by Alys Clare
I think Gurdyman understood, anyway, for he patted my arm in an absent-minded but kindly way, then said, ‘The lands where your ancestor sailed may be a mystery to us, but I do know what your stone is, or, at least, I believe I do.’
‘You know what it is?’ It was more than I could have hoped for.
‘Would you like me to tell you?’ Now there was a definite glint of mischief in his eyes.
What a silly question. Since I could hardly say that, I simply replied, ‘Oh, yes please!’
I wondered if he would need to look at or hold the stone again, but it seemed not. ‘This is also known as a shining mirror,’ he began, indicating the stone in its wrappings. Yes, I thought excitedly. Freydis referred to it in those words. ‘It is properly called obsidian; that is the name bestowed upon it by the lifelong student of natural history who observed at first hand its method of formation. But I am wandering from the point.’ He frowned in thought, then went on: ‘You will never guess, Lassair, where and how it originates, and so I shall tell you.’
He turned to his work table, rummaging among the parchments until he found the piece of vellum he used for the rough notes and jottings he habitually makes while a line of thought is coming to fruition. He smoothed it out, then dipped his quill in the ink horn and swiftly drew a little picture.
I stared at it as it formed beneath his skilful hand. It was cone-shaped, and the cone had steep, regular sides. Its base flattened out either side into smooth lines, and I realized he had drawn a hill, or perhaps a mountain. The top of the mountain had a cut-off appearance. Once he was satisfied with the outline, he dipped the quill again and a sudden explosion of straight and wavy lines appeared, as if the insides of the earth were pouring out of the mountain’s summit.
‘This, Lassair, is a volcano,’ he said, still drawing. ‘It is named for Vulcan, who was the Roman god of the forge and its fire. Volcanoes form where the molten rock within the earth has no more room to expand, and comes blasting out of the weakest point in the cone.’
‘Molten rock?’ I repeated. Surely not ...
‘Yes indeed. Melted,’ he said firmly, clearly picking up my incredulity. ‘Rock heated to so high a temperature that it becomes liquid.’
‘Liquid?’ I was finding this very hard to accept. Surely he was wrong?
‘When this substance encounters water,’ he went on, sensibly ignoring my interruption, ‘when, for instance, it flows into a lake, a river or the sea, it cools very quickly – and what do you think happens?’ He turned to me enquiringly.
‘Er ...’
His little sigh was all but inaudible. ‘It is only molten because it is very, very hot,’ he said patiently. ‘As soon as it cools, it—’
‘It turns back into rock!’ I cried triumphantly, suddenly seeing what he was explaining.
‘It does indeed!’ He beamed. ‘But its nature is forever changed from what it was, for the cooling process is too fast for it to resume its former nature.’ His eyes strayed to the sacking-wrapped object, and I guessed he was visualizing the shining stone. ‘It is as if, through the medium of fire and water, rock has been turned to glass ...’ His eyes seemed to slide out of focus, and I sensed he was lost in some private reverie.
An aspect, indeed, of what he had just said was reminding me of something he’d once taught me; something very, very important. I forced myself to concentrate, and out of the depths of my mind I heard a whisper: alchemy.
I left Gurdyman to his meditation as long as I could bear. When he showed no sign of returning his attention to me, and to the here and now, eventually I said softly, ‘Gurdyman?’
He turned to me, his expression hazy, as if he was still absorbed in whatever he had been contemplating so deeply. ‘Lassair!’ It seemed to come as a surprise that I was there.
I should have left him to his thoughts, but my anxiety was too great to let me. ‘Is the shining stone dangerous?’ I hissed in an urgent whisper. I was very afraid: the stone had come into being via an arcane, magical process that I didn’t even dare think about; it had the power to summon spirits; it forced you to face up to your true self; it had almost driven Thorfinn out of his mind, and Skuli had been prepared to kill in order to get his hands on it.
And I had just asked Gurdyman if it was dangerous!
With a visible effort, he came back to me. ‘It is an object of very great power,’ he said, ‘but you already know that, Lassair.’ He studied me keenly. ‘Its power is neutral: it is neither good nor bad. It will do what it does, and it is up to whoever holds it to channel the power.’ He paused, perhaps sensing that I did not fully understand. Then he said, ‘Imagine, if you can, a magnificent horse; a stallion. He is swift, strong, eager, and his strength far outweighs that of any man who would try to ride him. One man tries, but he is overconfident and tries to master the stallion with harsh bit, spurs and whip. A second man tries, but he has taken the trouble to become an expert rider; moreover, before he even attempts to mount the fierce stallion, he spends a long time getting to know the animal. Once he feels that he has sufficient respect for the stallion’s nature, he mounts him, and the two remain bonded for life.’
‘So – so you’re saying I must study the stone before I begin to use it?’ Oh, but using it was the furthest thing from my mind! ‘Gurdyman, I don’t want to use it!’ I wailed. ‘I’m terrified of what it might do!’
‘You must use it.’ His eyes were staring right into mine, as if he was seeing inside my head. I made a pathetic little sound, practically a whimper. His expression softened. ‘I will help you,’ he said kindly. ‘I will teach you all that I know, and we shall hope that will be enough.’
My eyes slid away and once more I stared at the stone beneath its sacking wrappings. We shall hope that will be enough really didn’t sound very reassuring.
‘For now,’ he added, very quietly, ‘why not put it away, safely, up in your room?’
It was the most welcome suggestion he’d made for some time.
As if he were very aware that we had touched on the edge of dangerous waters, Gurdyman made sure that our preoccupations for the rest of the day were of the most prosaic nature. He pointed out that the house had become very untidy and not a little dirty in my absence, and together we set about putting that right. He sorted out the great drift of parchments, books, odds and ends of food and drink, half-completed experiments and things set aside to think about later, as he expressed it, while I tucked up my skirts, rolled up my sleeves and washed every dusty, sticky surface until the whole house shone with cleanliness. It smelt nice, too, for Gurdyman had given me a little bottle of fragrant oil, and I had put a few drops in the final bucketful of rinsing water.
Tired out, I put away the broom, mop and pail and, rolling down my sleeves, went out to the courtyard to join Gurdyman in the last of the day’s sunlight. He was sitting in his chair, the big parchment spread out across his knees.
I went to crouch beside him. I studied the wiggling line stretching away to the lower right of the great map. Then I looked at the vast stretch of sea that opened up to the left. Then something occurred to me: stretching out my hand, I measured the distance between the mark that was the fens and the blob in the middle of the sea that was Iceland.
Thus far I have travelled, I thought. Then, holding my thumb and middle finger the same stretch apart, I measured how much further it was to go right down to the middle sea, where Skuli was bound. How much further to go, as Thorkel had done, on from Iceland to Greenland, and then to explore the eastern shores of that vast and unknown land mass beyond, which even Gurdyman, in all his wisdom and knowledge, could only guess at.
I whispered, ‘Can the world really be so big?’
He smiled. ‘Bigger, far bigger, than this.’ His hand brushed over his careful work.
I shivered. ‘That’s very frightening.’
‘Frightening?’ He considered it. ‘Perhaps.’ His smile broadened.
‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘What are you thinking, and why is it amus
ing you?’
He reached out and, just for a moment, took my hand. ‘You’re the descendant of Norse mariners, child.’
He seemed to think that was sufficient explanation. It wasn’t. ‘What of it?’
He laughed softly. ‘It’s in your blood.’
‘What is?’ I was worrying now.
The laughter had gone, and he was no longer smiling. Looking right into my eyes, he said, ‘The hunger for travelling. The urge to go and see for yourself.’
I shivered again, a great shudder that went right through me. I might have recently discovered my true ancestry, but I wasn’t going to let it change me. I was the daughter of an eel catcher and a woman who came from a long line of shepherds. I was a fenland woman, and that was that.
I wasn’t going to be travelling anywhere.
POSTSCRIPT
At sea off Sicily, midsummer 1093
Rollo stood on deck, watching the land of his birth disappear into the hazy light of early morning. The ship had sailed at dawn; the bustle and hurry of departure were now just a memory. Above him, the big sail filled with the westerly wind, so that the sleek craft sped over the deep, profoundly blue water.
Rollo was thinking about his kinsman, Roger Guiscard. He pictured the handsome face; heard in his head Bosso’s smooth, civilized tones that masked the reality of the man’s tough, ruthless nature.
Roger had a personal motto: The right hand of God raised me up; the right hand of God gave me courage.
With a wry smile, Rollo wondered if the Almighty had bestowed a little of that courage on him, too. He was going to need it.
Rollo had sent word home to King William. Via an elaborate chain of discreet men and women, many of whom Rollo had himself recruited, he had dispatched a carefully coded message, telling William what he had found out concerning the rumours of an expedition to rescue the Holy Land from the Muslims. In what Rollo sincerely hoped was in a still deeper and more impenetrable level of code, he had added a brief, succinct report on the Norman kingdom of the South, and its ruler’s current opinions and preoccupations.
Count Roger, Rollo reflected as the distance between the ship and Sicily steadily increased, could not have so much as had a suspicion of the report’s existence, let alone set eyes on or, God forbid, interpreted it. Not that Rollo had done anything but give his king a fair and accurate account; the sin, in Count Roger’s eyes, would be in Rollo’s sending the report at all. If the Count had discovered the treason – for it was certain that it would be in those terms he would view it – then Rollo would not be where he now was. He’d probably be ...
Bearing in mind Count Roger’s views on the suitable treatment of those who had, in his view, betrayed him, Rollo did not permit himself to dwell on that.
He had waited, staying with his mother in Sicily, for King William’s response. From time to time, he had imagined the message speeding on its way to him. He was proud of his men and women. He had chosen them carefully, looking out always for people who stood a little apart; who observed with intelligence but were not overhasty to give an opinion. His approach usually followed the same pattern. He would find an opportunity to speak privately to the potential recruit, and, within quite a short time, would have an idea whether or not the person had what he was looking for. Sometimes he got it wrong. Far more often, his initial instincts were right.
The work he required of his recruits usually amounted to no more than the passing on of written and sometimes verbal messages to the next person in the chain. For this they were well-paid, and the reward guaranteed continued efficiency. Very occasionally, he would seek out someone who happened to live in a place where certain information could be found, and, again, the reward was not inconsiderable. Rollo believed he had a solid network of discreet, reliable spies, for want of a better word. It was at times reassuring to remember the achievement.
The king’s reply had reached him a week ago. With it, Rollo’s faint hope of being able to return swiftly to England dissolved like smoke and blew away.
King William wasted only a few words in recognition of what Rollo had told him so far, and thank you were not among them. Kings did not habitually thank their subjects for services rendered. Then he had gone on to give Rollo his further orders. Now, in response to them, Rollo was setting out in a very different direction from the one which, were his heart to lead the way, he would have pursued.
He gazed down into the blue water, creasing out in a great white-tipped ‘V’ from the ship’s stern. England. If his life were his own, he’d have gone north to England. His heart suddenly heavy with longing, he wished there were some way he could send word to Lassair.
His mother had succeeded in setting his mind at rest; that was something for which he could be very thankful. Her trance-induced vision, as she sat with closed eyes clutching the bracelet Lassair had given to her son, had revealed a picture of danger dissipating. Rollo had known there was danger: he had sensed the treat to Lassair within his own body. Or perhaps it was his soul ... he did not know. There was no way of discovering what the nature of the danger had been; he was resigned to that. The crucial thing was that it had passed.
In addition to what Giuliana had revealed to him, his own gut feelings told him Lassair was safe.
For now.
That, he reflected wryly, was something else it was better not to dwell on.
There was a long way to go before he could once more turn for England. The ship was sailing east: heading for Byzantium. Rollo’s mission now was to discover how matters lay with Emperor Alexius Comnenus.
Balancing his weight evenly on both feet, and resting his folded arms comfortably on the ship’s stern rail, Rollo went over all that he knew and had recently found out.
In the dozen or so years that he had worn his crown, Alexius had made his great capital a centre for Christian freedom and learning. It had been no mean feat, Rollo reflected, bearing in mind the constant threat that Alexius faced from the Seljuk Turks. Recent converts to Islam, and with the single-minded zeal of the new recruit, these Turks were steadily, stealthily conquering all the lands around them, including Jerusalem, doing everything in their power to win over the inhabitants to Islam as they did so.
Their capital was a mere hundred miles from Alexius’s beautiful, sophisticated city. Bearing in mind the success they had experienced so far, Rollo doubted whether Alexius slept easily in his bed at night. Did he lie awake, picturing the invasion that must surely come? He would be aware, no doubt, of the difficulties of pilgrims attempting to visit the Holy Places. Would he, man of the world that he was said to be, condemn the Turks for their intransigence? Would he think them foolish, for refusing to countenance a constant stream of visitors who could have been exploited for much-needed income? Would he be furiously indignant at the very idea of the fierce nomadic Turks who now held the sites treating Christian pilgrims so cruelly?
The rumour-mongers and the gossips – those who liked to predict what the great and the good would do next – were already muttering that Alexius would surely appeal to Rome. He would ask the pope for some sort of armed force to assist him, both in protecting his own lands and also with the aim of driving the Turks from Eastern Christendom. It was, people muttered, in the pope’s interests to comply with the request, given the wild stories about good Christians cruelly and ruthlessly being converted from their faith by a knife at the throat.
Rollo speculated about what might be the result of such an appeal. He could not make himself believe in a picture of ordered ranks of well-drilled soldiery, sent by the pope to come to the aid of his embattled brother-in-faith in the east. Religion, after all, was a matter for the heart, not the head, and, once the heart got involved, good sense and rational thought tended to fly away.
Rollo drifted into reverie.
Fuelled by his apprehension, he saw in his mind’s eye a vision of the future. He saw not a tight, professional army, but a vast rabble of ordinary folk, hurrying over all the endless miles to Jerusalem, the fervo
ur of faith lighting their eyes and numbing the pain in their half-starved, stumbling bodies.
Who would lead them?
Rollo’s inner vision roamed on, on, over the masses of suffering people who only went on, doggedly moving forward, because their faith would not let them stop.
After a while – and it seemed to take a long time, for there were men, women and even children in their thousands upon thousands – he visualized the head of the enormous, makeshift army. There, on magnificent horses richly caparisoned, rode a group of powerful, ruthlessly ambitious lords and kings of the West. They too were alight with fever. But their goal was something more than that of their humble followers: their besotted, fanatically determined eyes saw, shining with eternal light, brilliant and gorgeous under the eastern sun, a Christian empire of the East.
Was King William right? Rollo wondered. When, as it seemed it inevitably would, the time came, would Duke Robert of Normandy be there in the vanguard, as gorgeously and extravagantly decked out as the rest and every last soldier, boot, arrow, water bottle and stirrup financed by his brother William and the use of Normandy as security?
Rollo didn’t know. He did, however, have a strong presentiment that the king’s prediction would come true. I need to find out more, he thought, his mind seeming to fly over endless vistas of sun-baked sand under a deep blue sky. I have to go there, on towards the land where that vast wedge of humanity will make for, and see for myself ...
With a start, Rollo pulled himself out of the vision and back to the present.
He was shaken by what his imagination had just shown him. It may not come to that, he told himself.
But he was very afraid that it would.
Distracting his mind, he turned his thoughts to Alexius’s capital.