Blood of the South

TWELVE

For perhaps the fourth or fifth time, Thorfinn eased aside the heavy awning that turned a small boat into a reasonably comfortable refuge and stared into the deepening darkness. Then, climbing up on to the bank, he stood and breathed in the night air. He realized he might well be looking out for somebody who wouldn’t turn up; there was no certainty, and his expected guest had only said maybe. He had a long way to come, and timing could never be precise when it depended on currents, tides and winds.

Nevertheless, Thorfinn kept on looking.

Eventually, when night had fallen and bright stars were beginning to appear in the black sky, he heard the sound he had been listening out for. With a smile, he jumped up on the bank once more, and, bending over the small brazier that stood on the bank, poked up the fire and put water on to heat. His visitor would undoubtedly be cold, hungry and thirsty. Thorfinn knew which of those needs would be the most urgent. As he heard soft footfalls on the narrow track that led to where the little boat was concealed, he drew out from under his cloak a silver flask of mead.

He smiled again. It was very fine mead, made by his own kinswomen back at home, and he kept a barrel of it stowed away in the prow of the boat. It would warm his guest better than the little fire and the hot food.

‘It’s me,’ a deep voice said softly.

Thorfinn hurried forward and took him in his arms in a bear hug. Then, as the two men broke apart, he thrust the silver flask into his visitor’s hand. ‘Drink, son,’ he said. ‘I will prepare food. Then, when you are restored, we will talk.’

And Einar, with a swift grin at the wisdom of his father’s priorities, stepped on to the boat, sank down on to the narrow bench that ran around its sides and proceeded to drain the flask.

Quite a short time later, when Einar had wolfed down the savoury porridge and gnawed his way through the strips of dry cured meat, he wiped a large hand across his beard and moustache, turned to Thorfinn and said, ‘Is there more of the mead? It’s particularly good.’

‘It is, isn’t it?’ Thorfinn reached over to the barrel, deftly filling the flask from it. He watched Einar take another couple of mouthfuls, then, unable to restrain his impatience any longer, said, ‘You have news?’

Einar nodded. ‘Yes. I waited, just where you suggested, anchoring at Gotland, close to Visby. You reasoned that the returning crew we sought would put in there, and you were right. For many days and weeks, there was no word of them. Others arrived, but few from the right place.’ He grinned ruefully. ‘My crew began to complain that we were wasting our time and because I could not tell them the true reason for our mission, I was at times hard put to explain why we must not yet leave. But, in the end, Yngvar came.’ He gave his father a rueful look. ‘You judged your old friend and confidant astutely, Father.’

‘And he had news of Skuli?’

‘Yes. He told me Skuli had reached Miklagard, making amazing time. He must have driven his men to the limits of endurance, and, in addition, had extraordinarily good fortune with the winds and tides. They say he managed to cover the many miles of portage in record time – not much over a week, although I find that hard to believe. Apparently he paid out very generously for the strongest ox teams and the toughest men.’

‘What of the rapids?’ Thorfinn demanded. ‘Those seven cataracts are no place for reckless speed; not if you want to reach the far end with your ship and your crew intact.’

‘He didn’t,’ Einar said shortly. ‘He lost three crewmen. They say he was reluctant to leave the water and waste time carrying the ship around the obstacles and only did so at the waterfalls, where there was no alternative. He took that fine ship of his straight down the rapids, and it was only because he is such a fine mariner – or maybe because he was so desperate – that he did not come entirely to grief.’ He was watching his father intently. With a soft exclamation, he leaned closer, studying the fine old features in the gentle light of the oil lamp. ‘This is not news to you,’ he breathed. ‘Is it?’

‘I suspected, but I needed confirmation,’ Thorfinn replied.

‘Why did you suspect?’

Thorfinn turned away. Then, keeping his face averted, he said, ‘Because of the shining stone.’

Einar grabbed at Thorfinn’s sleeve, turning him round so that once more they were face to face. ‘She’s mastered it? Already?’

‘No, oh, no. That would be far too much to expect. She has a long way to go.’ Thorfinn paused. ‘She begins to have glimpses, it seems. She can-’

Einar shook his head impatiently, and the small coins braided into the two long plaits either side of his face clinked together. ‘I don’t care what she can and can’t do. Just tell me what she saw.’

‘She knew, somehow, that Skuli had reached Miklagard. She also knew he had lost men.’

Einar gave an impatient snort. ‘That much she could have guessed. She is not stupid.’

‘She is very far from stupid,’ Thorfinn countered swiftly. He raised his eyes, studying his son. Still you do not welcome her, this new kinswoman of ours, he thought. He had been about to reveal what else Lassair had seen in the stone, but something held him back. ‘There was more news of Skuli?’ he asked instead.

Einar shrugged. ‘He is a driven man, they say, but we already know that. Yngvar reported that he would have to contain his impatience, however, for he would have had to remain in Miklagard for some time. His recklessness at the rapids damaged his ship and, although they managed to patch it up enough to complete the journey south, even Skuli would not risk going on without a fully sound vessel. And he would have needed more hands to replace those lost.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s amazing, given all that has happened, that his crew remain loyal to him. Were they not, they’d surely have slipped away on reaching Miklagard and left him to his madness.’

‘Perhaps they share his dream,’ Thorfinn murmured.

Einar shot him a glance. ‘What dream?’

Still Thorfinn was not ready to share his deepest thought. ‘How is the situation in Miklagard?’ he asked. ‘The city’s enemies are close, I believe, and I imagine the emperor is anxious for the safety of his city.’

‘Yes, there is much unrest, apparently,’ Einar said. ‘It’s the Seljuks, they say. Miklagard used to be a city where it didn’t matter what a man believed or what faith he practised. Its main purpose was trade, and it has always been one of the great meeting places of merchants from east and west, north and south. Now, though, those newly converted Turks want everyone to share their fervour, which makes men of different beliefs anxious. There was an attack on the Jewish quarter in the spring of this year, and many were killed. Then, early in the summer, a series of ferocious conflicts between Christians and Muslims began, from which the city hasn’t yet recovered, or, at least, hadn’t when Yngvar left.’

Thorfinn sighed. ‘It was, I suppose, only to be expected,’ he said heavily. ‘The presence of an enemy on the doorstep cannot make life easy. And the heat of a southern summer shortens tolerance, so that a man may pick a quarrel with a neighbour over some matter he would usually ignore.’

‘That is true,’ Einar agreed. ‘Although the worst riot was sparked off by a specific act of brutality: the murder of a much-loved local character.’

‘Did Yngvar have the whole story?’

‘Most of it. The inhabitants were deeply shocked by what happened to the man – he was a Muslim doctor – and the city was still reeling. According to Yngvar, it was still the main talking point several weeks later.’

‘This doctor must indeed have been popular,’ Thorfinn observed.

‘He was a good man, who treated rich and poor alike and only asked in payment what a patient could afford,’ Einar said. ‘Moreover, he was totally impartial, reasoning that someone who was sick or in pain needed help, no matter in which way he chose to worship God.’

‘He sounds like a saint,’ Thorfinn said wryly. ‘I wonder if he was really as pure and godly as the talk made out, or whether his demise has elevated his reputation.’

Einar shrugged. ‘I have no idea,’ he said. He glanced at his father. ‘Being more concerned with finding out about Skuli, which was what you told me to do, I didn’t think to ask Yngvar what he thought about this dead doctor.’

‘No, of course not,’ Thorfinn said, his tone placating. ‘And please do not think I am unappreciative. You have done just what I asked, and I am glad to see you safely returned.’

Einar snorted. ‘I was hardly going into danger, sailing into the Baltic and back.’

Thorfinn reached out a hand and lightly touched his son’s thick upper arm. ‘I know you wanted to pursue Skuli all the way to Miklagard. I had my reasons for commanding you otherwise, and I stand by them.’

‘But you’re still not going to tell me what they are,’ Einar said bitterly, pulling his arm away.

‘I-’

Suddenly Einar stood up, although, in the confined head room under the sheltering awning, he could only manage a half crouch. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t ask you again,’ he said coldly. Then, pushing aside the heavy fabric, he jumped out on to the bank. ‘I’m going back to my ship,’ he said. His face was full of anger.

Thorfinn struggled to his feet. But his old bones had stiffened from sitting so long in the confines of the boat, and it was several moments before he was up on the bank and staring after his son. ‘Einar!’ he called. ‘Please, come back.’

He waited a long time. Einar did not return.

Thorfinn retreated back beneath the awning. Moving slowly and deliberately, his distress at his son’s abrupt departure echoed in his lethargy, he made his preparations for the night. When he was snug in his bed roll, he extinguished the lamp.

In the darkness, he forced his mind away from thoughts of Einar. He knew he would not sleep otherwise. Instead, he thought about Lassair. Hrype had said she was reluctant to look into the shining stone when she believed she was doing so at another’s behest. She wanted to make her own relationship with it; She treats it like a friend, Hrype had said.

Thorfinn was filled with conflicting emotions. He was overjoyed that what he had so hoped had turned out to be true, and that the granddaughter of his blood had inherited her forebears’ ability with the precious object. But he was also concerned. He of all people knew what the stone could do once it had weaved its way into your mind.

He turned over, trying to get more comfortable. He worried at the problem for a while, realizing that it was just as capable of keeping him awake as thinking about Einar. Frowning in the darkness, he focused his mind and concentrated hard until, eventually, he saw what he should do next.

With a smile, he closed his eyes and drifted into sleep.

Rollo woke up to find himself in a narrow, hard but clean bed in a shady room that felt pleasantly cool. He turned his head slightly – even the careful movement sent a wave of vertiginous nausea through him – and looked towards the source of the light. Heavy shutters had been closed across the one little window, deeply set high up in the whitewashed stone wall, but a few rays of the brilliant sunshine filtered in through gaps in the slats. He could hear sounds of everyday activity from outside, although they were faint and possibly quite distant.

The room was small and sparsely furnished. Apart from the bed he lay on, there was a low table on which was a lacquered tray of small jars and bottles; a tall blue jug; a cup and a bowl of water, on the rim of which was a piece of wrung-out cloth, neatly folded. Beyond the table was a stout wooden door. There was a large keyhole beneath the door latch, but no sign of the key. Without a doubt, the key was on the other side, and he was locked in. He tried to get off the bed to go and check, but instantly felt so dizzy and weak that he had to give up. A wave of heat ran through him, and he felt sweat break out on his skin. Not fully well yet, then.

He lay back, his thoughts racing. Sunshine … It was daytime, then. But which day? How long had he been there? And then, urgently, Why am I still alive?

He tried to reason himself out of the terrible anxiety. His last memory had been of someone strangling him, and, thinking back, he thought he could feel again that iron-hard arm thrust around his throat. The voice in his ear had muttered, I shouldn’t go out there if I were you. Blackness had come down, and he had fallen. He had been trying desperately to get somewhere, and he had an important task to do. He remembered that much, but, try as he might, there was nothing more.

They had caught up with him. Someone, perhaps one of the emperor’s officials or one of the spies who would constantly feed information, had received word of him. A stranger acting as he had done – making his sly way into the company of the Varangian guards, asking questions, moving on to search out other members of the emperor’s household – was always likely to arouse suspicion. He’d had a very good reason for trying to find someone who had the ear of the emperor, and what he had to impart to Alexius would have been welcome; Rollo was certain of that. But he appreciated now that he had underestimated the climate of suspicion and fear within the city. It was really not the moment to try to creep in unannounced.

So, one of the shadowy men sent to follow and apprehend him had succeeded. He wondered again why he wasn’t dead: they’d found their spy, so wouldn’t the next step have been to execute him at once, before he had the opportunity to pass on whatever he had discovered?

Then a horrible realization dawned.

They hadn’t killed him yet because they wanted to find out what he knew. When he’d been caught, he’d been sick with fever and delirious, and presumably they had decided there was no point in trying to interrogate him until he was in his right mind. To that end, they had cleaned him up, mended his wound – he put experimental fingers up to the cut on his upper arm, feeling the rough edges of several stitches – and nursed him while the fever slowly burned itself out.

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 of 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.’