by Alys Clare
Rollo had not imagined he could simply walk into the Varangians’ stronghold. Approaching its massive outer defences, he gazed up at the crenellated walls rising high above. Their solidity was broken by one single opening, where sturdy iron-bound gates were guarded by at least a dozen men.
When he was still some distance away, he stopped and took in his first sight of the emperor’s personal guards. Everything he had heard concerning them was accurate; indeed, reality exceeded rumour. If these gate guards were typical, then the Varangians richly deserved their fearsome reputation. They were exceptionally tall, broad-shouldered, giants of men. They wore their hair long, some sporting elaborate plaits banded with cord and even small coins; in colouring, they were fair or red-headed. Beards appeared to be the norm, and, again, some of the men had woven their facial hair into thick, wiry braids. They were clad in short sleeveless corselets made of iron rings, under which they wore brightly coloured tunics. Perhaps in acknowledgement of local dress customs, some wore baggy, loose-fitting striped trousers tucked into their high boots.
All were armed. They carried the huge, heavy, long-handled axe; the terrifying weapon which was largely responsible for the Varangians’ fame. Rollo stared at the axes. They were, he had been told, capable of splitting a man’s head in two. If the death stroke was made by a particularly strong and skilled man and the axe was sufficiently sharp, the bisection of the victim had been known to extend right down to his breast bone.
As if the axe was not enough, each guard also wore a long sword and carried various knives and daggers attached to his belt. The men were watchful, clearly on high alert. Had something happened, to make them suspect an enemy at the gate?
I am not their enemy, Rollo told himself firmly.
Enemy or not, a brazen demand for admittance to the stronghold did not seem wise. Instead, Rollo found a place in the shade from which he could observe without it being too noticeable that he was doing so. Then he settled himself as comfortably as he could for a long wait.
It was not until late afternoon that he spotted what he was looking for. A group of six guards, talking loudly and laughing uproariously, were heading for the formidable gates. They had clearly been drinking, and were, presumably, going back to their barracks to sleep it off. Hurrying to catch them up, hoping desperately that alcohol would have increased their sense of bonhomie and lessened their suspicions, Rollo called out a greeting and, when the huge men turned round, said quite truthfully, in the language of the cold north, that he was a traveller from England and, finding himself in Constantinople, had decided to seek out fellow countrymen in the emperor’s guard. Several of the Varangians immediately responded, greeting him like a long-lost brother, enveloping him in vast hugs and slapping him on the back. Then, without Rollo understanding exactly how it happened, he found himself being escorted inside the fortress, up a narrow stone stair and into a crowded guardroom.
‘This man’s from England!’ bellowed one of the guards who had dragged him inside. ‘He brings news from the north, and he’s thirsty! Get him a mug of ale, Sibert!’
The guards greeted him enthusiastically, many leaping up to shake his hand or give him a slap on the shoulder, and the promised huge mug of ale was thrust into his fist. Questions were hurled at him, but, since all the guard were speaking at once, he could make out little of what they said. With a grin, he shrugged and took a long pull of ale.
One of the men – an enormous redhead with a round stomach bulging out over his beautifully tooled leather belt and a flagon of wine in one hand – said, his blue eyes wet with emotion, ‘Ah, but it’s good to see men from our homelands. We haunt the quays where the longboats from the north tie up, you know, and very often we encounter distant kin.’
‘Like that wild-eyed madman who’s there at the moment,’ another put in. ‘Not that anyone here’s related to him, or, if they are, they’ve got the good sense not to admit it!’
Other men arrived, word apparently having spread of Rollo’s presence. They crowded round him, demanding to know if he had ever come across Eilif of York, Harald One-Eye of Lincoln or Sigurd the Smith who lived a few miles south of Norwich.
‘Ah, England’s a big place,’ one of the English guards said with a sigh when Rollo admitted that no, he hadn’t actually met any of the men. ‘It’s a shame, though. I’d have loved news of old Sigurd. He was good to me. Like a father, you could say.’
‘Just as well he was, Ottar,’ one of the others said with a great snort of laughter, ‘given that your own father buggered off even while your mother was still straightening her petticoats.’
Ottar aimed a good-tempered lunge at the man, then took another giant slurp from his mug.
It was another aspect of the Varangians’ reputation that was proving accurate, Rollo reflected: their enormous capacity for alcohol. He had heard them referred to as the emperor’s wine bags, and now he was seeing for himself just how accurate the description was.
Something in the recent exchange had snagged at his attention, and while, first with words and then with his fists, Ottar continued to fend off increasingly ribald suggestions concerning his likely paternity, he went back over the conversation.
Eilif of York … the smith who lived south of Norwich … Harald. Yes, Harald: that was what had alerted him. Harald One-Eye. Rollo knew of a man called Harald, who had once fought beside his king and, when that king fell, had fled his native land rather than bend his knee to the man who had felled him. And the man called Harald was Lassair’s great-uncle.
While the shouts and the yells of laughter – and quite frequently of pain – carried on around him, Rollo seemed to enter a small bubble of quiet. Lassair’s face appeared in his mind, and he drank in the grey-green eyes with their watchful expression, the wide, well-formed mouth beneath the small, straight nose, the glorious copper-coloured hair. He saw, too, the pale crescent-shaped scar on her left cheek; the scar she had won when once she had fought beside him.
A huge fist flying past his ear brought him back to the moment. ‘Sorry, mate, I was aiming for him!’ yelled an enormous man clad in bright scarlet, the colour clashing violently with his brilliant ginger hair. With a grin, Rollo leaned back, out of his way.
Harald. It was a common enough name, and it seemed very unlikely that this Harald One-Eye of Lincoln was Lassair’s great-uncle, since the family were firmly convinced that he had long ago left England. But, if indeed he had made his way south to join the Varangians, then might not one of Rollo’s new friends know of him?
There was only one way to find out.
When the wrangling finally subsided and the dozen men sitting around the long table in the guards’ room had refilled their mugs – and Rollo’s – he said, into a gap in the chatter, ‘Someone I know in England has a long-lost kinsman. I’d love to be able to tell her I found out he joined the guard.’
‘Is she pretty?’ one of the men said, provoking a flood of further questions, largely concerned with intimacies which Rollo certainly wasn’t going to discuss. Grinning, he held up a hand. ‘She’s extremely pretty,’ he said, ‘and that’s all I’m prepared to share with you. It’s her great-uncle who may have come here; her grandmother’s youngest brother. He and his two older brothers were at the battle and fought beside the king –’ there was no need to specify which king, or, indeed, which battle; not to these men – ‘and the other two were killed. He left England, never to return.’
Abruptly the laughter and the joking ceased, and the atmosphere in the stark room turned sombre. For a moment, nobody spoke, and the men sat with bowed heads. It was as if, Rollo thought, each one was saying a silent prayer to the past and its griefs. Then Ottar said, with a sigh, ‘Many of our men did the same. What’s this great-uncle called?’
‘Harald,’ Rollo said.
Ottar gave a brief laugh. ‘That’s it? Just Harald?’
Rollo shrugged. ‘It’s all I know.’
‘Well, there’s any number of Haralds. What else d’you know about him?
’
Rollo thought briefly. ‘His family are fishermen and eel-catchers. They’ve lived in and around the same East Anglian village for generations, although for sure it hasn’t made them rich.’
‘No, not many of us come from wealthy families,’ Ottar agreed.
‘That’s what we come here for,’ one of the others put in with a belly laugh. ‘Nobody cares what you have or haven’t got when you arrive. If you do your job well, then you’ll soon acquire riches.’
‘Your imperial master values you, then?’ Rollo remarked.
‘We’re his axe-bearing barbarians,’ the man said with fierce pride. ‘Of course he values us! Some of us have been here for generations, and loyalty to the emperors is a family tradition with us. We view it as a sacred trust.’ He nodded emphatically. Then, scowling, he went on, ‘We’ve been busy, over the weeks and months of this interminable summer, what with the rumours and the riots.’ Rollo looked at him quizzically. ‘The Turks!’ he hissed. ‘They grow closer each day, and their presence sparks off unrest among our own citizens. It’s not right!’ he burst out.
‘In what way?’ Rollo did his best to disguise his sudden flare of interest.
‘It’s not right because, until this new menace started to threaten us, men of many different faiths lived here together quite happily,’ the man said angrily. ‘Now, it’s all changing. We’ve had riots, let me tell you; riots between Christian and Saracen, Turk and Jew, and all because people are afraid of what’s to come. It makes them nervous, see.’
‘That and the heat,’ put in another man.
‘Well, yes, I grant you there’s always more trouble when it’s hot,’ the first man agreed. ‘But not like we’ve had this summer! Men have been dragged out in the streets and killed, for no more reason than the manner in which they choose to worship God.’
His angry words echoed in the sudden silence. For some reason, Rollo observed, the other guards seemed uncomfortable at their colleague’s outburst. ‘In such an atmosphere, your emperor must have valued you even more than usual,’ he remarked mildly.
‘Oh, he did, he did,’ Ottar said quickly, as if eager to move the talk on to safer ground. ‘Our emperor knows we won’t betray him. We’re his personal guard, and we swear our oath of loyalty directly to him.’
‘And, naturally, your loyalty is handsomely rewarded?’
‘You’ve heard the talk, no doubt,’ Ottar said.
‘The talk?’
Ottar shifted on the bench, and his wide leather belt creaked as his great bulk strained against it. ‘It’s said among the locals that when an emperor dies, the Varangians are permitted to visit the imperial treasury and take away what gold and gems they can carry in their two hands.’ He gazed down at his own hands, lying palm uppermost and huge on his knees. ‘They call it palace-pillaging, but only because they’re jealous.’ He gave Rollo a wide smile. ‘It’s true, we do have that unique privilege, and it’s not pillage because the emperor himself permits it.’ Again, he glanced at his hands. ‘You’ll have observed, my friend, that most of us are built to a generous scale, and our hands hold a lot. As Bersi here was just saying, we acquire riches, right enough.’
‘So, what of the Harald I was asking about?’ Rollo said. ‘Do any of you know a man who fits the description?’
The guards muttered among themselves for a while, and Rollo heard various Haralds being discussed, most of them dismissed as unlikely because they came from a different place, or were the wrong age. Finally, Ottar turned to him and said, ‘I’ll ask around among some of the men who aren’t here just now. Maybe someone will be able to help.’
‘Thank you,’ Rollo replied, adding politely, ‘I hope you won’t go to too much trouble.’
‘Ah, it’ll be no trouble,’ Ottar assured him. ‘We always enjoy contact with our homes.’ He leaned closer to Rollo, lowering one eyelid in a suggestive wink. ‘And you did say your friend was pretty. Perhaps she’ll reward you with a kiss if you can return home with word of her great-uncle.’
On cue, the others chimed in with other likely rewards, many of them verging on the obscene. Smiling, Rollo stood up and, promising he’d come back, slipped away.
Ribald joking and laughter with gate guards was all very well, he thought as he closed the guardroom door behind him. But if he was going to find a way to the emperor’s ear, he needed to speak to someone higher up the chain of command. Emerging on to the wide yard that spread out inside the encircling walls, he turned away from the gates and headed for the imposing entrance to what appeared to be the main building.
He felt a momentary apprehension. He ought to be used to operating alone; it was the only way that a man doing his job could operate. At times, however, his vulnerability threatened to undermine him. Here he was, a stranger and an outsider, hundreds of miles from anyone he knew or loved, with nobody to speak for him or watch his back. Yet he was proposing to demand access to whatever charmed inner circle ruled here, with no greater explanation for the outlandish request than that he had been travelling in the lands of the enemy and had information which the emperor might like to hear.
For a split second, his step faltered. What would his own king do, he wondered wildly, faced with such an impudent and presumptuous visitor? He felt his heart hammering in his chest, making the sweat break out on his skin. And it seemed to him that a quiet voice inside his head said, There is danger here.
He stopped dead. For the space of a heartbeat, he was paralysed by fear.
But then the moment of weakness passed. As he walked on, released from whatever enchantment had held him and confident once more, he realized that it was the thought of King William’s reaction that had reassured him. William, he reflected with a secret grin, lapped up information like a thirsty hound laps water. As long as the intelligence was accurate, and something the king did not already know, then the source was unimportant.
Rollo’s information was without doubt accurate: he had gathered it himself. As to whether it would come as news to Alexius Comnenus, well, only time would tell.
He had reached the long flight of stone steps leading up to the main building’s door. His confidence and his belief in himself restored, he leapt up them two at a time and went inside.
SEVEN
The hammering at the door came just as I’d finally managed to get back to sleep. Or so I thought as I struggled to wake up, although it was fully light, so I must have slept for longer than I’d imagined.
Edild was fully dressed and already hurrying to open the door. We are quite used to such urgent summons, and I did not think anything of it, merely getting up and going into the small still room to wash my hands and face, put on my overgown, braid my hair and arrange a clean white coif over it.
I had got as far as washing and putting on my gown when I realized who had come banging on Edild’s door. Forcing myself to ignore my reaction, I hurried the rest of my preparations and went back into the main room.
‘… found some four or five miles north of here, stuck under a bridge,’ Jack Chevestrier was saying. He was standing on the doorstep – one look at his filthy, mud-caked boots explained his reluctance to come into the house – and he broke off to give me a quick smile. Then, resuming, he said, ‘The full moon and the strong wind combined to make an exceptionally high tide, and the sea has flooded in up several of the fenland rivers, including the Ouse.’ For a town dweller, he knew the local geography pretty well. ‘The man who came to report the discovery of the body –’ body? – ‘reports that there was wreckage floating around it, so it’s possible some vessel foundered, and both its planking and one of its crew or passengers ended up together. The man who found it said—’
I stopped listening. I shuddered. It wasn’t that I was cold; it was the thought of some poor soul having been out on that wild, ferocious sea last night, and suffering the terror of his ship breaking up beneath him. Falling into the relentless waters, being swept, helpless, up a river swollen out of recognition. Fighting to breathe; to kee
p his nose and mouth above the torrent. Giving up, drowning, his poor body hurled against a bridge …
Edild gave me quite a hard nudge. ‘Lord Gilbert has sent for us,’ she hissed. Had Jack said so? If so, I’d missed it.
‘What about our patients?’ I asked. ‘Shouldn’t one of us stay here?’ I was still feeling very strange, and, oddly, frightened; as if the fierce sea would leap up to drown me the moment I put my head outside the door.
‘They will just have to wait. It is an order, Lassair, from the lord of our manor. We do not refuse,’ Edild said firmly. Then, since I must have gone on looking stupid, she leaned close to me and said quietly, ‘The flooding is extensive. No doubt Lord Gilbert fears there will be more bodies and many wounded. People swept into the water in the dark are all too likely to be hit by floating objects.’
There was nothing more to say. I picked up my satchel, slung the strap over my shoulder and followed Jack and my aunt out of the door.
Outside, conditions were dire. Not as bad as my fearful imaginings had suggested – no huge wave rose up to engulf us – but nevertheless, it was hard going. The furious, howling gale that had screamed all through the night had lessened, although it still produced occasional spiteful blasts that almost knocked us off our feet. Reaching the track, we turned left in the direction of Lakehall, the sodden ground tacky beneath our feet so that every step was an effort. Glancing over to the right, I was shocked to see that the waters had encroached at least two-thirds of the way across the low-lying land between the fen and the village. Thank God our homes lay on higher ground. It was, I reflected as we struggled along, probably why the wise ancestors had sited the settlement there in the first place. This wasn’t the first time the region had flooded, and it wouldn’t be the last.
After what seemed an age, at last we reached the short track that led up to Lakehall. I wondered if we would encounter Lady Rosaria. I hoped not; I wasn’t eager to see her again. Hurrying to draw level with Jack, I asked, ‘Was Lady Rosaria present in Lord Gilbert’s hall when you left?’
