Land of the Silver Dragon

TWELVE

I was finishing a tasty breakfast the next morning — fresh-baked bread and a cup of skyr flavoured with honey — and laughing with Thyra as we watched her second-youngest child attempt to lick out his bowl for the last, sweet dregs, when Thorfinn approached.

Dropping a hand on my shoulder, he leaned down and murmured in my ear. ‘Come and walk with me, Lassair.’

He wasn’t someone you disobeyed. In any case, the prospect of another outing with him was appealing. I might well discover the answers to some of the questions that kept tormenting me.

I fetched my shawl, then hurried outside to join him. We set off towards the headland out to the west of the homestead, and, when the time extended and still he did not speak, I glanced at his face and guessed he was deep in thought. We climbed to the top of a low cliff, and suddenly the brilliant blue sea was spread out below us, the early sun sending up dancing sparks of reflected light that dazzled the eyes.

‘It is time for you to go home, child,’ Thorfinn said without preamble. ‘Einar has been watching the weather, and his ship will sail at midday.’

Joy flooded through me. In that first moment, I felt nothing but relief; it was only as the surprising news sank in that other considerations occurred to me.

The first was that, if I was bundled up and dispatched back to my fenland home this very day, then there would be no chance for me to find out what I so desperately wanted to know: why I’d been brought here, and how my family and I were connected with the Dragon and his shining stone. Einar was a taciturn man, and I knew without a doubt that he would be as unforthcoming on the journey home as he had been on the way here.

I looked at Thorfinn, standing still as stone beside me. The second consideration was to do with him; well, it was him. As the prospect of parting from him became a reality, I discovered I’d grown rather fond of him. It was illogical, and I knew it; his son had abducted me, hit me, brought me here, hundreds of miles from my home and without one word of explanation, on Thorfinn’s orders — not the hitting bit, I quickly corrected myself. Thorfinn would never have sanctioned that. Nevertheless, far from being fond of the old man, I should resent and loathe him.

But I didn’t.

He seemed to be expecting some reaction to his announcement. When none came, he turned, looking down at me with a half-smile. ‘Are you not pleased to be going home?’ he asked.

It was a moment where nothing but the truth would serve. ‘Yes, of course. But I don’t want to leave you,’ I added, half under my breath.

He did not reply, and I wondered if he’d heard. He was old, after all, and old people usually get a bit deaf. He cleared his throat a couple of times, and, when he spoke, I still wasn’t entirely sure.

‘Skuli has to be stopped,’ he began, ‘for he is bent on a mission that has already caused death and distress, and many more people will suffer if he succeeds in finding what he seeks.’ I opened my mouth to ask if he meant Skuli’s ruthless hunt for the stone, or the dream of succeeding where his grandfather failed, or perhaps both, but he pressed on, not letting me speak. ‘To this end, I am sending a band of fighting men, including my son Jorund, my daughter’s husband Njal, and others of my close kindred, as well as Einar and his crew.’

‘To stop one man?’ I asked, surprised.

Thorfinn smiled. ‘Skuli is not alone, child. He has his own group of loyal followers, who have sworn in blood to go wherever he leads.’ He sighed deeply, looking suddenly careworn and old. ‘This is a kin feud, Lassair, for it originates with the destructive resentment of a brother for his elder sister; an evil, corrosive emotion that has come down two generations and has descended into malignant hatred.’ He sighed again, slowly shaking his head. ‘The fact remains, however, that Skuli and his headstrong young men are my kinsmen, and, no matter what they have done and intend to do, I am head of the family and they are my concern. If they kill, if they should die, the responsibility is mine.’

No wonder he looked so careworn; Skuli had already slain two defenceless women. My heart went out to him. I guessed he longed to lead his sons and his kinsmen into the fray, as he would have done in his prime.

Maybe he read that thought; I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had. For, very quietly, he said, ‘You and I need not yet be parted, child, for I am coming with you.’

The reaction was instinctive. I spun round and flung my arms round him, and, after a moment, he gave a chuckle and hugged me back.

‘There is one more place I would show you, before we return to the farmstead and prepare for departure,’ he said. ‘Come with me.’

He led the way along the low cliff, following a crumbling path that followed the contours of the land. Presently another cove opened up below us, and in it, beached high above the water line, was the skeleton of a long, slender ship. Her mast had gone, leaving a broken stump, and her figurehead was missing, but neither absence marred her beauty.

I knew I’d seen her before, when she was in her prime: she was the ship of my dream vision. I had seen her running before the wind, and I had feared she was coming for me. Why — how — had I had that foreknowledge of her?

It was frightening, and I felt my skin contract into goose bumps. The spirits were near …

Thorfinn was heading off down the path to the shore, and I hurried after him. Just then I didn’t want to be alone. He strode across the dark sand and gravel of the beach, stopping under the bows of the ship.

‘That is where a proud dragon once reared up,’ he said, pointing up at the prow. ‘A dragon who breathed fire and silver smoke, who always brought the ship safe home to port; whose fearless heart kept the crew from harm, and who struck malice into any foe who dared raise a hand in anger.’

‘A dragon with a long, graceful neck and a snout ended in a curling swirl of fire and smoke,’ I murmured, ‘set high on a proud ship that flew over the waves as if the dragon had spread its wings.’

‘Yes, yes, all of that,’ he said eagerly. He did not ask me how I knew. ‘Fearless, trustworthy, beautiful as the sunrise.’ He paused. ‘This,’ he added in a whisper, ‘was my ship.’

Words were dancing in my head, weaving together to make a new sense. A dragon that exhaled silver smoke. A giant of a man, with a silvery moustache curving like breath. A ship whose figurehead struck malice in the hearts of her foes.

‘This was the original Malice-striker,’ I said very softly. He was called the Silver Dragon, he had once said to me, and this was his land. ‘And you, Thorfinn, are the Dragon.’

In the utter silence, I thought he held his breath.

‘Why didn’t you tell me who you were?’ I asked. ‘Why did both you and Freydis tell the story as if it was about another man? As if the Dragon was some long-gone kinsman, remembered only by his deeds?’

‘Freydis acted on my orders. As for me …’ He hesitated. ‘The Dragon is no hero of his own tale. He — I — faced the great test, and failed. The shining stone was the rightful inheritance of my line, yet its power was too much for me and I had to give it up.’

‘It was slowly killing you!’ I protested. I heard his voice, speaking, as I now knew, of himself: he fell deep under its enchantment, and it took him on a terrible journey. And, even worse: the Dragon would have torn himself apart. His mind was all but destroyed. ‘You had no choice, and you acted out of pure self-preservation.’

He shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But a better man than I would have found some way to confront the power of the shining stone, as others had done before him.’

‘Maybe — maybe …’ I tried to think. ‘Maybe they weren’t as sensitive as you.’

He laughed, a short, bitter laugh. ‘Sensitivity is not a quality much prized in a fighting man.’

‘I prize it,’ I muttered. Then, turning so that I was looking him in the eye, determined to have an answer, I repeated, ‘Why didn’t you tell me who the Dragon really was? That the beaten, hurt, desperate man who was healed by my mother’s aunt was you?’

His eyes slid away. I knew then that I wasn’t going to get an answer. I was right: he simply said, ‘I had my reasons.’

Then he strode away.

We did not speak on the way back to the homestead. He, I think, was tired after telling his tale. He was, after all, an old man. For my part, I was trying to deal with yet another mystery, and failing as miserably as I was with all the other questions that were perplexing me. It was quite a relief to part from him, and, hurrying to pack up my few belongings and prepare for departure, I was glad to have something to do.

The farewells were accomplished quickly — I supposed that departures and homecomings were a regular occurrence for these people — and I was happily surprised when Thyra, Freydis and even cool, distant Asa came to bid me calm seas, a following wind and safe homecoming. Although everyone must have known the task that the men faced, there was little evident emotion. Some good-hearted ribbing, even the occasional burst of hearty laughter, set the general tone. Perhaps they regarded this as an exciting adventure.

There was one exception. Thorfinn was last to board his son’s ship, and he stood on the jetty, embracing a woman of around his own age whom I had seen in the homestead, although she always kept to the shadows. She was weeping, her poor face turned up to look into his, and the pleading in her eyes was evident even from where I stood, on deck. She clung to him, and in the end he had to gently disentangle himself, patting her on the arm as he did so. ‘I will do all I can, Gytha,’ I heard him say. ‘You have my word.’

She nodded, and I could see the effort it took her to attempt a small, brave smile. Even as Thorfinn paced along the jetty and boarded the ship, she was already turning away and hurrying back towards the farmstead.

Old Olaf was beside me. I heard him give a heavy sigh. ‘What’s the matter with her?’ I whispered.

‘She is Thorfinn’s sister-in-law; the kinswoman of his late wife,’ he whispered back. ‘She is widowed, and alone in the world save for her two sons, and both of them sail with Skuli.’

I remembered Thorfinn’s bitter words concerning the feud that had split his family. Here it was, translated into human terms, as a mother pleaded for the safe return of the sons she loved; who were, through the evils of that old hatred, now in opposition to the very man she was begging to save them.

It was yet another twisted strand in this unfathomable tangle. Heartsick suddenly, I turned away.

At a word from Einar, the crew set about manoeuvring the ship away from her berth. Their quick efficiency spoke of a task performed a hundred times, and soon we were out of the little bay and heading for open water. Men bent to the oars, and our speed picked up. We rounded a great headland on our port side, and all at once the wind caught us. The big, rectangular sail was unfurled, the oars were laid aside, and Einar took up the wonderful dragon’s head and set it in place on the prow.

Malice-striker was back in her natural element, and the spray from her swift passage was fresh on my face. The wind picked up as we left the shelter of land, and now we were flying.

Putting everything else out of my mind, I settled down in my accustomed place and prepared to enjoy the voyage.

Rollo had reached his destination. In the castle where he had spent most of his childhood, he was enjoying the rare luxury of being spoiled. The castle was still the stronghold he remembered: built for defence, tall and mighty, with no money wasted on such fripperies as comfort or decoration. A few of its residents, however, had begun to tire of life inside a military fortress, and the private quarters of some of the higher-ranking women now showed the civilizing, eastern influence of the island’s previous masters.

Rollo was housed in one such set of apartments. It was separated from the main body of the castle by a narrow courtyard in which shrubs and small trees grew in pots, and a fountain splashed into a blue-tiled pool. Walking from the forcefully masculine fortress into the sweet-smelling, richly furnished rooms was like moving from the grey tones of dusk into brilliant midday. Colour was everywhere, from the silk-covered divans with their jewel-toned cushions to the tray of sapphire-dyed glasses and the crystal jug of sunshine-bright sherbet in which sprigs of fresh, green mint floated.

He lay back on the soft silk, gazing out through the decor-ated archway on to the plain far below. The castle was well sited, affording views in every direction. Not that attack was likely now, since the island’s Saracen rulers had conceded defeat three years ago. The mood was, as far as Rollo could tell from the short time he had been there, one of resignation, just beginning to border on content. Count Roger Guiscard, it was rumoured, was ruling his new territory wisely, retaining many of the administrative methods that had worked well for his predecessors, both Byzantine and Muslim. Trade was flourishing, and people were making money. In Rollo’s experience, little was better guaranteed to make men settle down under a new ruler than more money in their purses.

He took another sip of his drink, revelling in the feel of sunshine on his back. For the first time in weeks, he was clean, having indulged himself extensively with hot, scented water in the baths. He was dressed in new clothes — a gift to celebrate his homecoming — and he was still enjoying the novelty of rich silk against his skin. The various small hurts of a long journey were healing, and, no longer having to watch his back, he could allow the tension of perpetual vigilance to seep away.

He thought back to what — who — had sent him south. The king, of course; always the king.

Here, so far away, he was able to consider the nature of King William with detached, impartial eyes. Increasingly, men spoke of him as if he was no more than a short, fat fool presiding over an increasingly debauched court; a man who was fond of jokes and silly japes, prone to fits of temper that reduced him to stammering impotence, and more concerned with grooming his long hair and wavering over which pair of ridiculously long-toed shoes to wear that day than with vital affairs of state. It was understandable, for the king appeared to cultivate that image, playing up to it by surrounding himself with fashionable, frivolous, fatuous young men who, according to the most malicious of the gossips, inclined only to their own sex.

Was it all subterfuge? Rollo believed it was. He had seen the sharp, calculating intelligence behind the facade; he knew that William was far from being a fool. Perhaps, like the Emperor Claudius, he chose to conceal his true nature behind an amiable, shallow exterior. It fitted with an expression Rollo had heard his own formidable father use: never permit those who would judge you to perceive your true nature.

Leaning back into the accommodating silk cushions, Rollo went back in his mind over the missions he had carried out for William. Each had been deeply clandestine; receiving his orders in secret, Rollo had obeyed them in a similar manner. Very few people, he was sure, would ever begin to suspect some of the things he had done for his king.

And that, of course, was why he was now here, back in the country of his birth, letting the sun warm and relax him while the potently alcoholic drink in the beautiful crystal glass slid gently down this throat …

He remembered every detail of that secret meeting with King William. The two of them had been alone, although, aware of the king’s careful habits of self-preservation, Rollo was in no doubt that armed guards would have been close by, ready to rush to the king’s side should William so much as raise an ironic, aristocratic eyebrow.

It had been just before Easter that the king had summoned him. Plunging straight to the point — as, in Rollo’s experience, he usually did — William said, ‘You have kin in Sicily?’

‘I have, sire,’ Rollo agreed.

The king waved an impatient hand, clearly inviting him to expand on his brief answer. ‘Go on. Guiscards, yes?’

‘Yes. My late father was a distant cousin of Robert and Roger.’

‘Roger Guiscard, now styling himself Count Roger of Sicily.’ It was a statement. Knowing the king as he believed he was beginning to, Rollo was not surprised that he had such facts at his fingertips. ‘Now that the last Saracen stronghold has fallen,’ William went on, ‘the Normans hold the whole island. Roger rules Sicily, and Robert holds the southern mainland. They have Malta too. Between them, those adventurous Normans are steadily expanding their control over the sea lanes and the trade routes of the whole area.’

Rollo detected a note of admiration in the king’s voice. ‘They have … achieved their goal, sire,’ he said with diplomatic tact.

‘Indeed they have,’ the king agreed, ‘and, from what I am told, Roger is setting about the task of governing his new possession with rare good sense. They don’t call your kinsmen “the Resourceful” for nothing.’

Rollo lowered his eyes. The king was privy to intelligence that had not made its way to him. Nevertheless, it was heartening to hear of his kinsman’s success.

He sensed keen eyes on him, and, looking up, met the king’s stare. ‘Some time since you have been home, Rollo?’ he asked softly.

‘Er — some years, yes, sire.’ Seven years: seven long years. An image of dry, sunlit slopes formed in his mind, an azure sea lapping on rocks far below. He smelt lemons, and the sweet, dizzying perfume of jasmine.

‘How would you like to return there? Not for long,’ William added, ‘just time enough to test the mood regarding a certain situation.’

Intrigued, his head still full of the seductive sights, sounds and smells of home, Rollo said, ‘Sire, I am, as ever, at your disposal.’

Then, drawing close and dropping his voice to a mere breath, William described to Rollo the rumour that he had extracted, seemingly out of the air, and what, if it had any foundation, it might predict for the not-too-distant future.

Rollo felt the shock run through him as the implications sank in. ‘Is it … can it be so, sire? Sicily is one thing, but to speak of the Land Over the Seas as a similar goal …’ He did not dare go on.

William studied him, one eyebrow raised, a cynical amusement in his eyes. ‘That, Rollo, is precisely what I want you to discover.’

So here he was, once more on the king’s business. As soon as he was fully restored after the trials of travel, he would set about the task. He had, he reflected, the perfect cover: a long-absent son of the island returning to visit his kin and the land of his birth.

He wished his father was still alive, for his assistance would have been invaluable. Rainulf Guiscard, dead these fourteen years, had died as he had lived: throwing himself wholeheartedly into everything he did in this life that he had so loved. One of the younger men had challenged him to see who could climb first to the top of the castle’s tallest tower, and Rainulf, many years the man’s senior, had accepted with alacrity. He had won the challenge, and would have enjoyed the champion’s seat at the feast that was to follow, except that, celebrating victory in his usual exuberant style, he had let go of both handholds to raise his arms in triumph. A piece of stone had broken away beneath his foot, and he had fallen to his death. Witnesses claimed he had still been yelling his triumph as he hit the ground. It seemed highly likely.

One parent dead, one still very much alive; Rollo’s fiery, dark-eyed mother had retained her devastating beauty, and they said men queued up to take Rainulf’s place in her bed. None, the rumour-mongers had to add, had ever been admitted; Giuliana was a one-man woman, and the fact that the man was dead made no difference.

It was in Giuliana’s apartments that Rollo now resided, and it was she who was spoiling him so thoroughly, as only a mother can when her son returns home after a long absence. There was, however, more to her than a passionate wife, an adoring mother and a lover of costly fabrics, good food and fine wine: she had been Rainulf’s partner and helpmeet in the turbulent years, and fought alongside him as he and his fellow adventurers carved out their kingdom in the south. She might now be relaxing in the new peace of her land, but Rollo doubted if she had turned soft. The old skills would still be there, and he intended to invite her to utilize them.

Rainulf was gone and lost to his son, but Giuliana would be a very good alternative. She always knew what was going on; she had a rare ability to keep her eyes and ears open, and to remember even the smallest detail of what she observed. Moreover, she had a whole army of contacts in virtually every sphere of activity on the island. What she didn’t know, one of her contacts would.

Frowning in thought, letting his mind run over a network of ideas and possibilities, Rollo took another sip of the drink and wondered how best to phrase his initial approach.