by Alys Clare
One of the officials had been called away. Perhaps whoever had summoned him had told him that Rollo wasn’t to be trusted.
They had gone on being polite and interested, and it was only Rollo’s well-developed instincts – and equally well-developed sense of self-preservation – that had alerted him. He had nerved himself to go on chatting, desperate not to reveal that he knew they no longer trusted him. Then, eventually, he had made his excuses and left.
From the moment he left the palace, he knew he was running for his life.
Panting, soaked in sweat, Rollo peered out from his hiding place. His face twisted briefly in a hard smile as he recalled the moment of fear as he approached the emperor’s stronghold. I should have heeded that warning voice, he thought. It told me there was danger, and I didn’t listen.
He knew he couldn’t get out of Constantinople without help. With at least three men on his trail and, undoubtedly, many more on the lookout for him, he wasn’t going to walk out through one of the city’s gates. Constantinople was built on a promontory, roughly triangular, and the north-western side was heavily defended by double walls, the inner ones rising high in the sky and reinforced with well-manned watch towers. Beyond the outer walls was a moat, which could only be crossed by drawbridges let down from the small number of gates; these, too, were heavily defended. The fortifications were to keep invaders out, but they served also to check those trying to leave the city. A fugitive stood no chance of getting away by that route. The better option was to escape by sea. If Rollo could make his way to an out-of-the-way harbour, perhaps further up the Golden Horn where traffic was lighter, he’d try to find a ship to take him away.
He was feeling sick. His wound was throbbing and his head ached. He didn’t seem to be able to think as quickly and decisively as usual.
He tried to think who, in all that great city, might help him. Those guards were friendly, he thought. He put a hand to his forehead, and, although he was shivering, it felt burning hot. One of them was going to try to find someone for me. Yes – the memory slowly surfaced as if through thick soup – he was going to find Harald.
He couldn’t remember who Harald was, or why he wanted to see him. As if his feet had a life of their own, he found himself heading back towards the Bucoleon Palace.
He had no idea how long he’d been walking, or if he was going the right way. He passed a vast, magnificent building whose brilliant gold decorations hurt his aching eyes. The interior looked cool and inviting, and he slipped inside. In his fevered and bemused state, he wondered if he had died and was in heaven, for above him rose a vast dome, apparently floating in the air and illuminated by bright sunlight that turned a riot of colour into a living, moving rainbow … Blue; everywhere, blue predominated. Turquoise, lapis, azure, violet, indigo, aquamarine, the clear warm shade of the sky. He slumped down beside a pillar, his hot skin shivering from the chill of the marble, and slipped into a doze.
Someone kicked him awake, and he left. Now, wandering with no specific goal, he had found his way into a maze of tiny narrow streets, most of them so overhung by the buildings huddling on either side that the bright daylight barely penetrated. The sea was near – he could hear and smell it – and he sensed that the street he was in would lead him out into the open area before the palace. He took a step, faltered, then, nerving himself, another. A brilliant sunlit space spread itself out before him, and, with a smile that cracked his dry lips, he moved towards it.
An arm like a hawser took him round the throat, and he was pulled against a body that felt tall, big and rigid. Steely fingers grabbed him round the wrist as, instinctively, his hand went down to grab his knife. The springy hairs of a thick beard tickled his cheek, and a voice in his ear said, very softly, ‘I shouldn’t go out there, if I were you.’
Rollo struggled, and the arm around his throat tightened. He began to gasp for breath, and bright lights swam through the blackness before his eyes. I’m dying, he thought. Sick, aching, weak with fever, it seemed almost a relief.
Jack and I set out for Aelf Fen at first light the next day. The rain had eased off but the ground was still sodden, the water level several feet above normal. We climbed on to the higher ground to the east, and the flooded basin of the Wash spread out below us on the right. Up there, the ground was firmer, although even so the track had been churned into a muddy morass by the passage of many feet and hooves. I was glad to be riding and not walking.
We had both felt deep frustration when the neat solution to our search for the dead woman’s identity slipped through our hands. She wasn’t Lady Rosaria’s maid, and no careful manipulation of the facts could make her be. I was beginning to wonder if we were even correct in the assumption that she must have ended up where she had as a result of being swept inland along the Ouse; the whole area had suffered from the surge, and every river, stream and rill had burst its banks.
The same thought occurred to Jack. As we stopped to eat at midday, he said, ‘She could have come from anywhere.’ I looked up into his clear green eyes. I knew he saw the same truth that I did: we had failed in our mission, and we were not going to discover who our drowned woman was.
I hoped very much that our unseen watcher realized we were no longer a threat.
For the rest of the journey back to Aelf Fen, it felt as if we had been given leave to abandon our responsibilities and simply enjoy ourselves. It was a beautiful day; the best that early autumn provides, with the sun shining out of a deep blue sky and sending dancing, twinkling points of light dappling on the flooded fen. The bright sunshine turned the dying leaves of copses and spinneys to rich shades of gold and russet.
Jack was good company, and once we had overcome our diffidence the conversation flowed. I sensed that, for that brief afternoon, I was seeing the man behind the office. He was, I realized, a man who did not often talk about himself, and I guessed what he told me on that ride home had been shared with few others. He asked me about my background – there wasn’t much to tell that he didn’t already seem to know – and he spoke of his family. His grandfather had provided horses for the dukes of Normandy – a particular breed that was a cross between the region’s native heavy horses and the lighter, faster animals introduced by the Arabs – and his father had joined Duke William’s army and been with him as he set about conquering England.
We both knew that if we were to judge by the actions and opinions of our forebears and what had happened in the past, he and I would be enemies. But I found myself putting that aside. Jack Chevestrier came from Norman stock, but it didn’t alter the fact that he was a decent man.
His father had been a carpenter, and the Conqueror, sufficiently astute and practical to ensure that each of the men under him was put to work best suited to his skills, had despatched him to the huge team building the wooden castles that sprang up across England as, following the victory in 1066, William the Bastard stormed his way through the rest of the land, ruthlessly quelling rebellions and imposing his iron rule. In 1068, Jack’s father had come to Cambridge, where he had met a woman and fallen for her.
‘And they married, and you were the result.’ I finished the story for him, for he had lapsed into silence.
He glanced across at me, and I saw the echo of some profound thought in his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said, after a moment. ‘That’s right.’ There was a pause and then he said, ‘My father died when I was a boy, but I was big and strong, more than capable of being the man of the family, and I was ready to work.’ Again, he paused. ‘I became a soldier,’ he said softly, as if it were a confession. ‘My father talked of life in the king’s army, and it was the only job I knew about.’
Yes, I thought, I might have guessed. There was something military both in his bearing and in the air of command that radiated from him. Something I’d noticed, it dawned on me, right from that first moment, on the quay in Cambridge.
He spoke of his life in Cambridge. He told an entertaining tale, but the one thing he did not mention shouted out to me so loudly
that it was hard to believe he hadn’t actually uttered it. Honest himself, he was surrounded by unscrupulous men, and the rot began with Sheriff Picot himself, who had instigated and encouraged the prevailing and deep-rooted climate of coercion, cheating, dishonesty and bribery. Jack did not believe that was any way to run a town, and probably made that fact clear. But being the one lone honest voice that insisted on speaking the truth, when everyone else around you took the easier path of fawning obedience to the man at the top, was a hard road, and it did not win you any friends.
Jack Chevestrier, I understood, was a very lonely man.
We reached Aelf Fen in the early evening. I wanted more than anything just to go home to Edild’s house, warm my hands and feet – the day had grown chilly as the sun fell down the sky – and rest. I wasn’t used to riding, and my thighs were stiff and sore. I longed for warm water to bathe in, and for Edild’s special liniment that eases aching muscles. But when Jack led the way along the track behind the village along which we had ridden out two days ago, I realized I wasn’t going to be indulging in that sweet relief just yet.
‘I must report to Lord Gilbert,’ Jack said, turning in the saddle to look at me. ‘I’d like it if you came too, as there will undoubtedly be things you observed that I missed.’
When he phrased it like that, I could hardly refuse.
Lord Gilbert had clearly been expecting our return, for when Bermund heard the sound of hooves in the courtyard and came to the door to investigate, he nodded curtly and called out, ‘Make haste. Lord Gilbert awaits you.’
Jack, however, wasn’t going to be chivvied out of following his normal routine. He dismounted and, before obeying Bermund’s curt command, he spoke for some moments to the groom who had come out to take the horses. I did wonder if he was making a point – we had, after all, just returned from a thankless and tiring task, and surely deserved better than being ordered about by Bermund – for I was sure every last one of Lord Gilbert’s stable lads knew full well how to tend tired, dirty, hungry horses.
I did my best to tidy myself as we crossed the yard and went up the steps, tucking my hair beneath my coif and brushing mud from my heavy skirts. Behind me, Jack muttered, ‘You look fine, Lassair.’ It was decidedly heartening.
Bermund announced us, and we stepped into Lord Gilbert’s hall. He and Lady Emma had been sitting on a bench drawn up to the hearth – its lively blaze was a welcome sight – and both got up to greet us. Jack said without preamble, ‘We have found no trace of the drowned woman, my lord. We have travelled to Lynn and back, asking everyone we met, but it seems she was a stranger, and hailed from further afield.’
Lady Emma sank back on to her bench, a frown of dismay creasing her smooth brow. ‘Ah, but I am disappointed!’ she exclaimed. ‘I am sure you have done your best –’ she looked from one to the other of us – ‘but I had so hoped we would have been able to return that poor soul to her kin. I—’
There was a sudden small sound from the shadows over on the far side of the hearth, at the spot where a low doorway gives on to a passage leading to other parts of the house. Turning, I caught movement. As my eyes adjusted to the low light over there, I made out a still, silent figure.
She must have realized she’d been seen. Slowly, elegantly, Lady Rosaria came into the hall. Above the concealing veil, her slanting dark eyes roamed over us, and then, like a queen seating herself on a majestic throne, she spread her wide skirts and sank down on to the bench opposite Lady Emma.
‘My lady Rosaria, I did not appreciate that you would be joining us.’ Lord Gilbert spoke courteously, giving her a brief bow, but I sensed there was a mild accusation behind the polite words: What are you up to, lurking unseen in doorways and listening to us?
I wondered just how tricky a house guest Lady Rosaria was proving to be.
Jack had other concerns. Turning to Lord Gilbert, he jerked his head in Lady Rosaria’s direction and raised his eyebrows, asking permission to address her. Lord Gilbert, looking perplexed, nodded.
‘My lady,’ Jack said, going to stand before her, ‘we have been to Lynn, as perhaps you already know?’ She made no answer, either by word or gesture. ‘We have spoken to the mate of The Good Shepherd, on which you arrived from Bordeaux.’
I was watching Lady Rosaria very closely, and I would swear that her face betrayed no reaction to Jack’s words. Of course, being veiled as she was, only her eyes were visible, but they went right on staring at him.
‘According to the mate, you—’
But Lord Gilbert intervened. ‘Jack, Lady Rosaria is a guest in my house,’ he said quietly. ‘I was not aware that you had gone to Lynn to enquire about her doings.’ There was a slight note of reproof in his tone.
‘My lord, I understood that Lady Rosaria seeks her late husband’s kinsmen,’ Jack replied, ‘and—’
Again, Lord Gilbert didn’t let him finish. ‘Yes, indeed she does, and precious little progress we seem to be making.’ He glared at Bermund, lurking in the shadows beyond the hearth. His irritation seemed to swell up and burst out of him – Lady Rosaria really must have been upsetting his normal, easy routine – for, spinning round to face her, he said with deceptive smoothness, ‘The lady has provided a little more for us to go on, which perhaps, Lady Rosaria, you will share?’
I thought she was going to refuse. But then, with one of those sighs of hers that accused the entire world of being against her and persisting in making unreasonable demands, she said, in her low, husky, heavily accented voice, ‘You already know my name, and that I was the wife of Hugo Guillaume Fensmanson. His father came from a noble family possessed of a fine house and extensive lands hereabouts, and, richly endowed, he set off overseas to forge his own estates and augment his fortune.’
She stopped. We all waited, and then Lord Gilbert said, ‘This much you have told Lady Emma and me. Will you now say more, my lady?’
For some time, she did not speak. Then she said, ‘In May, my husband and I were blessed with the birth of a son, but Hugo did not live to enjoy his child for long. Both he and his father died.’ She paused, bowing her head, and then, with an evident effort, resumed. ‘They perished in an outbreak of fever, both dead in a matter of hours.’
I had heard of such fevers. Gurdyman had described to me the way a quarter, a third, of a town’s population could be lost, almost before anyone knew what was happening. It must have been a terrifying time, and this poor woman had been caught up in it. No wonder she’d been reluctant to talk about her past.
Lady Emma was clearly moved. I heard her whisper a prayer and murmur soft words of dismay.
‘My late father-in-law survived his son long enough to tell me what to do,’ Lady Rosaria went on. She sat erect, as if keeping a steel-straight backbone would give her the strength and resolve to tell her dreadful tale. ‘He gave me money – a bag of gold coins – and he told me to take my child and flee, before we too succumbed. We left that same day, taking ship and sailing away from the pestilence and the grief we had left behind.’
The echo of her voice faded and died. For a while, everyone else in the hall was shocked into silence. Then Lord Gilbert cleared his throat and said, ‘And your father-in-law told you to come here.’
She turned to him. ‘This is where he came from. Now that both he and my husband are dead, it is his family’s duty to take in my son and me, for we are the last of that line.’
She was right. No well-to-do family would turn away the widow of one of their own, particularly when she had borne that family a son.
‘And now,’ Lord Gilbert said heavily, ‘it only remains for us to locate this family.’ It was his turn to sigh, although I dare say he had more cause than Lady Rosaria.
‘My lady,’ Jack said, again approaching Lady Rosaria. ‘May I speak to you?’
Lord Gilbert intervened. ‘Lady Rosaria needs to retire, Jack,’ he said. ‘We have just made her endure the retelling of her story, and it has obviously caused her deep distress.’ I glanced across at her. She w
as sitting with lowered head, a tiny, lacy handkerchief pressed to her eyes. ‘Talk to me instead.’
He gave the ladies a bow, then strode towards the door, hurrying down the steps and into the courtyard as if he couldn’t wait to get away. Jack and I followed.
‘Now, what is it?’ Lord Gilbert demanded, his frown deepening to a scowl and his tone angry.
Jack was probably used to dealing with more threatening men than Lord Gilbert. Quite undismayed, standing relaxed and easy with one hand on his sword hilt, he said, ‘Lady Rosaria sailed into Lynn on The Good Shepherd, as I said. She boarded in Bordeaux, accompanied by a maid.’
‘So?’ snapped Lord Gilbert. ‘Presumably that’s where this fenland lord went to make his fortune. And what’s strange about her having a maid with her? She’d have been the wet-nurse, no doubt, and—’ He stopped suddenly, looking puzzled. ‘You’d think her father-in-law would have sent other servants to care for her and her son, wouldn’t you?’ he mused. But then, answering his own question, he went on, ‘Perhaps the maid was the only member of the household staff not to sicken and die.’
‘She’s dead now, or so we surmise,’ Jack said bluntly. ‘The mate of The Good Shepherd said the woman was unwell, and had to be helped off the ship at Lynn by two other passengers. When Lady Rosaria took passage on The Maid of the Marsh from Lynn to Cambridge, she and her baby were alone.’
Lord Gilbert was silent for so long that I was beginning to think his mind had slid away to seek refuge from the whole business. He is not a great one for doggedly teasing problems to a conclusion.
But he was still thinking about what Jack had just said, as, eventually, his words revealed. ‘She has endured a dreadful time,’ he said. ‘She witnessed a terrifying sickness, which robbed her of her husband and father-in-law, and then, before she could even begin to grieve, she had to flee for her life, travelling in uncertainty towards the only hope left to her: that her husband’s kin would take pity on her and give her a home. It is surely not to be wondered at if she is not in her right mind.’
