by Alys Clare
His eyes widened.
‘I’m honoured,’ he said after a moment, his voice low. ‘I respect your right to privacy, but, if you change your mind, I’ll be there.’
For no very clear reason, suddenly I felt moved almost to tears. I sensed that Jack rarely made such offers, and that he had just presented me with a very precious gift.
He looked at me, his face solemn. ‘Lassair, sometimes the hardest thing is standing up for yourself, especially when you’re accustomed to doing what others tell you.’ He paused. ‘For all of us, there’s a moment when we have the chance to assert ourselves, and if we fail to take it, that moment sets the pattern for the rest of our lives.’ He paused, his clear green eyes holding mine. ‘I just wanted to say,’ he concluded, ‘that, if this is your moment, make the most of it.’
He smiled briefly, then turned and walked away.
Just then, the first drops of rain began to fall: heavy, insistent. Jack broke into a run, haring off up the track towards the shelter of Lakehall as if the god of thunder were after him. I pulled my shawl over my head and hurried off to Edild’s house before I was soaked through.
As I flung the door open and burst inside, desperate to be out of the increasingly awful weather, I could still hear Jack’s parting words inside my head. Despite being drenched, I felt as warm as if I’d been sitting snug beside the fire.
Edild came in late, tired but satisfied; the carpenter’s wife had been delivered of a healthy girl. She fell on the food I’d prepared, and, while she ate, I remembered my resolve to ask if she knew anything about the disappearance of Granny Cordeilla’s brother Harald.
‘Edild,’ I began, ‘did Granny Cordeilla speak much about her three brothers?’
‘She had four,’ Edild corrected. ‘One of them, Sihtric, became a monk.’
I had forgotten about Granny’s cloistered brother; it tended to happen when a family member shut themselves away within an enclosed order. But Sihtric the monk wasn’t the man I was interested in. ‘Tell me about Harald,’ I said
‘He was a likeable man,’ my aunt said, her expression softening. ‘He was big and brawny, like so many of the men of the family, but kind-hearted beneath the tough, bluff exterior. Cordeilla took his loss hard,’ she added quietly, ‘and missed him sorely. It troubled her greatly, not knowing his fate.’
‘Could he have died at Hastings, like the other two?’ I asked. I felt very guilty about the rush of hope that rose up in me. I might have preferred Harald dead in battle to Harald as the father-in-law of Lady Rosaria, but that wasn’t very fair on him.
But Edild was shaking her head. ‘No, he survived the fighting.’ She paused. ‘He was seen running away.’
It sounded as though Edild thought that was something to be ashamed of. ‘Running for his life, surely?’ I protested. ‘His king was defeated and lay dead, and his brothers Sagar and Sigbehrt had perished defending him.’ Edild did not answer. ‘Was he not right, to try to save himself?’ I asked in a small voice.
‘Perhaps, but Cordeilla believed he should have brought their bodies home to the island to be buried among our kin, and she was deeply upset.’ Edild closed her eyes, as if the memories pained her.
‘And she had no idea where he went or what became of him?’ It seemed unkind to press her, but I really needed to know.
Edild shrugged. ‘She was convinced he’d left England,’ she said. ‘Otherwise, she believed, he would have found some way to send word to her of his fortunes. Or lack of them,’ she added grimly.
‘Could he have gone to Spain?’ I asked timidly.
‘Spain?’ She shot me a look. ‘Why would he have gone to Spain?’
‘To make his fortune?’ I suggested.
She gave a short laugh. ‘And just how do you imagine he’d have gone about it, in a strange, foreign land where he had no kin, no friends, no contacts and, other than his abilities as a fighter, no skills?’
I nodded, accepting the wisdom of her words. Then – for she had folded her lips in a tight line, as if to indicate that the conversation was over – I started to clear away the supper.
Afterwards, tired out by my long day, I dozed by the hearth. When I’d drifted off, it had still been raining hard, the wind howling like a savage animal, and I’d thought that not even Hrype’s urgency would yield before such a violent storm. But the rain must have stopped, for when there was a soft tap on the door and Hrype came into the room, he was quite dry.
‘Are you ready?’ he demanded, glaring at me. ‘Fetch the stone,’ he added, not waiting for my reply, ‘and we’ll be on our way.’
I stayed where I was. Edild, on the opposite side of the fire, watched each of us in turn. Noticing her interest, Hrype made a low exclamation, then, grabbing hold of me, ushered me outside. The sky had cleared, I noticed, and it was a fine night, the moon just rising and shedding a pale light on the damp ground.
Hrype looked down at me, half-frowning, half-smiling. ‘I thought you’d be ready and eager to go,’ he remarked. ‘Especially after I told you who we’d be visiting tonight.’
‘You didn’t tell me anything of the sort!’ I flashed back.
‘Yes I did – I said there was someone else!’
‘But you didn’t say who it was,’ I said with exaggerated patience.
He studied me. ‘I didn’t think that was necessary.’
‘But—’
He sighed. ‘Think, Lassair. You know what it is I want you to try to decipher from within the shining stone.’
‘Yes, of course. You want to know what Skuli’s doing and where he’s going.’
‘Yes?’ He looked at me enquiringly.
Then I knew. It was obvious, and Hrype had been right to assume I’d have worked it out for myself. There was only one person who was intimately connected with both the stone and Skuli, and I’d been thinking about him only that afternoon. I’d had no idea he was anywhere near, and the thought that he was, and that, moreover, I seemed to be on my way to go and see him, made my heart sing for joy.
I grinned at Hrype. ‘I’ll fetch the stone,’ I said.
I slipped back inside and removed the stone from its place of concealment. Edild watched me, but made no comment. I felt guilty but if Hrype had chosen not to enlighten her, it wasn’t up to me to do so. With an apologetic smile, I wrapped myself in my shawl, went outside again and closed the door.
Then, hurrying to keep up with his long strides, I set off behind Hrype to go and find my grandfather.
FOURTEEN
‘If I try to get you out via the gates in the land walls,’ the big man said, ‘we won’t stand a chance, and both of us will fetch up in the emperor’s dungeons in neighbouring shackles while they decide how best to wrest the truth out of us. Yes, I know you’re no threat and have no terrible secrets to reveal.’ He spoke over Rollo’s interruption. ‘But if they are convinced you’re a spy, then that’s how you’ll be treated, and, believe me, you don’t want that fate.’
‘And you think they’d deal with you the same way?’ Rollo asked.
‘There’s no think about it,’ Harald replied grimly. ‘If and when they finally decide we’re telling them the truth, there won’t be much left of us that’s still in one piece, and we’ll wish we were dead.’
Rollo didn’t want to dwell on that. ‘So, we’ll get away by sea.’
‘You will,’ Harald corrected. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ His expression saddened. ‘This is my home, for better or worse, and I’ll live out my days here.’ He gave a deep sigh, as if the prospect pained him. Then, with a visible effort, he looked up at Rollo and said, ‘As it happens, I know someone who’s sailing west in the very near future.’
‘Sailing west?’ Rollo echoed. What did that mean? He needed to get back to England; if he couldn’t share the intelligence he’d gathered so laboriously with Alexius in exchange for some hint as to the emperor’s intentions, then he must return to King William and reveal the discoveries to him.
Harald smiled briefly.
‘Just a turn of phrase. Everything’s west, to us out here in the east. This man is going to England.’
‘You’re sure?’ Rollo persisted.
‘Yes, yes,’ Harald replied impatiently, waving a hand as if to brush away the question. ‘That’s where he came from, so that’s where he’ll return.’ He paused. ‘It’s odd, because, now I come to think of it, you’re not the first man I’ve encountered recently who claims kinship or acquaintance with people in the east of England. This man I’m thinking of—’ But he stopped, shaking his head. ‘It’s not surprising, I suppose, when we still get so many arrivals who have sailed down the old route.’
Rollo was hardly listening. The prospect of a saviour, ready and waiting to take him away and out of danger, was all-absorbing. ‘What sort of vessel?’ he demanded. ‘Merchantman?’
Harald gave him a sly glance. ‘Not exactly.’ Before Rollo could ask more, Harald said, ‘First things first. You only got up out of your sick bed yesterday, so you ought to test yourself to see if your strength is returning. It’s not going to be easy getting you down to the harbour, and I don’t want you collapsing on me.’
For the rest of that day, Rollo alternated spells of increasingly demanding activity – Harald seemed to know a lot about putting a man through a strict drill – with periods of lying, panting, sweating and spent, on his bed. His appetite increased, and Harald fed him well. By evening, he felt he was starting to return to his usual form. The wound in his arm was healing, and his fever had not returned. He reckoned he was ready.
Harald agreed. ‘We’ll spend tomorrow as we spent today,’ he said, as Rollo prepared, with great relief, to turn in for the night. ‘Then, once darkness falls, I’ll get you down to the quay.’
‘Will this man be expecting me?’ Rollo asked. ‘And is he willing to take an extra passenger?’
‘He is,’ Harald said. ‘I saw him this morning when I went out for provisions. He was reluctant, but finally saw the benefits.’
Instantly Rollo was suspicious. ‘What do you mean, benefits?’
‘Never you mind,’ Harald said. ‘Get some sleep.’
The next day tested Rollo’s nerves to the limit. Knowing he was about to get away made him desperate with impatience, and the hours crept by with unbelievable sloth. He was also apprehensive: he and Harald would be out after curfew, and the prospect of evading the watch as the two of them made their stealthy way down to the shore was little short of terrifying. At one point, unable to restrain himself, he asked why they didn’t go in the daytime, but Harald merely said, ‘Leave it to me. I know what I’m doing.’
Harald had cleaned the blood off Rollo’s tunic and mended the rent in his shirt where the knife had cut, and Rollo was touched to see that the old man had also polished his boots. Not that the small kindnesses came as a surprise; in the many hours they had spent in each other’s company, Rollo had learned a great deal about Harald.
As Rollo lay on his bed in the late afternoon, trying to obey Harald’s injunction to rest while he could, he thought about the man who had so readily cast himself in the role of Rollo’s saviour. Harald was a generous man, and he had opened his heart to his unexpected guest. Rollo had learned many things: some that had shocked him, some that had moved him to deep pity; some that, when he came to reflect, he sensed he had known all along. And in the end, when the two men who had so recently been strangers had finally finished the last of their long, soul-baring conversations, Harald had made a request, and Rollo had promised to do his utmost to fulfil it.
What Harald had asked explained, in part, why he was prepared to lay his neck on the block to help Rollo get away.
Harald prepared a good, sustaining evening meal, but now, his tension rapidly increasing, Rollo had little appetite. The daylight faded and darkness deepened. Finally, Harald looked at him and said, ‘Ready?’
‘Yes.’
Harald handed him a heavy cloak made of grey wool, its hood bordered with braid. ‘The watch wear similar garments on chilly nights,’ he said. He didn’t elaborate.
Rollo’s apprehension deepened.
They stepped out into the night. For the first time, Rollo saw the outside of the house where his life had been saved. It was built of small reddish bricks, some courses of which had been laid in decorative patterns. He spotted a series of chevrons and a herringbone design. The house was modest in size, but no expense appeared to have been spared. As in the interior, the best materials and craftsmen had been used. It was situated up on one of the city’s hills, high above the tumultuous tangle of streets far below, and soaring over the towers and domes of the glorious imperial buildings and the many churches.
For a few moments, Rollo simply stood and drank in the beauty of the Queen of Cities spread out beneath him, her stonework glimmering pale and silver in the moonlight against the backdrop of the deep navy sky. Then Harald gave him a nudge, and muttered, ‘Come on. We should keep moving.’
The street descended steeply, in places turning into a flight of stone steps. Rollo wondered how Harald had managed to carry him up to his house; perhaps he’d had help. He should have asked …
Harald was moving swiftly but with great caution, darting from one patch of shadow to the next, his eyes everywhere, staring ahead, behind, and to the side in a repetitive pattern. He seemed to be leading them down on the opposite side from the Golden Horn. Wherever the ship awaiting Rollo lay at anchor – unless Harald planned to double back on himself – it must be on the Sea of Marmara side. So much the better, Rollo thought. Less far to sail under the watchful eyes of those up on the sea walls.
Presently he caught sight of those sea walls. They were battlemented, and along their city-facing side ran a long parapet from which defenders would fire down on attackers. He was about to make some comment to Harald when suddenly, breaking the night’s stillness, came the sound of boots on stone: five, maybe six, marching men.
Quick as a snake, Harald stepped into a narrow, dark alley, dragging Rollo in behind him. Already the light of the watchmen’s flaring torches was splashing against the walls rising on either side of the street. With a violent gesture, Harald dragged Rollo’s hood over his face, pushing his head down into his chest.
Rollo could hardly believe he had forgotten his training. Usually it was automatic to cover his head, knowing as he did that the pale oval of a face glowed in the dark, and the bright, liquid surface of a pair of eyes caught and reflected the light like a sheet of glass.
Once again, it seemed, Harald had saved him from disaster.
The watch passed – far too close – and Harald held Rollo back for a long time after they had gone. ‘Varangians,’ he said very softly, right in Rollo’s ear. ‘Three of them I know very well.’
When at last they stepped out on to the street once more, Rollo’s sense of vulnerability had greatly increased. He could make out the sea walls quite clearly now, and they were a formidable obstacle. He had no idea how Harald proposed to get him past them: through one of the gates? But surely there would be sentries, primed to be on the lookout for a man answering Rollo’s description.
They edged down a wider street, then branched off down a very steep, narrow alley; little more than a crack between two tall buildings rising high on either side. The alley’s sides seemed to be closing in, and Rollo feared they would not be able to get through. Then, abruptly, Harald turned to his right, bending double to crawl beneath a low archway, its sides and top faced with bricks. In pitch darkness, he led the way onwards for perhaps a dozen paces, then stopped again. It was too dark for Rollo to see but, from the sounds, it seemed Harald was feeling along the brickwork that formed the sides of the tunnel, searching for something.
With a grunt of satisfaction, he found it. There was a series of metallic sounds – Rollo caught the chink of keys – and a scratching sound as Harald thrust open a heavy wooden door, slightly lower than the arch through which they had entered the passage. He pushed Rollo inside, then crawled in after him, turning to close and re
-lock the door. Having no idea where he was, nor on what he was standing – it could have been the edge of a precipice, or the top of a flight of steps – Rollo stayed very still. There was the rasp of a flint, and then a light flared, very bright in the utter darkness.
‘Now we can risk a flame,’ Harald said, satisfaction in his voice. ‘It won’t be spotted in here.’ He held up the torch, and Rollo stared round in amazement.
They were indeed at the top of a flight of steps. Carved out of stone and perilously steep, they descended into the darkness below. ‘Where are we?’ he whispered.
Harald grinned, pale teeth flashing amid the heavy beard. ‘This joins up with a passage leading from beneath the palace,’ he replied. ‘The palace is that way –’ he pointed ahead – ‘and we need to turn south and a little west. There’s a series of these passages,’ he added, ‘running from the walls back into the heart of the city.’
‘How did you know that door was there?’
‘Privileged information.’ Harald tapped the side of his nose. ‘I was a Varangian guard, remember. We who defend the emperor need to know how to get him out of danger, in any and every way we can devise.’
‘You just said the passage runs from the walls,’ Rollo said as they began the long descent. ‘It’s not going to help us if we emerge on the city side, is it?’
Harald sighed. ‘Use your head,’ he said. ‘Do you imagine I’d be bringing you down here in the subterranean dankness and darkness if I didn’t know a way to get you out safely? On the other side of the sea walls?’
‘But such a route, evading the walls, surely makes the defences vulnerable?’ Rollo protested.
With exaggerated patience, Harald said, ‘Not if nobody knows about it except the emperor’s personal bodyguard.’
That made sense, Rollo thought. Very good sense: if ever an enemy succeeded in bursting through Constantinople’s formidable defences and breaking into the palace, then it was wise indeed to have a secret way of getting the emperor out to safety.
