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 the able priors to see Christ in every soul. Sturm has even arranged for the carpenters’ and smiths’ workshops to be opened to the district’s poor, so that they might suffer less from hardships such as broken ploughs or holed stew-pots. The brethren here are constantly engaged in some sort of useful activity and are a marvel to witness.
I have never seen such a happy and productive place! It buzzes with the Glory of Our Lord!
Seeing that the area around Fulda was fairly secured by the good work of the monks, I asked Sturm where he thought our mission would be most useful. He suggested that since the travelling season was nearly over, we should winter here. In spring we could head south, to the Danube, where Christianity is less established.
I talked the matter over with Duggo and Dettic. They agreed with him, and reminded me that they had heard as much in Frisia over the last few years. I made up my mind to stay, and told the men my decision. They were delighted.
It is now early spring. The men are in high spirits. We have spent the winter practising our battle play, and learning the various German dialects from the monks. Some of the unlettered escorts have learned the rudiments of reading, so as to be of more help to me. It is most touching. And of course, we have all pitched in to aid Sturm wherever we can, partly to repay him for his hospitality, but mainly because we are so inspired.
We shall leave in a week. I hope this letter finds you well, and I ask that you pass my love to Eulalia.
Ohthere
12
“I am the scalp of myself, skinned by my foeman:
robbed of my strength, he steeped and soaked me,
dipped me in water, whipped me out again,
set me in the sun.”
The Bible, a riddle from The Exeter Book, c. 970 AD
Once more, Nielsen had read my translation without a word. I let him finish before I spoke. “Is this what you wanted me to call you about last night?”
“Yes.” Nielsen tapped his finger on the notes. This time, he seemed disappointed.
“What was so urgent about it? It doesn’t say anything particularly special.”
“I cannot tell you, sir.”
“Why not? I’m helping you.”
“Because I cannot.” Coolly, the detective lit a Woodbine. Smoke filled the air between us. “I may need you again today, Mr Haye. Where can I reach you?”
My headache worsened as the smoke reached me. I wanted to go home and sleep, but I had a mountain of things to do at work that day, and could not put them off. “If I’m not in my office, I’ll be somewhere around the college. Ask at History Reception. I’ll leave word of where I am.”
Nielsen got up. “You do not look well. Would you like to see the doctor?”
The thought of something to alleviate the headache was very appealing. “Yes.”
“My doctor will see you now,” said Nielsen. The detective opened the door and said something I did not hear to someone in the corridor. Then in walked Dr Deborah Caraman.
Her blue eyes, determined and intelligent, glowed with their usual fire beneath her spectacles. Her dark brown hair was pinned tightly behind her ears. Deborah looked typically serious. “Mr Haye, good morning.”
She had been calling me Mr Haye instead of George for nearly a year.
“Good morning, Doctor. I thought you worked at the Prince of Wales Hospital.”
“I do, Mr Haye. But today I’m working for the police.” I couldn’t look her in the eye. Dryly she enquired: “How do you feel?”
“Tired,” I replied, lying by omission. “But nothing a good sleep won’t fix. Don’t call me Mr Haye.”
Deborah ignored my remark and shone a small electric torch into my eyes. It hurt, but she held my eyelids open and I didn’t want to force them closed. “You are in shock, Mr Haye. Now open your mouth, please.” I opened it and she peered in, but said nothing.
“Undo your top three shirt buttons, please.”
A cold stethoscope was pressed against my chest, and she leaned forward to listen. “You have a strong heart, Mr Haye. It’s beating … well. Have you had any headaches?”
“Yes, but they’ve been tolerable.”
