by Smith, Skye
The count's daughter Adela was almost seventeen, and from her looks could have been a younger sister to Roas except that she was not as tall. She was a cross of Flemish and Saxon blood, which explained her good looks. She had brought them a breakfast tray, including a clutch of early spring blossoms. The same kind that she had threaded into her hair.
"Adela my sweet. So you are a woman now, and a queen," he whispered, for Roas was not yet stirring. "Finally Canute has lost his virginity.” Almost as soon as Canute had become the King of Denmark, he had taken Adela as his wife and queen. Adela's mother Countess Gertrude of Flanders, was the favourite sister of the Count of Saxony, and the mother of the Count of Holland, and the mother of the Queen of France.
This one marriage had created an alliance between Denmark and all of those places. This was the best of news for the folk that lived along the borders of those places, and was bad news for the greedy Emperor of the Germanies, Henry, and worse news for the vicious Duke of Normandy, William.
"He was not a virgin," she giggled. "That is just another silly rumour because he prays so much."
Roas was stirring now, and she looked up at the girl and the tray, and then pulled her clothing off the stool beside the bed, as she motioned for Adela to put the tray down. "Adela dear, you are no longer one of your mother's ladies in waiting. You should be delegating such tasks."
"My husband would have wanted me to serve his old friend Raynar of the Peaks. If he were here himself, he would wash Raynar's feet.” Adela's words were met with an embarrassing silence. "You are thinking why am I still here in Brugge. Canute says that Denmark is always unstable in the times of a new king. Since he was going to be away leading armies, he thought it better that I stay here, perhaps until my first child is safely born."
Roas slid out of bed and stood and hugged her, "Is it true then, you are with child. Well good. Canute is a lovely man, and it is about time someone bore him children."
Adela accepted the hug of the tall naked woman, and reveled in the touch, but said softly, "Oh, that is my bad English. No not yet. Not with child yet. We had so short a time together, just enough to confirm our marriage vows."
Raynar reached over and steadied the stool with the tray, which was swaying a bit due to all the hugging. "Well that was a wise decision. A rough court is no place for you to be left by your husband. And not just because of the men, but think of the nasty maneuvering the palace women will be doing to position themselves for the new king."
Adela stared at him with mouth open and cheeks blushing.
"Oops," he said quickly. "I didn't mean it like that. I meant that women can be so catty to each other. You know. You grew up in palaces.” He picked up a steaming cup of mint infusion and took his foot out of his mouth so he could take a first sip. More words would just make it worse.
Roas thought the girl's blush was due to her naked hug, and remembered that though Adela looked Frisian, she was not. Women of other cultures were not as comfortable with nudity as were Frisians, so she slipped back under the covers next to Raynar. "I think our new queen came to ask you something, dearest."
Adela sat on the end of the bed and gave Roas a look of thanks for opening the subject. Roas had lived near Brugge since Hereward had fled from Ely almost ten years ago, and was a woman most welcome in her mother's home. She was not shocked to find her in Raynar's bed, but it made her swear to herself never to be unfaithful to Canute.
Raynar saw her look. "Adela, what an accusing look, yet you well know Frisian customs. My first wife Anske was sister to Roas. When Roas was widowed by the Normans, she became my second wife. Frisian's can have many second wives. It saves the widows from being preyed upon while they decide on a new husband. There is no shame in Roas and I sleeping together. Hereward would expect it."
Adela was not moved by the soft words. She knew that Roas had invited other men to her bed besides just Raynar. Canute had refused her, but her father Robert hadn't. "I came to ask that you go to Canute. Find him and protect his back. There are Danes with him who also have claims on his throne."
"Did he tell you to ask this of me?" Raynar said softly as he sat up and reached out and held Adela's hand. "Your father did not mention this. He wants me to go to Venice on his behalf."
"Sweetie," Roas also sat up and took her other hand. "Your father sent Hereward and a hundred bowmen to protect Canute's back. He has the most protected back in Christendom. Don't worry so. Hereward told me that he would even go into churches with Canute and pray with him."
Raynar began to chuckle because Hereward was about the last man who would step into a church, but then a thought struck him and he looked at Roas, and she nodded back. Of course. Canute was easy prey when he prayed, for he became oblivious to all sounds around him. He looked up and sent a quick prayer to Anske, his own personal Valkyrie, to watch out for Canute. With this news, he needed to speak to the Count, urgently.
"I think it is time for both of you to leave my room," he told them. "It is not seemly for two married women to be sitting on my bed while I am not clothed.” They both laughed at his words seeing as the bed had been torn apart by morning sex, but they took the hint and left him.
* * * * *
The count listened carefully to Raynar's explanation of Adela's worries about Canute but waved the girl's worries away. "Canute is as safe as he can be considering he is butting heads with bloody Henry. Standing up to Henry, and having Henry withdraw his armies from Saxon lands, will be the making of Canute as a king. It must be done, and he must take the credit. Besides, I need you to be my eyes and ears in Venice."
"Robert, you must have a half a dozen ambassadors around Venice by now. Why me?"
"I do have men around Venice, yes, but they are shop keepers. I need someone in Venice who can walk amongst the real people, and stand on their ships, and weigh their metal. No, don't refuse me yet, for there is another purpose, another quest.
For ten years now, you and Hereward have been enabling the English exiles who fled from the Normans, to travel to Constantinople along the Rhine and Danube rivers. Perhaps a thousand have made the journey, not including their women and children.
You or Hereward arrange for the transfer of their wealth through the monasteries here in Flanders. You deposit it at my monastery, so that they can withdraw the equivalent at a monastery in Constantinople. Well recently, many of those men have sent messages that they have a new need. They wish to make withdrawals in Venice as well."
Raynar stood, without permission, and walked towards the drapery on the far wall of the count's office. With a sweep of his arm, he pulled it back to expose the maps of the seas that were hung on the wall behind it. The North Sea, the Baltic, the Celtic, the Mediterranean, and the Black. The one of the Mediterranean was wide and so hung beneath the others.
Robert joined him at the wall of maps and pointed. "Here Constantinople. The Rhine, Danube route takes them to the Black Sea there, and then they go by ship to Constantinople. Venice is way over here. It is nowhere close to that pilgrim route."
It had been years since Raynar had looked at a map of the Mediterranean. It took him a while to envision the scale, and to locate the main cities and islands. "When those men left Brugge, they were either going to a new colony they called New England up here at the top of the Black Sea, or were going to join the Varangian guard in Constantinople. They have written to me about both. The Varangians are an army within an army. A few years ago they were sent to fight the Seljuk Turks, who were worrying the eastern border of the empire."
"That is old news now," replied Robert. "The Byzantines have a new Emperor, Alexius Comnenus, and Alexius has taken over an empire that is being attacked on all its borders. Just as Canute is leading his army to make everyone realize that he is truly the king, Alexius must now do the same. The borders shown on those maps are going to change, and change soon.
My problem is not that I fear for Flanders, but that I don't know enough to be fearful. Many Brugge merchants receive goods fr
om Constantinople and from Venice, and those shipments have suddenly stopped completely. Without the news passed with the shipments, I am dependant on the monks for news, but their news is all about Popes and Bishops.
Those requests for drawing rights in Venice tell me that something is happening or about to happen in Venice that I know nothing about. I need to know what."
"Rob, the winter still isn't over," Raynar pointed out. "The explanation for the missing shipments could be as simple as blocked roads."
"Yes, yes, or as simple as Emperor Henry is angry that I am supporting Canute, and so he is blocking our trade routes. But what of the drawing rights?"
"Maybe life is not so good in Constantinople and they have decided to try Venice instead."
"Exactly. 'Maybe', 'Maybe', 'Maybe'. I need to know the true reason, and that means someone must go to Venice and get word back to me. You are my first choice.
And as for 'why Venice', just take a look at that map. Venice is at the north end of a long narrow sea between two great peninsulas. The Byzantine province of Illyria runs along the East coast, while the Norman Duchy of Apulia runs along the West coast. The Normans are lead by a vicious bugger by the name of Robert Guiscard, who is from the same mould as my brother-in-law William the Conqueror.
See how the heel of the Italian boot creates a narrow strait at the entrance to the sea. There are three powers that want to control that strait. Venice, Constantinople, and the Normans. Maybe our spice shipments from Venice are late because that strait is already blocked to Venetian ships.
There is that word again. 'Maybe'. What ever is going on, the easiest way to find out is to get someone like you to Venice. My best guess is that there may be a war between the Byzantines and the Normans."
"Well good," replied Raynar. "Let someone else fight the Normans for a change. I hope the Byzantines wipe them out. That would be excellent news for Canute. The Normans are too weak to fight two wars at the same time. They would retreat out of England as fast as we could chase them."
"Exactly," Robert smiled to himself. Long ago he had learned that if you wanted Raynar's help you must first get his inquisitive mind working on the problem. "And for us to make the best use of what is going on, we need to get someone to Venice who can judge exactly what is going on.
I have monks here at the palace who tutor my children in history. All very boring. I prefer to make history than to read it. They tell me that this year, or the next, '81 or '82 could be one of those pivotal years in history that come once a generation. The last one was in '66, 1066."
At the naming of that horrible year, all of Raynar's senses became more acute. "I don't understand. What did they mean by pivotal?"
The count picked up an old quill and bent it slowly in two until it snapped. "They, my historians, tell me that life goes on, year after year, with little change from year to year, until one year, something snaps, and then everything changes at once. This may be one of those years, and the place where it is likely to snap is Venice."
* * * * *
* * * * *
The Hoodsman - Popes and Emperors by Skye Smith
Chapter 3 - At the abbey outside of Brugge in March 1081
For three days now, Raynar had been surrounded by maps. He loved maps. Most of all he loved his own maps. The maps at this abbey, just outside of Brugge were typical of church works. Lots of color, lots of glyphs, lots of flourish, but the accuracy and the scale was suspect. It took him hours and hours to combine the knowledge of the maps into a version that he trusted to be useful. Maps that his life or the lives of others may depend upon.
After three days of ruining his eyes in the candlelight, he had a map of the area around Venice, a map of the Adriatic Sea, and a map of the probable route he would travel from Brugge to Venice. It didn't seem like much to show for so much painstaking work. His guide in the Abbey, one of the count's Historian Monks, was just finishing copying the last of his maps for Count Robert.
"No, forget the flourishes," Raynar told him in a hushed voice. "These are working maps. Whoever uses them will not have time to figure out your calligraphy. If you want to make them more attractive then color the rivers blue, the borders red, and the highways green. At least that will be of help."
The old monk took a deep breath, but did as he was asked. He did not like this peasant, but this peasant walked the corridors of power without restraint, so it was not wise to upset him. Even the abbot had received him on his first day here, and he had eaten at the Abbots table each day since.
The Prior had told him that this peasant had signing authority against a vast treasure stored here in the Abbey or perhaps elsewhere in Brugge. Unbelievable, but perhaps true. Brugge was home to more and more wealthy merchants every year, because Flanders was thriving under the seemingly endless peace that was the blessing of the rule of that heathen Robert the Frisian.
"I am finished," the monk said. "I have one copy of each of your maps, and I can make more copies at the palace, and in more comfort and light."
"Good," replied Raynar, "you go ahead to the palace then. I have other business here."
The monk looked at the peasant and shrugged. Probably another fine meal with the Abbot, while he would be expected to eat bread and cheese with the other brothers. He would return to the palace and eat there.
The Prior waited until the nosy palace monk was gone, and then he led Raynar to the Abbots quarters. Only after the door was closed did he speak. "We have prepared the lists. One in Latin and one in Greek, and copies of each. Our own lists will be sent today through our regular monastic messengers towards Constantinople."
The Abbot motioned for Raynar to sit at his desk to better read the long lists of names and glyphs and numbers. Beside each name was a stamp. The stamp should match the stamp of the foot of the small plain wooden cross that each English pilgrim to Constantinople was given to wear around his neck when he started out. It was only one of the security devices that the monasteries used to ensure that the wealth in their trust could not be claimed by an imposter.
"How many names are there?" Raynar asked. This list was a collection of ten years worth of names. Ten years of English exiles giving up on ever reclaiming their lands from the new Norman lords of England, and instead moving to the Byzantine.
"Three hundred and six," replied the prior.
"I expected more."
"Many of the men," the prior replied, "who Hereward sponsored to use our pilgrim service have already taken everything that was theirs from our sister monasteries. Those names are not included. And of course, only the head of each family group, or the lord of each party, was a named depositor. By that measure, this is a long list indeed."
"And all I need do is hand one copy to the abbot in Venice, and he will know what to do with it?"
"He will know what to do, of course, but he may be surprised. We have no direct link to that abbey. Our connections are through the Germanies along the great rivers, not across the Alps. The abbey in Venice, however, does much business with the Franks and with Constantinople. This may be the first he has heard of our meager chapter."
A snicker curled Raynar's lip. Because Brugge was flourishing under Count Robert, this chapter was one of the wealthiest in Christendom. Because Count Robert understood the need for trading banks, banks that allowed payments without the transportation of treasure, this chapter had very deep pockets. The notion that temples were places where folk came together to worship now included the worship of gold.
A quick scan was all that Raynar required. He would check it more thoroughly against Hereward's records tomorrow. He smiled at the thought of visiting Oudenburg. It would be good to raise some ale cups with seamen and bowmen for a change, instead of drinking fine wine with those born in palaces and manors.
"And now shall we eat," said the prior licking his lips. "Partridge in pear sauce. Eels pickled in red wine. Fresh sweet bread. Spiced cheese. But first a prayer of thanks."
The prior was good enough at his job that h
e included a prayer to all of the English exiles on Raynar's list, that they may also be eating well and enjoying life.
"Not likely," Raynar whispered under his breath. They were soldiers in an army, an army that was most likely on a long march. He did not know where they were, but whereever they were they would be eating whatever presented itself that day and it would be overcooked and served without pear sauce.
They ate in silence, as was the custom in this monastery, but afterwards they did not drink in silence. The abbot was a man of few words. It was his way of forcing himself to delegate, always delegate. For this peasant, warrior, ships captain, or whatever, he made an exception. "Our normal pilgrim route to Constantinople will be of use to you only for the first few hundred miles. Our pilgrim route turns east from the Rhine river to follow the Danube, whereas you must follow the Rhine until your way is blocked by mountains. The Alps. The highest mountains on earth."
"Forgive me your grace," replied Raynar, "but the men of Flanders think that Mount Cassel is a mountain, though where I come from in the Peaks of England, it would be a mere hillock."
"Believe me when I say that there is no peak in England that could even be called a foot hill to the Alps."
"I have been to Scotland, and..."
"Nor any peak in Scotland," the abbot interrupted. "The Alps are, as I have already said, the highest peaks on earth. They scrape the sky and cause their own clouds. The moon must rise higher to clear them without crashing into them.
You must not enter those mountain valleys, but instead stay north of them and walk east, and always say that you are a pilgrim on your way to Salzburg. When you reach Salzburg you must turn directly south and follow the valleys up over the passes through the Alps, and continue ever southward until you reach Venice."