Land of the Silver Dragon

SIX

Gurdyman and I went through his house together in the morning, both of us hawk-eyed as we hunted for clues to what our night-time intruder had been up to. It was all too obvious that someone had gone through the house and its contents very thoroughly. To the casual eye, Gurdyman does not own much — and, certainly, everything of any value or interest is kept safely, securely and secretly down in the crypt — but the overturned benches and tables, and the pots swept down off the shelves, told us that every last item had been picked up and examined. If only it had stopped there. As in the other dwellings he’d searched, the intruder had a heavy hand when it came to putting things back. A couple of pots were broken, and it looked as if a small stack of wooden platters had been trodden on. I watched as, with a small sigh, Gurdyman picked up the detritus.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said impulsively, my heart torn at his expression.

He turned to me, a cracked platter in his hand, a kindly smile on his face. ‘Why are you apologizing?’

I gestured at the turmoil. ‘All this.’

‘You didn’t do it,’ he pointed out.

‘I know, but the intruder is searching the places where my kin live, and now he’s come here, and I-’

‘Hush, child.’ Gurdyman put the platter down and came to stand beside me, a hand on my shoulder. ‘We are not responsible for the acts of others. Only our own, and nothing you have done has invited the attentions of this intruder.’ He gave my arm a pat. ‘And it is only inanimate objects that have been damaged.’

He was right, and his words consoled me. Nevertheless, it was with great trepidation that I climbed the ladder into the little upper room to see what had happened to my own belongings.

The bed had been searched. The straw mattress sat slightly askew on the wooden bed frame, so presumably the intruder had lifted it to see if anything was hidden beneath it. It also looked sort of crushed, as if large hands had felt all over it for concealed treasures. The pillows and covers had been removed and left in a heap on the end of the bed. They, too, had received the squashing treatment. My few spare garments had been dragged from the bag in which I’d brought them from Aelf Fen, and now lay scattered on the floor. I felt sick as carefully I smoothed them out and folded them. The thought of a violent stranger’s touch on my personal belongings shocked me deeply.

The leather satchel in which I carry the tools of my healer’s craft had received the most thorough attention. He — I would have sworn on everything I hold dear that it was he — had emptied it and laid every last item out on the floor in three ragged lines.

Nothing was missing: I knew that with total certainty, for I had packed the satchel myself two days ago. I had removed nothing since, and nor had anyone else.

I sat down on the floor and set about repacking my belongings. Then I put the bed to rights. I sank down on to it, deep in thought.

Yet another family dwelling place had been searched. Again, nothing was missing. The conclusion was obvious: whatever the searcher was hunting for, he still hadn’t found it.

What would he do next? Would he start all over again, revisiting us all, this time not stopping till he’d torn up floorboards, demolished houses? But that, surely, would be too risky, for this man had killed, twice, and must realize that it would not be nearly so easy a second time to catch his victims unaware, even assuming he continued to evade whatever forces of law and order were now on his trail.

I wondered fleetingly if Gurdyman would report this break-in to the authorities, and knew instantly that he would not. He was a man who valued his privacy, and it was not in the least likely that he would wish to draw attention to himself in that way.

If the intruder were to be caught, he would hang, having committed murder as well as his other crimes. Would that not persuade him to be sensible?

Being sensible meant giving up. As I sat there on my bed in Gurdyman’s house, I sent up a brief and heartfelt prayer that our intruder would do just that.

Gurdyman and I settled down to a period of intense work. My mind was kept fully occupied during the waking hours, and, exhausted, I slept soundlessly and dreamlessly every night. In consequence, I barely had time to think about the intruder. We had a swift visit from Hrype, who closeted himself with Gurdyman, emerged looking preoccupied, and only in what seemed like an afterthought remembered to tell me that my kin back at Aelf Fen were all safe and well. Morcar, he reported, slowly recovering from his grief and adjusting to the prospect of life without his mother, had gone back to the Breckland.

If Hrype was out and about again, I calculated, and Morcar had left, then presumably the threat to Edild had gone. I breathed a sigh of relief. It looked as if my prayer had been answered, and the big, red-bearded giant who had been terrorizing my family had indeed given up and gone away.

Gurdyman introduced a fresh field of study, concerning the extraordinary substance called quicksilver. I was fascinated by it from the start; by its surprising weight; by its shining, glittering appearance; by its ability to shatter itself into beautiful little silver balls, then, if you put those balls together, form itself back into a smooth whole. My fascination was certainly increased by the fact that Gurdyman treated it with such awe. It was, he told me firmly, toxic. In case I was still in any doubt about what toxic meant, he told me that, too.

Despite its poisonous qualities, Gurdyman told me that quicksilver is used in a particular area of healing; one which, he added, I would no doubt experience myself if I practised my healing craft in the town. Calmly, and without a hint of awkwardness, he explained about the diseases that spread through the act of love. Assuming me to be innocent of such matters, he told me about the sexual hunger of the male sex, whereby a man away from the comforts of his wife’s bed will pay for sex with a town prostitute.

I knew of such things. Edild explained briefly to me, when we treated one of Lord Gilbert’s visitors who had recently returned from a sojourn in London. Gurdyman, however, went into far more detail. By the time he had finished describing the skin lesions and the pus-filled sores, I was feeling quite faint. It was a huge relief when we turned from theory to practice, and he set about teaching me how to make the quicksilver ointment used in treatment.

Gurdyman might have been able to concentrate indefinitely, but I couldn’t. After a gruelling week in which I didn’t see daylight except when I was dispatched to go out and buy food and drink, my teacher finally noticed he had worn me out and announced that I might have a break from my studies.

While we had been closeted in the crypt, full-blossoming spring had at last arrived. We had passed the equinox and April had come in, full of sunny smiles interspersed with soft, warm rain. On my first free day, I hurried out of town and went to stand beside the river. Such was my pleasure in simply breathing in the cool, fragrant air that I might have been ingesting the best French wine.

Spring had enticed even Gurdyman out of his underground lair, and he had set up a small work bench out in the little courtyard. He was busy on his mapping again; a task for which my assistance was more of a hindrance than a help. After a morning in which I succeeded in doing nothing except irritate him, it occurred to me that now might be a good opportunity to slip home and see my family.

Gurdyman was so intent on his work that I had to repeat my request before he realized what I was saying. Looking up at me, a frown on his amiable face, he said, ‘Yes, child, that is an extremely good idea!’

I hurried up to my room to fetch my satchel. I would not take anything else, since I’d only be gone for a couple of days; three at the most. It would make a pleasant change to make the familiar journey without having to carry a heavy bag; having my father to carry it for me had been a rare pleasure the last time I’d made the trip. I went back out to the courtyard to say farewell to Gurdyman, telling him I’d be back soon. He waved a vague hand in acknowledgement.

As I slipped out of the house, my spirits high as the springtime sun in the brilliant blue sky, I was very grateful for Gurdyman’s preoccupation. I’d been worried that, recalling how my father had insisted on escorting me on the way to Cambridge, Gurdyman might similarly stipulate that I wasn’t to make the return journey unless someone went with me. That, I told myself firmly, was quite unnecessary. For one thing, spring had, as it always does, filled people with the need to get out into the good fresh air, and the roads, tracks and paths would be busy with traffic. There was safety in numbers. For another, the fact that Hrype had felt able to leave his beloved Edild unguarded while he came to visit Gurdyman indicated that he no longer sensed a threat. Hrype was one of the wisest people I knew. If he believed the giant had given up and gone away, then that was good enough for me.

They jumped me on a lonely stretch of track where there was nobody about to hear or see.

They must have been observing me for some time, for this part of the journey was a little-used short cut which, I’m sure, few people know about. I knew of it, however, and they knew I used it.

To begin with, I was so frightened that I couldn’t think. I’d been striding along, reflecting happily how pleased my family would be to have a surprise visit from me, and hoping my mother would have something with which to make a special, celebratory meal. I wasn’t aware of danger until it was almost upon me; I heard a faint sound, and was in the very act of spinning round to see if anyone was there when they attacked.

They. Yes, I was sure even then that there was more than one of them. Not that I could tell by looking, or by listening. A heavy sack was thrown over my head, effectively blinding me, and a rope was thrown round me just above my waist, pinning my arms to my sides. I heard scuffling sounds as they tried to suppress my struggles, and a sharp yell of pain as my wildly kicking feet caught someone in a tender spot.

Then I was lifted off the ground, one person supporting my head and shoulders, another, my legs. I yelled as loudly as I could, but the thick cloth bag must have muffled the sound. They can’t have been worried about being overheard, or else they would have gagged me, and after a few moments this fact penetrated through my panic and I stopped shouting.

They did not carry me far. I tried to count their paces, and thought I reached perhaps two or three hundred. Then I heard water. One of my abductors called out something in a language that sounded vaguely familiar; just a few words, softly spoken, sounding like a query. From quite close and below, another voice answered. Then I felt myself being lowered, and I was set down on what felt to my questing hands like a surface of wooden planks.

For a moment, I was left alone. I heard them talking quietly and urgently, and thought I counted at least four voices. There was a splashing sound, then I sensed movement. The splashing settled down into a regular rhythm, like rowing.

Was I on a boat? Yes, I must be. It seemed highly likely, as the place where they had jumped on me was quite near a tributary of one of the main branches of the fenland river system. Were we even now setting out along the winding, twisting, secretive waterways of the fens? Oh, oh, if we were, then we were about to lose ourselves in one of the finest hiding places I knew. If a mist came down, as it frequently did towards the day’s end, whatever craft we were on could glide right past my own village and nobody would be any the wiser.

The fear came back, a hundredfold. Nobody would come looking for me, because nobody knew I was missing. Gurdyman believed I was on my way home to Aelf Fen, where I’d stay for at least a couple of days and probably more. But, in my village, they didn’t even know I was coming.

Beneath the heavy hood, my eyes filled with desperate tears. With my arms bound to my sides, I could only just manage to lift a hand up to wipe them away.

After quite a while, there was a gentle thud, as if the boat had bumped up against a jetty. Then I was lifted up and passed from one pair of arms to another, and I felt myself being carried up. Up a ladder? Oh, but supposing the person carrying me slipped, or dropped me? I gave a whimper of fear. Then I was laid down once more, this time on something woolly which had a faint smell that confirmed it was a sheepskin.

Presently the sounds of rowing started again. They had, I guessed, just transferred me from a small boat to a larger one.

Time passed. I wasn’t sure how long; it seemed an eternity. At some point, one of the abductors came and put something soft beneath my head. Unless they were particularly cruel, and lulling me into feeling safe when I was far from it, then it looked as though they did not mean me harm.

Not yet, anyway.

I began to feel cold. Either the sun was going down, or we were somewhere in deep shade. I rather thought the former; I seemed to have been on the boat for ages. Someone put a cover over me. I explored it with my fingertips. It was heavy, and it felt like stiff, coarse wool. It stank, but nevertheless I was grateful for its warmth.

Then I sensed a change in the boat’s movement. Our progress over the water had been smooth and not very fast, accompanied by the sound of the oars, but now the boat was rocking, and whoever had been rowing had stopped. It was hard to be sure under the sacking hood, but I sensed that there had been a great change in our surroundings. It felt very much as if a small, contained waterway had given way to something altogether bigger …

After quite a long time, someone approached me and I sensed him crouch down by my side. Then the hood was removed. I took a deep breath of fresh, moist, salty air, and turned to look at my abductor.

He was huge.

He was staring at me intently, his light eyes unblinking. His hair was long, thick and reddish-fair, reaching down below his shoulders. On either side of his face, two plaits hung down, braided with leather thongs. A broad band, consisting of precisely woven strands of different-coloured leather, was bound around his brow. His beard was luxurious, and redder in colour than his hair. He was dressed in a deep blue, sleeveless tunic, bordered at the neck, hem and cuffs with bands of embroidery in a copper colour. Beneath it he wore close-fitting breeches. His feet were bare.

I was very much afraid that I knew who he was.

His face was expressionless, giving me no clue as to what he was thinking. Or what he wanted with me, although I was trying hard not to speculate on that. He drew my eyes and all my attention, and it was with an effort that I looked away from him to see where I was.

I was on a ship, just as I’d thought. It was long and extremely graceful, its narrow prow and stern flaring out to a broader mid-section. I was lying in the stern — above me and to my right, I could see a big man holding the end of what I assumed was the steering oar; and in front of him, on the gunwale, I made out the rowlocks. But nobody sat at the oars now; there was no need.

From a tall mast in the middle of the ship billowed out a huge, rectangular sail, which effectively blocked my view of the front of the craft. A steady wind filled it. With a gasp of horror I pushed myself up so that I could see over the side of the ship.

We were out on the open sea, and the distant land was no more than a low, dark line. Beyond it, the sun had set, going down in a spectacular display of red, pink and gold.

I forced my shocked brain to concentrate. The land was to my left, with the sun going down behind it, so that was west. And that meant we were sailing north. Sailing very fast, in fact, for a strong south-westerly wind was blowing hard and, with the sail angled to receive it, our craft was flying over the waves, sending silvery-white plumes of spray high in the air.

Shocked into protest, I turned back to the bearded giant and screamed, ‘What do you want with me?’ I paused for breath. ‘Where are you taking me?’

His lips spread in a grin, revealing white, even teeth. ‘You will find out,’ he said. His voice was rich and deep, and he spoke with a heavy accent. I knew that my language was not his mother tongue.

He leaned towards me and I shrank from him, terrified. Instantly he put up his hands in the universal gesture of peace, pulling back again. He began to speak, in words I didn’t understand, then stopped, frowning in thought. He tried again. ‘I will untie,’ he said, indicating with a nod of his head the ropes still wound around my upper arms. ‘Yes?’

‘Yes,’ I agreed. I was totally bemused. He had clearly seen that I was frightened, and he seemed to be asking my permission to approach me. Yet he and his crew had abducted me! It made no sense.

Unless — I shivered as the ghastly thought took hold and became the truth — unless they needed me alive and well. Because this red-bearded giant who had come among my kin to search and to kill had not given up at all. Instead, having failed to find whatever he was after by direct means, he now intended to force the location of the thing he sought out of a family member.

That family member being me, and I had absolutely no idea how I was going to answer him.

He was close to me now, reaching his long, powerfully muscled arms around me to untie the knot that secured the rope. His hair brushed my face, and the dying sun set alight the thick red highlights among the blond. I could see individual strands of hair, like fine, bright copper wires.

My mind appeared to have collapsed beneath the strain. Here I was, alone on a speeding ship heading the good Lord above knew where, with four — no, five, six — big, burly men. One or more of whom was about to inflict some awful sort of pain on me in order to make me tell them something I didn’t even know, and all I could think about was hair.

He had unwound the rope and now he sat back on his heels, coiling it neatly. He was staring at me, and I felt he was concentrating as hard on me as I was on him.

I took a quick look at the darkening water stretching out on either side of us. The black line of the land seemed further away now. Then I returned my eyes to him. ‘Where are we going?’ I repeated, this time in a whisper.

Something was happening to me. I was feeling dizzy, and the first stirrings of nausea were beginning, as if I’d eaten a bad piece of fish. I swallowed, and that made it worse.

‘Look at the horizon,’ he said.

I must have appeared confused. He pointed one huge arm out over the vast, empty sea to the east. ‘Set — put your eyes to a — a steady point that does not move,’ he said, halting here and there as if searching for words that I would understand.

I twisted my head to look out beyond the tall figure of the man at the steering oar. Too fast: vertigo hit me hard, and it seemed as if the whole world was spinning around me. I felt the first rush of vomit come burning up my throat and into my mouth.

Perhaps he guessed it would happen. Perhaps it always did, when people were out on the open sea for the first time. Anyway, he was ready. Even as I retched, he had a leather bucket held ready under my mouth. As the convulsions continued, I felt a strong, warm hand placed firmly on my forehead. With the other hand, he pulled my hair back and out of the way.

Presumably, I thought, before the suicidal misery of seasickness drove everything else out of my head, he preferred his prisoners not to stink of vomit when he interrogated and tortured them …

Someone gave me a cup of cool, refreshing water when I’d finished. I batted away the big hand that held it — I could not tolerate the thought of swallowing even a drop of water, since I knew I’d bring it straight up again — but the hand was insistent.

‘Drink,’ a deep voice said. I raised my head a tiny fraction and looked into the face of a stubble-headed, bronze-bearded crewman whose bare upper arms were encircled by beautiful, intricate tattoos. He mimed taking a sip of water, swishing it around and then spitting it out, and I understood. I did as he suggested, aiming into the bucket. Someone had emptied it. To my surprise, the water felt good, and I risked swallowing a little.

The tattooed man nodded his encouragement, and said something in a tongue that sounded a bit like singing. From behind me, the red-haired giant spoke; I hadn’t realized he was there.

‘Thorben says it is good to drink,’ he translated, ‘for always it is easier to be sick when there is something to bring up.’

It was not a particularly cheerful thought.

It was almost dark now, I noticed. A pair of lanterns had been lit, well below the level of the gunwales. The moon was rising. Were we going to sail all night? Oh, dear Lord, was that safe? Supposing we ran into something?

The red-haired giant had brought more covers: a thick, soft wool blanket and another skin. He lifted me up, as if I weighed no more than a child, and, taking hold of the sheepskin that I had been lying on — rumpled up now from my twisting and turning — shook it out and spread it out on the boards of the deck. When I lay back down on it, it was warm from my body. Then he tucked me up in the thick blanket, putting the skin on top. The stinking, stiff cover he rolled up and thrust under one brawny arm. He sniffed at it, miming disgusted recoil, and, despite everything, I grinned.

He stood looking down at me. Then he said, ‘Go to sleep.’

It was as if he had spoken a powerful charm. My eyelids were suddenly heavy, and I felt myself drifting. I was snug in my wrappings; the pillow under my head and the sheepskin on which I lay were soft and comfortable; the luxurious woolly blanket was wonderfully warm. My last thought, before I fell asleep, was that the ship’s motion that before had made me so sick now felt like a mother’s gentle rocking of her baby’s crib.