by Alys Clare
‘You wanted me to see what Skuli was doing, and I’ve done so. I’m not referring to what I’ve just seen,’ I added swiftly, as he opened his mouth to speak. ‘I’m referring to the last time I looked into the stone, when I was with you, Hrype.’ I gave him a quick glance, then turned back to Thorfinn. ‘I won’t repeat the information, since I’m quite sure Hrype will already have told you every last detail, but, to summarize, we know that Skuli reached Miklagard after a headlong rush that lost him crewmen.’ I paused, steadying myself. Despite the new-found confidence which the shining stone seemed to have bestowed on me, it was still nerve-racking to confront two such powerful men. ‘We also know,’ I went on softly, ‘that Miklagard was not Skuli’s final destination.’
In the sudden, utter silence, I heard the hoot of a hunting owl, somewhere out on the fens.
Now I had to grab my chance. I was about to do something I’d never attempted before, and I knew that my slender courage would fail if I gave myself time to think.
‘Before I describe what the stone has just revealed to me,’ I went on, trying to keep my voice steady, ‘you must tell me where he’s going, and what he intends to do there.’
Thorfinn’s expression smoothed into bland indifference, but not quickly enough; I had caught a glimpse of his anguish. Clearly, he didn’t want to share whatever he knew, or suspected, with me. He met Hrype’s eyes, and I thought Hrype gave a small shake of the head. So that was how it would be …
With a smile, my grandfather said, ‘I can’t tell you, child, because I don’t know for certain. He—’ A pause. ‘Skuli has a warped soul. He believes life has treated him very unfairly, and that the shining stone should be his. If it were, he is convinced that he would have led the hero’s life he so desperately wants. With its help, he would have made voyages and discoveries of the sort that become legends, to be told and retold by the bards until the end of our line.’ Briefly he closed his eyes. ‘For better or worse, actions were taken to ensure Skuli never got his hands on the shining stone. But, in the end, it made no difference; he has gone to pursue his dream anyway.’
I waited, but it seemed he had finished.
I could scarcely believe it.
‘But what dream?’ I cried, my voice loud in the enclosed space.
Now Thorfinn’s distress was written all over his face. He leaned close to me. ‘Child, child, it is perilous even to speak of it!’ he said, his voice almost a moan of pain. ‘You must trust to older and wiser heads, and accept that some things it is truly better not to know.’
Once more, silence fell. I said, wondering at my nerve even as I spoke, ‘Then you’re not going to hear what the stone just imparted to me.’
Thorfinn’s mouth fell open. ‘You saw?’ he hissed, and anger flared in his eyes. ‘You saw the place? Those ancient, wondrous halls, and the ravens which—’
‘Enough.’ Hrype spat out the single word with the force of an arrow hitting the butt. I twisted round to him, my fury about to erupt, but he forestalled me. ‘She’s fooling you, Thorfinn! She saw nothing – she’s leading you on, in the hope that you’ll tell her what she wants to know.’
Hrype was right. In that moment, I hated him for his perception. He knew me far too well and he hadn’t hesitated to use that knowledge against me, stepping in to stop Thorfinn just as he was about to speak.
Ravens. He’d said ravens.
I’d seen them.
Thorfinn was looking at me. ‘Is this true, child? You were trying to mislead me?’
I met his eyes. Gathering the remnants of my courage, I said, ‘Yes, Grandfather, I was.’ Making myself ignore the disappointment in his face, I hurried on. ‘You have asked too much of me. You would have me use the shining stone – which you put into my hands – for your own purposes.’ I stopped, my response to his pain making my eyes fill with tears. Then, anger rising again, I said, ‘If you have a use for the stone, you should have held on to it.’
He went white. I knew I had gone too far, but whatever was driving me wouldn’t let me apologize. Instead, I said coldly, ‘Please don’t ask me again to use the shining stone to do your bidding. It doesn’t work like that any more.’ I paused, for this was important. ‘It’s mine now, and it’s concerned only with my preoccupations. Nobody else’s,’ I added for emphasis, ‘even yours.’
Thorfinn didn’t reply. I think he was shocked into silence. Hrype made no comment either, although I could feel his furious disapproval coming at me like a wave. I risked a glance in his direction. His silvery eyes were narrowed to slits.
I busied myself wrapping the stone in its soft wool and stowing it back inside the leather bag. Then I got up from the bench, pushing aside the heavy awning.
‘You’re going?’ Thorfinn’s voice cut into the silence.
‘Yes.’
‘But you can’t go alone! It’s dark, and the waters still run high. You should—’
I cut him off. ‘I’ve lived in the fens all my life and I’m perfectly capable of finding my way home,’ I said. I stepped up on to the bank.
‘Hrype, stop her!’ Thorfinn commanded.
‘She knows her own mind,’ Hrype replied coldly. ‘Let her go.’
He spoke as if he hated me. It was too much. Sticking my head and shoulders back in through the gap in the awning, I let all the anger, hurt and resentment fuse into a weapon as sharp as a sword. Unfortunately, I aimed it at the wrong target.
Glaring at Thorfinn, I said, ‘One more thing: you need to explain to my father who you are. It’s not right or fair that I know and he doesn’t. Apart from anything else, you’re forcing me to enact a lie with someone I really love, and it’s very, very painful.’ I paused for breath, fighting not to let the sight of Thorfinn’s expression affect me. ‘My father’s a grown man, and he’s tough,’ I finished. ‘The news won’t break him. Compared to everyone and everything he holds dear, it’s just not important enough.’
I flung the awning back into place and strode away along the narrow track.
Hrype studied the old man. He sat with bent head, the broad shoulders sagging, one hand covering his face.
She has hurt him, Hrype thought. So far he has only known one face of his granddaughter, and now he has seen another. She is a lot tougher than he had suspected.
He watched Thorfinn struggle to overcome his distress. Finally, the old man lowered the concealing hand and turned to Hrype. ‘She is quite right,’ he said quietly. ‘What she said pained me, but in both matters – her right to use the shining stone as she wishes, and my need to confess the truth to my son – she tells me what my conscience already knows.’
Hrype considered, his head on one side. ‘In essence, yes,’ he agreed. He paused. There was something he knew he should add, but it was not strictly necessary, and he was impatient to discuss what he and Thorfinn should do next. But, somewhat to his amazement – he prided himself on being above emotion – the old man’s distress had affected him.
‘You should not be surprised at her strength,’ he heard himself say. ‘She is of your own blood, old man, and you do not breed weaklings. Her mother, too, is formidable.’ He smiled, a swift expression there and gone in a moment. ‘Threaten those she loves and she’ll use an iron cooking pot on you as if it were a battle axe,’ he murmured.
Thorfinn looked up at him. ‘Really?’
‘So they say,’ Hrype confirmed. There was more; he made himself go on. ‘Thorfinn, I sense that already she is regretting her cruel words to you,’ he said. ‘It was me she wished to hurt, but you, being more vulnerable, were the easier target.’
‘Why should she wish to hurt you?’
Because she grows in strength and will one day rival me, and because I cannot let myself admit it, I suppress her, was the honest answer. Hrype wasn’t going to share that with Thorfinn. He shook his head. ‘Explanations would take too long. The important thing is that what has just happened will not come between you.’
Thorfinn’s face lightened. ‘You are sure?’
/> ‘I am.’ All at once weary of the discussion, Hrype hardened his tone and said, ‘Now, what are we to do about Skuli?’
Next morning, I was heavy-eyed after my night’s excitement. I was also sore at heart and guilty; I had shouted at my grandfather and hurt him, and he really hadn’t deserved it.
I didn’t try to justify to myself why I sought out Jack. I needed to be with him: that was all.
He was in the Lakehall stables, tending his horses. He seemed to find conversation as awkward as I did, and, for want of anything better, I said, ‘I asked my aunt if my Granny Cordeilla revealed anything useful concerning her missing brother, but she said not.’
He didn’t reply straight away. Then, just when I was thinking I ought to go and leave him to his work, he said, ‘The missing one was the youngest brother, you said. What of the others?’
‘He and the two who fell at Hastings were the final three. There were two older sisters, but they died years ago.’ I paused. ‘Oh, and one entered a monastery. His name was Sihtric.’
‘Is this monk still alive?’
‘Yes, as far as I know. He’s in an enclosed community out to the south-east of Cambridge, at Little Barton.’
‘Quite an easy ride, now that the flood waters are receding,’ Jack observed. He reached out for the grey gelding’s bridle, deftly buckling the straps.
‘But he won’t know what happened to Harald!’ I protested. ‘He may not even be still alive.’
‘Wouldn’t his monastery have notified his family if he’d died?’ Jack asked.
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
His own horse was now tacked up. Gently pushing me out of the way, he turned his attention to Isis. ‘We’ll go and find out.’
We reached Little Barton in the late morning. Jack had been right about the flood water, and there had only been one place where we’d had to make a detour. The village was tiny: a collection of lowly dwellings, a run-down smithy, a church with holes in its roof. Jack asked a man waiting for the smith to finish replacing a shoe on his horse’s hind foot if he knew of a monastery in the area. He removed the straw from his mouth, spat, then silently pointed down the narrow track leading off behind the church.
We headed out of the village. Several small boys emerged from a line of hovels, and one of them said a dirty word. For a few awkward moments, we were the centre of attention, and several pairs of round eyes in snotty-nosed faces watched as we rode by. Perhaps they didn’t get many visitors.
The monastery was about a mile out of the village. It consisted of a small group of wattle-and-daub buildings up on a slight rise, and the largest of them had a wooden cross on its roof. The buildings were enclosed by a high paling fence, and the tops of the palings were sharpened into points. On three sides, the fence merged into thick undergrowth from which stands of willow, hazel and alder rose up, effectively concealing the monastery. In the fence facing us as we approached there was a gate, firmly closed.
‘Do you think they’re trying to keep the world out or the monks in?’ Jack wondered, staring at the wretched enclosure before us.
‘A bit of both,’ I replied.
‘What do they do all day?’ Jack went on. ‘They obviously don’t spend their time tending the poor and the needy.’
‘They’ll have to support themselves,’ I said, ‘so presumably they farm their land.’ In a field to our right there was a small herd of skinny cows. ‘And most of their time is probably spent in prayer.’
‘Praying for a better world,’ Jack muttered. ‘I can’t help but think they’d do more good trying to heal the sick and feed the hungry, but I suppose it’s a matter of belief.’
‘Granny Cordeilla said Sihtric was always a dreamer, even as a boy,’ I said. ‘He got out of a lot of distasteful chores by saying he had to go and communicate with God.’
‘It looks as if he’s still doing the same,’ Jack observed. ‘Let’s see if they’ll open the gate and admit us.’
We rode up to the fence and dismounted. I held our horses’ reins, and Jack banged on the gate. It was some time before anyone came to see what we wanted. Finally, a tiny gap appeared between the stout wood of the gate and the frame in which it was set, and a cowled face peered out. ‘What do you want?’ hissed a reedy voice.
‘We wish to speak to Brother Sihtric,’ Jack said firmly. ‘This young woman is his great-niece, and needs to consult him urgently on a family matter.’
‘We abandon our families when we enter St Botolph’s,’ the monk said reprovingly.
‘But perhaps your families do not abandon you,’ Jack replied gently. ‘Is Brother Sihtric here?’
‘Of course he is,’ the monk snapped. He opened the gate a fraction more, glaring out at me from faded, rheumy eyes narrowed into suspicious slits. ‘You can’t come in, you’re a woman,’ he accused. ‘No women allowed!’
He went to slam the gate shut, but Jack had put his foot in the gap. Wincing slightly – the stringy old monk must have been tougher than he looked – he said reasonably, ‘Well, if we can’t come in, perhaps Brother Sihtric could come and speak to us here?’
The monk frowned, furiously working empty jaws together as if chewing on invisible meat. Then he said, ‘Wait,’ and slammed the gate shut.
We waited. There was the sound of a brief muttered conversation, and within the enclosure a door creaked open and closed. Footsteps approached, and the gate opened again – a little wider this time – to reveal an even smaller and more wizened monk dressed in a patched and fraying habit.
I knew he was my great-uncle even before he spoke. He had a look of Granny Cordeilla in his very stance, and the deep, dark eyes, bright as a robin’s despite his advanced years, were hers exactly.
‘You wish to speak to me?’ he asked, his voice cracked and rusty with disuse. He cleared his throat of accumulated phlegm and spat a glistening, yellowish gobbet on to the ground.
‘I’m Cordeilla’s granddaughter,’ I said before he could change his mind and shut himself away again. ‘Her son Wymond’s child.’
‘Cordeilla.’ His lined old face softened. ‘How is she?’
‘She died,’ I admitted. ‘Two years and more ago.’
He nodded, as if it was only to be expected. ‘I shall pray for her,’ he said. ‘Was that what you came to tell me?’
I hesitated, but, with those eyes so like my Granny Cordeilla’s burning into mine, I could only tell the truth. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry that nobody thought to inform you before, but that isn’t why I’m here.’ I drew a breath. ‘I wanted to ask you if you ever heard word from Harald. Do you know where he is?’
Sihtric watched me. ‘Harald fled,’ he said. ‘Didn’t want to stay here, once the fight was lost.’
‘I know,’ I said gently. ‘I’m not judging him. I just want to know if he ever sent you any communication, any message, that might reveal where he went.’ Sihtric didn’t answer. In desperation, I said urgently, ‘He didn’t go to Spain, did he?’ I prayed he wouldn’t say yes.
Perhaps prayers said right outside a monastery stand a better chance of being heard and answered; I don’t know. But, with a smile, Sihtric said, ‘Spain? No, no, Harald didn’t go to Spain.’ He chuckled, as if to say, why on earth would anyone wish to go there?
‘Where, then?’ I whispered, hardly daring to breathe.
‘He was a fighter, child,’ Sihtric said kindly. ‘It was the only thing he was good at, and, even then, Sagar was a better shot and Sigbehrt a far better warrior. Where would a warrior go, d’you imagine?’
I didn’t know. I shook my head.
But Jack knew. ‘He’d make his way to where warriors of his race and size were known to be welcomed,’ he said softly. ‘Like so many of his Saxon comrades, he’d have gone south.’
‘South, aye, south,’ Sihtric agreed, shifting his gaze to Jack and nodding his approval. ‘He went to serve the emperor in Miklagard, as one of his Varangian Guard. As far as I know, he’s still there.’
As the initial sho
ck began to wear off, I said, ‘How do you know? How could he possibly have told you?’
Sihtric looked at me, my Granny Cordeilla’s smile brightening his face. ‘Many of our race travel to Miklagard,’ he said. ‘It is not so unusual a voyage.’ He was speaking more easily now, and I had the sense that he was enjoying this rare chance to converse with someone other than his fellow monks. ‘Many come back again, since, unlike Harald and the Varangians, they go not to make a new life but to trade. Harald sent word to me via one such trader returning to these shores. It was –’ he screwed up his face in concentration – ‘perhaps ten or a dozen years after he disappeared? I cannot recall exactly, for time passes slowly in this place and one year is very much like another.’
‘What did the message say?’ I asked, trying to speak calmly.
‘He wished me to know that he was married,’ Sihtric replied with a gentle smile. ‘Crusty old bachelor that he was, he had fallen in love with the daughter of a Frankish merchant, and she, it appeared, reciprocated the sentiment. Her name was Gabrièla de Valéry, and, according to Harald, she was tall, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, very beautiful and utterly perfect.’ The smile widened into a reminiscent grin. ‘Mind you,’ he added, ‘there was never anyone like Harald for building up a tale, and we always took everything he said with a pinch of salt.’
Harald had married! And this Sihtric, this sibling who had shut himself away from the world, had known, yet my beloved Granny Cordeilla hadn’t.
‘Why did he tell you when he didn’t tell Cordeilla?’ I demanded, the pain and hurt I was feeling on her behalf making me angry. In my distress, I felt her presence acutely. I could see her, a vague, misty shape on the edge of my vision. She was fuming. ‘She was his last surviving sister, and she loved him!’ I yelled.
Sihtric looked at me, compassion in his face. ‘I cannot say for sure,’ he said, ‘although I can guess. Harald thought, I imagine, that Cordeilla hated him. He believed she could not forgive him for not having brought the bodies of Sagar and Sigbehrt back to Aelf Fen. I would guess that, in addition, he thought she would rather one of the other two had been spared instead of him. Perhaps he was right.’ He sighed, his dark eyes softening. ‘When we were children, it was always Cordeilla and Harald who picked the most frequent and violent fights with each other.’