Chapter XXVII

 

The Year 1120

Rouen

 

Berold the butcher lashed his brand new leather cases securely to the donkey’s back along with a basket of provisions and a bedroll. All the merchants from the street as well as Berold’s friends and his parents’ friends had gathered in front of the butcher’s shop to see Berold off.

Papa handed him a long, thin box. “For you, son,” his father said. “You have earned them. You make me proud this day.”

Berold opened the box, gasping when he saw the glint of fine new knives. “Papa, these are wonderful!” He packed the box carefully in his kit.

“And now, my gift for you, my boy.” Berold’s mother sniffed. “I made it myself.” She held out a new cloak, fashioned from soft suede the color of rusty autumn leaves. The cloak was lined with thick white ram’s skin. Each stitch was so perfectly rendered you could hardly see the threads. “I was saving it for Christmas,” she said. “But now you will not be with us.” She burst into tears.

Berold swung the beautiful garment over his shoulders, turning in a circle so the crowd could admire it.

“It is a magnificent gift, Maman.” He smiled. “A cloak fit for the king himself.” He put his arm around her shoulder. “Now, Maman, you promised you would not cry.”

“I sewed pockets on the inside to protect your valuables from thieves and pickpockets. See? There are buttons to keep the pockets closed. You look so handsome. Alas, I shall never see my baby again.”

“Now, Maman,” her husband chided. “Our son is a man now.” He raised his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “My son Berold has become master of his craft and fit to work for the king!”

The crowd in the street applauded.

“Of course you will see me again, Maman. I will come home whenever I am given a holiday, and you and Papa can visit me in England,” Berold promised.

Berold kissed his mother’s wet cheeks affectionately. “Well, I must be off, then.” He hugged both his parents warmly.

“Godspeed, son,” his father said hoarsely. “Remember everything I taught you. And collect and send back to me the money Prince William Atheling and his nobles owe me.”

Berold grinned. “I will, Papa. I will do you proud.”

“You already have, son,” Papa said.

Berold led his donkey down to the end of the street of merchants, turning one last time to wave goodbye to his parents and all his old friends before setting out along the river road that headed west out of Rouen. He had a long journey ahead of him. For a short while children ran alongside, but finally some distance from the old city they fell away.

The young butcher wondered what adventures awaited him in the court of King Henry. Berold had never seen anything of the world beyond Rouen. His heart beat lightly in his chest. He whistled as he made his way along the road.

The colors of the day seemed bright and clear, the world more sharply in focus than ever before. Berold ran his hands along the soft suede of his cloak. Its sheepskin lining kept him warm and cozy in the crisp autumn wind. He smiled and greeted everyone he passed with a hearty, “Good morrow.”

It was a good day indeed, the most exciting day of the young butcher’s life. When Berold was hungry he found lovely spots overlooking the glistening waters of the Seine where he dug into the delicious provisions his mother had packed for him. He watched the barges and the ships on the river. Norman longboats and oddly-shaped ships from distant lands with colorful sails floated upriver toward Rouen and Paris. He wondered what far-off places they had sailed from and what trade goods they carried. Berold had never been on a boat before. He could hardly wait to cross the sea.

At night Berold spread a blanket on the ground, wrapped his sheepskin cloak about him, tucked his head inside its warm hood, and slept beneath the open sky. He had never seen so many shooting stars. He decided they must be an omen of good things to come, and he fell asleep each night counting them. Once he dreamed he followed a shooting star to the place where it landed and found there a golden chalice full of glistening stars.

Berold considered the donkey a fine companion, for the beast listened without complaint or contradiction as he voiced his rambling thoughts to pass the time. It was comforting to awaken each morning and see the sturdy animal standing there waiting patiently to set out on the dusty road again. Each morning the butcher patted his pockets to make sure his purse and his summons from the king were safe. Then he fed the donkey and had a bite of bread with some cold meat and cheese, and off they went.

In no time Berold’s legs and feet lost their stiffness, seeming to crave each day’s long walk. He wished the donkey could talk, for he wondered if the beast experienced the same honing of its muscles. Did the donkey’s knees get stiff? Did his hooves ache after a long day’s walk? Berold would never know, for the animal was stoic and silent, exhibiting none of the stubbornness peculiar to its species. It seemed content to walk by his side carrying its burden.

Beyond Rouen Berold found vast apple orchards and pastures full of grazing patch-eyed spotted cows. He bought fresh apples, milk, and cheese from the farmers and felt like he dined like a king. In the early morning he watched deer come down to the river to drink, and once he glimpsed a stag in the mist.

Berold and his donkey passed through a mosaic of woods and fields, ash trees and hedgerows bordering the forest until the fields widened and spread like a golden carpet around them, dotted with half-timbered thatch-roofed cottages. Storks nested on the rooftops where purple and yellow irises bloomed. In each village he refreshed his larder, adding good Norman cider to his diet and an occasional bowl of hardy stew.

The river meandered past reed beds, wetland prairies, and the peat bogs of a marsh, its banks lined with alders and willows. Berold watched storks and great herons wading gracefully along its banks seeking fish. He shared bits of his bread with the mallards that paddled right up to him, and rigged a fishing line that procured him a delicious dinner. He followed a pair of regal swans along the stream to a willow tree where he and his donkey rested in the shade. That afternoon they came to sun-drenched limestone hills full of wild orchids and thyme.

They rested again when the evening mists enveloped them, rising as the sun sent its early rays to evaporate the fog. Soon they would take the high road along the cliffs. Berold’s heart sang with the anticipation of beholding the sea for the first time, and he was not disappointed, for the sight took his breath away.

The great British Sea stretched to the horizon below him, impossibly endless, shining water. The white cliffs of the alabaster coast reflected the changing colors of sky and sea, from jade to indigo, no two moments the same.

“Berold rested his hand on the donkey’s neck and said, “What a wonderful world.” He freed the donkey of its burden and let it graze while he lay on his back and watched a seagull ride the air currents. He fell asleep in the sun, his dreams filled with the music of the pounding surf and the song of the sea birds.

When he had set out from Rouen, Berold the butcher had been impatient to reach his destination, but now he discovered unexpected joy in the rhythm of the journey.