by Alys Clare
Once he was well, they would come for him.
The weakness of illness was still upon him, and for a moment he despaired. What would he do when they began to question him? When they demanded to know why he had been creeping around the Bucoleon Palace, sneaking into the guards’ room and asking them questions about some old man called Harald? Trying to find someone in authority who would liaise between him and the emperor? Who would, perhaps, have been persuaded to take him into Alexius’s very presence, where, the accusing voices would insist, he planned to pull out a hidden knife and plunge it into the emperor’s heart?
That would be difficult to deny once they’d discovered the thin blade he kept hidden inside his boot.
What would happen when they refused to believe that his intentions had been honest? When they laughed in his face as he tried to tell them that his aim all along had been to bring valuable intelligence to the emperor and discuss it, to their mutual benefit?
They would not believe him. And, attempting to get what they thought were more likely answers out of him, they would torture him. He wouldn’t be able to give any better answers, since none existed, and so they would not stop. They would carry on, down there in some dark, stinking dungeon from which no prisoner ever emerged, and the world would forget that Rollo Guiscard had ever existed.
Gradually the heat rose up through his body. He thought he saw shapes coming at him out of the shadowy corners of the little room. Nightmare shapes; distorted, unnatural shapes. Then hard on their heels came men with chains, manacles, whips, sharp knives, pincers, long iron spikes whose ends glowed red-hot. As delirium claimed him again, he moaned aloud. Falling deep into hallucination, he raised his hands, feebly trying to push the brutal men and the devilish creatures away.
‘Stop that,’ a firm male voice said somewhere above him. Rollo batted his hands against a thick forearm, but his gesture was as feeble as a child’s. Whoever it was pushed him back against his pillows, muttering steadily, and, from somewhere very close, there was the sound of trickling water. Then the blessed coolness of a cold, wet cloth across his forehead.
‘There’s steam coming off you, you’re that hot,’ said the same voice. Rollo tried to peer through the mists of his fever and make out the man’s face, but the cloth was over his eyes, blinding him. ‘Rest easy, now,’ the man went on, his tone soothing. Rollo heard him move away from the bedside. Then the sound of water again, this time being poured, and presently he felt an arm slide beneath his neck, raising his head slightly. ‘Drink,’ said the man.
Should I? Rollo wondered wildly. What if it’s poison?
As if the man read his thoughts, he chuckled. ‘It’s intended to help you,’ he said. ‘It’s good medicine. You’re in the best place for a sick man.’
Helplessly Rollo felt the liquid pour slowly into his mouth. He swallowed, once, twice, again. The taste was odd: very bitter, with an unusual tang, and over everything the sweetness of honey.
‘Good, very good,’ the man murmured. ‘Now, you’ll soon feel sleepy again, and I suggest you yield to it. When you wake up, we’ll see if you feel like eating, since the sooner you do, the sooner you’ll start to get your strength back, which is what we want.’
So you can begin the interrogation, Rollo thought.
He raised a hand and pushed the cloth up, wanting to look on the face of his enemy. But his sense of timing was awry; he’d have sworn the man had only just finished speaking, but already he was in the doorway, about to close the door. The area was deep in shadow, and Rollo caught barely a glimpse. He was left with just an impression of a big, tall, broad-shouldered man; a bulky shape that filled the low doorway.
As the door shut, Rollo waited for his fear to escalate. I am feeble with fever, helpless, and they wish to make me well purely so that they can torture me into telling them things that aren’t true, he thought wildly.
But the fear didn’t come.
After a time, he fell asleep.
When next he woke, it was deep night. No sound came in from the street outside, and the sky through the partly opened shutters was deepest black. The room was lit by a single candle, set in a metal holder on the little table.
Someone moved in the shadows. The big man loomed over him. ‘You’ve slept long,’ he remarked. He put a hand on Rollo’s forehead, nodding in satisfaction. ‘Fever’s down. How do you feel?’
Rollo thought about it. Slowly he did an inventory of his body, inspecting all the places where he had been suffering. ‘Better,’ he said cautiously. His voice croaked, and instantly the big man poured water in the cup and held it for him while he drank. The water was cool, very refreshing and, as far as he could tell, just that: water.
‘You’re right,’ the man said as he gulped it down, draining the mug. ‘It’s plain, honest water. No medicine this time.’
‘My arm hurts,’ Rollo said. He tried to crane round to see the cut. He remembered the feel of the ragged stitches beneath his fingers.
‘I’m sorry for the needlework,’ said the man. ‘It was the best I could do, and I’m not skilled at stitching wounds. The person you really needed isn’t here.’ His face fell into sadness.
‘Thank you, anyway,’ Rollo said. ‘You did your best.’
‘You’ll have an interesting scar,’ the man remarked. He smiled, although it seemed to Rollo that it took an effort. ‘Can you eat, do you think?’
‘I’ll try.’
Now the man’s smile was more genuine. ‘Good. I have prepared simple food. Nothing fancy – bread, cheese, figs, honey.’
At the mention of the items, Rollo’s mouth filled with saliva. The man helped him to sit higher in the bed, propping him with more pillows, and then turned away, hurrying out of the room. He returned swiftly, carrying a tray on which there were more candles and platters of food. He unfolded a clean white napkin, spread it out on Rollo’s chest and then handed him a piece of bread soaked in olive oil, seasoned with a small sprinkling of salt. Rollo chewed, and the tastes filled his mouth. It was quite possibly the best thing he had ever eaten.
The man perched on the side of the bed, feeding more food as fast as Rollo consumed it. He was intent on the task, and didn’t notice that Rollo was studying him closely.
He was no longer young: perhaps in his fifth decade. His hair was still long, thick and bushy, its reddish-blond colour streaked with wide bands of silver that spread back from the temples. He was large, although not fat; he looked as if he had worked at maintaining his muscular strength, even as age advanced. He was dressed in a simple light robe, belted at the waist with a cord, and his feet were bare. Finally sensing Rollo’s intense regard, he looked up from the tray of food and met Rollo’s stare. His eyes were large, and light greenish-grey in colour, the rims of the irises circled in deep indigo.
He is a northerner, Rollo thought. No one whose blood was purely of the south has eyes that colour.
There was something about him …
For some reason Rollo trusted this man, although he could not have said why: in that first instant, it was pure instinct. Pushing that aside, he made himself think logically. He has tended me to the best of his ability. He is alone, and there has been no indication that this room is guarded. It is not a dark, hidden cellar; we are above the ground, and the street outside is close.
Something else was niggling at him, and, still eating, he picked away until he found it.
He did not lock me in.
And, following on the heels of that, I am therefore not his prisoner.
He proceeded to demolish a plate of figs, dipping them in runny golden honey. The man poured out more water, and he drank it. Then, wiping his fingers on the napkin, he held up his hands to indicate he had eaten enough.
He looked up at the big man. ‘Was it you who held me back when I was about to head out into the square before the Bucoleon Palace?’ he asked. Memory was galloping back now.
‘It was,’ the man acknowledged.
‘I think you saved me from an act o
f extreme folly.’
The man grinned. ‘I agree.’
‘Why were you following me? To protect me?’
‘You don’t know how this city works,’ the man said. ‘Few do who don’t live here. Little remains secret for long, and when a stranger starts asking questions, people’s ears prick up.’
Which questions? Rollo wondered. The ones he had asked of the Varangians in their guardroom, or the ones he’d posed to the senior official?
‘I heard tell they’re on the lookout for a man answering your description,’ the man continued, ‘and I didn’t think you’d want to go falling into their hands.’
‘Why are you helping me?’ Rollo demanded.
The man eyed him cagily. ‘First, tell me why you are here in the city. And, come to that, why men of the emperor’s most secret and deadly force are after you.’
The moment extended. Rollo, thinking furiously, weighed up his options. They were few, and, on balance, the truth seemed the best. Or, at least, some of it.
‘I’ve been journeying in the south,’ he said in the end. ‘Syria, Palestine; the lands overrun by the Seljuks.’
‘Why?’
‘To assess the strengths and weaknesses of the region.’ He paused, working out how to give this astute, alert man enough to make his actions credible while keeping back the most intimate details, such as the identity of the man who had sent him and exactly what he had been commanded to discover.
‘Again, why?’
‘The Turks have advanced spectacularly in a short time,’ he said, not answering the question directly, ‘but just now they are weak. There is much squabbling and fighting between the many men who would rise up and take the dead sultan’s place, and they take their eyes off their borders.’ He paused, then said, ‘I wanted to speak to someone who had the ear of the emperor, for I wished to know if he too has observed this present frailty. If so, what will he do about it?’
The big man whistled softly. ‘You don’t want much, do you?’ he muttered. ‘The ear of the emperor, indeed.’
‘I—’
But the man stopped him, holding up a hand. ‘You’ve not told me everything,’ he said softly. ‘There’s something else, and you’ve decided to keep it to yourself. You’re someone’s spy, or I’m a Saracen.’
Rollo did not speak.
‘Well,’ the man sighed, ‘I dare say I’d keep that to myself too, in your place. So, you got as far as the inner guard?’
‘Yes. They seemed eager to hear what I had to tell them at first. Then – it changed.’ He held the other man’s eyes. ‘I don’t suppose you know why?’
‘I can provide a pretty good guess,’ the big man said. ‘They keep watch on comings and goings. Well, you can hardly blame them. They have informants everywhere, and especially on the gates. It seems someone saw you arrive, dressed as a Turk.’
‘I’d been travelling in the Turks’ lands, for God’s sake. Is it any wonder?’
‘Don’t be so touchy. You asked, I’m telling you.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Hmm. Anyway, you weren’t as discreet as you thought you were. You were seen going into one of the communal bath houses in one guise and emerging in quite another.’
Rollo was impressed. ‘Someone’s got sharp eyes.’
‘Of course,’ the big man said wearily. ‘What else did you expect? Alexius Comnenus is besieged here, along with all the rest of us. Is it any wonder he keeps a very good lookout for anything out of the ordinary? They think,’ he added, almost as a throwaway, ‘you’re a Turkish spy.’
‘I’m not.’
The big man smiled. ‘No, I don’t believe you are. Like I just said, I reckon you’re someone’s spy, but, unless you’ve turned away from your faith, your kin and your own past, it’s a lot more likely that it’s someone on the other side.’
‘You know nothing about me,’ Rollo countered quickly. The big man’s conclusion was dangerously near the truth.
‘Oh, you’d be surprised how much someone reveals about himself when he’s in the grip of fever,’ the man replied. ‘And I have been nursing you for quite some time.’
‘Again, why?’ Rollo demanded. ‘I asked you before, but you merely said you’d heard I was being hunted and you didn’t want me to be caught. But why? What am I to you?’
Even watching the big man as closely as he was, he only just spotted the split second of reaction, covered up almost before it had happened. Resuming his bland expression, the big man said, ‘I still have many friends and former colleagues among the Varangian Guard. One of them sought me out and said you’d been asking after someone. A man called Harald?’
Instantly Rollo’s senses quickened. ‘I was,’ he agreed.
‘My name’s Harald, as it happens,’ the big man remarked, ‘although I’m only one of many. The way I heard it,’ he went on, ‘this man you’re after left England after the Conquest, and you reckon he ended up here in Miklagard.’
‘That’s what I believe, yes. It’s logical, for a man such as him. His family have had no word of him in twenty-five years, and are at a loss to know where he is or what happened to him.’
The big man was watching him closely. ‘Many who serve with the Varangians could tell a similar tale,’ he remarked.
‘He—’ Rollo began.
But the big man interrupted. ‘England was once my home, too,’ he said, ‘and, for that reason, and because you are hurt, and far from home, and because I rescued you from your own folly, I feel responsible for you.’
Was that a good thing or a bad one? Rollo didn’t speak.
For some time, there was silence in the little room. The big man appeared deep in thought. Rollo guessed he was weighing up the implications of helping a man suspected of spying for the enemy.
Eventually, straightening his shoulders with a firmness that suggested the gesture was intended to restore the backbone in him, the big man said, ‘I am all but certain you’re a Norman, and by rights I should hate you because you’re my former enemy. But I’ve lived too long to allow an old fight to affect what my heart tells me I should do. You have travelled far from home, on a mission, I’m guessing, for some Norman or Frankish lord who fancies his chances of carving out a bit of the eastern Mediterranean as his own personal fiefdom, and, accordingly, wishes to know the strengths, the weaknesses and, most of all, how the emperor Alexius views the situation.’
His summation was so close to the truth that Rollo did not dare reply. He struggled to keep his expression neutral.
The big man grinned. ‘No, I didn’t expect you to confirm or deny it,’ he said lightly. He fixed Rollo’s eyes with his own. ‘I do not see you as a threat to this wonderful city that has become my adopted home,’ he went on, ‘and, I tell you now, if I’m proved wrong, and my actions bring harm to the place and the people I love, then I shall seek you out and kill you with my own two hands. Do we understand one another?’
‘We do,’ Rollo said.
‘Good.’ The big man nodded. Then, standing up, he said, ‘In that case, I’m going to help you.’
THIRTEEN
I was awake early the next morning. I’d been dreaming about Granny Cordeilla. She had a skillet in her hand and she said, Use whatever weapon is to hand! As the image receded, I smiled. She’d been a feisty little woman, my Granny Cordeilla, but, in the way of dreams, reality had been altered slightly. It was my mother, not my grandmother, who had once utilized a cooking implement to lay someone out.
Granny’s presence stayed with me as Edild and I began our day. Edild saw a series of patients, and she gave me a long list of tasks. Around noon, she was called to attend the birth of the carpenter’s wife’s first child. I stopped for a bite to eat, then went back to my chores. Now that I was alone, the sense of Granny’s presence intensified.
Whatever weapon is to hand … The more I thought about it, the surer I was that my granny hadn’t been referring to skillets or frying pans. I did have a weapon, of a sort; and it was very closely associa
ted with Granny Cordeilla. Was that what she had meant?
Abandoning my chores, I took the shining stone in its bag out from its hiding place. Then I wrapped myself up in my shawl and, using the rear door, let myself out of the house.
There was really only one place to go. Closely associated as it was with both my grandmother and the shining stone – for the stone had lain hidden with her out there for many years – I struck off across the sodden ground towards the little island where my ancestors lie buried. I knew it was going to be hard going, but the flood waters had receded further overnight and at no point did I get wet higher than my knees. There was, however, no possibility of actually going across to the island; apart from the deep water all around it, only its summit broke the surface.
I made my way to a low rise on which stood a group of willows. Their branches grew thickly, sweeping down close to the ground, and once I had pushed my way within their circle, I was hidden from the casual glance. I found a reasonably dry spot among the roots of the largest tree, sat down and took out the shining stone.
I’d been anticipating the moment when I had a proper look into its depths purely because I wanted to, rather than at another’s request. I’d been both excited and curious, and I’d also been apprehensive. Now that the time had come, apprehension was the dominant emotion, swiftly escalating to fear.
I held the heavy stone in my palms, staring down into it. It was black; shiny, unrelieved black. It was dormant, inert. Nothing was going to happen; I’d—
But then it changed.
I’m not entirely sure what I saw in its depths. I saw vision after vision, one scene succeeding another in the blink of an eye. I saw myself, as I understood myself to be. I saw another me, and it felt as if the shining stone was drawing out of me aspects of myself that had always been there, had I but troubled to look. I had no idea how it was happening – it was as if the stone’s presence in my hands was somehow allowing me to see with far clearer eyes.
It seemed to be aware of my present concerns. It told me things; or, perhaps, it helped me to use my own knowledge, reason and wits to understand what had previously been hidden. It could be that, sensing I had a new and very powerful entity very firmly on my side – there was absolutely no doubting that – I had, for the first time in my life, the confidence truly to be myself; to trust my own judgement.