Saxon: The Book of Dreams (Saxon 1) Read Free

effective way of putting them out of sight and mind.
    A more thoughtful expression appeared on Offa’s face.
    ‘What are his manners like?’ he asked, as though he was enquiring about the training and discipline of a house dog he was considering buying.
    ‘He should know his place among his betters,’ my uncle admitted grudgingly. ‘He was brought up in the great hall.’
    ‘Languages?’ This time the royal question was addressed directly to me.
    My tongue felt thick and dry in my mouth.
    ‘Only Latin,’ I mumbled.
    There was a long pause as Offa regarded me seriously.
    ‘Clean him up and find him some decent clothes,’ he announced finally. ‘Mercia has a better use for him.’
    ‘And what has the king decided?’ The question came from one of the royal councillors, a greybeard with the 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 winelas guma , a ‘friendless man’, living without protection, prey to all who would harm or exploit him. Yet for as long as I could remember, I had wanted to travel to foreign
lands and see how others lived. Here was my chance. Perhaps I would even find a place where I would feel less of an outsider and my mismatched eyes would not arouse such unease.
    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