by Alys Clare
‘I thought it was widely known that, while his mistresses gave him sons, his wives bore only girls?’
Giuliana laughed. ‘That is largely true. Eleven daughters and one sickly son by the first two wives, and, even among the mistresses, only Jordan and poor Godfrey.’
Poor Godfrey indeed. The man was a leper, and not even his father’s wealth and devoted love could heal him. He had retired to an isolated monastery, where men said he spent his days in prayer while he waited for death.
‘The baby is only weeks old,’ Giuliana mused. ‘It will be years – decades – before he is ready to take his place at his father’s side, even providing he turns out to be like Jordan and not a shy little girl in boy’s clothing like his only legitimate half-brother.’ She gave a dramatic sigh, as if sincerely pitying the count’s lack of sons.
Rollo smiled again. The seven-year absence had not in any way reduced his ability to follow the leaps that her agile mind made.
‘And here you are!’ She opened her eyes wide, as if in amazement to see him there sitting beside her. ‘Son of his dear cousin, living flesh and blood of the man he loved more than any other!’
‘Steady, Mother,’ Rollo murmured. ‘Let’s keep the exaggerations credible.’
‘You shall go to visit him, this very day,’ she went on as if she hadn’t heard. ‘I will send a message, he will summon you, and then the rest is up to you.’ She closed one large, dark eye in a wink.
He studied her, loving her, deeply entertained by her. For a brief instant, he forgot about his mission and simply reflected how good it was to see her again. Then, as if waiting for such a moment, the image of Lassair slipped into his mind. What would she think of his mother? What, indeed, would Giuliana think of her?
His mother’s eyes narrowed fleetingly, and then a sly smile spread across her generous mouth. Silently and vehemently, Rollo cursed his own carelessness. He had vowed not to permit himself one single thought of Lassair when with his mother; her mind-reading ability was just too good. She was, after all, daughter and granddaughter of the strega. Or so the wide-eyed, credulous peasants said, crossing themselves and gabbling their furtive prayers when Giuliana swept past.
And now he’d let her in. Only for a heartbeat, but he had a feeling that was all she needed ...
That events turned out just as Giuliana had predicted was no surprise at all. The summons had come, he had spruced himself up and ridden his beautifully groomed horse the short distance to Roger’s castle, and now he was waiting in a lofty anteroom, to be ushered into the Great Count’s presence.
A man clad in a leather breastplate over his tunic emerged through an archway to Rollo’s left, standing silently before him while he looked him up and down. ‘Weapons?’ he demanded curtly.
Rollo raised his hands away from his sides, displaying his unarmed status. There was a long, narrow and very sharp blade tucked in a scabbard hidden in the inside seam of his left boot, but nobody had found it yet. He did not anticipate having to use it here, but you could never be entirely sure.
The guard jerked his head, indicating the room beyond the archway. ‘Go in.’
Rollo walked through the arch and into the Great Count’s private chamber. Fur rugs partially covered the flagged floor, and the walls – built of huge blocks of rough-hewn stone – were hung here and there with beautifully worked tapestries. A curtained bed stood to one side, and there were several large iron-bound wooden chests set back against the walls. Roger’s armour hung on a rail, as if even here, in his private retreat from the rest of the castle, he must be ready at a moment’s notice to revert into a fighting man.
He sat in a vast chair, beautifully carved, and was dressed in a simple woollen tunic over which was draped a rich cloak lined with vivid brocade. As Rollo paused inside the doorway, he stood up and, extending both hands, came to greet him.
‘Welcome to the returning son of the family!’ he said, smiling with what seemed to be genuine pleasure.
‘Thank you, my lord.’ Rollo went to make a bow, but Roger caught his hands and prevented it.
‘You are my kinsman; the son of my late, dear cousin,’ he said. ‘Besides, we are alone and unobserved.’
Yes, Rollo reflected. It would have been a different matter had their reunion been public. He studied the Count. He was much as he had been seven years ago; perhaps more lines around the eyes and mouth, and grey hairs among the blond. He still stood tall and straight. He was the great-great-grandson of Hiallt the Norseman, who had set out to win himself quite a large portion of the land later called Normandy, and his ancestry showed.
As if, on inspecting Rollo, his thoughts ran along the same lines, Roger said, ‘You carry your Norman blood like a banner.’ He was studying Rollo closely. ‘You resemble your father, even down to that smooth fair hair. Yet your eyes are of the south.’
Rollo was aware of that. He had been looking into a pair of eyes exactly like his own that morning. He bowed his head, unsure how to reply.
Roger returned to his seat, waving to a smaller, lower, but no less skilfully carved wooden chair placed just beside it. ‘Sit, Rollo.’
Rollo sat. He waited, as was only right, for Roger to speak.
‘You have come from King William,’ he said after a moment. ‘Who I don’t suppose for an instant has sent you here just to be reunited with your southern kinsmen.’
‘No,’ Rollo agreed. He hesitated, arranging his words. ‘Nevertheless, it is good to see them. Especially my mother.’ Another pause. ‘Thank you for looking after her.’
Roger burst out laughing. ‘I won’t tell her you said that,’ he remarked. ‘Rollo, nobody looks after Giuliana. She’s a fierce woman, and I do not envy the man who would try.’ He leaned closer. ‘She is a great asset,’ he said quietly, although he did not elaborate. Rollo guessed he was referring to his mother’s highly efficient spy network, something which would indeed be very valuable to the ruler of a newly won kingdom.
Roger’s soft words interrupted Rollo’s thoughts. ‘Like mother, like son, eh, Rollo?’ he murmured.
He knows, Rollo thought. He knows exactly what role I fulfil for my king. ‘Yes,’ he agreed.
‘And here you are, sitting with another Norman lord in the midst of a very different realm,’ Roger went on. Then, sharp as a knife point: ‘I trust there is no conflict of interest here?’
‘None that I can see,’ Rollo answered. ‘Unless you are aware of something that I am not.’
There was no answer. After a short pause, Roger said, ‘Why are you here?’
I have to tell him, Rollo thought. He took a breath, tried to calm his fast heartbeat and said, ‘Your successes here in Sicily and, just recently, in Malta, are known of back in the north. The time of the Saracens here is over, and the Normans rule the kingdom in the south. King William applauds your achievements. He ...’ Rollo paused, thinking hard. ‘There are other lands where the Saracens still rule,’ he went on slowly. ‘Lands with great ports over on the eastern shores of the Mediterranean which, besides being invaluable for trade, are ripe for strong fortifications from which a ruler might protect and defend his territory. Once these lands were open to all, and men of different faiths who shared the desire to visit the holy places of their religious leaders and prophets were free to make pilgrimage. Yet now the Holy Land is in the hands of the Seljuk Turks, and these nomad warriors have lost none of their ferocity. Their capital is a mere hundred miles from Constantinople.’
Roger nodded. ‘Emperor Alexius Comnenus rightly mistrusts their proximity,’ he observed. ‘He no doubt fears they have their eyes on his Byzantine empire.’
‘Indeed,’ Rollo agreed. ‘There are in addition these wild tales that tell of mistreatment of Christian pilgrims in the Holy Land. There is an Amiens priest called Peter the Hermit who, attempting to reach Jerusalem, claims to have been kicked out like a hungry dog from a kitchen. There are rumours that the Turks mistreated him, possibly tortured him.’
‘Is that true?’
<
br /> ‘I do not know, my lord. What is relevant is that, throughout the Christian community, people believe it is true.’ Rollo paused, letting that sink in. ‘The outrage of a skinny old monk on a donkey being barred from visiting the holy places where his Saviour suffered, died and was resurrected, will act like the spark to the kindling.’
‘The kindling being what?’
Rollo met the Count’s steady gaze. ‘The awareness of those rich and extensive lands of the eastern Mediterranean,’ he replied.
‘With those aforementioned strategically placed ports all ready for strong Norman castles,’ Roger added quietly. ‘So, you see religious fervour – the desire to free the holy sites from the Turks’ jealous and exclusive possession – as the excuse for a land-grabbing invasion?’
‘King William wonders if it is not rather likely,’ Rollo said cautiously.
Roger grinned. ‘They say he is not a God-fearing man,’ he remarked.
Rollo thought swiftly. ‘He is a king, my lord,’ he said. ‘He cannot afford the luxury of simple faith, for the well-being of his realm is in his hands, and he must always do what is best for his country and his people.’
Roger’s smile widened. ‘Nicely put, Rollo. What you would like to say, I imagine, is that your realistic and sensible king is not the man to set off in the vanguard of a vast and costly fleet, with his head full of dreams of ousting the infidel and delivering the entire Holy Land back into Christian hands. He’ll leave that to more hotheaded lords, and wait calmly at home to pick over the best of their territories when they fail to come back.’
Rollo lowered his eyes. He had nothing to add, for Roger was quite right.
Presently the Count spoke again. ‘Twenty years ago, Pope Gregory contemplated an expedition to help the beleaguered Byzantines, and matters were less serious back then. It’s rumoured he approached the leaders of the west, although no such expedition ensued. Not then,’ he added. ‘And it’s said that our present pontiff is strongly influenced by Gregory.’ He paused. ‘That was back in the time of the Conqueror,’ he remarked. ‘What, do you think, would be his son’s reaction to such an appeal, were it to come?’
Rollo recalled King William’s words: These men who would set off on this venture will waste their time, their trouble and their money. He had laughed at them; he had called them brainwashed dupes of the Church. But Rollo wasn’t going to pass that on to Count Roger. ‘He is, as you earlier surmised, hardly champing at the bit to join in any rescue mission, my lord.’
‘Unlike my nephew Bohemond, then,’ Roger said.
Bohemond. Rollo recalled what he knew of the man. He was the son of Roger’s sister, and, even among a race of tall, strongly built Normans, he was a giant of a man. His real name was Mark, but even in the womb he had been so large that his sobriquet had been attached to him before birth. Being called after a legendary creature of fabulous power and size would be, Rollo thought, quite a lot to live up to.
Bohemond had always been a man ever spoiling for a fight. Others would flock to follow him on this new venture, once he decided to go, for the restless Normans had won the kingdom in the south and were now looking round for the next conquest. They would—
Rollo’s train of thought broke off. He had a succession of visions, one after the other, quick as blinking, and every one was of blood: sharp sword blades flashing under a brilliant sun; men wide-mouthed as they screamed their agony; bodies falling, legless, armless, headless, under the onslaught; women, running for their lives, wailing, desperately clutching the hands of their terrified children ...
He tried to take a hold of himself, and the visions drew back a little.
‘If they launch a campaign against the Turks in the Holy Land,’ he heard himself saying, ‘they will start a conflict that will have no end. When the honour of their deity is at stake, men know no reason.’
The echo of his softly spoken words slowly died in the utter silence of the room. Then Roger said, very quietly, ‘Is that a prediction?’
‘I – I do not know.’ Confused, troubled, Rollo was still fighting to regain control.
Roger was watching him. ‘Your mother is said to come from a long line of witches,’ he murmured, ‘and many believe she herself is a strega.’
Rollo suppressed a shiver. To have Count Roger echo so faithfully his own recent thoughts was alarming.
He realized, his unease deepening, that he had been in a light trance. Had he made a prediction? Had he seen true, and were those blood-soaked, brutal, and endlessly enduring events really lying in wait for the peoples of the eastern Mediterranean? With an effort, he brought himself firmly and ruthlessly back into the present. Swiftly he went through what had just passed between him and the Count; had he said more than he should? Had that strange moment of foresight lowered his defences, so that he revealed what he should have kept secret?
No. He risked a glance at Count Roger, whose demeanour remained alert, interested but benign. Rollo felt the tension in him fade away. No; it was all right. When he felt he could safely speak, he smiled easily and said, ‘My mother is very intelligent and she keeps her eyes and ears ever open. It is therefore no surprise that on occasions she is able to foresee the turn of events.’ He paused. ‘If I have inherited the tail end of her gift, then it is my good fortune.’
He hoped he sounded sufficiently modest. The Count’s ironically raised eyebrow suggested that maybe he hoped in vain.
There was a long, reflective silence. Then the Count said, ‘You do not ask, Rollo, what my own views are on this matter.’
Rollo bowed his head. ‘I am curious to know, naturally, my lord, but it is not my place to ask.’
The count gave a sort of snort, which could have been suppressed laughter. ‘Quite,’ he murmured. ‘Well, Rollo, I shall satisfy your curiosity. If the summons should come for me to participate in this ... enterprise, then I shall decline it. I have many Saracen subjects, whose loyalty I am busy cultivating. You will readily appreciate, Rollo, that for me to join in a Christian attack on their brethren in the Holy Land will hardly help me to achieve my aim. Sicily has had its own troubles, and the scars are still painful. A lengthy period of further years of dissension, division and strife is the last thing I want.’
His voice had risen as he spoke, and Rollo sensed the passionate determination behind the urbane facade.
‘Besides,’ Roger added after a moment, his handsome face creasing in a smile, ‘here in Sicily we are in the ideal spot: a bridge between the west and the east. Should these events come to pass, and a great army call in on its way east, it is my merchants, my traders, my innkeepers and brothel masters, who will benefit.’ His clever eyes met Rollo’s. ‘In times of strife, kinsman, there are fortunes to be won and lost. I intend my people to be the winners.’
As he mounted his horse and set off from the Count’s castle, Rollo’s thoughts returned to that strange moment of near-trance, keen to reassure himself once more that he had not revealed anything he should have kept back.
For, in addition to what he had told Count Roger concerning King William, there was something more; something he must not at any price share with the Count, kinsman though he was. For King William had told Rollo his innermost, carefully calculated conclusion, based, Rollo was certain, on a lifetime’s astute observation of his fellow men. Especially those closest to him.
What the king had said was this: ‘My brother Robert is not content to be Duke of Normandy; he wants more, and his ambition blinds him. He has the light of idealism in his eyes, and if the call comes for the leaders of men to form an army and take it to capture Jerusalem, he will leap to respond. But, as always, my brother will lack money, for his wealth has been squandered; frittered away on skirmishes and piddling wars with disgruntled neighbours.
‘When the call comes – and I do believe, Rollo, that it is when, not if – Duke Robert will need a banker. He will look no further than his little brother, safe in his kingdom across the Narrow Seas. And when his little brother requi
res security for the loan, what will Robert have to offer but Normandy?’
The king’s features had spread in a great grin of delight. ‘If matters play out as I believe they well might, I shall be handed Normandy on a platter, without having to lift a finger or wave a sword. And the conquest of the Holy Places will be no pleasant walk in the sunshine; they will have to battle for every inch, and many will not return.’
He had not said any more. But then, Rollo thought now, he hadn’t really needed to ...
Halfway back to the castle where his mother had made her luxurious home, Rollo was suddenly struck with such a sharp stab of terror for Lassair that it forced him to draw rein and stop.
He felt his horse shift uneasily beneath him; was the horse also picking it up?
She was in deadly peril. She was going to be dreadfully hurt – she, or someone she loved. She had to do a task that was beyond her, or else she would die ...
She was calling out to him, in desperate need of him.
The sensations ran through him with such power that he almost turned his horse’s head for home there and then. The successive stages of the long journey flashed through his mind: over the Messina Straits, up through Calabria, Naples, Rome, on north towards the Apennines and the Alps, then the long trudge across the northern half of Europe and, at last, over the Narrow Seas to England.
Why not? He had done as King William asked; he’d actually talked to the man who ruled Sicily, and he had an answer to give his king. Of sorts.
He knew it was not enough. Yes, he could try to palm William off by convincing him there was no more to find out, but that would not work. William was not a man to be palmed off. If Rollo wanted to go on being one of the king’s spies – and he did, for the role suited him like a skin – then he knew what he must now do.
Reluctantly he loosened his hold on the reins and nudged his horse onwards.
He wanted to be alone, for he had a great deal to think about. He had fully expected to be; his mother did not usually appear in the afternoon, preferring to rest in her luxurious bedchamber, with the breeze off the sea stirring the light muslins that hung at the windows.