Land of the Silver Dragon (23 page)

Yes!
Inside my head, I gave a cheer.

Silence fell between us. I could just make out the soft, rhythmic sound of my mother's spindle as it spun this way and that through the still air, twisting the raw strands of wool into yarn. Presently, she started to hum.

I was thinking hard. My mother was wrong about Fulbeach's obscurity: I
had
heard of it. It was half a day's walk from Cambridge, south-east of the town, and its inhabitants frequently brought their wool into Cambridge, both to the town's own market and to be shipped away from the quays. It was probably a day's walk from Aelf Fen, yet my mother spoke as if the distance was an insurmountable barrier. It was the way of it, I reflected, when people lived each and every day in the same small place. In their minds, they created tall, insurmountable walls around them that became as forbidding as the real thing.

My mother had started talking again, remarking on how long it was since she'd seen her brother, and wasn't it strange, how you all got so busy within your own lives that you just didn't seem to find the time for the things you'd like to do, but I was barely listening.

I was thinking about my mother's aunt Ama, the healer.

Given the unthinkable alternative, it looked as if I would have to go and find her.

I set out very early the next morning, on the pretext of more plant gathering. I had surreptitiously packed up some food and a flask of water, for I knew I would be gone all day. It would take some explaining, but I'd worry about that when I returned.

If
I returned. An image of Skuli and his knife floated before my vision, and I tried to banish it. If he was having me watched – I was quite sure he was – then surely he would realize I was doing my best and let me get on with it? That would be the logical reaction. The trouble was, I was not at all sure Skuli was the least bit logical.

As I trudged along, keeping up a good pace, I thought about what I would do when I got to Fulbeach and located my mother's aunt Ama. How would I persuade her to give up the treasure that a long-ago patient had left in her care? Dear Lord, would she remember that she even
had
it, let alone where she might have hidden it? I turned the questions this way and that, exploring possibilities. Could I get her out of her house on some pretext and search it? Could I pretend an interest in magical stones, and persuade her that I was just itching to have a look at the one I'd been told she possessed? Could I just tell her the truth?

I stopped before midday to eat. I was ravenous, having used up most of my energy in walking so hard. Then I got up and went on. I had reached the conclusion that I would just have to appeal to Ama's healer's instincts to save lives, and convince her that members of my family – hers too, since they were her niece's kin – would suffer terribly and die if she did not help me.

With that feeble plan the best I could do, in the middle of the afternoon I walked into her village.

‘I'm looking for Ama. Ama the healer?' I asked, over and over again.

I should have asked my mother more questions before I set out on my quest. I would have saved myself a long walk.

My mother's aunt Ama wasn't a healer at all. Like the rest of my mother's family, she was a shepherd. Friendly people trying to be helpful pointed out her tiny house – on the edge of the village – and I saw the fields where her small flock had grazed; even, hanging on a nail in a tumbledown lean-to, the heavy shears she'd used to remove their thick fleeces. The shears were rusty now; the little house empty.

My mother's aunt was dead. If she'd even known anything about a sick Norseman and a magic stone – which I now very much doubted – then she'd taken her secrets to the grave.

The best I could do was stand in the village's burial ground and grind my teeth. Somewhere under my feet, her bones were rotting back into the earth.

Which was absolutely no good whatsoever to my family and me.

‘T
he thing to do,' Giuliana Guiscard said firmly to her son, ‘is for you and Roger to have a private little chat.'

Rollo absorbed the shock of her announcement without moving a muscle, and he was pretty sure he had given no hint of his surprise. While it was true that such a meeting was the best thing he could have hoped for, he had thought it so far beyond what he might realistically expect that he'd dismissed it.

He met his mother's dark eyes. ‘This private little chat could be arranged?'

She waved a long-nailed hand. ‘Of course. I wouldn't have suggested it otherwise.'

Intrigued now, he said, ‘How well do you know the Great Count?'

She smiled. ‘Bosso was very fond of your father.' Her casual use of Count Roger's nickname underlined her intimacy with him. ‘Well, what else would you expect of cousins?'

Rollo smiled to himself.
Cousins
was stretching it, since his father and Roger were really no more than distant relations who happened to share a family name. In any case, there was no rule that said cousins had to like each other. The two men had apparently been close, however, and Count Roger was renowned for being loyal to those within his private circle. It looked as if this meeting might actually take place ...

‘What's he like, now he's lord of all Sicily?' Rollo asked.

Giuliana turned to look at him, her expression intent. ‘He is as you recall. He's still handsome, tall and elegant. He has much charm, and is courteous and cheerful with all men. He is also very clever and extremely sharp-witted.' She paused. Then, staring straight into Rollo's eyes, said quietly, ‘
Never
try to deceive him, for the repercussions would be unthinkable. His own son Jordan once tried to rebel against him, and Roger had all the leaders of the revolt blinded. He pardoned Jordan only at the very last moment, to remind him to have more respect for authority.'

Rollo nodded. The story was well known. The last-minute reprieve had been predictable – although possibly not by Jordan himself – for the Count's love for his eldest son was legendary. Jordan was cast in the Count's precise mould, as fierce and brave a fighter as his father, and would, but for his illegitimacy, have been his natural successor. The younger man had died of fever the previous September, and it was said that Roger had at first been inconsolable. ‘Is the Count beginning to overcome his grief?' Rollo asked.

Giuliana shrugged. ‘I expect so. He has a country to rule. Besides, his new little wife has already achieved the miracle and borne him a healthy boy child, and there will no doubt be more to come.'

‘I thought it was widely known that, while his mistresses gave him sons, his wives bore only girls?'

Giuliana laughed. ‘That is largely true. Eleven daughters and one sickly son by the first two wives, and, even among the mistresses, only Jordan and poor Godfrey.'

Poor Godfrey indeed. The man was a leper, and not even his father's wealth and devoted love could heal him. He had retired to an isolated monastery, where men said he spent his days in prayer while he waited for death.

‘The baby is only weeks old,' Giuliana mused. ‘It will be years – decades – before he is ready to take his place at his father's side, even providing he turns out to be like Jordan and not a shy little girl in boy's clothing like his only legitimate half-brother.' She gave a dramatic sigh, as if sincerely pitying the count's lack of sons.

Rollo smiled again. The seven-year absence had not in any way reduced his ability to follow the leaps that her agile mind made.

‘And here you are!' She opened her eyes wide, as if in amazement to see him there sitting beside her. ‘Son of his dear cousin, living flesh and blood of the man he loved more than any other!'

‘Steady, Mother,' Rollo murmured. ‘Let's keep the exaggerations credible.'

‘You shall go to visit him, this very day,' she went on as if she hadn't heard. ‘I will send a message, he will summon you, and then the rest is up to you.' She closed one large, dark eye in a wink.

He studied her, loving her, deeply entertained by her. For a brief instant, he forgot about his mission and simply reflected how good it was to see her again. Then, as if waiting for such a moment, the image of Lassair slipped into his mind. What would she think of his mother? What, indeed, would Giuliana think of her?

His mother's eyes narrowed fleetingly, and then a sly smile spread across her generous mouth. Silently and vehemently, Rollo cursed his own carelessness. He had vowed not to permit himself one single thought of Lassair when with his mother; her mind-reading ability was just too good. She was, after all, daughter and granddaughter of the
strega
. Or so the wide-eyed, credulous peasants said, crossing themselves and gabbling their furtive prayers when Giuliana swept past.

And now he'd let her in. Only for a heartbeat, but he had a feeling that was all she needed ...

That events turned out just as Giuliana had predicted was no surprise at all. The summons had come, he had spruced himself up and ridden his beautifully groomed horse the short distance to Roger's castle, and now he was waiting in a lofty anteroom, to be ushered into the Great Count's presence.

A man clad in a leather breastplate over his tunic emerged through an archway to Rollo's left, standing silently before him while he looked him up and down. ‘Weapons?' he demanded curtly.

Rollo raised his hands away from his sides, displaying his unarmed status. There was a long, narrow and very sharp blade tucked in a scabbard hidden in the inside seam of his left boot, but nobody had found it yet. He did not anticipate having to use it here, but you could never be entirely sure.

The guard jerked his head, indicating the room beyond the archway. ‘Go in.'

Rollo walked through the arch and into the Great Count's private chamber. Fur rugs partially covered the flagged floor, and the walls – built of huge blocks of rough-hewn stone – were hung here and there with beautifully worked tapestries. A curtained bed stood to one side, and there were several large iron-bound wooden chests set back against the walls. Roger's armour hung on a rail, as if even here, in his private retreat from the rest of the castle, he must be ready at a moment's notice to revert into a fighting man.

He sat in a vast chair, beautifully carved, and was dressed in a simple woollen tunic over which was draped a rich cloak lined with vivid brocade. As Rollo paused inside the doorway, he stood up and, extending both hands, came to greet him.

‘Welcome to the returning son of the family!' he said, smiling with what seemed to be genuine pleasure.

‘Thank you, my lord.' Rollo went to make a bow, but Roger caught his hands and prevented it.

‘You are my kinsman; the son of my late, dear cousin,' he said. ‘Besides, we are alone and unobserved.'

Yes, Rollo reflected. It would have been a different matter had their reunion been public. He studied the Count. He was much as he had been seven years ago; perhaps more lines around the eyes and mouth, and grey hairs among the blond. He still stood tall and straight. He was the great-great-grandson of Hiallt the Norseman, who had set out to win himself quite a large portion of the land later called Normandy, and his ancestry showed.

As if, on inspecting Rollo, his thoughts ran along the same lines, Roger said, ‘You carry your Norman blood like a banner.' He was studying Rollo closely. ‘You resemble your father, even down to that smooth fair hair. Yet your eyes are of the south.'

Rollo was aware of that. He had been looking into a pair of eyes exactly like his own that morning. He bowed his head, unsure how to reply.

Roger returned to his seat, waving to a smaller, lower, but no less skilfully carved wooden chair placed just beside it. ‘Sit, Rollo.'

Rollo sat. He waited, as was only right, for Roger to speak.

‘You have come from King William,' he said after a moment. ‘Who I don't suppose for an instant has sent you here just to be reunited with your southern kinsmen.'

‘No,' Rollo agreed. He hesitated, arranging his words. ‘Nevertheless, it is good to see them. Especially my mother.' Another pause. ‘Thank you for looking after her.'

Roger burst out laughing. ‘I won't tell her you said that,' he remarked. ‘Rollo,
nobody
looks after Giuliana. She's a fierce woman, and I do not envy the man who would try.' He leaned closer. ‘She is a great asset,' he said quietly, although he did not elaborate. Rollo guessed he was referring to his mother's highly efficient spy network, something which would indeed be very valuable to the ruler of a newly won kingdom.

Roger's soft words interrupted Rollo's thoughts. ‘Like mother, like son, eh, Rollo?' he murmured.

He knows
, Rollo thought.
He knows exactly what role I fulfil for my king.
‘Yes,' he agreed.

‘And here you are, sitting with another Norman lord in the midst of a very different realm,' Roger went on. Then, sharp as a knife point: ‘I trust there is no conflict of interest here?'

‘None that I can see,' Rollo answered. ‘Unless you are aware of something that I am not.'

There was no answer. After a short pause, Roger said, ‘Why are you here?'

I have to tell him
, Rollo thought. He took a breath, tried to calm his fast heartbeat and said, ‘Your successes here in Sicily and, just recently, in Malta, are known of back in the north. The time of the Saracens here is over, and the Normans rule the kingdom in the south. King William applauds your achievements. He ...' Rollo paused, thinking hard. ‘There are other lands where the Saracens still rule,' he went on slowly. ‘Lands with great ports over on the eastern shores of the Mediterranean which, besides being invaluable for trade, are ripe for strong fortifications from which a ruler might protect and defend his territory. Once these lands were open to all, and men of different faiths who shared the desire to visit the holy places of their religious leaders and prophets were free to make pilgrimage. Yet now the Holy Land is in the hands of the Seljuk Turks, and these nomad warriors have lost none of their ferocity. Their capital is a mere hundred miles from Constantinople.'