Land of the Silver Dragon Page 16

  He lay back on the soft silk, gazing out through the decor-ated archway on to the plain far below. The castle was well sited, affording views in every direction. Not that attack was likely now, since the island’s Saracen rulers had conceded defeat three years ago. The mood was, as far as Rollo could tell from the short time he had been there, one of resignation, just beginning to border on content. Count Roger Guiscard, it was rumoured, was ruling his new territory wisely, retaining many of the administrative methods that had worked well for his predecessors, both Byzantine and Muslim. Trade was flourishing, and people were making money. In Rollo’s experience, little was better guaranteed to make men settle down under a new ruler than more money in their purses.

  He took another sip of his drink, revelling in the feel of sunshine on his back. For the first time in weeks, he was clean, having indulged himself extensively with hot, scented water in the baths. He was dressed in new clothes – a gift to celebrate his homecoming – and he was still enjoying the novelty of rich silk against his skin. The various small hurts of a long journey were healing, and, no longer having to watch his back, he could allow the tension of perpetual vigilance to seep away.

  He thought back to what – who – had sent him south. The king, of course; always the king.

  Here, so far away, he was able to consider the nature of King William with detached, impartial eyes. Increasingly, men spoke of him as if he was no more than a short, fat fool presiding over an increasingly debauched court; a man who was fond of jokes and silly japes, prone to fits of temper that reduced him to stammering impotence, and more concerned with grooming his long hair and wavering over which pair of ridiculously long-toed shoes to wear that day than with vital affairs of state. It was understandable, for the king appeared to cultivate that image, playing up to it by surrounding himself with fashionable, frivolous, fatuous young men who, according to the most malicious of the gossips, inclined only to their own sex.

  Was it all subterfuge? Rollo believed it was. He had seen the sharp, calculating intelligence behind the facade; he knew that William was far from being a fool. Perhaps, like the Emperor Claudius, he chose to conceal his true nature behind an amiable, shallow exterior. It fitted with an expression Rollo had heard his own formidable father use: never permit those who would judge you to perceive your true nature.

  Leaning back into the accommodating silk cushions, Rollo went back in his mind over the missions he had carried out for William. Each had been deeply clandestine; receiving his orders in secret, Rollo had obeyed them in a similar manner. Very few people, he was sure, would ever begin to suspect some of the things he had done for his king.

  And that, of course, was why he was now here, back in the country of his birth, letting the sun warm and relax him while the potently alcoholic drink in the beautiful crystal glass slid gently down this throat ...

  He remembered every detail of that secret meeting with King William. The two of them had been alone, although, aware of the king’s careful habits of self-preservation, Rollo was in no doubt that armed guards would have been close by, ready to rush to the king’s side should William so much as raise an ironic, aristocratic eyebrow.

  It had been just before Easter that the king had summoned him. Plunging straight to the point – as, in Rollo’s experience, he usually did – William said, ‘You have kin in Sicily?’

  ‘I have, sire,’ Rollo agreed.

  The king waved an impatient hand, clearly inviting him to expand on his brief answer. ‘Go on. Guiscards, yes?’

  ‘Yes. My late father was a distant cousin of Robert and Roger.’

  ‘Roger Guiscard, now styling himself Count Roger of Sicily.’ It was a statement. Knowing the king as he believed he was beginning to, Rollo was not surprised that he had such facts at his fingertips. ‘Now that the last Saracen stronghold has fallen,’ William went on, ‘the Normans hold the whole island. Roger rules Sicily, and Robert holds the southern mainland. They have Malta too. Between them, those adventurous Normans are steadily expanding their control over the sea lanes and the trade routes of the whole area.’

  Rollo detected a note of admiration in the king’s voice. ‘They have ... achieved their goal, sire,’ he said with diplomatic tact.

  ‘Indeed they have,’ the king agreed, ‘and, from what I am told, Roger is setting about the task of governing his new possession with rare good sense. They don’t call your kinsmen “the Resourceful” for nothing.’

  Rollo lowered his eyes. The king was privy to intelligence that had not made its way to him. Nevertheless, it was heartening to hear of his kinsman’s success.

  He sensed keen eyes on him, and, looking up, met the king’s stare. ‘Some time since you have been home, Rollo?’ he asked softly.

  ‘Er – some years, yes, sire.’ Seven years: seven long years. An image of dry, sunlit slopes formed in his mind, an azure sea lapping on rocks far below. He smelt lemons, and the sweet, dizzying perfume of jasmine.

  ‘How would you like to return there? Not for long,’ William added, ‘just time enough to test the mood regarding a certain situation.’

  Intrigued, his head still full of the seductive sights, sounds and smells of home, Rollo said, ‘Sire, I am, as ever, at your disposal.’

  Then, drawing close and dropping his voice to a mere breath, William described to Rollo the rumour that he had extracted, seemingly out of the air, and what, if it had any foundation, it might predict for the not-too-distant future.

  Rollo felt the shock run through him as the implications sank in. ‘Is it ... can it be so, sire? Sicily is one thing, but to speak of the Land Over the Seas as a similar goal ...’ He did not dare go on.

  William studied him, one eyebrow raised, a cynical amusement in his eyes. ‘That, Rollo, is precisely what I want you to discover.’

  So here he was, once more on the king’s business. As soon as he was fully restored after the trials of travel, he would set about the task. He had, he reflected, the perfect cover: a long-absent son of the island returning to visit his kin and the land of his birth.

  He wished his father was still alive, for his assistance would have been invaluable. Rainulf Guiscard, dead these fourteen years, had died as he had lived: throwing himself wholeheartedly into everything he did in this life that he had so loved. One of the younger men had challenged him to see who could climb first to the top of the castle’s tallest tower, and Rainulf, many years the man’s senior, had accepted with alacrity. He had won the challenge, and would have enjoyed the champion’s seat at the feast that was to follow, except that, celebrating victory in his usual exuberant style, he had let go of both handholds to raise his arms in triumph. A piece of stone had broken away beneath his foot, and he had fallen to his death. Witnesses claimed he had still been yelling his triumph as he hit the ground. It seemed highly likely.

  One parent dead, one still very much alive; Rollo’s fiery, dark-eyed mother had retained her devastating beauty, and they said men queued up to take Rainulf’s place in her bed. None, the rumour-mongers had to add, had ever been admitted; Giuliana was a one-man woman, and the fact that the man was dead made no difference.

  It was in Giuliana’s apartments that Rollo now resided, and it was she who was spoiling him so thoroughly, as only a mother can when her son returns home after a long absence. There was, however, more to her than a passionate wife, an adoring mother and a lover of costly fabrics, good food and fine wine: she had been Rainulf’s partner and helpmeet in the turbulent years, and fought alongside him as he and his fellow adventurers carved out their kingdom in the south. She might now be relaxing in the new peace of her land, but Rollo doubted if she had turned soft. The old skills would still be there, and he intended to invite her to utilize them.

  Rainulf was gone and lost to his son, but Giuliana would be a very good alternative. She always knew what was going on; she had a rare ability to keep her eyes and ears open, and to remember even the smallest detail of what she observed. Moreover, she had a whole army of conta
cts in virtually every sphere of activity on the island. What she didn’t know, one of her contacts would.

  Frowning in thought, letting his mind run over a network of ideas and possibilities, Rollo took another sip of the drink and wondered how best to phrase his initial approach.

  THIRTEEN

  Gurdyman was back in his house. Although ashamed to admit it, he found it a vast relief. I do not like the outside world, he thought. It really was ironic, he reflected once more, that a man who was devoting so much effort to trying to map out the far places never willingly ventured further than the pie stall at the end of the alley.

  Perhaps it was because he had travelled so far in his childhood and as a young man – all the way to Santiago de Compostela, although he’d been too young to appreciate the place. Then, as soon as he was old enough to begin exploring the world by himself, all over Spain, both the Muslim and the Catholic regions; out to the wild trio of islands off Spain’s eastern coast, and thence on to North Africa. On, always on, to Egypt, to the Holy Land and far beyond; away from his parents’ hearth for more than a decade, so that they gave him up for lost and erupted into tears of joy when finally he returned.

  He smiled, shaking his head as if to deny that the young man who wanted to see everything should have changed so conclusively into an old sage more than content with his own walls. To whom even the short journey to an obscure fenland village had taken so much effort that, home again, he felt both physically and mentally exhausted.

  But perhaps that was due to the harrowing nature of his mission. Lassair was not at Aelf Fen, and she had not been waiting for him when he returned to Cambridge. It was enough to make anyone depressed and anxious ...

  He and Hrype had agreed not to say anything to the girl’s family; Hrype had even undertaken not to tell Edild, and Gurdyman appreciated how hard that was going to be. They had reasoned that there was no point in worrying anybody else. ‘Not,’ Hrype had said bitterly, ‘when the two of us can worry enough for all.’ There had been no word from Lassair; as far as her kin were concerned, she was safely in Cambridge, working hard with her wizard mentor.

  If only she was, Gurdyman thought sadly.

  He was sitting out in his little courtyard, face turned up to the early summer sun, when there was a knock on his door. Hurrying along the passage, his heart leaping with hope, he opened the door to reveal Hrype. One look at his expression answered Gurdyman’s unspoken question: Lassair had not returned.

  In his face Gurdyman also read guilt. Recognizing it, he felt the same emotion burn through him.

  ‘He’s been seen again,’ Hrype said baldly.

  ‘The red-headed giant.’ Gurdyman nodded slowly. ‘Yes. And ...?’

  ‘No news of her.’

  ‘Is that a hopeful sign, do you think?’ Gurdyman asked.

  Hrype shrugged. ‘Those who have been keeping watch on my behalf report that he has at least five brawny young men with him; very likely more. I have not managed to locate the secret place where he’s moored his ship, and it is possible that he’s keeping her aboard. However, I do not think so, for by all accounts he is still searching.’

  ‘It could be that she is his captive and he has not yet managed to make her tell him what he wants to know.’ Putting his worst fear into words made Gurdyman feel sick to the heart, but it was surely better to face up to the possibility than pretend it did not exist.

  ‘She cannot tell him what she does not know,’ Hrype said softly. ‘Nevertheless, I am confident that he does not have her. Yet,’ he added ominously.

  Unconsciously, his hand had gone to the small leather bag hanging from his belt, in which, Gurdyman knew, he kept his precious rune stones. Gurdyman nodded. ‘And do the stones tell you where she is?’ he murmured.

  Hrype gave a twisted smile. ‘I see locations, Gurdyman, and I sense that, although she was at first terrified, she is no longer in fear of her life. In fact –’ his brows drew together in a puzzled frown – ‘if I read the stones aright, it would seem she is actually ... excited – even, could I make myself believe it, happy,’ he finished. He shrugged. ‘I am not even sure if either is the right word. I cannot perceive what the runes are telling me.’ He shook his head violently, obviously angry with himself. He would never blame the stones, Gurdyman reflected; only his own failure to understand the message.

  ‘Are we to think, then,’ Gurdyman said cautiously after quite a long silence, ‘that the person on whose orders she was taken is someone altogether more – ah – benign?’

  Hrype’s head shot up, and his strange silvery eyes met Gurdyman’s. ‘I pray that is so,’ he whispered fervently.

  There was another silence. Again the one to break it, Gurdyman said, ‘How much, do you think, does Edild know?’

  Hrype grimaced, a look of pain on his face that was caused, Gurdyman guessed, by the reminder of having to keep the terrible secret of Lassair’s abduction from the woman he loved so deeply. ‘Her instincts tell her what is true,’ he said, ‘and in her head I believe she accepts it. But in her heart ...’ He did not go on.

  Gurdyman nodded. ‘The old woman spoke only to you, then.’

  ‘Yes. She trusted that I would know what to do with the information. Although now I doubt very much that her trust was justified,’ he added bitterly.

  ‘This is not over yet, my friend,’ Gurdyman said calmly. ‘Do not judge either her wisdom or your own until every outcome is known.’

  Hrype turned to him, frustrated fury in his face. ‘Not over?’ he echoed. ‘How can it ever be over when the whole picture is not known to any one of us?’

  He had a point, Gurdyman acknowledged. ‘Can you not reveal to Edild what you know?’

  ‘I wish I could,’ Hrype replied fervently. ‘But the secret is not mine to tell.’

  Silence fell once more. The sun moved a few degrees through the heavens, and then Gurdyman said, ‘What will you do now?’

  Hrype gave a sort of snort. ‘What can I do? Go home, wait for Lassair to come back.’ His face contracted in a fierce scowl. ‘I have never felt so impotent!’

  ‘Will you send word as soon as there is news?’ Gurdyman asked, getting to his feet to see his visitor to the door.

  ‘Of course. And you too, notify me if ... if anything happens?’

  ‘I will,’ Gurdyman promised.

  He watched Hrype reach the end of the narrow alley and turn the corner, out of sight. Then he closed and locked the door and returned to his sunny courtyard.

  Einar and two of his crew rowed me up the winding waterway and dropped me in exactly the same spot that we had started from – or so I guessed. I’d had a sack over my head when they bundled me aboard Malice-striker’s little boat and rowed off with me.

  Now that the moment had come, I discovered it was going to be hard to part from them. Despite our inauspicious start, Einar and I had become friends. He was the tough, silent type; bound by all sorts of obligations – to his kin, to his home, to pride and honour, to his father’s expectations – and, knowing him a little now, I understood just why my jibe about his Malice-striker being a cargo ship and not a warlike longboat out of the age of heroes had wounded him so deeply. He had apologized again for hitting me, and this time, perhaps feeling that he knew me better too, it had been sincere. I’d been prompted to say sorry for what I had said. ‘I did not mean to hurt you,’ I added.

  He’d given me a wide, true smile. ‘Nor I you.’

  We grinned at each other, and I knew we would not say another word about it.

  I stood on the low bank and watched the little boat disappear round a bend in the river. I started to raise a hand to wave, but made myself stop. I wasn’t at all sure that big, brawny Norsemen went in for sentimental farewell gestures.

  I shouldered my satchel and turned for home. I was dressed in my own clothes, and I had bundled up my new gown and apron into a tight roll, which I’d tied on top of my bag. With no idea of how I’d begin to explain my finery, I hoped nobody would see it and ask where
it came from.

  I was heading for home, but I wasn’t going to tell anyone what had happened. I’m not sure why: I was obeying an imperative instinct that was commanding me not to reveal where I’d been and what I had learned. Somehow I knew this wasn’t over. For one thing, this Skuli, who had been so desperate to find the shining stone that he had been prepared even to kill, was still out there. The thought had given me a shudder of fear, although Thorfinn and his tough band of warriors had promised that they would be watching over me.

  Thorfinn had held me by the shoulders as we’d said goodbye on board Malice-striker, staring down intently into my eyes. ‘We shall meet again,’ he had said. I believed him.

  There was still something he wanted from me, although he had not told me what it was. Now, trudging home to my village, I felt as if I were on some secret mission for him. I didn’t mind; in fact, I relished the prospect. It appeared that, some time over the past days, I had come to trust him. With any luck, my family would assume I was arriving home from Cambridge, and I would let them. It wouldn’t exactly be lying; merely allowing them to believe something that wasn’t actually true. I thought I could probably cope with that.

  My homecoming was exactly as I had foreseen it. My father’s face lit up in his usual smile of pleasure when he saw me. My mother, preparing food, remarked that, true to form, I had arrived just in time for a meal. But she also gave me a quick, tight hug.

  Assuming, just as I had hoped, that I was fresh from Cambridge and my studies, my brother Squeak asked if I could turn him into a frog yet.

  I stayed for four days – I was, after all, pretending to be on a visit to see my family, so I could hardly depart again before I’d spent some time with them – and I was constantly troubled by the vague, uneasy sense that I was waiting for something. My instincts told me that there were invisible patterns shifting just below the surface, and I did not understand. The one person I really wanted to see was Hrype, and he was not in the village. I spent a day with Edild, working on the suddenly abundant supplies of plants now available, and making large quantities of the remedies we used most. She was clearly on edge, although, when I cautiously asked, she gave me such a short answer that I did not dare pursue it.