JACK AND MO: Two young men. Two journeys. Two shipwrecks.

By Mark Freeman

Two young men. Two journeys. Two shipwrecks.

When the discovery of a Saxon sword hilt on an island off Helsinki is announced on the internet, Stuart Richardson, an unfulfilled museum curator recognises it could be a relic of the Battle of Hastings. But why so far away? If true it would change his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wordcarving
• Release date: Sep 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781739615116

Book preview

Two young men. Two journeys. Two shipwrecks.

Over 500 years between them but connected by a

unique object.

Can the discovery of a Saxon sword hilt on an island

off Helsinki really shed light on the Battle of

Hastings?

Stuart Richardson, a museum curator thinks so. But

is his judgement clouded . . . by being bewitched?

‘A haunting and richly textured novel that shows how the past informs the present. What has been lived may live with us still.’

Alan Judd, award-winning author of A Fine Madness

JACK AND MO

Mark Freeman

A picture containing shape Description automatically generated

First published by Wordcarving, 2022

Copyright © Mark Freeman, 2022

All rights reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, institutions, business establishments, companies, events or places is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-7396151-1-6

Cover design by Karen Wilks

Wordcarving.org

Contents

Part One

Jack 1

Jack 2

Jack 3

Jack 4

Jack 5

Jack 6

Jack 7

Jack 8

Jack 9

Jack 10

Jack 11

Jack 12

Jack 13

Jack 14

Jack 15

Jack 16

Jack 17

Jack 18

Jack 19

Jack 20

Jack 21

Jack 22

Jack 23

Jack 24

Jack 25

Jack 26

Jack 27

Jack 28

Part Two

Mo 1

Mo 2

Mo 3

Mo 4

Mo 5

Mo 6

Mo 7

Mo 8

Mo 9

Mo 10

Mo 11

Mo 12

Mo 13

Mo 14

Mo 15

Mo 16

Mo 17

Mo 18

Mo 19

Mo 20

Mo 21

Mo 22

Mo 23

Mo 24

Mo 25

Part Three

Stu 1

Stu 2

Stu 3

Stu 4

Stu 5

Stu 6

Stu 7

Stu 8

Stu 9

Stu 10

Stu 11

Stu 12

Stu 13

Stu 14

Stu 15

Stu 16

Stu 17

Stu 18

Stu 19

Stu 20

Stu 21

Epilogue

For Caroline and Ruby

The sun was low on this October morning, the light soft and yellow and it skimmed the rocks below the cliff as if refracted through a jar of honey. Shallow waves lapped the sand a hundred metres out, setting a hypnotic, tranquil rhythm. Deep shadows defined shapes on the surfaces of scattered plates of sandstone that littered the beach, displaced from the strata as the cliff succumbed to successive bites of erosion. A tilted plane of rock bore ripples identical to those ridges on the sand which are changed by the sea with each rise and fall of the tide, but this was created on a single day some ninety million years ago. Why that day? My mind drifted to the event which would have followed the outgoing tide that uncovered this fragile pattern, impressed by the waves into the sand. It surely must have been an inundation, sand and silt from inland suspended in river water rushing to the coast. Trapped in wide estuarine lagoons the particles slowly settled, finely filling each trough and surmounting each peak to produce a layer, subject to such later forces as to turn it into rock. Over how long did successive layers build up? Was the flood annual or rare? What else was trapped? My eyes caught hold of a lump, two feet wide, protruding from the flat surface of another sandstone boulder. Is that the shape of a toe angled to the body of a dinosaur foot? The impression made by one step several aeons ago, filled by silt, compressed into rock and then, as the crumbling cliff allowed it to break free, it fell and turned upside down on to the beach. There it stayed, like a death mask impression, not of a face but of the sole of the creature’s foot, and not made in the act of dying, but death may soon have followed with the catastrophe of the flood, capturing that step for all time. The spectre of death stalks the living.

I have always had a fascination with time. Nothing happens. Then something happens. Then nothing happens. Then something happens. The gaps can be minutes, a few generations, or many times the existence of humans on this planet. Sometimes when something happens it leaves a physical trace of that time, that event. This is what drew me into the study of history, the detective work around found objects, the construction of a story.

09.59…Ten o'clock. I turned the iron key in the lock of the heavy oak double doors and swung them open, light flooding in. Nothing happened. There was no queue of people, no flock of birds taking off, no lightning striking amid a wild storm. This was not unusual. Ten or twenty people on an average day may visit the museum, and often the first might not turn up until late morning. A school party sometimes pre-booked for an hour in the day, the anticipation of which was not necessarily to be relished. It took some skill to hold the attention of twenty twelve-year-olds, energised by their release from classroom shackles. A skill I felt I didn't possess.

Christine had doubts about my suitability to be the curator of a provincial museum. A first in history had led me into a postgraduate course, a PhD, and the desire for a future in the academic world. Early Medieval English history was my thing, but universities didn't seem enthused by my smattering of published papers when I applied for junior fellowships. The competition was just too great.

‘Look, I think in practical terms you've got to start looking at something else.’ Christine tried to raise my spirits after another rejection. There wasn't a lot I was qualified to do. The world of finance didn’t appeal, and I had seen too many teachers burnt out by the cruel dictators named protocol and bureaucracy. Then, scanning a newspaper website, an advert popped up. It seemed like a good match. My thesis had been on the aristocracy in pre-conquest southern England, and a museum not far from the site of that conquest needed a new curator.

The interview was a breeze. They seemed as desperate for a curator as I was for a job. Christine was not delighted, but stoically accepted the move down to the south coast. Her job as a teacher was transferable, and she found a post as deputy head at a school not far from the museum.

The museum's collection was diverse. It had been assembled over time from the donations of Victorian philanthropists who had gathered pieces according to what interested them, or what had turned up on their travels, the locals keen to sell. I walked in front of a dark glass cabinet, filled with arrangements of stuffed birds perched above small mammals. The next room had ethnographic exhibits, West African drums and a Hawai'ian Royal cloak made from the bright yellow feathers of a thousand tiny birds, now extinct. All interesting in their own way, but one thing was notably absent. There was not a single relic from the most momentous battle fought on English soil, where the Norman invaders had routed the English defenders. A battle which defined the identity of the English people.

Why was nothing found at the site of the battle? It had had archaeological surveys one after another, trenches dug, metal and bone sought. Other sites of battle in the country had yielded arrowheads, battle-axes, the long bones of horses and bits of armour from the thousands who died in medieval conflagrations. The absence of evidence was a glaring hole in the story of the conquest of England. It raised the question: has the search been in the right place?

These thoughts were fresh when I first arrived at the job. Their energy dissipated over time, and monotony dulled me. But that morning, after opening the doors and nothing happened, something happened. It started a trail that connected the lives of two young men, separated by over five hundred years, Jack and Mo.

Part One

Jack 1

A rope tightened then creaked as the breeze filled the sail. Dusk was falling and a lamp lit on the bow of the barge cast a skein of shadow deep into the empty hull. They were returning home after the last load of the day, timber, destined for the Low Countries, now on its way. Jack hung by one arm as he swung his way back along the rail. His other hand felt in his pouch to check it was still there. A lucky find. The sand had shifted exposing what looked like a piece of metal and he had reached down to pick it up. Turning it over the form took hold, and unmistakably settled as the hilt of a sword. The pommel was heavy to counterbalance a blade which had long disappeared, rusted and powdered away to a stump. Jack let his palm and fingers circle and grip where once a warrior had placed his, swinging this powerful weapon.

His master guided the vessel close to the shore and Jack vaulted onto the beach of the inlet. He made his way up the valley side, his route guided by a vast ancient oak, its complex of limbs, right angled elbows and knees, silhouetted against the darkening sky. Under the oak nestled a tiny one room cottage. He pulled aside the heavy door flap to enter. There was a faint glow from hearth, and the smell of still warm pottage left for him by his mother Ann who was already asleep next to his wheezing father Thomas. Jack filled his stomach, settled down and drew a blanket over his aching body. An owl called close by, tooting for a response. Not the call and response he had sometimes heard rhythmically chanted from the church in the village. No, this call didn't guarantee a response; there was tension in the pause, a future still uncertain. After five moments, or was it fifteen, or even fifty, he heard a return call from a distance. Somehow that gave him hope.

Watery light broke through the darkness as the next day was announced. The cock had been busy with practice crowing for some minutes, but it was this final blasted one that stirred Jack. The cottage sat halfway up the valley side, next to a pond, and from there you could look across the top of a veil of early morning mist obscuring the valley bottom and the tidal waters beneath, towards the woods that covered the side opposite. Oak, ash, beech, birch and thorn. And some hazel. Dense woodland covered this part of southern England, the trees so close together that in places it was said that a horse could not be steered through. Impenetrable, it had been known since ancient times as the waste of Anderida. A place where fugitives could hide from the justice of the courts, and where fairies and pixies could dwell, the bubble of their existence unpunctured by the lancet of church and God. But now Man's appetite was eating into the forest. Trees were felled and turned into beams and planks for export to Flanders and Holland where a good price was paid for building materials. The oak with its great strength combined with its angled limbs was perfect for shipbuilding. Smaller branches were cooked into charcoal, and then smelted with the red earth that underlaid the forest floor to produce a glowing flow which cooled into pigs of iron.

Jack had escaped the forge and foundry, with its noise and smoke and heat. After rising he watched the mist in the valley disperse to be slowly replaced by wisps and trails from the scattered iron workings opposite. A few months working there was enough, and when his father had talked to the barge master, he leapt at the chance to be a ship's boy. He yearned for adventure, and this could be a route away from the suffocating atmosphere of home.

Ann was already awake and mustering a meagre fire from last night's embers. Her normally plump cheeks had been diminished by the privations of midwinter.

‘Father's bellows are bad,’ she announced. ‘Got worse while you were up and down on the water yesterday.’

Thomas was leaning forward, hawking up what phlegm would shift. His heavy working days were behind him, but he could just manage the acre given to him by old Master Yates by way of pension for his long service on the land. Yates also helped at this time of year with supplementing the dwindling stores from last year's harvest.

‘I'll have to see what Marion's got for that cough,’ Ann added.

‘Don't worry, I'll go over there presently,’ said Jack.

Widow Marion lived on the other side of the pond, in a wooden lean-to, backed up against a sandstone outcrop. She had been the midwife to the village, and had attended Ann through five labours, five lifeless babies. Then came Jack, crying and squalling to everyone’s delight.

Jack slipped out of the cottage and squatted by the pond, first checking there was no one looking. He pushed up on his pouch and out came his treasured find. He swirled it in the water, then with his fingernails picked at the encrustations of sand and ancient mud. The round pommel at the end of the handle showed metal in places as the dirt came off, grey and yellow and then, fixed centrally, an egg shape smooth beneath his fingers, going from brown to deep red. This must be stone not metal. Could it be a precious stone? A ruby? Why, this must be worth something, he thought. A blackbird's egg size at least. There had been talk in the village, passed down through many lifetimes that a great battle had been fought close by, but nothing had been found and the story had dwindled. This must have come from a knight's sword, or even a king's.

He quickly put it back in his pouch and then inside his tunic as Ann and Thomas emerged from the cottage.

‘I'll go over and talk to Marion and see what she's got for father,’ he said over his shoulder as he hurried away, concealing his newfound treasure and anxious not to reveal what his face might tell.

On the other side of the pond the path rose slightly as the land along the valley side led up towards the village. Past a rocky outcrop he found Marion tipping out a bucket of slops surrounded by chickens clucking and competing for any titbits. She saw Jack and waved as he approached. Always a favourite, he got his hair ruffled as a greeting. Most villagers thought Marion a wise woman, but some said she was cunning, a worker of spells. Tall and not without admirers, she had never remarried after her much older husband had died soon after they were wed. The small plot of land he left her gave her enough to barter for a reasonable existence. Also, her wisdom had value and she received gifts in payment for her help with confinements and illness. She could see through Jack; he was not quite his steady self.

‘Father's ailing today, it's his chest again.’ Jack came directly to the point. Not wanting to linger too long he edged from foot to foot.

‘He had that cough last winter too, it'll see him off if he's not careful.’ She retreated into her cottage. ‘I've got some pennyrile here, not fresh mind, not at this time of year. And some thyme, that should help clear his phlegm.’ He waited at the threshold while she rummaged in the dim light, then she emerged with two bunches of dried herbs. ‘Tell Ann to put these in hot water and your father can breathe the vapour with a cloth over his head. Then he can drink the liquor.’

Marion didn't challenge Jack's awkwardness. He was a youngster not yet of age, but she knew he had something to hide. What boy didn't?

Jack trotted back down the path and, where the woods got dense, he veered off between the trees. A few yards in it was as though the universe had changed. In summer the green filtered light had a quality of being underwater, but this was winter, and irregular squeaks and squeals pierced the air as the tall bare trunks rubbed against one another, rocked by the chill wind. A bird let out an alarm call, detecting his human presence. Jack was nervous, burdened by the responsibility of finding a hiding place for his new possession, somewhere no one else could know about. He looked around to check he hadn't been followed. A squirrel's beady eye met his for a second, then it scurried in a flash up the trunk. What are you up to? He felt questioned. The ground wouldn't do, too easy for someone to stumble across, too hard for him to find again. He saw a large oak tree, three massive branches separating just above head height. He hauled himself up into the tree and crouched in the bowl between the branches. It was filled with twigs and decaying leaves. No one could see this nest from the ground, he thought, as he carefully scraped a hole and placed his precious treasure in it, then covered it over. He jumped down and marked the tree with backward glances as he zigzagged round root and stump back to the path, his step a bit lighter than before.

Jack 2

The barge master looked angry as Jack’s rush made him slide onto the jetty.

‘Come for the ride, have you? You've missed the loading.’ Jack tried to explain about his father’s illness, but the master was already casting off, and Jack helped raise the single sail. The westerly wind was behind them, and it wouldn't take long to get to the port. They kept pace with the clouds above as the wooded sides of the valley passed behind. Jack's eyes sought the spot on the shore where he found his treasure; there would be no time for more searching today. The inlet broadened to an estuary, wide and shallow with salt pans to the left, and on the right, as they approached, a town grew in scale. Tower, church and windmill sat atop a hill which was ringed like a crown by the masts of ships moored along the strand. In the distance he could see men straining to hoist barrels of wine from inside the hulls then heaving as they rolled them uphill to be stored in the cellars of wealthy merchants, awaiting onward passage around the kingdom. The timber port was further round, and as they came alongside Jack skipped onto the quay to tie up. A land crew was waiting and helped with unloading the lumber. Job done, the master was keen to get off and snarled irritably at Jack. Everyone knew he had a daytime assignation in the town with a woman of easy virtue. It gave Jack an hour to wander. He walked along the strand looking at faces leathery, tanned by sea, salt and wind. These men had seen foreign lands Jack could only dream of. Snatches of conversation about deals and cargoes, ports just visited and those next to visit, storms that threatened and days becalmed excited him and attracted him to a future away from this grey land. The guttural accent of the Flemish tongue was here and there, brought by ships from Antwerp, a port he had heard was rich from the trade of goods conveyed to and received from all parts of the world. And he had heard that a good price could be paid for a gemstone there.

‘What are you staring at?’ A man spat on the ground in front of him.

‘I think I want to go to Antwerp,’ Jack answered hesitantly as he came to from his reverie, not sure whether it was the right thing to say.

‘Well Antwerp is a fine place, but not the only fine place you can go to. There's a captain in the Ship Inn looking for a cabin boy. Why don't you go and offer yourself up?’

The inn was three streets away. He passed a line of pilgrims ascending steps from a cellar marked by the sign of the seashell where they had lodged overnight. Embarking on the way of St James, to Santiago de Compostela in Spain, fear was etched on their faces. Today would be their first sea journey.

Inside the inn it was dark and reeked of ale. A little light came round the side of the cloth that covered the doorway, but otherwise only the flame from a single candle played toward the back wall. Faintly illuminated, sitting on a bench behind a rough wooden table, were two men. It was hard to make out their faces at first, but while Jack's eyes were adjusting, he could hear one of them murmuring rhythmically. He was shifting coins from one pile to another.

The other man's eyes lifted to Jack, and he raised a hand indicating, don't make a noise. Jack stood uncomfortably until they reached a climax with a loud thirty shillings. Jack decided to wait until they were ready to acknowledge him, and that took another minute or two of ale being swilled and congratulatory guffawing. When they settled, the man who had done the counting turned his eyes to Jack, the laughter in them replaced with a stern gaze. He was waiting for Jack to tell him his business.

‘I was told down at the quay that the captain of a ship for Antwerp might be in this inn.’

‘You're brave for a lad. And what business would you be having in Antwerp?’ the captain retorted.

Jack didn't know how to respond to such a direct question. Any answer could lead to suspicion that he was harbouring a secret.

‘I'm looking for adventure, and it seemed a good place to start,’ he replied a little hesitantly, but he felt pleased he had dodged a sword thrust.

‘Oh, we can give you adventure all right.’ The captain laughed, winking at his mate. ‘But we're not headed directly for Antwerp. Given a fair wind we might make it there, but first we'll be visiting the town of London.’

Jack felt deflated. But they would be going to Antwerp in due course, so maybe this could be the voyage for him.

‘We can do with another hand. What experience on the water have you had?’ Jack told them he was a boy on the log barges. ‘Oh, it'll be a bit more up and down where we're going,’ the captain joked. ‘We're casting off with the tide in the morn.’

Jack rushed back to the timber port, fearful of what course he may have set himself. He just beat his barge master to the gangplank, and they untied for the return journey upstream along the inlet.

Jack walked over to Marion's cottage that afternoon. She had known him all his life, and he felt he had to tell someone of his plan. If he told his parents, they would use every trick to dissuade him from leaving, but he knew this was the right thing for him to do. It would be better for him to return rich than spend his life ferrying logs.

Marion was in her garden.

‘On the morrow I may be going on a journey.’ Jack came directly to the point.

‘And where might that be to?’ Marion barely raised her head as she continued hoeing.

‘I'll be going abroad to foreign lands.’

‘Oh.’ Marion stopped and looked directly in his eyes. ‘And who'll be looking after your elders?’

Jack had already thought of this.

‘If I get rich on my travels then I can give them what they deserve in their old age when I return. They are young enough to be safe for the next year or two.’ He had decided not to tell Marion of his treasure.

‘Well, let's hope they last. You can't stop a young man from his adventures. Don't worry, I'll keep them under my gaze.’ Marion turned to look at Jack. Who would have thought that that screaming baby who was such a poor suckler would have turned into this strapping youth with his mop of curly brown hair? He had been slow to speak and remained hesitant. Tongue tied as they said. When he was new-born, she had put her little finger into his mouth to see if she could break the tight chord. But it made no difference. Even though he was approaching manhood she still feared for how he might get on in the wider world. She put the hoe down and clutched him to her chest for one last time, hiding a tear behind his back.

On his return Jack veered off the path into the woods, retracing his steps of the previous evening. He climbed up to the bowl of the oak and was relieved to find the hilt as he had left it. He felt the weight of it, his hand