the forest. One of them, Dettic, speaks several of the pagan tongues. I am, alas, the only priest on our mission, for there is a dearth of ordained men here.
Duggo also helped me gather a body of forty escorts. Some are from our homeland, and are experienced with the pagans. We also have some Frankish escorts, including two strapping brothers who seem very confident; and a number of Hessians, Thuringians and Saxons. The others are from here in Frisia. Although a few are volunteers, I could not have raised such a substantial body without the shillings you sent from England.
I spent the first winter training them in the defensive tactics I learned as a young warrior. At first it was difficult to train them to fight together. The Germans proved especially hard to discipline, as they are blessed with an abundance of famously and frighteningly large young men and are therefore inclined to charge and overpower their adversaries rather than rely on skill or strategy. Knowing well that these tactics would be unsuitable for the defence of our mission, I resolved to temper the men with the spirit of team-play.
This was far from easy, since between us we speak so many languages. The solution was to give orders in Latin, which Dettic could usually translate into the relevant vernacular equivalent. Gradually they learned the Latin voice of my command. I thus taught them the rapid assembly of a shield wall, and how to shift position while maintaining its integrity. They learned the importance of covering one another under duress. Now the men are disciplined enough to wait for my command before hurling their spears at an enemy who rushes us.
I did not want to teach them too many aggressive manoeuvres, since many of the men are young and might prove eager to resort to them early. Nonetheless, I gave swords to nine of the most senior men, and ensured the perfection of their sword-play over a season of intense practice. Each of these sword-lieutenants was charged with the care of three spearmen. By the time we gathered our supplies and left the monastery, I was very confident that the men would fight well in any situation.
We began in high spirits, up the Rhine River, through Frisia and into the lands of the Hessians. There are many Christians in these parts, and we were warmly received wherever we went. We soon reached Kaiserswerth, the small monastery island on the Rhine, where we were given provisions for our mission by monks who scarcely had enough for themselves. They pointed us east, in the direction of Buraberg, one of the monasteries near to the middle of Germany.
The countryside is mainly flat, but very pretty. In some parts it is grassy, and carpeted with flowers that greatly please the eye. There are many brooks and streams. Already I can see that the forests in this country are much larger than those in England. And according to one of our Thuringian escorts, those before us now are barely the beginning. He says that in the stories of his people, the forest has no end at all.
We travelled without incident from Kaiserswerth to Buraberg, which is in the heart of Thuringia, and then on to Fulda.
Fulda is one of Holy Father Boniface’s foundations, and it hums with the wonderful sound of English tongues. We were entreated for news of home, but I had little to tell.
Abbot Sturm actually knew Boniface. In fact, it was Boniface himself who chose Sturm to run Fulda. He tells me that our Holy Father was every bit as saintly and inspiring as his legend has it now.
Fulda is enormous for such a young monastery. There is much food, for the land is well tilled, and teams of scribes are labouring to enlarge the already impressive library here. Sturm is an exceptional abbot, and Fulda is very well organised.
They have charitably opened their monastery to everybody. Anybody, at any time, can call upon the brothers for medical attention, food, or counsel. The brethren refuse to turn pagans away on account of their beliefs, for they are urged by