The ship docked at a bustling port that had recently opened up on the South East coast of England. This fenland was Mercia, a place of industry. The fens provided a welcome system of transport in an otherwise impassable part of the country. Salazar was bundled off the ship along with his new master's belongings, of which there were many. He set foot on slippery land; low, lethargic grass had tried to flourish, but the boggy conditions had proved too much for it. He slipped as he dropped from the gangplank onto firmer ground, slithering along until he stopped himself by hanging onto the rough-hewn jetty. The blonde-haired man, who was yet to give the young boy his name, had roared with laughter and exchanged a joke with the tall noble that had joined him at the harbour side. Salazar watched with interest as a young boy emerged from behind the unknown man's fine-embroidered cloak. Their eyes locked for a few moments and Salazar felt an unwelcome jolt of recognition, an indication of something shared.
He pulled himself to his feet and tried to rub the mud from his clothes, but he only succeeded in ingraining it even further into the tunic his benefactor had provided. Fine English soil mingled well with the warm ochre of the wool he wore, and he was rather proud of the patination he had created. When he looked up again, the man and the pale-faced boy had gone. He felt a shiver of antagonism towards this new land, this Elysium. Britannia had sounded so warm, so glittering. Perhaps there had been a mistake. Perhaps this was a stopping-off point on their journey. Surely the new world could not consist of this low mist that sagged over a wet and weary landscape. He shuddered at its heaviness, wishing there was more of his Himalayan wool to pull around him.
His new master was now crossing the jetty, long strides making little of the slippery wood. The now-familiar hand clapped him on the back and spoke in a language that Salazar did not understand. He had understood him back in Kabul, so why was it different now? Strange, guttural sounds came from the fine mouth and Salazar looked blankly on. His master misunderstood Salazar's incomprehension for wilful disobedience and clipped him around the ear with a heavily-jewelled hand. The little boy was sent spinning against the wooden cross-bars of the jetty. His dark eyes looked up at his master with ill-concealed hatred, the blow ripping from him the sense of wonder he had initially felt at this alliance.
"You child of the devil!" the man said, his tone taunting. "I brought you here because you had the makings of a man, and the eyes of a thief. Do not turn those eyes on them that would bestow upon you favours!"
Salazar resented the words, which he did not understand. He wanted to be off into the covetous mist, his heart telling him that he would be fare better without this man. Something in those blue eyes made his bowels quiver with trepidation, but he also recognised the power that wealth carried. His head, as it was destined to do so many times, won; he bowed low before the man and whispered the word he knew the man liked.
"Sire."
"I am your sire!" the man boomed, "and never forget it, child."
Salazar raised his face, meekness etched in every smooth curve of youthful skin.
But the blonde man was made jovial by being on familiar land and he squeezed his acquisition's shoulder with paternal pride. "And enough of this sire. You may call me your lord, Robert de Malfoi - ally of the current king." He glanced around him with piercing eyes. Once satisfied that the men offloading the ship where busy, he whispered in the young Salazar's ear, "But, young man, when my countrymen traverse the Manche and impose civilisation on these wretches – then we shall truly achieve greatness. You will be with me, and will benefit from my lands and monies."
Salazar understood the word money; it had been bandied about the Raven's Wing (a cursed name for a ship, he had thought) like a cheapened woman. It seemed to him that half the men on ship had it and the other half lusted after it, though he knew that they were all equal and some made bigger boasts than others. Many had been the time they had tried to bribe him into stealing the occasional jewel from his new master, and they had all failed. Salazar felt that the small gold pieces that they offered him were inferior and worthless. He remembered the gold that had circulated infrequently in his village; it had been brilliant and eternal, from Gaul. But that had been pre-Roman. Caesar had harmed the Gauls, plundered their wealth. The tales of Rome's misdeeds had come to him with his mother's milk – far-distant stories that had rung true in the young lad's ears. And yet, there was an air of Rome still clinging to this land. He shied away from the things he knew without foreknowledge; information was lodging itself in his mind and he knew not whence it came.
"Yon wherry awaits!" Robert boomed, and Salazar flinched at the bombast of the man. Must everything be shouted?
The wherry in question was a low-slung vessel that hugged the water as if it were a star-struck lover. Robert oversaw the loading of several chests, leaving Salazar to do much of the fetching and carrying. His light sandals were unsuited to the conditions; it only took a few journeys for a strap to break and he was left to stagger against the conditions with inequality on his feet. He kicked off the remaining sandal and let his toes claw against the rough oak with some determination. Robert saw this and was pleased. He had seen something in the face of the urchin that day in Kabul. He needed servants who were grateful to him, gratitude offered the ultimate commitment. Times were uncertain, allegiances easily broken by a better offer, but this boy had something in his face.
And the child had spoken with snakes.
Only one other man he knew had ever been able to do that, and that man had been at the harbour-side this day.
Edwin Gryffindor had always been an enigma, but Robert understood that such a man made a good ally. He entertained him, made him welcome within his household, favoured him above all others. There was something in the man that Robert knew would be useful, and the urchin would help him with that. He wondered, as he watched the boy struggled with a chest full of Lapis Lazuli, just how soon would be a decent interval before he introduced them. He did not know much about Edwin's child, Godric, but he knew that an enforced friendship between the children would not be a disadvantage.
Salazar curled up on the deck of the wherry, the wherry-man's dog fitting itself to the curve off his body as it too slumbered. Moving across the Broads, curlews flitted low, their mournful call following the travellers to their destination. Soft scents were coaxed from the fronds of plants that lined the waterways, and Salazar unconsciously absorbed them; becoming fully imbibed of his new land without even being aware of it.
By the time the boat had drawn level with a smaller jetty than the one they had recently left, Salazar had taken on board more English smells than he could have imagined: the rich smell of fermenting dung, the nose-crinkling odour of sap drawn from dying wood, water moved by many, and fenland herbs touched by the prow of the vessel. It all took root, replacing the spiced spell of his homeland.
He was hauled off the boat, the dog yelping as he was dragged over its slumberous form, and dumped on ground more solid than the shifting fen country.
"The river Granta," Robert said, with a nod to the swirling waters that eddied beneath a rough-hewn bridge.
Salazar blinked for a few minutes, his child's mind grasping at something. River had some familiarity, and Granta was of a language he had come across before. Could it be that this language was as easy as recognising the new and mixing it with the old?
"Take a pack on your back," his lord continued jovially. "The horses can only manage so much."
And it was bowed low by a huge package of cloth that Salazar Slytherin first caught a glimpse of the modest, yet substantial, manor that was to be the making of him. As his feet scythed through unruly paths, he looked up and saw a proper house for the first time – a house that would withstand even his unusual behaviour. Malfoi's manorial debut was a two-storied house on the banks of the river Cam, and Salazar knew at once that he would be at home there.