Frankish Burgundy
716 AD
A
rledge stared with envy at the saddlebags draped across the back of his donkey, each containing half of the precious cargo in his charge. He had carefully unstitched the binding back home, splitting it into two equal halves, thus spreading the load the poor beast would carry.
He only wished it could carry him as well.
It might, at least for short distances, yet he couldn’t risk the poor creature’s health. If it should falter, he would be forced to lug all the supplies it now carried, and his mission would be doomed.
If only I didn’t have to keep pace.
His instructions from Ceolfrid had been clear. He must keep up. Yet it was an impossible task. Surely Ceolfrid had been aware of this. Though despite his doubts, each day he arrived at his destination, exactly one day behind his friends, each day met with tales of the monks and their precious Bible destined for Rome.
It had taken him quite a while to realize it was Ceolfrid spending time showing off the Bible that had allowed him to keep pace. Barely. Despite his abbot’s deliberate delays, at the end of each day, he would arrive aching from head to toe, his feet, toughened after weeks of travel, still taking a beating. His brothers along the way had been generous, providing him with fresh clothes and new footwear when needed, and he was tempted to ask if a sturdier beast might be possible at his next stop. Though the animal had served him well, and still did, he could tell the journey was taking its toll on her.
She was slowing, albeit slightly, but every moment lost made his journey that much more difficult, especially considering his friends had horses and a cart.
He would have to switch the ass out for another if possible.
Too bad I can’t switch out my own.
He chuckled, rubbing his sore buttocks, when the pounding of hooves behind him sent his heart racing. He turned to see six men on horseback galloping down the road toward him, their dress suggesting either men of means, or the servants of those with. They slowed and he stopped, guiding his donkey to the side of the narrow road to make way.
“Is he whom we seek?” asked one of the men.
“It can’t be. We were told to look for six monks, not one.” The lead man rode past him then turned around, blocking Arledge’s path. “Do you travel alone?”
Arledge’s spoken Frankish wasn’t perfect, though it was better than most of his countrymen. He had been taught to read and write when he was young, his aptitude recognized early, languages such as Latin and Frankish voraciously consumed. All languages that would help him on his journey. He patted his donkey. “This poor beast is my only traveling companion.”
The man cursed. “Have you seen a group of your brothers, a party of perhaps six, on this road?”
Arledge’s pulse pounded in his ears. “I’m afraid I have not.”
“Let’s go!” The man turned his horse and the party pounded off into the distance, soon out of sight, leaving Arledge frozen in place as he struggled to control his breathing. Who these men were was of little importance. Their intentions, however, were. Were they eager to see the Bible for themselves? Or were they motivated by something else, something more nefarious? As much as he’d wish he could have faith in the general good of his fellow man, he had seen little evidence in his lifetime to think such desires were likely. He had no doubt these men meant to steal the Bible his friends were transporting, and to do so, that likely meant killing them.
He climbed on his donkey, urging it forward, praying for the Lord to give them both the strength to do some good before it was too late.
