Blood of the South Page 16

  She allowed her mind to slide off into a happy daydream. It was the only comfort she had.

  After a time, shivering suddenly as the temperature began to drop, she moved away from the window, allowing the heavy hanging that covered it at night to swing into place. She paced up and down the room, eyes roaming over the luxurious bed, the heavy, colourful tapestries lining the walls and the fresh rushes on the clean flags of the floor. Would her new home be like this? Harald had implied as much, and her impression had always been that his home in the country of his birth had been sumptuously luxurious.

  Oh, she thought, oh, how I long to be there.

  She had paid a price: a huge price. Allowing herself just for an instant to think the unthinkable, she wondered what would become of her if that price proved to be all for nothing.

  But straight away her mind screamed out in protest. Stop!

  She could hear voices in the great hall. The servants were starting on the preparations for the evening. There would be the meal – they ate well here – and perhaps an entertainment. One evening, there had been singing. Another time, someone had told stories. A polite invitation was always issued to Rosaria to join the household, but usually she declined. Food was brought to her room, and she would listen to the sounds of merriment which she could not share.

  She wandered across to a large wooden chest that stood against the far wall. A lamp stood on it, and, stooping, she lit a spill from the glowing fire in the little hearth and set it to the lamp’s wick. A pool of brilliance spread out, and a ray of light struck the shiny surface of the mirror that had been put down beside the lamp.

  It had been kind of Lady Emma to supply it. Rosaria never carried a mirror, and would have refused the offer if she’d dared. It was a handsome object. The reflecting surface was a plate of brass, highly polished, in size perhaps the width of a hand with the fingers widely spread. This plate was set into a piece of beautifully carved cherry wood, which formed the handle. It was a costly, luxurious item. Rosaria recognized and loved fine quality.

  She stood quite still, staring down at the mirror. In the short time that she had been a guest at Lakehall, she had stood like that many times before, for the mirror was always on her mind and she could not forget it.

  It was a constant, agonizing temptation.

  You must not look, they had told her.

  She knew they were right; she understood the consequences of disobedience. They meant it for her own good, for she would suffer if she yielded.

  She watched as her hand stretched out towards the mirror’s handle. She saw her long fingers close around it, and her eyes widened in alarm.

  Her free hand was clutching at her veil, unfastening the ties that held it so firmly and permanently in place. She never removed it when there was even the remotest chance that anyone could see her face. When she took it off as she went to bed, she replaced it with a close-fitting cap which merged into a high-necked collar, and the collar included a fold of the same soft fabric that could be drawn up over her mouth and nose.

  Do not let them see you.

  The mantra was so deeply entrenched in her that it had become a part of her.

  Her fingers were on the veil, slowly, gradually drawing it away from her face, pulling at the ties so that the veil inched slowly downwards. Now it was under the bridge of her nose. Now it was halfway down, and in the lamplight she could clearly make out the curve at the top of a deeply etched nostril. She gave a little gasp.

  She felt as if something outside herself was forcing her hand. Making her act, when everything in her cried out Stop! The veil had caught on the tip of her nose, and, in a sudden, violent movement, she tore it away.

  She stared into her own deep, dark eyes. She watched as the tip of her pink tongue wet her full, beautifully shaped lips.

  She took a deep breath and looked herself full in the face.

  Then she began to weep.

  TWELVE

  For perhaps the fourth or fifth time, Thorfinn eased aside the heavy awning that turned a small boat into a reasonably comfortable refuge and stared into the deepening darkness. Then, climbing up on to the bank, he stood and breathed in the night air. He realized he might well be looking out for somebody who wouldn’t turn up; there was no certainty, and his expected guest had only said maybe. He had a long way to come, and timing could never be precise when it depended on currents, tides and winds.

  Nevertheless, Thorfinn kept on looking.

  Eventually, when night had fallen and bright stars were beginning to appear in the black sky, he heard the sound he had been listening out for. With a smile, he jumped up on the bank once more, and, bending over the small brazier that stood on the bank, poked up the fire and put water on to heat. His visitor would undoubtedly be cold, hungry and thirsty. Thorfinn knew which of those needs would be the most urgent. As he heard soft footfalls on the narrow track that led to where the little boat was concealed, he drew out from under his cloak a silver flask of mead.

  He smiled again. It was very fine mead, made by his own kinswomen back at home, and he kept a barrel of it stowed away in the prow of the boat. It would warm his guest better than the little fire and the hot food.

  ‘It’s me,’ a deep voice said softly.

  Thorfinn hurried forward and took him in his arms in a bear hug. Then, as the two men broke apart, he thrust the silver flask into his visitor’s hand. ‘Drink, son,’ he said. ‘I will prepare food. Then, when you are restored, we will talk.’

  And Einar, with a swift grin at the wisdom of his father’s priorities, stepped on to the boat, sank down on to the narrow bench that ran around its sides and proceeded to drain the flask.

  Quite a short time later, when Einar had wolfed down the savoury porridge and gnawed his way through the strips of dry cured meat, he wiped a large hand across his beard and moustache, turned to Thorfinn and said, ‘Is there more of the mead? It’s particularly good.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ Thorfinn reached over to the barrel, deftly filling the flask from it. He watched Einar take another couple of mouthfuls, then, unable to restrain his impatience any longer, said, ‘You have news?’

  Einar nodded. ‘Yes. I waited, just where you suggested, anchoring at Gotland, close to Visby. You reasoned that the returning crew we sought would put in there, and you were right. For many days and weeks, there was no word of them. Others arrived, but few from the right place.’ He grinned ruefully. ‘My crew began to complain that we were wasting our time and because I could not tell them the true reason for our mission, I was at times hard put to explain why we must not yet leave. But, in the end, Yngvar came.’ He gave his father a rueful look. ‘You judged your old friend and confidant astutely, Father.’

  ‘And he had news of Skuli?’

  ‘Yes. He told me Skuli had reached Miklagard, making amazing time. He must have driven his men to the limits of endurance, and, in addition, had extraordinarily good fortune with the winds and tides. They say he managed to cover the many miles of portage in record time – not much over a week, although I find that hard to believe. Apparently he paid out very generously for the strongest ox teams and the toughest men.’

  ‘What of the rapids?’ Thorfinn demanded. ‘Those seven cataracts are no place for reckless speed; not if you want to reach the far end with your ship and your crew intact.’

  ‘He didn’t,’ Einar said shortly. ‘He lost three crewmen. They say he was reluctant to leave the water and waste time carrying the ship around the obstacles and only did so at the waterfalls, where there was no alternative. He took that fine ship of his straight down the rapids, and it was only because he is such a fine mariner – or maybe because he was so desperate – that he did not come entirely to grief.’ He was watching his father intently. With a soft exclamation, he leaned closer, studying the fine old features in the gentle light of the oil lamp. ‘This is not news to you,’ he breathed. ‘Is it?’

  ‘I suspected, but I needed confirmation,’ Thorfinn replied.

&n
bsp; ‘Why did you suspect?’

  Thorfinn turned away. Then, keeping his face averted, he said, ‘Because of the shining stone.’

  Einar grabbed at Thorfinn’s sleeve, turning him round so that once more they were face to face. ‘She’s mastered it? Already?’

  ‘No, oh, no. That would be far too much to expect. She has a long way to go.’ Thorfinn paused. ‘She begins to have glimpses, it seems. She can—’

  Einar shook his head impatiently, and the small coins braided into the two long plaits either side of his face clinked together. ‘I don’t care what she can and can’t do. Just tell me what she saw.’

  ‘She knew, somehow, that Skuli had reached Miklagard. She also knew he had lost men.’

  Einar gave an impatient snort. ‘That much she could have guessed. She is not stupid.’

  ‘She is very far from stupid,’ Thorfinn countered swiftly. He raised his eyes, studying his son. Still you do not welcome her, this new kinswoman of ours, he thought. He had been about to reveal what else Lassair had seen in the stone, but something held him back. ‘There was more news of Skuli?’ he asked instead.

  Einar shrugged. ‘He is a driven man, they say, but we already know that. Yngvar reported that he would have to contain his impatience, however, for he would have had to remain in Miklagard for some time. His recklessness at the rapids damaged his ship and, although they managed to patch it up enough to complete the journey south, even Skuli would not risk going on without a fully sound vessel. And he would have needed more hands to replace those lost.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s amazing, given all that has happened, that his crew remain loyal to him. Were they not, they’d surely have slipped away on reaching Miklagard and left him to his madness.’

  ‘Perhaps they share his dream,’ Thorfinn murmured.

  Einar shot him a glance. ‘What dream?’

  Still Thorfinn was not ready to share his deepest thought. ‘How is the situation in Miklagard?’ he asked. ‘The city’s enemies are close, I believe, and I imagine the emperor is anxious for the safety of his city.’

  ‘Yes, there is much unrest, apparently,’ Einar said. ‘It’s the Seljuks, they say. Miklagard used to be a city where it didn’t matter what a man believed or what faith he practised. Its main purpose was trade, and it has always been one of the great meeting places of merchants from east and west, north and south. Now, though, those newly converted Turks want everyone to share their fervour, which makes men of different beliefs anxious. There was an attack on the Jewish quarter in the spring of this year, and many were killed. Then, early in the summer, a series of ferocious conflicts between Christians and Muslims began, from which the city hasn’t yet recovered, or, at least, hadn’t when Yngvar left.’

  Thorfinn sighed. ‘It was, I suppose, only to be expected,’ he said heavily. ‘The presence of an enemy on the doorstep cannot make life easy. And the heat of a southern summer shortens tolerance, so that a man may pick a quarrel with a neighbour over some matter he would usually ignore.’

  ‘That is true,’ Einar agreed. ‘Although the worst riot was sparked off by a specific act of brutality: the murder of a much-loved local character.’

  ‘Did Yngvar have the whole story?’

  ‘Most of it. The inhabitants were deeply shocked by what happened to the man – he was a Muslim doctor – and the city was still reeling. According to Yngvar, it was still the main talking point several weeks later.’

  ‘This doctor must indeed have been popular,’ Thorfinn observed.

  ‘He was a good man, who treated rich and poor alike and only asked in payment what a patient could afford,’ Einar said. ‘Moreover, he was totally impartial, reasoning that someone who was sick or in pain needed help, no matter in which way he chose to worship God.’

  ‘He sounds like a saint,’ Thorfinn said wryly. ‘I wonder if he was really as pure and godly as the talk made out, or whether his demise has elevated his reputation.’

  Einar shrugged. ‘I have no idea,’ he said. He glanced at his father. ‘Being more concerned with finding out about Skuli, which was what you told me to do, I didn’t think to ask Yngvar what he thought about this dead doctor.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Thorfinn said, his tone placating. ‘And please do not think I am unappreciative. You have done just what I asked, and I am glad to see you safely returned.’

  Einar snorted. ‘I was hardly going into danger, sailing into the Baltic and back.’

  Thorfinn reached out a hand and lightly touched his son’s thick upper arm. ‘I know you wanted to pursue Skuli all the way to Miklagard. I had my reasons for commanding you otherwise, and I stand by them.’

  ‘But you’re still not going to tell me what they are,’ Einar said bitterly, pulling his arm away.

  ‘I—’

  Suddenly Einar stood up, although, in the confined head room under the sheltering awning, he could only manage a half crouch. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t ask you again,’ he said coldly. Then, pushing aside the heavy fabric, he jumped out on to the bank. ‘I’m going back to my ship,’ he said. His face was full of anger.

  Thorfinn struggled to his feet. But his old bones had stiffened from sitting so long in the confines of the boat, and it was several moments before he was up on the bank and staring after his son. ‘Einar!’ he called. ‘Please, come back.’

  He waited a long time. Einar did not return.

  Thorfinn retreated back beneath the awning. Moving slowly and deliberately, his distress at his son’s abrupt departure echoed in his lethargy, he made his preparations for the night. When he was snug in his bed roll, he extinguished the lamp.

  In the darkness, he forced his mind away from thoughts of Einar. He knew he would not sleep otherwise. Instead, he thought about Lassair. Hrype had said she was reluctant to look into the shining stone when she believed she was doing so at another’s behest. She wanted to make her own relationship with it; She treats it like a friend, Hrype had said.

  Thorfinn was filled with conflicting emotions. He was overjoyed that what he had so hoped had turned out to be true, and that the granddaughter of his blood had inherited her forebears’ ability with the precious object. But he was also concerned. He of all people knew what the stone could do once it had weaved its way into your mind.

  He turned over, trying to get more comfortable. He worried at the problem for a while, realizing that it was just as capable of keeping him awake as thinking about Einar. Frowning in the darkness, he focused his mind and concentrated hard until, eventually, he saw what he should do next.

  With a smile, he closed his eyes and drifted into sleep.

  Rollo woke up to find himself in a narrow, hard but clean bed in a shady room that felt pleasantly cool. He turned his head slightly – even the careful movement sent a wave of vertiginous nausea through him – and looked towards the source of the light. Heavy shutters had been closed across the one little window, deeply set high up in the whitewashed stone wall, but a few rays of the brilliant sunshine filtered in through gaps in the slats. He could hear sounds of everyday activity from outside, although they were faint and possibly quite distant.

  The room was small and sparsely furnished. Apart from the bed he lay on, there was a low table on which was a lacquered tray of small jars and bottles; a tall blue jug; a cup and a bowl of water, on the rim of which was a piece of wrung-out cloth, neatly folded. Beyond the table was a stout wooden door. There was a large keyhole beneath the door latch, but no sign of the key. Without a doubt, the key was on the other side, and he was locked in. He tried to get off the bed to go and check, but instantly felt so dizzy and weak that he had to give up. A wave of heat ran through him, and he felt sweat break out on his skin. Not fully well yet, then.

  He lay back, his thoughts racing. Sunshine … It was daytime, then. But which day? How long had he been there? And then, urgently, Why am I still alive?

  He tried to reason himself out of the terrible anxiety. His last memory had been of someone strangling him, and, thinking b
ack, he thought he could feel again that iron-hard arm thrust around his throat. The voice in his ear had muttered, I shouldn’t go out there if I were you. Blackness had come down, and he had fallen. He had been trying desperately to get somewhere, and he had an important task to do. He remembered that much, but, try as he might, there was nothing more.

  They had caught up with him. Someone, perhaps one of the emperor’s officials or one of the spies who would constantly feed information, had received word of him. A stranger acting as he had done – making his sly way into the company of the Varangian guards, asking questions, moving on to search out other members of the emperor’s household – was always likely to arouse suspicion. He’d had a very good reason for trying to find someone who had the ear of the emperor, and what he had to impart to Alexius would have been welcome; Rollo was certain of that. But he appreciated now that he had underestimated the climate of suspicion and fear within the city. It was really not the moment to try to creep in unannounced.

  So, one of the shadowy men sent to follow and apprehend him had succeeded. He wondered again why he wasn’t dead: they’d found their spy, so wouldn’t the next step have been to execute him at once, before he had the opportunity to pass on whatever he had discovered?

  Then a horrible realization dawned.

  They hadn’t killed him yet because they wanted to find out what he knew. When he’d been caught, he’d been sick with fever and delirious, and presumably they had decided there was no point in trying to interrogate him until he was in his right mind. To that end, they had cleaned him up, mended his wound – he put experimental fingers up to the cut on his upper arm, feeling the rough edges of several stitches – and nursed him while the fever slowly burned itself out.