Land of the Silver Dragon

SIXTEEN

‘And I can’t see how our future together will be, if, indeed, we can ever be together, for she has her studies, both in her village and in a nearby town, and I am fully engaged in work for an exacting but generous paymaster, and so-’

Rollo broke off in mid-sentence, seized by cold fear so paralysing that it was only with an effort that he could breathe. Lassair. Oh, no … He could see fragmented images. A road, faintly lit by the rising sun. A blur of shapes, which were moving with swift, violent gestures. The glint of light on drawn swords.

It was early morning, and his mother had arrived with breakfast on a tray, wanting to hear more about the strange woman with whom her son had apparently fallen in love. He had thought he’d told her all there was to tell the previous evening, when they had talked together long into the night. Yet she had returned for more, and he had been trying to answer her question as to what he and Lassair planned to do next, when the terrible moment of fear had hit.

He sat now, straight-backed, every muscle tense as if he was about to plunge into action. He had felt something similar on his way home the previous day, yet it had been nowhere near as powerful as this.

He knew, without stopping to ask himself how he could be so sure, that Lassair was about to die.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

Barely aware of himself, he gave a moan of pain. Instantly Giuliana was beside him, a cool hand on his wrist, looking up into his face with anxious dark eyes. ‘What is it, my son?’

He met her gaze. Of all people, she was perhaps the one most likely to believe what was happening to him. Whether or not she was truly a strega, she was certainly open-minded enough not to dismiss it out of hand.

‘Lassair’s in great danger — mortal danger,’ he whispered. ‘I think …’ He could not bring himself to put it into words.

Beside him Giuliana waited, holding his hand. He felt the aftershocks of the terror work their way through him, and, glancing at his mother’s face, he thought she felt them too. Then, abruptly, everything went still.

Calm, of a sort, descended.

After what seemed a very long time, Giuliana said, ‘What are you sensing now, Rollo?’

‘Nothing.’ His voice broke on the word.

His mother squeezed his hand. ‘Perhaps the moment of peril has passed?’ she suggested.

He thought it was a faint hope. He said, his voice barely a whisper, ‘Or else it is all over and she is-’

But his mother put a hand over his mouth before he spoke the word. ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Do not even admit the possibility.’

He felt a moment of anger. ‘It is better to know if she-’

‘No.’ Giuliana spoke more forcefully now. ‘My son, you are many miles from this young woman whom you love, and it will be a very long time before you know what has been happening back in her country. You must convince yourself that all is well, and not allow yourself even to consider otherwise.’

He met her eyes for a long moment. ‘I want to go now,’ he whispered. Pain ripped through him; sudden, acute. ‘Aaagh, I feel as if I’m being torn apart.’

Compassion filled her eyes. ‘Can you not return?’ she asked.

‘I could,’ he said, ‘but my task here is not really complete. I was planning to go on east, and seek audience with Emperor Alexius.’

She nodded. ‘Yes, that would be the logical thing to do,’ she agreed. ‘His land is at the frontier between the Christian and Muslim worlds, and, besieged as he is, will be better able to provide the answers that your King William seeks to know.’

Rollo would have said he was beyond surprise at his mother’s uncanny ability to be aware of things that she had not actually been told, but he discovered he wasn’t. How did she do it? He had no more idea now than when he’d been a mystified and awestruck child, more than a little frightened by his mother’s magic powers.

She was watching him steadily. ‘What do you feel now?’

He closed his eyes, concentrating on Lassair. ‘I … it’s not clear.’

She sighed, and ran a hand over her face. Then, once more looking at him, she said, ‘Have you anything of hers?’

He glanced down at his hand. The woven leather bracelet she had given him had not left his wrist since he began to be so very anxious about her. ‘Yes,’ he said softly.

Giuliana looked at the bracelet. ‘It is beautiful,’ she observed. ‘Did she make it?’

‘Yes.’

Silently she held out her hand. He drew his own away; he did not want to take off the bracelet. Not now …

His mother made an exasperated noise. ‘If you want me to help you, son, I need to hold an object that holds her essence.’

‘If I want you to help me?’ he repeated stupidly. Had she suggested it? Had he missed that?

She was holding out her hand. Mutely he removed the bracelet and placed it in her palm. Her long fingers folded around it and she closed her eyes.

The cool, sunlit room was utterly silent as Giuliana put herself into the required trance.

I knelt before Skuli, waiting for the sword cut that would end my life.

Nothing happened.

I did not dare open my eyes, for I was clinging on to my courage with my fingertips, and if I saw the sword raised above me, I knew my terror would overcome me and I would somehow disgrace myself.

I waited for death.

Then, breaking the terrible silence like a great sheet of ice cracking under stress, I heard a clash of arms, swiftly followed by a shout: a great war cry. There were whoops and yells, and the harsh, metallic sound of metal on metal.

I opened my eyes, but my fear had affected me so deeply that what I saw made no sense. There seemed to be men everywhere; big, burly men, most of them long-haired and bearded, many wearing leather protective gear, all of them bearing swords. They were fighting — desperately, fiercely.

And very close to where I knelt.

Faint, my head spinning and vertigo rising like nausea in my throat, I threw myself sideways and scrambled to the side of the track. I managed to crawl up the bank that rose up to the right, and forced a way in beneath the scrubby, stunted trees that made up the hedge. Then I turned to watch.

Already recovering at least a portion of my senses, I realized, not without surprise, that I recognized some of the newcomers. I’d seen that stubble-headed giant with the tattoos on his arms before; I was quite sure of it.

I put my slowness down to the fact that I’d just had a very close embrace with death. The men were Einar’s crew; of course they were. Even as understanding dawned, there was Einar himself, pounding down the track, yelling at the top of his voice, his sword in his hand already dripping blood from some recently accomplished, victorious encounter.

Skuli was engaged with one of Einar’s men, and the man was getting the worst of it. Einar shouted at him and, although I didn’t understand all the words, the meaning was clear: get away from him, he’s mine!

The crewman stepped back — a swift expression of relief crossed his bloody face — and Einar stepped into his place.

Part of me wanted to watch, but I’d never seen close fighting before and soon I realized, sickened, that watching wasn’t such a good idea after all. I turned away from the savage ferocity of Einar and Skuli’s battle, only to be met with the same sight everywhere I looked.

Then, horrified that it hadn’t occurred to me before, I remembered Hrype. Where was he? Frantically I stared down the track to where he had fallen, but he was no longer there. His blood still stained the ground, although the smooth pool it had formed was already scuffed and smeared.

He could not still be alive. Could he? He must have been carried to the side of the track, for I was certain he could not have made his own way.

I edged along the top of the bank, searching for him. He must be on this side, I reasoned, for on the other side the ground was soggy and sloped quite steeply down into the water. It was no place to take a wounded man.

But all right for a dead body, came the thought.

No!

I hurried on.

I could see something on the bank just ahead of me: a long shape, lying on its side on the bank and wrapped in a cloak.

I leapt forward, already fumbling with the buckles of my satchel. I knelt down beside him, my hand going straight to his neck to feel for the life’s beat that pulses there, beneath the angle of the jaw. At first I felt nothing. Then my trembling fingers felt a very faint movement.

He was alive.

Gently I turned him over so that I could see his face. His eyes were closed and there was a big bump on his forehead. It was likely, I decided, that he had struck a rock on the track as he fell.

But where was the wound that had felled him, and caused him to bleed so profusely? Even as my mind formed the question, my hands were going down inside his tunic, feeling for the wetness of blood.

There. I had it: a deep cut on the back of his left shoulder, perhaps two hands’ breadths down. Gently I probed the wound, very afraid that I would find a broken-off arrow shaft, and the arrow head deeply embedded in Hrype’s flesh. But there was no such thing. The wound had, I guessed, been made by a thrown knife, which had since fallen out.

Whoever had thrown it had been aiming for the heart. Such a throw — from behind, at someone quite unaware of impending attack — was cowardly in the extreme. The sort of act typical of someone who had chosen to follow a man prepared to hurt and maim babies and children in order to achieve his goal.

I turned my mind from such angry, agonizing thoughts. I was a healer with a wounded man on my hands, and it was up to me to stop the bleeding and try to save Hrype’s life. Turning him so that the damaged shoulder was uppermost, I tore aside his garments and, reaching into my satchel for a pad of soft, wadded fabric, pushed the sides of the cut together with one hand and pressed down on the pad with the other. I would wait, then look, then repeat the pressure until the blood flow eased enough for me to stitch the wound.

As my concentration focused, the sounds of furious fighting seemed to fade. The cut wasn’t as bad as I had initially feared. Quite soon I was able to put in a neat row of stitches, which I then soused with lavender oil against the dangerous red inflammation that often follows such wounds. I wrapped Hrype up in his cloak, rubbing his cold hands with my own.

I sat back on my heels, watching my patient.

It was only then that I realized everything had gone rather quiet.

I spun round, staring down on to the track. It was empty of fighting men, but I could see three bodies lying a little way along, beneath the overhanging boughs of a hazel tree. Further on were four more.

Seven dead? Could it really be so?

I felt sick.

Just as I was wondering whether there was anything I ought to have done for them — could still do — I became aware of a shadow over me. I looked up. Einar was standing on the bank beside me.

‘I just saw the bodies,’ I said in a horrified whisper.

‘Yes,’ he said calmly. ‘Six of his; one of mine.’ He paused, and a look of pain crossed his face. ‘Snorri,’ he added, half to himself, for the name meant nothing to me. ‘He was growing old, and his reactions were not as fast as they once were.’

‘I am sorry,’ I said gravely.

‘It is not your fault, Lassair.’ He sighed. ‘None of this is your fault. It is we, indeed, who should apologize to you, for you have unwittingly become embroiled in a feud between the two branches of my family, and this should not have happened.’

How right he was, I reflected. And what worse things was I going to face, once I got back to my village? But that thought was too awful to allow, and my mind sheered away. I would deal with it when I had to.

He stared down at Hrype. ‘How is he?’ he asked, his question dragging my mind back to the patient who was my immediate concern.

‘He’ll live,’ I replied. ‘He must be borne back to the village as quickly as possible. I don’t want him to get cold.’

Einar nodded. ‘Soon,’ he said.

I had the sense that he was preoccupied, his mind busy somewhere other than our conversation. ‘Are there any other wounded whom I can help?’ I asked.

‘A few minor cuts and bruises,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘Nothing that can’t wait.’

I felt a chill run through me. ‘Wait for what?’

He held out a hand, inviting me to get up. I put my hand in his, stepping down from the bank to stand beside him.

‘There is a task for you to perform,’ he said, his voice deep and grave. ‘Come with me.’

He led me to a place just beside the track where several of his crew stood in a tight circle. They were obviously guarding something, or someone. As Einar and I approached, the circle opened to reveal Skuli, his hands bound behind him, kneeling on the ground.

There was a deep cut — probably a sword slash — in the top of his upper arm; the right one. His sword arm. It was bleeding, and the blood had soaked into the wool of his tunic.

I thought that Einar wanted me to tend the wound, but that was odd because I’d just asked if anyone else needed help and he said no.

Einar was still holding my hand. Now he put something in it: the hilt of a long, heavy knife with a sharp-edged blade.

His men stood in a silent circle, watching, waiting.

Then Einar said, ‘This man Skuli, who now kneels before you, was on the very point of taking your life when we arrived to stop him. By the ancient laws, his life is now yours to claim.’ With a strong hand, he closed my fingers round the hilt of his knife.

I stared down into Skuli’s eyes.

He faced me as, not very long ago, I had faced him. I hadn’t been able to keep my eyes open, but he was braver. The light blue eyes bored into mine and I saw no fear; no undermining touch of cowardice.

But I saw something else: I saw the clear taint of madness. Whatever drove him, it rode him hard and unyieldingly. It had already forced him to do dreadful deeds, and I feared it would continue to do so until he managed to achieve whatever he felt he must do to force it into submission.

What was it? What evil had wormed its way inside him, twisting him, turning his mind, forcing him on, ever on, to whatever fate awaited him? I did not know. I had learned of his grandfather’s failures — both in being deemed unfit to receive the shining stone and in not having managed to conquer the fearsome rapids — and I wondered fleetingly if that deep shame for an ancestor’s shortcomings was the cause.

But surely it wasn’t sufficient to do this to a man.

Not without difficulty, I turned away from the mania in Skuli’s eyes and stood facing Einar.

‘I cannot kill this man,’ I said firmly.

Einar grabbed the knife from me and raised it high in the air. Seeing, almost too late, what he was going to do, I jumped up and caught hold of his sword arm.

‘I meant I don’t want him to die!’ I panted. ‘I wasn’t saying I couldn’t do it, or that I wanted you to kill him for me!’

There was a sudden hush. I wondered if, by acting in that way, I had offended against some fundamental law of fighting men. Well, if I had then so be it.

Einar was staring at me. Then, very slowly, he put his knife back in its sheath. He gave me a curt bow, then abruptly turned on his heel and strode away.

I knelt down beside Skuli, undid my satchel again and tore aside his clothing. Then I cut the thong binding his wrists and set about dealing with the wound in his arm.

I felt quite safe. Yes, he was still the madman who had almost killed me. But he was wounded now, and, besides, he was unarmed and two of Einar’s biggest fighters stood either side of him.

Presently he said, ‘I would have killed you. Yet not only did you spare my life, but you are now mending my cut. Why do you act like this?’

‘I’m a healer,’ I said curtly. ‘I save lives rather than taking them. And sewing people up is my speciality.’

There was quite a long silence while I finished putting in the stitches, broken only by an occasional stifled curse from my patient. I had the impression he was thinking.

I was right. When I’d bound up the arm and helped him rearrange his under shirt and tunic, he looked up at me. ‘You have given life when you had the power and the right to take it,’ he proclaimed solemnly. ‘By so doing, you have laid an obligation upon me.’

‘I haven’t!’ I protested. ‘There’s no need for you to-’

But he stopped me. ‘It is the law,’ he said simply. ‘Our law. One day, at some future time, I shall have someone at my mercy as I was at yours, and I shall spare his life. Only in this way will my debt be repaid.’

‘But …’ I began.

Skuli had closed his eyes and turned his face away.

I felt hands on my shoulders, pulling me up. I stood, turned, and found myself face to face with Thorfinn.

He took my hand and, gently but firmly, led me a little way down the track, so that we were out of earshot of the group still milling around in the aftermath of the fight.

Then, stopping, he turned to look down into my eyes. I tried to read the expression in his. I wasn’t sure I could.

‘Did I do well?’ I asked. ‘Was it the right thing, to spare Skuli’s life?’

Thorfinn sighed. ‘You did as your heart dictated,’ he replied. ‘No man would say that was wrong, child, when the heart in question is as honest and loving as yours.’

The words surprised me. Honest: yes, I suppose I was usually fairly honest. As for loving … Well, I loved my family, I loved Rollo, and quite a few other people had crept into my affections. Sibert, for example, and Gurdyman, and maybe even the chilly and distant Hrype. Nevertheless, loving wasn’t a word I associated with myself. Long ago, Edild had cast my natal chart, and she had informed me that the stars at my birth told of someone who would always remain aloof and distant. You are essentially a private person, she had said. I would never forget her words. Your friends and your lovers will sense that they are never truly close to you.

I turned my mind away from that bitter memory and back to the question of Skuli. ‘What will happen to him now?’ I asked. ‘Will you take him back to your own land?’

Thorfinn shook his head. ‘I am not a man of the law, and I have no jurisdiction over him,’ he said.

‘Then …’ I found I could barely accept what I thought he was telling me. ‘Then you’re just going to let him go? But he’s killed two of my kin!’ My sister’s late mother-in-law was not, strictly speaking, kin to me, but this was no time for such fine distinctions. ‘He said he would do terrible things to-’ No. I must not let myself think of that, for it would drive me mad with horror. ‘He attacked people, broke into their houses, broke their possessions! He caused real fear hereabouts, all the time he was searching for this precious stone!’

‘I know, child.’ Thorfinn sighed. ‘But what would you have me do? You have seen the wildness in Skuli’s eyes; you have judged for yourself, I dare say, his state of mind. He is desperate, Lassair, and if I try to deprive him of his freedom and take him back home, I will be risking the lives of Einar’s crew, for Skuli would without doubt continue to make escape attempts until he succeeded, whatever the cost in men’s lives. Einar and his crew are good men, and I would not wish such peril on them.’

‘So you’re letting him go,’ I repeated.

‘I suppose I am,’ Thorfinn agreed.

‘But what about the shining stone? He hasn’t got it, so won’t he continue to be a danger all the while he’s still looking for it?’

Thorfinn looked away, his eyes staring out over the water. ‘I have persuaded him that it is lost,’ he said distantly.

‘You … Is that the truth?’ I thought I already knew the answer.

Slowly Thorfinn shook his head.

‘Yet Skuli believed you?’

He shrugged.

Perhaps Skuli had given up, I thought hopefully. He had, after all, hunted in all the places he could think of. I had been his last hope, and I too had failed to deliver to him what he so desperately sought. His ultimate inability to find the shining stone, combined with Thorfinn’s misleading lie, could just be enough to persuade him.

I could not quite manage to convince myself.

We stood there in silence, Thorfinn and I. Then I thought of something: I remembered the weeping woman on the quay, as we had set off from Thorfinn’s land. ‘But what about that woman’s two sons, who sail with Skuli?’ I demanded. I forced myself to remember what Olaf had said. ‘Your sister-in-law, who pleaded with you to bring her sons home? You said you’d do what you could — I heard you!’

Thorfinn smiled. ‘I have kept my word,’ he said. ‘The two lads are safe in the care of a couple of Einar’s more steady crewmen. They have been made to see the error of their ways, and will henceforth be sailing with us.’

I felt a surge of relief. I’m not sure why; I hadn’t really known the sister-in-law — Gytha was her name, I now recalled — although my heart had gone out to her when I had observed her weeping so sorrowfully.

Perhaps it was just that Thorfinn had done what he had undertaken to do. He was, I reflected, a fine man.

He would be leaving soon. As we stood there, I recognized how much I was going to miss him. Without stopping to consider the wisdom of the act, I stepped right up to him and wrapped my arms round him in a tight hug. After a heartbeat, he hugged me back. Again, I had that fleeting sense of familiarity. He smelt of the sea, the salt spray, the heavy wool and the thick fur trimming of his garments. Was that what it was?

He murmured something, his lips against my hair.

‘What did you say?’ I disentangled myself and looked up at him.

He was smiling. ‘I said you had a loving heart,’ he remarked. ‘Never doubt it, child.’

Then, with a nod, he turned away from me and strode back down the track.