DERWENT CROSSING

 

After a morning of steady rain and ever-softer ground it was a relief to reach the ford. Osbert was the first to dismount, and handing the reins to his servant Dunrin, he shook himself vigorously, like a dog. Nestor, who had lagged behind on the last stage, came up, and slid gratefully out of the saddle. ‘So this is the famous Derwent,’ he said, half as a question, looking up and down the river. Although not as wide as some they had crossed on their long journey, it looked angry and brown today, with flecks of white in places where it hit rocks. On the other side they could just see where the track continued up the alder-choked bank, but despite this the ford did not invite confidence.

 

‘Looks like a tricky one,’ commented Dunrin, as he secured the horses to a tree. At first they thought they were alone, but now two figures emerged from a ramshackle hut on the bank, both carrying spears. Osbert and Nestor stood side by side, a large fair-haired figure next to the shorter, darker man. Dunrin pulled a large metal cross from his horse’s pack and fastened it to a short pole, then handed it to his masters.

 

‘In the name of the risen Christ,’ said Osbert, as impressively as he could in the rain, holding up the cross, ‘we are travelling to teach the word of God.’

 

The first spearman, thin and grey-haired, had now come up to them. ‘Greetings, travellers,’ he said slowly. ‘You are entering the lands of King Abloyc. He has set a toll for crossing the Derwent – one Roman penny for each man, and something else for the Dervi, the spirits of the river.’

 

Without looking at Osbert, Nestor stepped forward and spoke slowly, as his southern accent was strong. ‘We cannot pay your price, soldier, for we believe in one God, who rules all, not your river spirits. But we bring hope and strength to the king and his people, let us cross, in God’s name.’

 

Without replying the guards walked back towards the river, muttering in an accent Osbert could not follow. After a few minutes the grey-haired one returned. ‘We cannot let you cross. Everyone who fords here must pay. It’s your choice.’ He was, Osbert thought, not unsympathetic, but firm. ‘There is no other way into the high country,’ he added, waving his spear at the distant hill. ‘That’s your route north, on the Chevin.’

 

The missionaries walked over to their horses, where Dunrin was waiting. ‘We cannot pay,’ Osbert said, wiping the rain out of his eyes, ‘but how else can we cross? The ford looks dangerous enough in this weather, but what’s the alternative?’

 

‘The Lord will help us,’ Nestor insisted. ‘We must trust him to lead us to safety. We will appear to retreat, and wait for a chance to cross higher up, out of sight of these men.’ So the three companions remounted their horses and slowly went back up the path until they were well clear of the marshland near the river, and the trees thickened around them.

 

Dunrin pointed to a spur off the main track which led north. ‘This may bring us to houses, where we can get help or advice,’ he suggested. ‘Those hives in that clearing must belong to someone. At least we may get some shelter from this weather.’

Osbert laughed sharply. ‘You and Nestor are not used to this climate, you’re both southerners. Can you believe this is June?’ As he spoke the rain hesitated and a patch of blue suddenly appeared above them, producing a ray of sunlight which made the wet leaves sparkle.

 

‘The Lord has spoken,’ exclaimed Nestor. ‘I do believe it is June, and equally I believe that he will lead us safely into the high country. Let us follow this path.’ Even in normal speech his words had the ring of a preacher.

 

They had only ridden a few hundred yards when they came to a simple cottage built against a rock face, used as the back wall. Sitting outside the open front door was a bald old man, watching them suspiciously. ‘Greetings, strangers, the ford is back there, you have taken the wrong turning.’ His voice was high and wheezy.

 

‘Greetings to you,’ Osbert replied, ‘we are looking for rest and refreshment, not the ford. A warm cup of your mead would be more than welcome. We have come many miles through the rain.’

 

The old man looked momentarily surprised: ‘How did you…? Oh, you saw the hives and put two and two together. Well, that’s right, it’s the best mead in Milford, but can you folk pay for it?’

 

Nestor got down. The cross had not been repacked, and he held it up, so the sunlight shone on the silverwork figure. ‘We can do better than pay, we can give you a blessing, you and your house.’

 

As the old man sat silent, looking confused, Dunrin also dismounted and added, ‘we can pay you as well, never fear,’ and getting out a worn leather purse he opened it to show that they had coins.

 

Shaking his head, but smiling, the old man said: ‘I have heard of your God, but never seen him before. For me, I don’t care about gods, new or old, but you’re welcome to sit here and rest and drink a cup with me.’ He nodded at a bench at the front of his cottage, and went inside.

 

Taking off their sodden cloaks and spreading them on bushes to dry, now that the sun was getting stronger, the travellers silently waited for their drinks. In a few minutes they were each given a piece of black bread with bacon, and a cup of warm mead. While they were enjoying this they heard the man tending his fire inside, but when he reappeared Osbert asked about the crossing. ‘We need to find another place to cross,’ he explained, ‘we cannot recognise any river spirits. Our God is master of all; rivers and trees and stones. We have come to dispel these pagan notions, not support them. Can you help us?’

 

Their host laughed. ‘The river’s in flood,’ he pointed out, ‘we’ve had three weeks of rain – it’s ruining the corn. Anyway, there’s no crossing for another five miles, and that’s probably watched too. You’d better ask your God to help you out.’

 

‘It’s excellent mead,’ said Nestor, appearing to change the subject, ‘have you tried adding a little copper to the jars? My family in Gaul always do that.’

The old man nodded. ‘I’ve heard of it. My dad told me to look after the bees, and let it stand for three moons, and that’s all.’ He nodded again and cleared his throat. ‘If you need to cross, yet don’t fancy paying no toll, I can show you the place, not far away, but you’ll have to wait till evening. Too many nosey folk about.’

 

Nestor looked at Osbert for his opinion. ‘It seems we have no choice,’ said the tall man, putting down his cup. ‘ If we go north on this bank of the river we lose our road. We are in his hands.’

 

‘And in the Lord’s,’ Nestor reminded him sharply, and then turning to their host, and again speaking carefully, asked ‘what is your name, father?’

 

‘Emric’ he told them, with a rare smile, and showing a mouth nearly empty of teeth. ‘You must wait till dusk before we make a move. You can rest inside, but the horses will need to be staked in the bee-glade, to let them feed.’ As he disappeared to the side of the cottage Dunrin and Osbert led their horses back near the hives, while Nestor went indoors for a few minutes, until the stench of wood smoke forced him out again.

 

They spent the afternoon lying on a dryish patch of grass under an ash tree, trying to sleep, as the shadows around them slowly grew. By evening they were nearly dry, hungry and impatient to leave. ‘It feels like it’ll never get dark,’ complained Dunrin, who was sitting with his back to the trunk.

 

Nestor got to his feet. ‘We must pray for success tonight,’ he told them, ‘whatever happens we must get across.’

 

All three were on their knees when Emric arrived, carrying a bowl of soup. ‘Try my rabbit soup,’ he told them, ‘you’ll need all your strength tonight.’ When they had finished it and sipped a little more mead he sent them to collect their horses. ‘I’ll lead you to the crossing place,’ he told them. ‘Few people know it, but it’s handy for those that do. You’ll find wide stones just under the water, about a yard apart. You’ll get a better grip bare-foot, and lead the animals, they can swim if they have to.’

 

Nestor turned to him and said slowly and solemnly, as he raised the silver cross, ‘May the blessing of the Lord be upon you and yours, Emric, for your help in his holy work.’ Dunrin took hold of his hand and silently slipped some coins into his grasp. Emric face showed no reaction to either action, but he turned and led them through the shadowy trees towards the bank of the river, which turned out to be only a few minutes walk away.

 

When they reached the bank the Derwent’s flow seemed, if anything, to have got more powerful since that morning. Not only was it a rich brown colour, but branches and, in places, whole logs were being washed downstream, bouncing off rocks as they went. The horses restlessly pulled at their reins and neighed. ‘See that post opposite?’ asked Emric, pointing over the river. ‘Keep yourselves in line with that as you go.’ They could just make out a tree trunk, stripped of bark and branches, showing white opposite them.

 

All three travellers sat down to remove their leggings, and Dunrin was the first to get back on his feet. ‘Where’s he gone?’ he asked, looking round for Emric, who had vanished without a farewell.

 

Nestor shrugged. ‘He’s done what we asked; now it’s up to us. Osbert, you are the tallest, will you go first?’

 

Osbert, who had anticipated this, was already tentatively feeling with his foot for the first hidden stepping stone. When he had found it, he realised that the water was above his knee, and called urgently for the staff. Dunrin removed the precious cross and passed it quickly to him, as he was clearly finding it hard to keep his balance in the floodwater. Then Osbert used the staff to locate the next stone, and leapt heavily forward onto it. As Nestor and Dunrin watched him slowly and awkwardly move into the middle of the river both thought how they were shorter than him, and he was clearly struggling to stay upright against the force of the water.

 

‘We need staves too,’ Dunrin pointed out, and began hacking at a pollarded elm near the waterline. He was soon interrupted by a cry from other bank, but Osbert had fallen into shallow water near the edge and could be seen rising and waving at them. Dunrin handed a freshly-cut staff to his master. ‘You go next,’ he suggested. ‘I’ll send the horses over, then follow you.’

 

Although he had tied up his cloak, the water came half way up Nestor’s thigh. The strength of the current was fearsome, and his only support, the elm shoot, seemed puny. Chanting a favourite prayer to calm his nerves, he moved quickly to defy the water and shorten his ordeal. Near the middle, he stopped to catch his breath and marvelled that he was there at all, surviving in the heart of a wild flood. The next second a heavy floating branch had knocked him off the rock and into the deepest, fastest channel.

 

Both Osbert and Dunrin, on their respective banks, heard him shout briefly before he was carried under, and then nothing but the slow growl and snarl of the waters. Osbert was shocked at the feeling of helplessness that came over him; the speed at which Nestor had disappeared, and his total inability to do anything to help him. But the horses were already in the river, he had to go over some yards to encourage them to complete the crossing. Then having pulled the frightened animals onto the bank he watched Dunrin make the perilous journey, with the water virtually tugging at his waist.

 

Despite several slips and frights the servant, soaked and exhausted, finally reached Osbert, who embraced him fervently, sobbing for the loss of Nestor and the relief of their having survived, along with their animals and supplies. ‘We must pray,’ he gasped, ‘for our beloved brother, taken from us so suddenly and cruelly. How can we know if he is alive or dead?’ This was not part of the prayer, but showed Dunrin the confusion of his mind.

 

‘Master, it would be a true miracle if he survived this torrent. He may already be with the holy saints.’ Osbert felt that this was not a sound theological position, but had no enthusiasm for explaining that to Dunric. In fact, he was already considering whether he had the authority to elevate him to the priesthood – he had a keen mind and had learnt much in their month’s journey from the south.

 

Shivering with cold, Dunrin was searching for dry leggings in one of the packs. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we’ve crossed the Derwent, and paid no toll to the king. But it seems to me as if we’ve given something to the river spirits after all.’

 

Osbert looked at him sharply. The remark had been addressed more to the horse than to him, and he could not reprove the heresy, in the circumstances. The night was dark and they still had to find their road. But he would have to think again about an anointment. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘we must be on the road by daybreak.’

 

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