Blood of the South

by Alys Clare

  ‘What will you do now?’

  I was afraid he’d say, I’m heading straight back to Cambridge. But he didn’t: he said, ‘I’ve offered to stay for a few days to help in the search for this Harald Fensman’s kinsmen.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Sheriff Picot commanded me to look after her.’

  ‘But surely—’ I began. Surely he was needed back in Cambridge? Surely the sheriff hadn’t intended his officer to go on taking care of Lady Rosaria until her family were found? I didn’t utter either remark; it would have been stupid, when I’d been hoping so much he’d stay.

  ‘But surely what?’ he prompted. He was smiling.

  ‘Oh, nothing.’ Embarrassed, I cast around for something to say. Then, remembering something I’d meant to ask, I said, ‘Who was the tall, bald-headed man you were arguing with as we set off?’

  Jack’s smile vanished. ‘Gaspard Picot,’ he said tersely.

  ‘A relation?’

  ‘Yes. He’s the sheriff’s nephew, and views himself as heir and natural successor to Picot’s position. He’s certainly evil enough,’ he added in an angry mutter.

  ‘He doesn’t seem to like you very much,’ I observed.

  ‘He—’ Jack hesitated. ‘He resents the closeness he believes I have to his uncle. He thinks I’m a party to the schemes by which Picot makes himself rich and powerful, and considers I have usurped his rightful position.’

  I recalled what Gurdyman had said: Jack Chevestrier is a better man by far than his master the sheriff. ‘But you haven’t,’ I said quietly.

  Jack shot me a quick look. ‘No.’ Then, as if he didn’t want to say any more, he turned and strode away.

  I headed on into the village. A cold, forceful east wind was rising, and it threatened rain. Although I couldn’t yet see the moon in the early evening sky – and it would probably be concealed by the gathering clouds – I knew it would be full.

  I increased my pace, a shiver of alarm running up my spine. The full moon, combined with the time of year, meant that the tide would be high tonight. If it combined with strong easterly winds – perhaps, judging by the steadily darkening clouds overhead, even a storm – then there would be flooding in the low-lying areas. The people of the fens and the bulge of coastal East Anglia have learned to dread such conditions, for at such times a great wall of water builds up and surges inland. You can’t fight the sea, when it has made up its mind to flood over the land.

  Edild and I spent a cosy evening in her neat little house. The rain had begun, beating down fast and furiously. We shut out the violence of the night and sat close to the hearth, and soon, my belly full, I felt my eyes beginning to close.

  ‘Go to bed, Lassair,’ ordered my aunt.

  I needed no second telling. I had a cursory wash, removed my outer tunic and snuggled down under the bedclothes. I was vaguely aware of Edild, moving soft-footed around me as she tidied up and prepared for bed, then I fell asleep.

  It was the wind that woke me. It was howling round the house like some desperate monster, and its cry ranged from a low, throbbing hum right up to a full-lunged scream. Back draft from the smoke hole in the roof had disturbed the embers of the fire in the hearth, and there was a mist of ash and smoke in the room. It was raining even harder, and there were regular thumps as objects were hurled against the stout walls. It sounded, in my shocked-awake state, as if the creature outside was trying to break its way in.

  As my awareness grew, I realized there was another sound: the muttering of quiet voices. I pushed my humped bedding down a fraction and peered out.

  The room was almost dark, lit only by the dying fire. Edild and Hrype sat close together on the far side of the hearth. Hrype’s heavy cloak lay spread on the floor, steaming gently. He had removed his boots and folded back his hose, and his bare feet were towards the fire.

  I was torn between pretending I was still asleep and giving them some rare privacy, or making it plain that they – or, rather, the storm – had just woken me up. If I chose the former, there was always the chance that their closeness might proceed to the sort of intimacy that I really didn’t want to witness, even with my head under the covers. I faked a yawn, stretched and, feigning surprise, said, ‘Hello, Hrype. What are you doing here?’

  He looked at me, his strange silvery eyes glittering. ‘You have the shining stone with you,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ I admitted. He hadn’t asked; he’d stated the fact. He’d presumably have been talking to Gurdyman.

  ‘Then you must—’

  Edild interrupted him, murmuring quietly into his ear. He listened, nodded curtly and began again. ‘Lassair, it is very important that you begin to make appropriate use of the stone. Your—’ This time, he stopped of his own volition. There was a pause, as if he was weighing his words, then he said, ‘Please will you try once more to look into it? You have had it in your possession for many months now, and it will know you when you handle it.’ I made myself ignore the shiver of fear that gripped me at the thought of the stone knowing me. ‘You should not be apprehensive. If you approach it properly – and I am here to make sure that you do – it will be a powerful tool in your hands.’

  I thought about that. The shining stone, or so I had been told, permitted anyone who stared into it to see the truth; more alarmingly, if you had the strength, apparently you could use it to search out and harness the forces of the spirit world. The very idea terrified me.

  They’d persuaded me to try, Gurdyman and Hrype, that night in Gurdyman’s crypt. Clutching my piece of lapis lazuli, I’d stared into the stone’s dark depths. I could still recall all too vividly what I’d seen and heard. The straining figures, the waters of sea and river; the galloping horses; those two ravens, flying straight for me.

  I had tried not to think about it, particularly the birds. Whenever the images had returned, I had swiftly dismissed them. Now, as I allowed them full rein, perhaps for the first time, something else occurred to me: something which I thought I had quite forgotten, except I couldn’t have done because now it was the only thing in my mind …

  When I went down to the crypt that night and found Gurdyman and Hrype closeted together, I’d asked Hrype if there was news of my family. Not of them, he had replied, but there was news of somebody else.

  I looked at him now, filled with the firm resolution not to weaken. ‘Hrype, what exactly is it you want me to find out for you?’ I asked. ‘When you and Gurdyman made me use the stone before, you’d just told me there was news of Skuli.’

  I was studying him intently, watching his face in the dim light for any subtle change of expression. And, as I spoke Skuli’s name, I saw it: a tiny flicker in his eyes. As if, just for an instant, some shadow had blocked out their brightness.

  ‘That’s it, isn’t it?’ I whispered. ‘Somehow, word of what he’s doing has reached you, and you want me to look in the stone and verify what you’ve learned.’ I had no idea whether I was right – what I was suggesting sounded so unlikely – but Hrype’s face remained impassive.

  Then the absurdity of it hit me hard. ‘I can’t!’ I cried. ‘I’m a complete novice, and I haven’t the first idea how to use the shining stone! If I’m very lucky, I might see some random, meaningless images, and yet you’re asking me to look for one specific man, who’s somewhere out in the wilds between here and Miklagard! Hrype, I can’t do it!’

  Slowly the echoes of my loud voice faded and died. There was nothing to hear but the fury of the storm outside. I waited for some reaction, from Hrype, from Edild – surely my aunt would come to my rescue? Couldn’t she see as well as I could how impossible a task Hrype was demanding of me? – but neither spoke a word.

  Finally, Hrype said, ‘You won’t know till you try.’

  I don’t know how it came about, but, not long afterwards, I was sitting cross-legged by the fire, the shining stone resting in my open hands and my little piece of lapis tucked inside my bodice, close to my heart.

  I sat there for some time
. The rising pitch of the storm seemed to recede, and I was only barely aware of the furious, driving rain beating weightily down on the roof. I seemed to have lost the last remaining residue of my own will. I did as Hrype bade me, and focused all my attention on the stone.

  At first, I saw the same images I’d seen before. A wide river, winding away ahead into infinity. Then that picture of a team of men, working so hard that I could sense the strain as they pulled and heaved at long ropes and an unbearably heavy load. Now I perceived that there were oxen too: big, lumbering beasts that steamed with the sweat of effort. Fast water, broiling in high plumes of white spray over vicious black rocks. A shaped stone, marked with runes. Then the sea – I heard waves lapping on a shore – and a sense of calm as the wind filled a great square sail high above. A vast port, white buildings brilliant under a bright blue sky filled with sunshine. People, so many people, their garments, even their skin and hair, very different from any I’d ever known; voices raised in furious dispute. The water again, deep, deep blue …

  Lulled, half-entranced, I let myself be led. I allowed my vigilance to drop. And then they came straight at me, those two dark, sinister birds. For a split-second I saw a very familiar face – what on earth was he doing there? – and then the ravens were upon me, their long, strong, cruel beaks wide, their claws spread out like a handful of knives. I cried out, dropped the stone and my hands flew up to cover my face. In that instant, I knew, the ravens had been on the point of going for my eyes.

  For a few heartbeats, nothing happened except that, perhaps in response to the terrifying thing I’d just seen, the violence of the storm increased for a moment to screaming pitch. Then Hrype gave a deep sigh, and, as if that released Edild from some spell, she got up, hurried across to me and took me in her arms.

  I could have stayed there, held close against her, hearing the steady beat of her heart, for a long time. But then Hrype said calmly, ‘Lassair, the shining stone is loose on the floor. You must treat it with more respect.’

  I disengaged myself from my aunt’s embrace. Reaching out, I picked up the stone. It had felt quite hot before, probably from the warmth of my hands, but now it was cold. I wrapped it in the sheep’s wool and put it back in the leather bag, pulling the drawstrings tight. Then I replaced the bag in the little recess behind the shelf where I store my bedding during the daytime. As soon as it was hidden away, the atmosphere in the room changed.

  But I wasn’t going to be allowed to forget what had just happened. Hrype said, ‘Did you see him?’

  ‘I didn’t see Skuli, no.’ I was going to keep to myself the identity of the man I had seen.

  ‘What did you see?’ Hrype persisted. ‘What scared you so badly?’

  I took a breath, trying to calm myself. ‘I saw a river, and a place where men used oxen, and their own strength, to drag a long, slim ship over the land,’ I said. ‘I saw perilous rapids, and a stone carved with runes. I saw the sea, and then a busy port. Voices arguing, and the sea again. Then –’ I faltered – ‘then the birds came.’

  ‘You saw Skuli’s voyage,’ Hrype said, and I could detect a note of triumph in his voice. ‘You saw his journey down the long rivers that lead off to the east and the south, and the portage route where they transport the vessels overland. You saw the rapids, and—’

  It was high time to rein him in. ‘Hrype, all of that could have come from my imagination,’ I told him firmly. ‘I already knew about the journey to Miklagard –’ my grandfather had described it, in great detail – ‘and no doubt I just thought I saw those pictures in the shining stone. Probably,’ I added, glaring at him, ‘because you just put Skuli into my mind, and you’ve been pushing me so hard to succeed in spying on him.’

  He considered this, and gave a curt nod. ‘That’s possible,’ he acknowledged. ‘Perhaps, in truth, you saw only what you expected to see.’

  ‘What is this news of Skuli?’ I demanded. ‘And how do you even come to have news, when he’s so far away?’

  ‘The journey to Miklagard operates both ways,’ he said. ‘Men travel back north again, and they bring tidings from the south lands.’

  Yes. That made sense. There was nothing mystical about a returning mariner bringing tales of what he had seen and experienced. I still didn’t understand, though, how Hrype had come to hear these tales; perhaps he’d been visiting some port up on the coast. ‘So what do they say, these tidings?’

  Hrype watched me for a moment. Then he said, ‘Merely that Skuli has arrived in Miklagard, and that the voyage passed without major incident.’

  Such was the power of his presence that, in that moment, I accepted what he said.

  Suddenly he got up, reaching for his still-wet cloak.

  ‘You’re going?’ Edild said. He nodded, drawing on his boots. She gestured with one hand towards the roof, on to which the rain was hammering in a hard, steady, deafening beat. ‘You can’t go out in this!’

  He smiled briefly. ‘I am already wet. A little more will not hurt, and it is not far.’ He bent and kissed her, pausing for a moment to rest a tender hand on her cheek. She bowed her head in acknowledgement.

  He had the door open and closed again so swiftly that only a little rain came in. I watched my aunt staring after him. Briefly, all the pain of her situation was in her lovely face. She must surely know that she had Hrype’s love and his heart; sometimes it probably wasn’t enough.

  She busied herself spreading out her bedding once more, then she lay down. The fire was dying, giving only a small amount of light. ‘Try to sleep, Lassair,’ she said. ‘From the sound of it, this storm is a very bad one. We will have troubles enough to face in the morning, and will need our strength.’

  I turned on my side, facing away from the hearth, and closed my eyes. But I knew I wouldn’t sleep; not yet, anyway, for my mind was racing. Something was wrong, and now, in the darkness, I worked out what it was.

  While his powerful, dynamic presence had still been in the little room, Hrype had easily persuaded me that the news of Skuli’s arrival in Miklagard, following an uneventful journey, was nothing to get excited about. He’d wanted me to accept the news without question – without even stopping to think about it – and, Hrype being Hrype, that was exactly what I’d done.

  But Hrype wasn’t there any more.

  As if it were an animal roused from sleep and instantly on the alert, I felt my curiosity wake up. I even had a swift image of my spirit creature, and I felt Fox’s warm presence curled up beside me. It was a while since I’d been aware of him, and it felt good to have him back. He was, I’m sure, encouraging me.

  A dozen thoughts and ideas flew through my head. I forced them into order, and, focusing all my attention inwards, this is what I finally concluded.

  From the first time I’d heard about Skuli and the mission he felt compelled to fulfil, there had been the sense that I wasn’t being told the full story. My grandfather had said Skuli was driven by powerful forces within him to succeed where his forefather had failed, and complete the journey to Miklagard. Thorfinn had implied that there was something deeply perilous about the voyage, which was why Skuli had tried so desperately and so ruthlessly to acquire the shining stone. Not only did he believe he was its true keeper; he was convinced he would not succeed without it. Out of the past, I seemed to hear my grandfather’s voice: He believes that the place where he is bound can only be reached with the aid of the spirits.

  I had understood – no, they had all encouraged me to understand, Thorfinn, Hrype, even Gurdyman – that the place Skuli was bound was Miklagard. But now I saw very clearly two major objections to that. The first was that, while the journey was undoubtedly long, arduous and dangerous, it was regularly and routinely travelled by many mariners, none of whom had the aid of a magical stone. The second was this: if Skuli had reached Miklagard safely, then that meant his mission was over. Why, then, was Hrype still so very eager for me to go on trying to use the shining stone to see what Skuli was up to?

  In the dar
kness, I was smiling in triumph. I’d always known there was more to this tale of Skuli’s mysterious journey than had been revealed to me. Now, in my own mind, I had proof. What I was going to do with that proof, and, more importantly, how I would react next time someone asked me to look into the shining stone, I had yet to work out.

  I could hear Edild’s deep, regular breathing. She had gone to sleep, and she had advised me to try to do the same. I knew she was right, and that I needed my sleep. The storm was still howling outside, and now its violence was intensifying. I must rest. Deliberately, I visualized putting my excitement over my brand-new discovery into a bag and stowing it away. Then I turned to the vivid, violent images which the stone had put in my mind. Slowly, one by one, finishing with those awful ravens, I banished the pictures I’d seen.

  One image, however, I allowed myself to see again. Although he looked very different – he was in pale robes, with a headdress that covered his blond hair, and his skin had been darkened, either by the sun or by his own skill – I had recognized him instantly. His presence among the visions I’d seen in the stone was puzzling. What on earth was he doing there, somehow involved with Skuli’s voyage to the south? Even if I’d imagined it all, why had my mind elected to place him there?

  I had an explanation, although I shied from it. I tried to tell myself it was nonsense, but it persisted, nudging at me until I steeled myself to face it.

  The explanation was this: what I had seen was an image of Rollo Guiscard, who is my one and only lover; the man who stays in my heart although he is usually far away and we are together only rarely. We had made each other no promises, recognizing our love simply by a hand fasting and the exchange of gifts: I gave him a braided leather bracelet, and he gave me a heavy gold ring, which I wear on a chain around my neck. It was almost a year since I had seen him.

  Had he appeared before my eyes in that flash of vision because a part of me wanted to make sure he was at the forefront of my thoughts? Was my heart issuing this timely reminder that Rollo was the man I loved; the man I was content to wait for, no matter how long, because our future was together? Hadn’t I once had that brief, lovely image of the child I would one day have with him; the son who would be a mix of Rollo’s Norman and my Saxon blood, a warrior to take on the whole world?