by Alys Clare
I had stumbled across a mystery and I knew I wouldn’t rest until I found out what was going on.
I sat there for a long time. Then, realizing that the afternoon was swiftly passing, I made myself eat, although I was too tense with excitement and apprehension to have much appetite. Then I cleared away the remains, took my platter and mug to rinse them, and put them back on the shelf. I unwound my hair, brushed it out and then plaited it very tightly and wound the braids closely around my head.
Sibert could only have taken a small pack with him, for the majority of his possessions were in their bag beside his mattress. I took out his spare hose and a jerkin – they smelt of Sibert, and for a moment I just stood there full of anxiety for him – and, stripping off my own garments, put them on. The hose were too long, for Sibert is quite a bit taller than I am, but I folded them over at the top and they did not look too bad. I fastened my own belt around the tunic. Sibert is slim, so it was quite a good fit. My knife in its sheath was on my belt; I touched it for luck. I drew on my boots and pulled a woolly cap over my tightly wound hair. Then I ran my hands down over my body from the crown of my head to my knees, trying to see myself as I would appear to others. Thankful in that moment for my boyish figure, I reckoned I would pass muster to all but the most intent stare.
I was ready. Now it was just a question of waiting for the right moment.
I judged it right. As the light began to fail I made my way to the marketplace and stood for a while observing the comings and goings in and out of the abbey. The working day was ending and most of the traffic was coming out. A few men and boys were still going in; a man took a load of timber ready for the morning; a lad hurried through the gates carrying a loaf of bread and a mug of beer, presumably supper for some man still busy finishing a tricky task. I took a breath, sent a silent appeal to my guardians and, imagining Fox pacing on soft pads beside me, his ears pricked and his luxuriant tail slowly swishing to and fro, I slipped in behind two older men arguing about a delivery of stone and found myself inside the abbey.
I had already decided where I would hide. There was a cemetery to the north side of the site of the new cathedral, and its margins were being used as a store for materials. There were piles of stone, some dressed, some raw, and quantities of timber lay in tidy stacks. I slipped behind a delivery of timber that reared up as high as my shoulder and crouched down to wait for darkness.
Quite soon I regretted my choice of hiding place. As the light failed and the lamps were lit around the new build, the old stones in the burial site behind me threw deep shadows that seemed to move, as if the dead were creeping out of the ground. I told myself firmly not to be so silly.
To take my mind off my fear I thought about Gewis. He had appeared in the old chapel before, I reasoned; perhaps he made a habit of going there in the evening. Perhaps something drew him to those ancient walls . . . I hoped very much that this was the case, for it was my only chance of seeing him again. I concentrated on silently calling out to him, letting him know I was waiting for him and summoning him to me.
I concentrated so hard that I made my head ache. Then, when I felt I had done all that I could, cautiously I stood up and looked at the scene before me.
The walls of the new cathedral rose up higher than when I had last visited. The site still looked like a confused jumble, but now I thought I could detect order in the chaos. The finished building was going to be huge . . . But I was not there to inspect the work; I swallowed my awe and headed for the place where the old chapel had stood.
The ancient wall was still there, and I made sure to keep it in sight as I slipped behind a massive column that was growing up from the floor of the new cathedral. I stared out into the wide open space, trying to make sense of the oddly shaped shadows cast by the builders’ materials and tools that were scattered all across it.
Perhaps Gewis’s four guards believed that, having scared away the nun who had managed to get inside the abbey and speak to their charge, it was safe to let him wander out to the old church in the late evenings. Perhaps they had lessened their vigilance and he had evaded them. I did not know; the important thing was that he came. I made myself remain behind my pillar as his dark shape materialized out of the shadows, the light of the torches catching his white hair and his pale face. I peered out now and again, keeping watch on his progress across the vast space towards the place where the Saxon church had once stood.
The third time I looked, he had gone.
I stifled a gasp. Where was he? Had he sensed a presence – my presence – and hidden? Oh, but I meant him no harm – on the contrary, I wanted to help him, and by now I was quite desperate to reveal to him what had happened to his mother. The thought of her being dead and him not knowing, believing her to be safe and well back at their home in Fulbourn, was unbearable. I had to tell him.
I stepped out from behind the pillar and, very slowly, placing each foot silently, I crept towards the partly demolished wall that was all that remained of the ancient little church. Still I could not see him. Where was he?
Suddenly, he was right in front of me.
In that first, shocked instant I thought, But he has changed his apparel! How did he do that? Why?
Then I understood what I was looking at. The horrified cry rose up in my throat and it was only by a huge effort of will that I managed to keep silent. Inside I was screaming in terror as my panicking mind tried to make sense of the thing that stood before me.
It was clad in white. It wore a shroud, ravaged by the years into yellowing tatters; the cloth was deeply stained with rusty brown streaks that seemed to originate in the groin. The face was deathly white, the pallor tinged with green. The hair was long, reaching to the shoulders, fine-textured and cream in colour.
It was a face of nightmares. There were black bruises on the jaw and the forehead, as if it had suffered a severe beating. Beneath the pale, well-marked brows there were deep, dark, bloody pits.
Someone had torn out the eyes.
The figure stood quite still in front of the ruined stones that had once formed the south-side chapel of the Saxon church. Then, very slowly, it raised its arm. The ragged sleeve fell back, revealing a hand like a claw. It was pointing . . . I could not move, not even to look at the place that the claw-like hand indicated. It was as if death had taken me, stopping my heart and freezing me to the spot.
I could not go on staring at it. I closed my eyes.
When I opened them again, it had gone.
I forgot about my mission, forgot about poor murdered Asfrior, forgot about Gewis. Released from my petrifaction, I turned and fled.
I believe that my guardian spirit was helping me, for my feet were agile as a fox’s running for his life before hounds as I leapt over obstacles, dodging and weaving between half-built pillars and the solid bases of falsework towers. I reached the outer wall of the new build and raced on along the shadowy cloister beyond.
Something was in my path. My foot caught against it – Fox seemed to have abandoned me – and I fell headlong, cracking my head hard against the stone floor. I think I stunned myself, for the next few moments were a blur. There was somebody there, someone who swore under his breath as he grabbed my shoulders and dragged me into the shadow of the cloister wall. I felt sick and my head throbbed with pain. I tried to moan in distress and instantly a firm hand was over my mouth.
‘Hush,’ a deep voice said right in my ear. ‘Do not attract their attention.’
He spoke with an accent and I guessed he was a Norman. Who was he? What was he doing there in the abbey? My mind refused to work; all I felt was overwhelming fear.
He must have realized I was hurt. He sat propped against the wall and lay me down so that my head was in his lap. His fingers probed across my brow and I winced as he found the huge lump above my right eye. I started to push his hand away, but then I noticed that he was gently massaging the bump and that his light touch was actually bringing relief from the pain.
After a while he bent over me and, aga
in speaking so softly that I strained to hear, said, ‘Can you walk?’
I muttered something. He must have taken it for assent for, slowly and carefully, he raised me to my feet. Instantly, my head swam and the nausea returned. Again, he understood, not hurrying me but allowing me a few moments to recover. Then, moving gently and quietly, he helped me walk along the cloister to the far end.
I wondered where we were going. I wasn’t afraid of him now – if he meant me harm he would have hit me while I was down, instead of trying to lessen my pain and helping me get up – but I was very curious. I tried to ask where we were going, but again he hushed me. ‘I know a secret way,’ he whispered.
We stood at the far end of the cloister for what seemed ages. Sick, dizzy, I longed to lie down, but I did not dare. I stared around, trying to get my bearings. As far as I could tell we were on the far side of the cathedral site from where I had gone in. I had entered the abbey through the main gate that led off the marketplace; now, I believed, we stood on the south side of the church, and before us was a maze of buildings.
My silent companion must have satisfied himself at last that we were unobserved. Taking my hand – his was warm, square and strong – he led me at a swift pace over to our left. We passed passages, steps and low doorways leading inside the buildings – I had no idea what was within – and, after a lot of twisting and turning, we emerged into the open. We seemed to be standing in a garden. There was an orchard over to our left – I could see the skeletal shapes of apple trees, bare of leaves and holding up their branches like arms begging for help – and, beyond, a vineyard.
Still holding my hand, my companion led the way along a narrow path that passed between neatly clipped box hedges. I smelt rosemary and lavender, my nose attuned to the scents because of my profession so that even now, on a cold November night, I was able to detect them. We were in the herb garden.
We were hurrying now, all but running, and the pain in my head throbbed with each footfall. I folded my lips; I would not cry out. Then I saw the wall rear up before us. It was about ten feet high, and I had no idea how we would get over it. Perhaps there was a gate . . . but a gate would be locked and barred, or even manned by some irate and sleepy monk who would far rather be in his bed.
There was a gatehouse – I spotted it over to our left. Clearly, we were not heading for it. Then the wall was right in front of us, and I watched in amazement as my companion, dropping my hand, appeared to fly into the air until the top of the wall was level with his chin. He put both hands on the stonework, raised himself up in an easy, fluid movement that suggested strength and sat astride the wall. Looking down at me, silently he beckoned me.
I looked down. His flight up the wall was revealed as no miracle; there was a compost heap at its foot, and he had simply run up it. I followed, trying not to think about what was squelching and slipping under the soles of my boots, and, as soon as I was standing on its summit, he reached down, caught me under the arms and lifted me easily to sit facing him on the top of the wall.
Despite everything – my anxiety about Gewis, my terror in the old church, my flight, the pain of falling and the alarming, furtive escape through the abbey – I found myself grinning at him. He grinned right back and, in the soft moonlight, I studied him.
He was perhaps twenty-two or three. He was broad-shouldered and slim-hipped, his hair was blond, neatly cut to the level of his chin, and he was fair skinned and clean shaven. The blond hair and light skin suggested his eyes should have been blue or grey, but they were not: they were dark brown. A thin scar cut through his right eyebrow, extending down so that it just touched the eyelid. He was suitably dressed for his night-time mission, whatever it was, for his hose were of some dark fabric and over them he wore a close-fitting black tunic. A long knife hung from his belt.
He slipped off the wall, landing soft as a cat on the far side. He held up his arms, and I jumped after him. I did not even think about it; I had known him for well under an hour, and already I trusted him not to let me fall. He was that sort of man. I felt his arms go round me as my feet hit the ground, and he grasped me close, lessening the impact.
It was only when I saw the surprise in his dark eyes that I remembered my boy disguise. My breasts may not be large, but they are there nonetheless – and, holding me to his broad chest, he must have felt them pressing against him.
He said very quietly, ‘Not a boy then, after all. Good evening to you, pretty maid.’
Then he bent his head and kissed me full on the mouth.
Perhaps it was inevitable, given the various shocks, thrills and terrors of the night, for my heart was pounding and the blood ran like fire in my veins. I kissed him back, my mouth opening to his as I wrapped my arms around him. I had kissed men before – well, to be honest, most of them had been boys – and I thought I knew all about it. That night, as I stood in the shadows of Ely abbey’s walls with my dark-eyed stranger, I realized I was wrong.
The kiss did not last long. Soon he reached up and gently unwound my arms from around his neck, pushing them down by my sides and squeezing my hands before he let me go. He smiled at me. Then he turned and walked away, his pace quickly escalating so that in no time at all he had vanished into the darkness.
I stood there still feeling the imprint of his lips, so fierce that I could feel my own swelling from the pressure. Had it not been for that very tangible proof of his presence, I might well have been left thinking that the whole thing had been a vivid dream caused by having fallen and struck my head.
Soon, realizing that I was very cold, I left the shadows of the wall and set out for the little house.
He had probably saved my life for, had Gewis’s guardians found me lying stunned in the cloister, they might well have thought I had been talking to their charge and killed me as they had killed his mother.
My saviour then. And I didn’t even know his name.
SIXTEEN
H
is name was Rollo Guiscard. He had been born twenty-three years ago on the island of Sicily to a Norman father and a Sicilian mother. His father belonged to the family of the great Robert Guiscard, a Norman adventurer who, with a band of like-minded men, had set out to carve himself a kingdom in the south and achieved his ambition in less than twenty years. It had been a day for celebration when, in 1059, the Pope himself had recognized the Guiscards’ right to their hard-won lands. Not that there had even been any question of quitting them had the Pope withheld his approval, for the Guiscards were a law unto themselves.
Rollo’s dark-eyed, fiery mother had not actually been wed to his father, but the Guiscards did not worry over-much about such details. Rollo had been born in a castle – Troina, on its high hilltop in the Nebrodi Mountains – and in 1070, while Robert was engaged on the campaign to capture Palermo, the two-year-old Rollo moved with his mother to the new castle at Adrano, where his father ensured that Robert Guiscard’s orders regarding its design were implemented. Robert was in the process of increasing the size of his Sicilian possessions by a considerable amount and he fully intended to hold on to what he had gained. Adrano, like all the new castles, was built tall, strong and with neither time nor money wasted on decoration. It might not have been a comfortable home but it was a safe one.
As soon as he could hold a toy sword, Rollo wanted to fight. He quickly demonstrated that he had inherited in full the rebellious, fighting spirit of his forefathers, and Robert Guiscard, spotting the boy’s potential, knew that one day he would accept the boy as a welcome and increasingly valued member of his private army. It was not long before he was put into training, and by the time he was thirteen he was already recognized as a very promising soldier. As he grew towards manhood he fought alongside his kinsmen and their supporters to consolidate the Norman hold on Sicily. The Kingdom of the South flourished; Rollo grew strong and skilled, and he feared no man.
In 1085 Roger Guiscard died and he named his son Borsa as his successor. Not many of the family were happy with the arrangement,
for the love and loyalty of the fighting men was with Borsa’s brother. Christened Mark, he was a mighty man in all ways, and his great size had been evident even as he kicked and squirmed in his mother’s womb. He had been nicknamed Bohemond, after the legendary giant, even before he was born, and the name stayed with him all his life.
Bohemond did not meekly sit down and accept his fate. Typical of his bellicose line, he rose up against his brother, seizing key positions in both Sicily and Calabria from Borsa’s feeble grip. His onslaught was only stopped when he reached Bari, where his late father’s brother, the Great Count Roger, at last checked him.
Rollo had fought with Bohemond, and he knew in his heart that, had events turned out otherwise, he would have stayed with him, making his life in the hot south where he had been born. But Bohemond had suffered a temporary setback and, for now at least, was no longer the victorious, infallible, irrepressible force he had once been; another man had halted his ambitions in southern Lombardy, and now he was turning his eyes to the east.
Something changed in Rollo. His life had suddenly soured, and he wanted more than anything to get away. Besides, he thought, as he found a comfortable place on the deck of the ship that was talking him north, who wants to spend all their days on one small island when the rest of the world beckons? The Kingdom of the South had been magnificent and would continue to be so, no matter who held the reins, but instinctively Rollo was aware that it could never be the true centre of power.
Slowly, steadily, by sea and on land, earning his bread by any means that offered, Rollo made his way across the Mediterranean and southern Europe, always travelling north and west, and eventually he arrived in Normandy. He threw in his lot with Duke Robert, the Conqueror’s son, but Robert proved all too fallible a leader of men. When his attempt on his brother’s kingdom of England failed – many said because Robert did not lead the onslaught himself but let other men do the work for him – Rollo lost faith in him. Now it was that brother of Duke Robert, King William of England, who called silently to him. One day in the early spring of 1089, he took ship from Le Havre in the guise of a merchant and landed in England.
