Land of the Silver Dragon (24 page)

Roger nodded. ‘Emperor Alexius Comnenus rightly mistrusts their proximity,' he observed. ‘He no doubt fears they have their eyes on his Byzantine empire.'

‘Indeed,' Rollo agreed. ‘There are in addition these wild tales that tell of mistreatment of Christian pilgrims in the Holy Land. There is an Amiens priest called Peter the Hermit who, attempting to reach Jerusalem, claims to have been kicked out like a hungry dog from a kitchen. There are rumours that the Turks mistreated him, possibly tortured him.'

‘Is that true?'

‘I do not know, my lord. What is relevant is that, throughout the Christian community, people
believe
it is true.' Rollo paused, letting that sink in. ‘The outrage of a skinny old monk on a donkey being barred from visiting the holy places where his Saviour suffered, died and was resurrected, will act like the spark to the kindling.'

‘The kindling being what?'

Rollo met the Count's steady gaze. ‘The awareness of those rich and extensive lands of the eastern Mediterranean,' he replied.

‘With those aforementioned strategically placed ports all ready for strong Norman castles,' Roger added quietly. ‘So, you see religious fervour – the desire to free the holy sites from the Turks' jealous and exclusive possession – as the excuse for a land-grabbing invasion?'

‘King William wonders if it is not rather likely,' Rollo said cautiously.

Roger grinned. ‘They say he is not a God-fearing man,' he remarked.

Rollo thought swiftly. ‘He is a king, my lord,' he said. ‘He cannot afford the luxury of simple faith, for the well-being of his realm is in his hands, and he must always do what is best for his country and his people.'

Roger's smile widened. ‘Nicely put, Rollo. What you would like to say, I imagine, is that your realistic and sensible king is not the man to set off in the vanguard of a vast and costly fleet, with his head full of dreams of ousting the infidel and delivering the entire Holy Land back into Christian hands. He'll leave that to more hotheaded lords, and wait calmly at home to pick over the best of their territories when they fail to come back.'

Rollo lowered his eyes. He had nothing to add, for Roger was quite right.

Presently the Count spoke again. ‘Twenty years ago, Pope Gregory contemplated an expedition to help the beleaguered Byzantines, and matters were less serious back then. It's rumoured he approached the leaders of the west, although no such expedition ensued. Not then,' he added. ‘And it's said that our present pontiff is strongly influenced by Gregory.' He paused. ‘That was back in the time of the Conqueror,' he remarked. ‘What, do you think, would be his son's reaction to such an appeal, were it to come?'

Rollo recalled King William's words:
These men who would set off on this venture will waste their time, their trouble and their money
. He had laughed at them; he had called them
brainwashed dupes of the Church
. But Rollo wasn't going to pass that on to Count Roger. ‘He is, as you earlier surmised, hardly champing at the bit to join in any rescue mission, my lord.'

‘Unlike my nephew Bohemond, then,' Roger said.

Bohemond. Rollo recalled what he knew of the man. He was the son of Roger's sister, and, even among a race of tall, strongly built Normans, he was a giant of a man. His real name was Mark, but even in the womb he had been so large that his sobriquet had been attached to him before birth. Being called after a legendary creature of fabulous power and size would be, Rollo thought, quite a lot to live up to.

Bohemond had always been a man ever spoiling for a fight. Others would flock to follow him on this new venture, once he decided to go, for the restless Normans had won the kingdom in the south and were now looking round for the next conquest. They would—

Rollo's train of thought broke off. He had a succession of visions, one after the other, quick as blinking, and every one was of blood: sharp sword blades flashing under a brilliant sun; men wide-mouthed as they screamed their agony; bodies falling, legless, armless, headless, under the onslaught; women, running for their lives, wailing, desperately clutching the hands of their terrified children ...

He tried to take a hold of himself, and the visions drew back a little.

‘If they launch a campaign against the Turks in the Holy Land,' he heard himself saying, ‘they will start a conflict that will have no end. When the honour of their deity is at stake, men know no reason.'

The echo of his softly spoken words slowly died in the utter silence of the room. Then Roger said, very quietly, ‘Is that a prediction?'

‘I – I do not know.' Confused, troubled, Rollo was still fighting to regain control.

Roger was watching him. ‘Your mother is said to come from a long line of witches,' he murmured, ‘and many believe she herself is a
strega
.'

Rollo suppressed a shiver. To have Count Roger echo so faithfully his own recent thoughts was alarming.

He realized, his unease deepening, that he had been in a light trance.
Had
he made a prediction? Had he seen true, and were those blood-soaked, brutal, and endlessly enduring events really lying in wait for the peoples of the eastern Mediterranean? With an effort, he brought himself firmly and ruthlessly back into the present. Swiftly he went through what had just passed between him and the Count; had he said more than he should? Had that strange moment of foresight lowered his defences, so that he revealed what he should have kept secret?

No.
He risked a glance at Count Roger, whose demeanour remained alert, interested but benign. Rollo felt the tension in him fade away. No; it was all right. When he felt he could safely speak, he smiled easily and said, ‘My mother is very intelligent and she keeps her eyes and ears ever open. It is therefore no surprise that on occasions she is able to foresee the turn of events.' He paused. ‘If I have inherited the tail end of her gift, then it is my good fortune.'

He hoped he sounded sufficiently modest. The Count's ironically raised eyebrow suggested that maybe he hoped in vain.

There was a long, reflective silence. Then the Count said, ‘You do not ask, Rollo, what my own views are on this matter.'

Rollo bowed his head. ‘I am curious to know, naturally, my lord, but it is not my place to ask.'

The count gave a sort of snort, which could have been suppressed laughter. ‘Quite,' he murmured. ‘Well, Rollo, I shall satisfy your curiosity. If the summons should come for me to participate in this ... enterprise, then I shall decline it. I have many Saracen subjects, whose loyalty I am busy cultivating. You will readily appreciate, Rollo, that for me to join in a Christian attack on their brethren in the Holy Land will hardly help me to achieve my aim. Sicily has had its own troubles, and the scars are still painful. A lengthy period of further years of dissension, division and strife is the last thing I want.'

His voice had risen as he spoke, and Rollo sensed the passionate determination behind the urbane facade.

‘Besides,' Roger added after a moment, his handsome face creasing in a smile, ‘here in Sicily we are in the ideal spot: a bridge between the west and the east. Should these events come to pass, and a great army call in on its way east, it is my merchants, my traders, my innkeepers and brothel masters, who will benefit.' His clever eyes met Rollo's. ‘In times of strife, kinsman, there are fortunes to be won and lost. I intend my people to be the winners.'

As he mounted his horse and set off from the Count's castle, Rollo's thoughts returned to that strange moment of near-trance, keen to reassure himself once more that he had not revealed anything he should have kept back.

For, in addition to what he had told Count Roger concerning King William, there was something more; something he must not at any price share with the Count, kinsman though he was. For King William had told Rollo his innermost, carefully calculated conclusion, based, Rollo was certain, on a lifetime's astute observation of his fellow men. Especially those closest to him.

What the king had said was this: ‘My brother Robert is not content to be Duke of Normandy; he wants more, and his ambition blinds him. He has the light of idealism in his eyes, and if the call comes for the leaders of men to form an army and take it to capture Jerusalem, he will leap to respond. But, as always, my brother will lack money, for his wealth has been squandered; frittered away on skirmishes and piddling wars with disgruntled neighbours.

‘When the call comes – and I do believe, Rollo, that it is
when
, not
if
– Duke Robert will need a banker. He will look no further than his little brother, safe in his kingdom across the Narrow Seas. And when his little brother requires security for the loan, what will Robert have to offer but Normandy?'

The king's features had spread in a great grin of delight. ‘If matters play out as I believe they well might, I shall be handed Normandy on a platter, without having to lift a finger or wave a sword. And the conquest of the Holy Places will be no pleasant walk in the sunshine; they will have to battle for every inch, and many will not return.'

He had not said any more. But then, Rollo thought now, he hadn't really needed to ...

Halfway back to the castle where his mother had made her luxurious home, Rollo was suddenly struck with such a sharp stab of terror for Lassair that it forced him to draw rein and stop.

He felt his horse shift uneasily beneath him; was the horse also picking it up?

She was in deadly peril. She was going to be dreadfully hurt – she, or someone she loved. She had to do a task that was beyond her, or else she would die ...

She was calling out to him, in desperate need of him.

The sensations ran through him with such power that he almost turned his horse's head for home there and then. The successive stages of the long journey flashed through his mind: over the Messina Straits, up through Calabria, Naples, Rome, on north towards the Apennines and the Alps, then the long trudge across the northern half of Europe and, at last, over the Narrow Seas to England.

Why not? He had done as King William asked; he'd actually talked to the man who ruled Sicily, and he had an answer to give his king. Of sorts.

He knew it was not enough. Yes, he could try to palm William off by convincing him there was no more to find out, but that would not work. William was not a man to be palmed off. If Rollo wanted to go on being one of the king's spies – and he did, for the role suited him like a skin – then he knew what he must now do.

Reluctantly he loosened his hold on the reins and nudged his horse onwards.

He wanted to be alone, for he had a great deal to think about. He had fully expected to be; his mother did not usually appear in the afternoon, preferring to rest in her luxurious bedchamber, with the breeze off the sea stirring the light muslins that hung at the windows.

He poured out a glass of the sherbet drink, and went to lie on the divan. He closed his eyes. Lassair filled his mind, and he gave a low moan of pain.

A voice said softly, ‘I would love it if you'd tell me about her.'

His eyes shot open. His mother was sitting in a high-backed chair, in a dark corner where the deep shadows had hidden her from view.

As the silence extended, she said calmly, ‘I knew, Rollo, the moment I set eyes on you. You have changed.'

He thought hard. Lassair and his mother were so very different that he was not at all sure he could describe Lassair in terms that would do her justice and, moreover, make his mother understand why he loved her. His mother was sophisticated, glamorous, beautiful, rich, clever, quick-witted, a survivor with some strange and uncanny powers and a very tough fighter.

Lassair was a village healer.

But she was more than that, he thought, realization flooding through him. She might not be glamorous or rich, and her sort of sophistication was of the mind rather than of the environment in which she lived, but, apart from that, the adjectives he had applied to his mother also applied to her.

He swung his feet down, turned round to face Giuliana and, with a smile, began. ‘Her name's Lassair, and she's a very gifted healer who can also dowse and, on occasion, pick my thoughts right out of my head,' he said.

After that, it was easy.

 

In the twisty-turny house in Cambridge, Gurdyman sat in his sunny courtyard with an old scrap of parchment in his hand. The rolled parchment's rough seal had been broken, and there were fragments of wax scattered on the ground. Several people had helped it on its way from fenland village to town: a peddler, a ferryman, a merchant carrying herbal supplies, and a herbalist's young apprentice, who had brought the parchment to Gurdyman's door.

Written on the parchment were a few lines in a beautiful, regular hand. The message read:
She has returned to the village
. Below the lines was a single initial
H
.

Gurdyman wondered why he did not feel as relieved as he should ...

T
he sense of hopeless despair slowly beat me down as I made my way back towards Aelf Fen. I did not know what I was going to do. I had set out for Fulbeach that morning so full of optimism, quite convinced that I would find my mother's aunt Ama and that she would calmly hand over the magic, shining stone the instant I asked her for it. I had been wrong, on every single point: my great aunt was a shepherd, not a healer, and had undoubtedly never met Thorfinn in her life, never mind been entrusted with the care of a precious, potent, magic stone. Besides, she was dead. Now I was returning to my home and my beloved family, no more able to save my little brother and my baby nephew from their terrible fate than I had been when I left. The whole day had been a total waste of time.

I felt like crying. Silently I called out to Rollo, even though I had no idea where he might be. Brave, an excellent fighter with fists, knife and sword, intelligent, full of good ideas and helpful suggestions ... yes, I could really have done with him. But wherever he was, he wasn't
here
; that was all that concerned me just then. What use, I asked myself bitterly, was a strong, resourceful lover when he wasn't there when I needed him?