Blood of the South

by Alys Clare

  Skuli was once again standing in the ship’s prow, one hand on the great, soaring figurehead. His back had been turned to his crew, but now he spun round. The sun was beginning to set, and for an instant he was silhouetted against its golden light, so that a shining halo seemed to encircle his head. He was transformed; a smile of sheer joy had altered his appearance almost beyond recognition.

  What was happening? Rollo, apprehension making him suddenly cold, waited.

  ‘Now we are close, my friends!’ Skuli said softly. Then, raising his arms as if to embrace both ship and crew, he cried, ‘The great challenge is before us! The goal for which we have strived so hard, risked so much and lost precious lives, is now within our grasp.’ His light eyes, wide as if he were seeing far beyond the range of normal human vision, roamed over the faces of his crew, smiling, nodding. Then he raised his head and shouted out into the evening sky, ‘Will we go on, my friends? Will we achieve our purpose, here in this place so far from our homes?’

  And, to a man, the crew shouted back, ‘YES!’

  The ship was suddenly busy with bustling activity, as men ran to what were clearly pre-arranged places. Skuli leapt nimbly back to the tiller, leaning heavily against it, and Gullinbursti, instantly responsive, heeled over hard and turned in a steep, graceful circle so that her bows and her proud figurehead were sailing due south. Tostig raised his mighty voice in song, and the crew picked it up, singing with him, harmonizing, until the air seemed to thrum with the noise.

  Now they were racing along, the vast sail filled with a strong, steady breeze that came from the north. A shudder of superstitious dread ran through Rollo; the notion had leapt into his head that the singing had raised that perfect wind, and he had to fight very hard to force his reason to dispel it.

  The southern shore was in sight now, coming towards them alarmingly fast. Struggling to concentrate, Rollo tried to recall what he knew of the local geography. The coastline ahead of them formed a plain, built up over the centuries from the silt washed down the Scamander River as it flowed into the Dardanelles. The waters were shallow and treacherous, and not fit for ships. The nearest port was around the bulge of the coast, away to the south.

  Yet, in the fast-approaching twilight, Skuli was steering Gullinbursti straight for that perilous shore.

  Rollo stared at him. Didn’t he know the danger? He opened his mouth to speak, but Skuli forestalled him. ‘You fear for our safety, Norman?’ he said, a wide grin creasing his face. ‘You forget what ship this is! Gullinbursti, like all her kind, is shallow-drafted, and she can proceed in confidence where no other vessel dare venture.’

  Then he threw back his head and laughed.

  Rollo hoped he was wrong, but he was sure he detected a note of madness.

  They sailed on, and only at the very last moment, when Rollo had convinced himself that the ship would run straight into the shore, smash to pieces and throw them all to their deaths, did Skuli order the sail to be lowered.

  Gullinbursti, quickly losing way, floated through the shallows and finally grounded gently on the long, flat shore.

  The crew leapt into action, jumping out of the ship and hurrying to pull her further up the beach, where they hammered in wooden stakes to which they secured her with ropes. Then, following Skuli’s lead, they headed inland, stopping at his signal after only a few paces.

  Skuli stood perfectly still. He seemed to be watching, and perhaps also listening, for something. Rollo tried to make out the details of this mysterious, alarming place. The low-lying, sandy ground was criss-crossed by streamlets and what looked like a dry river bed, and the whole shore was broken up with marshy thickets. Further inland a plateau rose up, and a spur of higher ground stretched out towards where they now stood. On top of the spur there seemed to be the ruins of buildings: part of a wall, and huge tumbled stones that might have once formed a vast temple or fortress.

  Where on God’s earth were they?

  Why had Skuli brought them here?

  Rollo had no idea.

  Daylight was fading fast now, and, standing on that alien shore, with no sign of human habitation and the crew the only company for maybe dozens of miles, Rollo felt fear creep up his spine. He began to see things on the edge of vision; things which, when he spun his head to look, were not there. And he could hear things: the long-drawn-out, eerie howl of a wolf; a whisper, a buzz, the clink of metal; then a steady hum which grew until it sounded as if a great army of men were encamped somewhere nearby.

  Rollo twisted this way and that, eyes frantically searching, but, even as he did so, he already knew: there was nobody there.

  A sudden coarse sound split the darkening sky; a raucous bird cry. Speeding straight towards them like arrows flew a pair of ravens.

  And, very close at hand, came the sound of horses: two horses, ridden hard. It sounded like two horses, for there were more than four feet pounding the ground, yet when Rollo strained to see, he made out just the one vague, shadowy shape, looming huge in the dim light. A horse with eight legs, its hooves thundering on the earth so that it seemed to shake.

  I am hallucinating, Rollo told himself.

  The ground was shaking. Rollo’s cry of alarm was echoed by others, and, for a few terrifying moments, the men on the shore quavered before the fury of the earthquake.

  It stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Skuli, acting like a good captain should, instantly encouraged his crew. ‘Do not be afraid!’ he cried. ‘These signs are good, for they tell us that the gods recognize our presence, and are bidding us welcome!’

  Then Rollo was assailed with a horrible thought. No, he told himself frantically, it cannot be.

  He had to be wrong: the alternative was just too frightening. Here he was – here they all were – at one man’s bidding, and that man was the master of the ship which had brought them here.

  The dread suspicion was growing, and Rollo was faced with the awful fact that he’d stumbled on the truth: it was the only explanation. Yet still he fought to accept it. No rational man, he thought, could still believe the old myths!

  Perhaps Skuli was not rational.

  Skuli was marching ahead. Fear making his very blood feel chill, Rollo joined the rest of the crew and marched after him.

  Jack and I were almost back at Aelf Fen. Jack had barely spoken. Although I longed for reassurance that the men we had left bound and helpless in the thicket would not die there, I dared not ask.

  This was a different Jack. Ruthless, brutal, unforgiving. We had been attacked, and it was only by sheer luck that neither of us was dead; if I’d asked, he’d have said Gaspard Picot and his hired killer deserved all they’d got.

  I called it luck to myself. I wasn’t ready to think about the way in which the shining stone had forewarned me. It was just too frightening.

  Breaking the long silence, Jack said, in a surprisingly normal tone, ‘I’ve been going over your great-uncle Sihtric’s revelations.’

  ‘What?’ It came out in a squeak. Then, swiftly trying to overcome my astonishment that he seemed to have put our encounter with violent death behind him – perhaps such things happened regularly to him – I gathered my ragged thoughts together. It proved quite hard to remember what had gone on back at Little Barton, but finally I succeeded.

  ‘Harald went to Miklagard,’ I said. ‘It proves he wasn’t Rosaria’s father-in-law because she came from Spain.’

  But Jack was keeping ominously quiet.

  ‘He can’t have been!’ I cried.

  Still Jack didn’t speak. I pulled Isis to a halt. We’d been riding side by side and, instantly noticing I’d stopped, he did too.

  ‘Go on, then,’ I said sharply. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Tell you what?’ Jack replied.

  ‘Why have you got that look,’ I demanded, ‘as if you know something terrible and don’t want to tell me?’

  He smiled very briefly. ‘I’m afraid I might have,’ he said. ‘It’s something I’ve had on my mind for days.’

 
; ‘Tell me,’ I said.

  He looked at me, and I couldn’t read his expression. Then, dismounting, he said, ‘Come and talk to me. There are things I should tell you before we go on into the village.’

  I felt a horrible sense of doom, as if something was heading straight for me and I wouldn’t be able to avoid it or run away. I did as he asked, and he looped the horses’ reins around the branch of a willow tree. I went to stand beside him and he took my hand, looked into my eyes and said, ‘Do you recall how, as you, Lady Rosaria and I approached Aelf Fen on the day we brought her here, I said I must know her name, in order to present her to Lord Gilbert and Lady Emma?’

  ‘Yes. What of it?’

  ‘She said she was Hugo Guillaume Fensmanson’s widow, and her name was Rosaria Dalassena.’

  ‘Yes, that sounds right.’

  He paused, as if reluctant to continue. Then he said, ‘Lassair, Dalassena reveals that she belongs to a well-known family. I knew I’d heard it before, and eventually I remembered: Anna Dalassena Comnena is the mother of Alexius Comnenus.’

  I stared right back at him. ‘And who might he be?’

  Jack sighed. ‘He’s the Byzantine emperor.’ In case I was still missing the point, he added, ‘Lady Rosaria bears the family name of the emperor in Constantinople.’

  My mind was casting frantically round for an answer; one that would allow me to go on believing that Lady Rosaria wasn’t my great-uncle’s daughter-in-law. But if her illustrious name really did mean she came from Constantinople, I was on shaky ground.

  ‘She might have left her home and settled in Spain!’ I protested. ‘She might be one of the Dalassena kin who doesn’t live in Constantinople. She might …’

  I was out of ideas. I had to accept that it now seemed more than likely Lady Rosaria did come from Constantinople. We knew that before she went aboard The Good Shepherd she had sailed from Corunna to Bordeaux, but there was absolutely nothing to say that her journey had originated in Spain.

  If Lady Rosaria had set out from Constantinople in search of her father-in-law’s kin, and if her father-in-law was my Granny Cordeilla’s youngest brother, then it was my family she sought and we could not turn her away. I knew it was our duty, but the thought of her as a kinswoman was abhorrent to me.

  Jack seemed to understand how I was feeling. He didn’t speak, but simply drew me very close, and waited until my harsh breathing calmed. Then he held me at arm’s length and said firmly, ‘There’s only one way we can be sure.’

  I nodded. ‘I know.’

  ‘I’m going to ask her, right now.’

  I grinned. ‘I know that, too. Can I come with you?’

  He returned my smile. ‘Under the circumstances,’ he said, ‘I think it would be unreasonable if you didn’t.’

  We rode up the track to Lakehall, where we handed our horses over to a stable boy’s care. We went up the steps, and Bermund admitted us into the hall. He announced us to Lord Gilbert and Lady Emma, seated either side of the hearth. Lord Gilbert rose to his feet, his eyebrows raised in query.

  ‘You have news?’ he demanded. ‘You have located Lady Rosaria’s kinsmen?’

  Jack didn’t answer. Instead he said, ‘We need to see her, my lord.’

  ‘You can’t. She is unwell, and has taken to her room to rest,’ Lord Gilbert said firmly.

  ‘Nevertheless, I must speak to her,’ Jack insisted.

  Perhaps something about his resolute manner suggested to Lord Gilbert that he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. ‘You can’t just—’ Lord Gilbert began. Then, with a shrug, he seemed to give up. Frowning, he turned to Bermund. ‘Fetch her,’ he said curtly.

  We waited. After quite some time, Lady Rosaria glided out into the hall. Her veil was in place but her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, as if she hadn’t been sleeping. Or, perhaps, had been weeping …

  Lord Gilbert made to step towards her, but Lady Emma put out her hand and held him back. I heard her murmur, surprisingly firmly, ‘Leave it to Jack.’

  Jack had turned to face Lady Rosaria. As she stopped a few paces away, he gave her a low bow. ‘Once again, I have come to ask you to answer my questions, my lady,’ he said courteously.

  Lady Rosaria, who had been staring at Lord Gilbert, turned her great dark eyes to Jack, but did not speak. Lord Gilbert, shaking off Lady Emma’s hand and going to stand beside her, said, ‘Chevestrier, do not trouble her! She is unwell, as surely you can see?’

  ‘Lassair is a healer,’ Jack said. ‘I am sure she would be happy to help, if you wish it, my lady?’

  Lady Rosaria shot one quick look in my direction, then tossed her head, dismissing me. ‘I do not need help,’ she said.

  ‘Then please answer my questions,’ Jack said. He stepped closer to her, ignoring Lord Gilbert’s thunderous frown. ‘If you are sick, my lady, we offer you the services of a healer to make you better before we continue. If you say you do not need them, then I conclude that you are well. It is for you to tell us –’ Lord Gilbert tried to interrupt, but Jack, raising his voice, spoke over him – ‘but I will have your answers.’

  It was too much for Lord Gilbert. ‘You do not address a lady in this manner!’ he spluttered, his round, jowly face scarlet with furious indignation. ‘Were my guest already in her rightful place with her kinsman and his noble family, you would not dare, and I will not have it here in my own hall!’

  Jack, his patience apparently at an end, spun round to face Lord Gilbert. ‘You, my lord, should join me in demanding Lady Rosaria’s answers, for matters may not be as you believe.’

  Lady Rosaria gave a gasp, quickly muffled as she put a long, be-ringed hand to her mouth. Turning back to her, Jack said, ‘Where did you come from, Lady Rosaria? You arrived in Cambridge on a boat out of Lynn, and you reached there on a ship which you boarded in Bordeaux, having sailed there from Corunna.’ He paused, staring intently at her as if gauging her reaction to hearing all that he – and I – had discovered. ‘I do not believe,’ he added softly, ‘that your long voyage began in Spain.’

  Slowly she shook her head. ‘I did not say that it did,’ she said in a low voice.

  ‘Where, then?’ Jack pressed on. ‘Where was your home?’

  There was utter silence in the hall. Then she lifted her chin, stared Jack in the eyes and said, ‘Constantinople.’

  Oh, dear Lord, I thought, Jack was right.

  ‘You gave your name before marriage as Dalassena,’ he said. ‘Do you claim kinship with the emperor’s mother?’

  She made no response for a moment, then, almost reluctantly, she nodded.

  Jack was relentless. ‘And tell us again why you fled your home.’

  She waved a hand in a gesture of frustration. ‘My husband died of fever, and my father-in-law also became sick.’ Her voice gathered strength as she spoke, and in her strange accent I caught intonations that my own people use. Had she picked them up from her husband and his father, even as she learned their language?

  With a terrible sense of foreboding, I began, at last, to accept the truth.

  ‘Disease is sweeping through the city,’ Lady Rosaria went on, ‘my husband dies, and Harald, he fears for the safety of me and of my child, last of his line. He gives me money, he gives me a maidservant, he commands me to take passage to England to find his kin so that they can take me in and so that the boy will be raised in the right manner for someone of his status.’ Again, she raised her chin, the heavy veil floating in soft ripples across the lower part of her face and her throat. I caught a hint of her perfume; sweet, smelling of roses.

  ‘Harald Fensman was a great lord, then?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Yes! He came from a fine manor with many acres, many slaves, big family with wealth and position!’

  ‘This was what he told you?’

  ‘Yes, yes! Always the tales of his home in Fen, of his rich kinsmen who prospered and thrived!’

  ‘Why, then, if they were so wealthy, did he need to go abroad to make his fortune?’ Jack asked.r />
  ‘Because – because—’ She shrugged. ‘I cannot say,’ she said angrily. ‘I do not know these things; such matters are not discussed with me. I can only repeat what my father-in-law told me.’

  ‘My lady, I believe that I can now tell you who Harald Fensman really was,’ Jack said. His voice, I noticed, was suddenly gentle.

  ‘You have found the home of my kinsmen?’ Her eyes lit up. ‘I go there, now?’

  Jack turned to look briefly at me, and there was something in his expression … it was compassion. I realized he didn’t like what he was doing. As if he sought some final proof before he revealed what we had discovered, he said, ‘Your late husband’s mother was called Gabrièla de Valéry, wasn’t she?’

  Lady Rosaria looked flustered. ‘I – yes, I believe she was. I did not meet her,’ she hurried on, ‘for she had died before I entered – before I was wed to my husband.’ Rallying, she straightened her spine and glared at Jack. ‘What of it?’ she demanded haughtily.

  ‘My lady, there is no noble family,’ Jack said gravely. ‘No great house and no rich estates.’

  ‘There is!’ she cried. Then, her eyes holding growing horror, ‘There must be!’

  ‘Lassair and I have discovered the truth,’ Jack went on, ‘and we can reveal that Harald, son of Leafric, was born into a family of fenland fishermen and fowlers, who had lived here in this place for generations and whose descendants still do.’ Again, he turned to me, holding out a hand to draw me forward. ‘Lassair is Harald’s great-niece, for her grandmother was his sister.’

  Lady Rosaria was staring at me, her eyes wide with anguish. ‘No,’ she whispered.

  Lord Gilbert, I noticed, had taken quite a large step away from his guest, his action saying more plainly than words that, now the truth was emerging, he wished to distance himself from her. His face reddening, he snapped out at Jack, ‘Is this true, Chevestrier?’

  ‘We believe so, yes, my lord,’ Jack said calmly.