Blood of the South

by Alys Clare

  ‘That might suggest that they were the closest and the most alike,’ Jack said quietly. ‘It is often the way, that the siblings who most resemble each other find so much more to disagree about.’

  ‘You are right,’ Sihtric said, turning to him with a smile. His eyes seemed to stare out over our heads, as if he were focusing on the distant past. ‘How long ago it all seems. And now, you say, Cordeilla is dead, and I am the only one left.’

  ‘Harald may still be alive!’ I protested. For some reason, I very much wanted to believe it was true.

  Sihtric returned his attention to me. ‘Perhaps so, child,’ he said kindly. ‘But he was a fighter, and that is a dangerous profession. He would be an old man by now, nearly as old as me.’ He sighed. ‘I cannot hold out much hope that he still walks this earth.’ He nodded, already turning to retreat back inside his monastery. ‘I shall pray for him too,’ he added, stepping inside and beginning to close the gate, ‘and for all my brothers and sisters, gone before me to the paradise that we hope awaits us. Farewell, child.’

  And, very firmly and finally, the gate was shut. There was the sound of heavy bolts being shot across. The monks of St Botolph’s, it seemed, had finished with us.

  Jack did not speak as we rode away. I was grateful. My mind was in turmoil, and I needed time to sort out my emotions. Harald had gone to Miklagard! He had married, made his home and lived the remainder of his life in that impossibly distant city. Oh, why had none of us known? Why, in God’s name, had the only member of the family Harald had seen fit to inform been a monk who didn’t communicate with the rest of us from one year’s end to the next?

  Poor Granny Cordeilla! How hurt she would have been, that he had sent no word to her. She would have—

  I’m all right, child. I could hear her, inside my head. Sihtric spoke wisely; Harald and I did fight more than the others, and we were two of a kind.

  ‘I’m sorry he never contacted you,’ I whispered very quietly.

  Don’t you fret, she replied robustly. Typical Harald, to send his information to the one sibling who didn’t talk to any of the others! Two of a kind we might have been, but that doesn’t mean I liked him much.

  It was so typical of Granny Cordeilla that I had to laugh.

  The day was warm, and we stopped at a ford to water the horses. I felt like singing: relief that our Harald had gone to Miklagard, not Spain, and therefore couldn’t possibly be Lady Rosaria’s father-in-law, was bubbling up into happiness. I flung myself down on the grass beside Jack, leant back against his tree and accepted a drink from his water bag.

  He seemed preoccupied, barely responding to my remarks. After quite a long silence, he said, ‘Lassair, I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘Oh?’

  He got to his feet, then held out his hand to me and helped me up. ‘Yes. I—’

  I heard the whistle. I saw the glint of sunshine on a bright blade. I knew what it was: part of me had been expecting it. Instinctively I flung my arms round Jack’s neck and, using my full weight, dragged him down so that we fell in a heap on the ground.

  The knife plunged deep into the trunk of the tree, precisely where our heads had just been.

  He had fallen on top of me, and I could hardly breathe. He rolled off me, already up in a crouch, eyes everywhere as he sought for the thrower of the knife. With a shout he was on his feet, sprinting across the grass and plunging through the stream.

  ‘Be careful!’ I screamed. ‘He’ll have other weapons!’

  I don’t think Jack heard. Moving with unbelievable speed, he thrust his way into a thicket on the far bank, and a cry of pain rent the air.

  I raced after him, down the slope, across the stream, up the bank on the far side. I launched myself into the thicket, my small blade in my hand, tripped over an outstretched pair of legs and landed on a supine body.

  It wasn’t Jack’s. In that first moment, that was all I could take in.

  Jack had turned the assailant on to his belly, the face pressed into the earth, and he was tying the man’s wrists behind his back with a leather thong.

  ‘I punched him and knocked him out,’ Jack panted, ‘but he’s not hurt otherwise.’

  I stared down at the still form. I noticed that my hands were empty, and that a pool of blood was welling up in the middle of the man’s back, staining the cloth of his tunic. In the centre of the red patch, the handle of my knife stuck up.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ I said softly.

  I began to shake, covering my face with my hands. Jack gave an exclamation, and I heard the sound of ripping material. Then he said, ‘Lassair, you need to look at this.’

  ‘I can’t!’ I whispered. ‘Oh, God, what have I done?’

  Then Jack was beside me, holding me by the shoulders. ‘He just threw a knife at us,’ he said harshly. ‘You acted in self-defence and to protect me. That is no crime. Now, tend his wound.’

  I did as he told me.

  When I pulled out my blade, the blood flowed so fast that I was afraid the man would die. Then I became purely a healer, instructing Jack where to apply pressure while I prepared a length of gut, and then how to hold the man still while I closed the wound. He was coming round, and screaming in agony.

  ‘Untie his wrists,’ I said to Jack.

  ‘No.’ He sounded implacably stern; quite unlike the man I was starting to know. ‘He threw a knife at us, Lassair. He’s dangerous and skilful – had you not pulled me down, one of us would now be dead.’

  He was right.

  Jack turned the man over and forced him to sit up. Then he slapped his face once, hard. ‘Why did you drown her?’ he demanded. ‘Did someone order you not to leave any witnesses alive?’

  The man stared up at him, his face full of hate. He spat out a mouthful of bloody spittle, then said, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Jack gave him a shake. ‘You’ve been following us. You tried to kill us. You won’t leave here alive unless you tell me why.’

  Suddenly I heard something. ‘Jack, there’s someone else out there,’ I said urgently.

  Jack shoved the man back down on the ground and got to his feet. Swiftly he pushed his way through the undergrowth on the far side from where we’d entered the thicket, and through the tangle of branches I saw him circle round. I guessed he was going to jump whoever was out there from behind.

  I waited.

  Then Jack came crashing back, pushing before him a tall shaven-headed man with dark close-set eyes. I’d seen him before, but in that moment of fear and danger, I couldn’t place him.

  But Jack knew exactly who he was. He had twisted the bald man’s arms behind his back, and from the expression on the man’s face, he was causing considerable pain.

  ‘So you thought to take your chance while I was out in the wilds, did you?’ Jack said with icy fury. He wrenched the man’s arms again, and he suppressed a cry. ‘You sent your killer to throw his knife and pin me to a tree in the depths of the fens, where nobody would find me?’ Another wrench and this time the bald man yelled in pain. ‘I should kill you right now, and the dregs you paid to do your work for you.’ He gave the wounded man at his feet a savage kick.

  ‘Jack,’ I said warningly.

  He’d forgotten I was there. Now, he turned his head fractionally to look at me. ‘Don’t waste your pity on the likes of these two,’ he said coldly. ‘One of them is a hired murderer –’ he kicked the wounded man again – ‘and the other –’ he twisted the bald man’s arms so violently that he was lifted off his feet, his mouth wide in a silent scream of agony – ‘is Gaspard Picot.’

  Picot … Then I knew who the bald man was: the sheriff’s nephew. He’d argued with Jack as we were leaving Cambridge with the veiled lady.

  A lifetime ago.

  The silence extended, broken only by Gaspard Picot’s ragged breathing and the harsh panting of the man on the ground. I said, ‘Are you going to kill them?’

  With an exclamation of disgust, Jack extracted another length of
leather from inside his tunic and bound the bald man’s hands behind him. Then he kicked his legs from under him, so that he collapsed against the man he’d hired to kill for him.

  ‘No,’ he said shortly.

  Then he strode out from the thicket, waded back across the stream and, gathering the grey’s reins, mounted. I hurried after him, struggling to get on to Isis’s back and kicking her into a canter; Jack had already ridden away.

  I caught him up. ‘You’re not – surely you’re not just going to leave them there?’ He said nothing. ‘Jack, they could die!’

  He turned to me, his eyes alive with fury. ‘That’d be two less enemies, then.’

  I didn’t know how to respond. I was out of my depth, for Jack was dealing with something with which I had no experience.

  I reined Isis back, slipped in behind Jack’s grey and we rode back to Aelf Fen.

  SIXTEEN

  Rollo enjoyed being on board Gullinbursti. The weather was fine and sunny, and a good store of provisions had been laid in before leaving Miklagard. The crew did not stint themselves when water and food rations were handed round.

  Rollo understood why Skuli had needed another crewman. The ship had been designed for twenty-four oarsmen, twelve on each side. The rigours of the outward journey had led to the loss of three men, leaving twenty-one; an odd number. Now the eleven pairs rowed with two empty places, but Skuli, impassive at the tiller, seemed content.

  The voyage south-west across the Sea of Marmara was not taxing. The water remained calm, and, for much of the time, the wind blew from the north, enabling the use of sail. The crew, aware that Rollo was convalescing, did not push him. At times when they were required to row, however, he was determined to show himself ready to labour as hard as any of them. For a couple of hours during the first day of sailing, he sat at his oar, watching, learning and putting his new skill into practice. It had been the right thing to do; having shown that he was willing to work, and did not intend to play on the fact that he was recovering from injury, the crew responded by treating him with consideration.

  He discovered that he could converse with them readily enough. Brought up in an environment where many tongues were spoken, he had developed early on an ability with languages. The speech of his new companions resembled the tongue in which he conversed with Lassair and her countrymen. Rollo began to learn his fellow crewmen’s names: Eric, big and brawny, the ready laugh and the beer belly that spread out over his wide leather belt disguising the fact that he was as hard as iron; Tostig, tall and wiry, who sang to himself as he worked; Hakon, who loved to observe the seabirds and the fish, and who stared into the night sky seeking patterns and portents; the brothers Torben and Anders, who spoke almost exclusively to each other.

  They tied up early that first day. They had set out at dawn, and everyone was ready to rest. They had stayed close to the northern shore, and now, as the afternoon shadows grew long, the master directed them to a stretch of pebbly beach, backed by grassland and a band of pine trees. There was no sign of any village, hamlet or even an isolated habitation.

  Gullinbursti was hauled up the beach, and, once secured to the master’s satisfaction, the crew could relax. Rollo, hot and soaked with sweat, watched as, to a man, they stripped off to their bare skins and plunged into the water. They called out to him, encouraging him to join them. He didn’t need to be asked twice.

  As night fell, the master and his crew gathered round the fire that had been lit within a circle of stones, both fuel and hearth stones scavenged from the shore. The red-faced man named Brand, the ship’s cook, was busy over an iron pot that bubbled over the flames, and, looking inside, Rollo could make out chunks of salt fish and vegetables; the latter were undoubtedly fresh, since the ship had so recently been in port. He was filled with admiration for the crew’s efficiency. There they were, on an unknown beach hundreds of miles from home and the men’s known world, yet the well-practised routine meant that within a very short space of time, they were sitting round a fire with hot food to eat and a mug of good, heartening drink to hand.

  He found himself sitting next to one of the youngest members of the crew, a slim, fair-haired man named Sven. They had exchanged several remarks during the long day at sea, Sven’s post being just behind Rollo. Now, as the other crewmen chattered and ribbed each other, and good-natured squabbles broke out over the best pieces of stew, once again Sven started a conversation with him. Perhaps, Rollo reflected, the young man was pleased to have a new shipmate who was nearer to his own age. The majority of the crew were seasoned sailors with many years’ experience behind them.

  ‘Tomorrow will be easier than today,’ Sven said, picking a flake of fish out of his front teeth.

  ‘Today wasn’t too bad,’ Rollo observed.

  Sven glanced at him. ‘You did all right,’ he acknowledged. ‘The master said he wouldn’t sail without one more crewman, which means you’re a bit of a godsend, since most of us were getting pretty impatient to get away and set off for home.’ He grinned.

  ‘Glad to be of service,’ Rollo said, smiling. But, even as he spoke the mild response, part of his mind had gone on the alert. Most of us were impatient, Sven had just said. Who, he wondered, was the exception?

  Sven leaned closer. ‘Reckon he thought it’d have been unlucky, sailing with an odd number of rowers,’ he said very quietly, jerking his head towards the master.

  ‘Really?’ Rollo had never heard that superstition before.

  Sven was slowly shaking his head, his light eyes still on the master. ‘Well, I don’t know,’ he confessed. ‘There’s been something up with him, that’s for sure.’ He leaned closer. ‘We had a terrible journey down to Miklagard,’ he whispered. ‘I probably shouldn’t tell you, but the whole bloody lot of us almost came to grief on the rapids. That was where we lost our men,’ he added, his face falling.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Rollo said gravely. ‘I can’t imagine how terrible that must have been.’

  ‘They were good men,’ Sven said very quietly. His youthful face showed his emotion. ‘We carved their names on the stone,’ he added in a whisper. ‘They won’t be forgotten.’

  Rollo wanted to hear more about the master’s strange mood. ‘Losing crewmen would be enough, I’d guess, to rob a man of his peace of mind,’ he observed.

  Sven flashed him an anxious glance. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You just said there was something up with the master,’ Rollo replied softly.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Sven said. He glanced round the circle of faces, lit by the dancing flames. Everyone else was busy eating and talking, and the occasional loud burst of laughter echoed in the stillness. Apparently reassured, Sven leaned closer and said, ‘For all the haste to get down to Miklagard, once we were there, that’s where we stayed, for week after week.’ Again, he glanced nervously around. ‘It looked as if he was afraid of what lay ahead, although we knew that couldn’t be, not when he’d brought us all that way.’ He paused, frowning as if the matter still perplexed him. ‘None the less, we couldn’t help but conclude that the master was reluctant to go on.’

  ‘Go on?’

  Sven raised the hand holding his eating knife and waved it around. ‘With the journey,’ he muttered. ‘Miklagard was never our goal. We’re going on to—’ Abruptly he stopped. Looking up, Rollo noticed the master’s cold, unblinking eyes on them.

  It was the moment for improvisation. ‘Put that knife down!’ he said, pushing Sven’s hand away and forcing a laugh. ‘Go ahead and stab another piece of fish, but let me get out of the way first!’

  Several of the crew joined in. It sounded as if the teasing, ribald remarks were part of a well-rehearsed and frequently repeated litany. Risking a quick glance at Skuli, Rollo saw that even he was smiling. Hoping that the master’s suspicions hadn’t been alerted, he helped himself to more stew.

  They made good, steady progress the following day. In the mid-morning of the day after that, Skuli steered Gullinbursti out into the deep, st
rong current flowing down the Dardanelles, and, with minimal effort on the crew’s behalf, the ship’s pace increased until it felt as if they were flying over the wave-tops. The huge volume of water pouring steadily and constantly out of the Black Sea towards the Mediterranean swept them along, and there was little to do except steer. At the helm, however, Skuli was constantly on the alert, and quick to shout at any man who didn’t keep his eyes open.

  Watching the master as closely as he was, Rollo could have pinpointed the moment when his mood began to alter. From the start, he had given the impression of a man with something on his mind. Other than the regular, tersely given commands, he spoke little. He never smiled, and, as the days passed, Rollo noticed that his brooding presence was gradually darkening the mood of the crew.

  The change began when, as the narrow Dardanelles strait began to widen into the Mediterranean, abruptly Skuli left his place in the stern and paced the length of the ship up into the bows. He stayed there for some moments, gazing at the southern shore far away to his left, down into the water, then back at the shore. It was as if he was looking for something; a marker, perhaps, by which to determine their progress. He went back to his accustomed place at the tiller, only to repeat the exercise a little while later.

  His actions had allowed Rollo to catch a glimpse of his expression. The inward-looking, grave-faced man seemed to have vanished. In his place was a man who appeared to be barely containing his excitement.

  Rollo looked around at the crew, expecting his surprise to be reflected in other faces. It wasn’t. One or two looked fearful; Sven was muttering under his breath, and Rollo thought he was praying. The rest were all staring out to the south, as if some invisible force drew their gaze and they could not look away. On the faces of many was the same expression: awe.