Blood of the South

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, strong 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.

Skuli was once again standing in the ship’s prow, one hand on the great, soaring figurehead. His back had been turned to his crew, but now he spun round. The sun was beginning to set, and for an instant he was silhouetted against its golden light, so that a shining halo seemed to encircle his head. He was transformed; a smile of sheer joy had altered his appearance almost beyond recognition.

What was happening? Rollo, apprehension making him suddenly cold, waited.

‘Now we are close, my friends!’ Skuli said softly. Then, raising his arms as if to embrace both ship and crew, he cried, ‘The great challenge is before us! The goal for which we have strived so hard, risked so much and lost precious lives, is now within our grasp.’ His light eyes, wide as if he were seeing far beyond the range of normal human vision, roamed over the faces of his crew, smiling, nodding. Then he raised his head and shouted out into the evening sky, ‘Will we go on, my friends? Will we achieve our purpose, here in this place so far from our homes?’

And, to a man, the crew shouted back, ‘YES!’

The ship was suddenly busy with bustling activity, as men ran to what were clearly pre-arranged places. Skuli leapt nimbly back to the tiller, leaning heavily against it, and Gullinbursti, instantly responsive, heeled over hard and turned in a steep, graceful circle so that her bows and her proud figurehead were sailing due south. Tostig raised his mighty voice in song, and the crew picked it up, singing with him, harmonizing, until the air seemed to thrum with the noise.

Now they were racing along, the vast sail filled with a strong, steady breeze that came from the north. A shudder of superstitious dread ran through Rollo; the notion had leapt into his head that the singing had raised that perfect wind, and he had to fight very hard to force his reason to dispel it.

The southern shore was in sight now, coming towards them alarmingly fast. Struggling to concentrate, Rollo tried to recall what he knew of the local geography. The coastline ahead of them formed a plain, built up over the centuries from the silt washed down the Scamander River as it flowed into the Dardanelles. The waters were shallow and treacherous, and not fit for ships. The nearest port was around the bulge of the coast, away to the south.

Yet, in the fast-approaching twilight, Skuli was steering Gullinbursti straight for that perilous shore.

Rollo stared at him. Didn’t he know the danger? He opened his mouth to speak, but Skuli forestalled him. ‘You fear for our safety, Norman?’ he said, a wide grin creasing his face. ‘You forget what ship this is! Gullinbursti, like all her kind, is shallow-drafted, and she can proceed in confidence where no other vessel dare venture.’

Then he threw back his head and laughed.

Rollo hoped he was wrong, but he was sure he detected a note of madness.

They sailed on, and only at the very last moment, when Rollo had convinced himself that the ship would run straight into the shore, smash to pieces and throw them all to their deaths, did Skuli order the sail to be lowered.

Gullinbursti, quickly losing way, floated through the shallows and finally grounded gently on the long, flat shore.

The crew leapt into action, jumping out of the ship and hurrying to pull her further up the beach, where they hammered in wooden stakes to which they secured her with ropes. Then, following Skuli’s lead, they headed inland, stopping at his signal after only a few paces.

Skuli stood perfectly still. He seemed to be watching, and perhaps also listening, for something. Rollo tried to make out the details of this mysterious, alarming place. The low-lying, sandy ground was criss-crossed by streamlets and what looked like a dry river bed, and the whole shore was broken up with marshy thickets. Further inland a plateau rose up, and a spur of higher ground stretched out towards where they now stood. On top of the spur there seemed to be the ruins of buildings: part of a wall, and huge tumbled stones that might have once formed a vast temple or fortress.

Where on God’s earth were they?

Why had Skuli brought them here?

Rollo had no idea.

Daylight was fading fast now, and, standing on that alien shore, with no sign of human habitation and the crew the only company for maybe dozens of miles, Rollo felt fear creep up his spine. He began to see things on the edge of vision; things which, when he spun his head to look, were not there. And he could hear things: the long-drawn-out, eerie howl of a wolf; a whisper, a buzz, the clink of metal; then a steady hum which grew until it sounded as if a great army of men were encamped somewhere nearby.

Rollo twisted this way and that, eyes frantically searching, but, even as he did so, he already knew: there was nobody there.

A sudden coarse sound split the darkening sky; a raucous bird cry. Speeding straight towards them like arrows flew a pair of ravens.

And, very close at hand, came the sound of horses: two horses, ridden hard. It sounded like two horses, for there were more than four feet pounding the ground, yet when Rollo strained to see, he made out just the one vague, shadowy shape, looming huge in the dim light. A horse with eight legs, its hooves thundering on the earth so that it seemed to shake.

I am hallucinating, Rollo told himself.

The ground was shaking. Rollo’s cry of alarm was echoed by others, and, for a few terrifying moments, the men on the shore quavered before the fury of the earthquake.

It stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Skuli, acting like a good captain should, instantly encouraged his crew. ‘Do not be afraid!’ he cried. ‘These signs are good, for they tell us that the gods recognize our presence, and are bidding us welcome!’

Then Rollo was assailed with a horrible thought. No, he told himself frantically, it cannot be.

He had to be wrong: the alternative was just too frightening. Here he was – here they all were – at one man’s bidding, and that man was the master of the ship which had brought them here.

The dread suspicion was growing, and Rollo was faced with the awful fact that he’d stumbled on the truth: it was the only explanation. Yet still he fought to accept it. No rational man, he thought, could still believe the old myths!

Perhaps Skuli was not rational.

Skuli was marching ahead. Fear making his very blood feel chill, Rollo joined the rest of the crew and marched after him.

Jack and I were almost back at Aelf Fen. Jack had barely spoken. Although I longed for reassurance that the men we had left bound and helpless in the thicket would not die there, I dared not ask.

This was a different Jack. Ruthless, brutal, unforgiving. We had been attacked, and it was only by sheer luck that neither of us was dead; if I’d asked, he’d have said Gaspard Picot and his hired killer deserved all they’d got.

I called it luck to myself. I wasn’t ready to think about the way in which the shining stone had forewarned me. It was just too frightening.

Breaking the long silence, Jack said, in a surprisingly normal tone, ‘I’ve been going over your great-uncle Sihtric’s revelations.’

‘What?’ It came out in a squeak. Then, swiftly trying to overcome my astonishment that he seemed to have put our encounter with violent death behind him – perhaps such things happened regularly to him – I gathered my ragged thoughts together. It proved quite hard to remember what had gone on back at Little Barton, but finally I succeeded.

‘Harald went to Miklagard,’ I said. ‘It proves he wasn’t Rosaria’s father-in-law because she came from Spain.’

But Jack was keeping ominously quiet.

‘He can’t have been!’ I cried.

Still Jack didn’t speak. I pulled Isis to a halt. We’d been riding side by side and, instantly noticing I’d stopped, he did too.

‘Go on, then,’ I said sharply. ‘Tell me.’

‘Tell you what?’ Jack replied.

‘Why have you got that look,’ I demanded, ‘as if you know something terrible and don’t want to tell me?’

He smiled very briefly. ‘I’m afraid I might have,’ he said. ‘It’s something I’ve had on my mind for days.’

‘Tell me,’ I said.

He looked at me, and I couldn’t read his expression. Then, dismounting, he said, ‘Come and talk to me. There are things I should tell you before we go on into the village.’

I felt a horrible sense of doom, as if something was heading straight for me and I wouldn’t be able to avoid it or run away. I did as he asked, and he looped the horses’ reins around the branch of a willow tree. I went to stand beside him and he took my hand, looked into my eyes and said, ‘Do you recall how, as you, Lady Rosaria and I approached Aelf Fen on the day we brought her here, I said I must know her name, in order to present her to Lord Gilbert and Lady Emma?’

‘Yes. What of it?’

‘She said she was Hugo Guillaume Fensmanson’s widow, and her name was Rosaria Dalassena.’

‘Yes, that sounds right.’

He paused, as if reluctant to continue. Then he said, ‘Lassair, Dalassena reveals that she belongs to a well-known family. I knew I’d heard it before, and eventually I remembered: Anna Dalassena Comnena is the mother of Alexius Comnenus.’

I stared right back at him. ‘And who might he be?’

Jack sighed. ‘He’s the Byzantine emperor.’ In case I was still missing the point, he added, ‘Lady Rosaria bears the family name of the emperor in Constantinople.’

My mind was casting frantically round for an answer; one that would allow me to go on believing that Lady Rosaria wasn’t my great-uncle’s daughter-in-law. But if her illustrious name really did mean she came from Constantinople, I was on shaky ground.

‘She might have left her home and settled in Spain!’ I protested. ‘She might be one of the Dalassena kin who doesn’t live in Constantinople. She might …’

I was out of ideas. I had to accept that it now seemed more than likely Lady Rosaria did come from Constantinople. We knew that before she went aboard The Good Shepherd she had sailed from Corunna to Bordeaux, but there was absolutely nothing to say that her journey had originated in Spain.

If Lady Rosaria had set out from Constantinople in search of her father-in-law’s kin, and if her father-in-law was my Granny Cordeilla’s youngest brother, then it was my family she sought and we could not turn her away. I knew it was our duty, but the thought of her as a kinswoman was abhorrent to me.

Jack seemed to understand how I was feeling. He didn’t speak, but simply drew me very close, and waited until my harsh breathing calmed. Then he held me at arm’s length and said firmly, ‘There’s only one way we can be sure.’

I nodded. ‘I know.’

‘I’m going to ask her, right now.’

I grinned. ‘I know that, too. Can I come with you?’

He returned my smile. ‘Under the circumstances,’ he said, ‘I think it would be unreasonable if you didn’t.’

We rode up the track to Lakehall, where we handed our horses over to a stable boy’s care. We went up the steps, and Bermund admitted us into the hall. He announced us to Lord Gilbert and Lady Emma, seated either side of the hearth. Lord Gilbert rose to his feet, his eyebrows raised in query.

‘You have news?’ he demanded. ‘You have located Lady Rosaria’s kinsmen?’

Jack didn’t answer. Instead he said, ‘We need to see her, my lord.’

‘You can’t. She is unwell, and has taken to her room to rest,’ Lord Gilbert said firmly.

‘Nevertheless, I must speak to her,’ Jack insisted.

Perhaps something about his resolute manner suggested to Lord Gilbert that he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. ‘You can’t just-’ Lord Gilbert began. Then, with a shrug, he seemed to give up. Frowning, he turned to Bermund. ‘Fetch her,’ he said curtly.

We waited. After quite some time, Lady Rosaria glided out into the hall. Her veil was in place but her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, as if she hadn’t been sleeping. Or, perhaps, had been weeping …

Lord Gilbert made to step towards her, but Lady Emma put out her hand and held him back. I heard her murmur, surprisingly firmly, ‘Leave it to Jack.’

Jack had turned to face Lady Rosaria. As she stopped a few paces away, he gave her a low bow. ‘Once again, I have come to ask you to answer my questions, my lady,’ he said courteously.

Lady Rosaria, who had been staring at Lord Gilbert, turned her great dark eyes to Jack, but did not speak. Lord Gilbert, shaking off Lady Emma’s hand and going to stand beside her, said, ‘Chevestrier, do not trouble her! She is unwell, as surely you can see?’

‘Lassair is a healer,’ Jack said. ‘I am sure she would be happy to help, if you wish it, my lady?’

Lady Rosaria shot one quick look in my direction, then tossed her head, dismissing me. ‘I do not need help,’ she said.

‘Then please answer my questions,’ Jack said. He stepped closer to her, ignoring Lord Gilbert’s thunderous frown. ‘If you are sick, my lady, we offer you the services of a healer to make you better before we continue. If you say you do not need them, then I conclude that you are well. It is for you to tell us -’ Lord Gilbert tried to interrupt, but Jack, raising his voice, spoke over him – ‘but I will have your answers.’

It was too much for Lord Gilbert. ‘You do not address a lady in this manner!’ he spluttered, his round, jowly face scarlet with furious indignation. ‘Were my guest already in her rightful place with her kinsman and his noble family, you would not dare, and I will not have it here in my own hall!’

Jack, his patience apparently at an end, spun round to face Lord Gilbert. ‘You, my lord, should join me in demanding Lady Rosaria’s answers, for matters may not be as you believe.’

Lady Rosaria gave a gasp, quickly muffled as she put a long, be-ringed hand to her mouth. Turning back to her, Jack said, ‘Where did you come from, Lady Rosaria? You arrived in Cambridge on a boat out of Lynn, and you reached there on a ship which you boarded in Bordeaux, having sailed there from Corunna.’ He paused, staring intently at her as if gauging her reaction to hearing all that he – and I – had discovered. ‘I do not believe,’ he added softly, ‘that your long voyage began in Spain.’

Slowly she shook her head. ‘I did not say that it did,’ she said in a low voice.

‘Where, then?’ Jack pressed on. ‘Where was your home?’

There was utter silence in the hall. Then she lifted her chin, stared Jack in the eyes and said, ‘Constantinople.’

Oh, dear Lord, I thought, Jack was right.

‘You gave your name before marriage as Dalassena,’ he said. ‘Do you claim kinship with the emperor’s mother?’

She made no response for a moment, then, almost reluctantly, she nodded.

Jack was relentless. ‘And tell us again why you fled your home.’

She waved a hand in a gesture of frustration. ‘My husband died of fever, and my father-in-law also became sick.’ Her voice gathered strength as she spoke, and in her strange accent I caught intonations that my own people use. Had she picked them up from her husband and his father, even as she learned their language?

With a terrible sense of foreboding, I began, at last, to accept the truth.

‘Disease is sweeping through the city,’ Lady Rosaria went on, ‘my husband dies, and Harald, he fears for the safety of me and of my child, last of his line. He gives me money, he gives me a maidservant, he commands me to take passage to England to find his kin so that they can take me in and so that the boy will be raised in the right manner for someone of his status.’ Again, she raised her chin, the heavy veil floating in soft ripples across the lower part of her face and her throat. I caught a hint of her perfume; sweet, smelling of roses.

‘Harald Fensman was a great lord, then?’ Jack asked.

‘Yes! He came from a fine manor with many acres, many slaves, big family with wealth and position!’

‘This was what he told you?’

‘Yes, yes! Always the tales of his home in Fen, of his rich kinsmen who prospered and thrived!’

‘Why, then, if they were so wealthy, did he need to go abroad to make his fortune?’ Jack asked.

‘Because – because-’ She shrugged. ‘I cannot say,’ she said angrily. ‘I do not know these things; such matters are not discussed with me. I can only repeat what my father-in-law told me.’

‘My lady, I believe that I can now tell you who Harald Fensman really was,’ Jack said. His voice, I noticed, was suddenly gentle.

‘You have found the home of my kinsmen?’ Her eyes lit up. ‘I go there, now?’

Jack turned to look briefly at me, and there was something in his expression … it was compassion. I realized he didn’t like what he was doing. As if he sought some final proof before he revealed what we had discovered, he said, ‘Your late husband’s mother was called Gabriela de Valery, wasn’t she?’

Lady Rosaria looked flustered. ‘I – yes, I believe she was. I did not meet her,’ she hurried on, ‘for she had died before I entered – before I was wed to my husband.’ Rallying, she straightened her spine and glared at Jack. ‘What of it?’ she demanded haughtily.

‘My lady, there is no noble family,’ Jack said gravely. ‘No great house and no rich estates.’

‘There is!’ she cried. Then, her eyes holding growing horror, ‘There must be!’

‘Lassair and I have discovered the truth,’ Jack went on, ‘and we can reveal that Harald, son of Leafric, was born into a family of fenland fishermen and fowlers, who had lived here in this place for generations and whose descendants still do.’ Again, he turned to me, holding out a hand to draw me forward. ‘Lassair is Harald’s great-niece, for her grandmother was his sister.’

Lady Rosaria was staring at me, her eyes wide with anguish. ‘No,’ she whispered.

Lord Gilbert, I noticed, had taken quite a large step away from his guest, his action saying more plainly than words that, now the truth was emerging, he wished to distance himself from her. His face reddening, he snapped out at Jack, ‘Is this true, Chevestrier?’

‘We believe so, yes, my lord,’ Jack said calmly.

Lord Gilbert backed further away, going to stand close beside Lady Emma. She, good woman that she is, frowned at him disapprovingly, murmuring something under her breath which I assumed was a reproof. ‘Woman’s an impostor,’ he muttered back, his flabby cheeks shuddering with the force of his anger.

‘I think, my lady,’ Jack said, watching Lady Rosaria very closely, ‘that Harald lied to you. He wished to impress you, I imagine, for to have a woman of your blood marry his son was a great honour, and he probably wanted to elevate his own kin so that their status stood a little closer to yours.’

Lady Rosaria seemed to have been struck dumb. She stood very still, swaying slightly, and I thought I could hear her whispering.

I remembered the state she’d been in when I first met her. She was in shock, for something had recently happened – in all likelihood, as we now surmised, the sickness and death of her maid – and she had been on the brink of despair.

I knew she wouldn’t welcome me – my family and I were a far cry from what she’d believed she was coming to England to find – but, nevertheless, I wanted to stand by her. What we were to each other was irrelevant just then; she was in dire need, and I was a healer.

I moved to her side, reached down and took her icy hand in mine. ‘Let me take you to your room, my lady,’ I said, keeping my voice soft and low. ‘You should lie down, I think, for you are all alone and have suffered a grave disappointment.’ She turned to me, panic in the huge eyes. ‘We will support you,’ I went on. ‘Your baby son is part of my family, and we will not desert him. You are his mother, and you too will have our help.’

Quite how we were going to help her, I had no idea.

I moved forward, one small step at a time, and she came with me. She was sufficiently aware to remember where to go, and led me down a long passage, up a short flight of steps and into the guest chamber where Lord Gilbert had housed her.

She sank down on the wide bed, and I swung her legs up, pushing her gently back on the heaped pillows. ‘Shall I remove your veil, my lady?’ I asked. ‘There is only me to see you, and-’

‘No.’ The one, brief word came out in a tone as hard and cold as ice. I had raised my hand towards her face, about to unfasten the veil, and she caught my wrist, holding it in a fist like a steel bracelet.

I bowed, backing away. ‘Very well. You should try to sleep, Lady Rosaria. I will prepare a draught for you.’

But she turned her face away and did not answer.

The door closed softly behind the healer girl. Rosaria was alone. At first, she just lay there on the sumptuously comfortable bed, barely conscious, barely thinking.

Then slow tears began to fall from her eyes, soaking into the rich fabric of her veil.

She reached out her fingers and stroked the smooth silk of her gown. She touched the pearls around her throat, then moved her hand to the coverlet on which she lay. It was fur: smooth, glossy, warm.

I thought I would be going to a home like this, she thought, still hardly able to absorb the devastating disappointment. I thought I would be kept in comfort, security and warmth for the rest of my days, fed with good, abundant food and given fine wine in a silver goblet.

Deliberately she conjured up all the little luxuries of Lord Gilbert’s house, accepted so casually by the lord and lady, given willingly to her, their guest, with the generosity of those who had plenty.

She curled her hands into fists, the knuckles showing white against the taut skin. ‘You lied, Harald,’ she whispered. ‘You bastard.’

For a disorienting instant, she thought she saw Harald in the room, standing straight and tall. He was pointing his finger at her.

And then, welling up from deep inside her, terrifying in its intensity and quite unstoppable, came the bitterest emotion of all.

Much later, when the raised voices in the hall had long ceased, the hurrying footsteps had stopped and the house was quiet, she got up. On silent feet she left her room, then, keeping to the shadows and out of sight, she made her way out of the great house where for the past days she had lived the life of which she had dreamed. They had treated her like a lady. She had worn beautiful garments, slept in a luxuriously soft bed, with sheets of clean, fine linen, soft blankets of finest wool, and, when night fell cold and chill, she had been comforted by a merry fire in the hearth.

She slipped out through the gates. Night was drawing on, and people were busy with the final outdoor tasks of the day. She huddled into her cloak, drawing the hood up. She did not want anyone to identify and stop her, to ask where she was going at such a late hour, to offer to come with her to make sure she returned safely.

She listened for the sound of water. It was close; here in this bleak marshy land, it was always close. She shivered. It was so different from the home she had left so far behind. No sun, no brilliant colours, no deep blue sky.

Oh!

Her grief, her pain and her guilt rose up in a devastating flood.

She walked on, the pretty, unsuitable indoor slippers sliding in the muddy ground. She hoped she could find the place. She had listened carefully when they described it, on that terrible day when the news came. It had been the beginning of the end: somehow she had known it, even then, some time before today’s devastating discovery of the true nature of Harald’s kin. There is no rosy future for me, she thought, the words running through her head again and again as she hurried on. I have struggled so hard, and it has all been for nothing.

Remorse hit her like a fist to the heart.

She walked on. One of the little shoes came off, and cold mud oozed between her toes. She bent down to put the slipper on again.

Then, after quite a long time, suddenly, she was there. She had found the right spot, and she stood for a moment staring down at the meandering little waterway. Torn branches and bits of dead vegetation clung to the steep sides of the banks, and she saw that the water level was lower now as the flood receded.

She came to the bridge.

Debris brought upstream by the flood still partially blocked its arch, forming a wide pool on the far side.

Perfect.

She walked into the water. There was no grip for her feet in the silly little slippers, and her legs went from under her. It was so cold. Her veil floated for an instant as the water closed over her head. Weighed by her heavy cloak, she sank quickly. The pool was very deep, and her feet, the toes pointed, found no firm ground.

There was only the water.

Presently, the rush of bubbles coming up to the surface ceased, and all was still.

She hadn’t even struggled.