‘Sit,’ William said, waving a hand at a leather-seated chair beside the hearth. Rollo sat, and William pulled up his own chair close beside him. ‘So,’ he went on, ‘will there be an appeal from the east?’
Rollo hadn’t expected any courteous civilities: How was your journey?, Good to see you safely returned and Are you well rested? were not phrases a king used to his spy; or, anyway, this king didn’t. He was far too impatient. Knowing his master as he believed he did, Rollo had come prepared. Now, he launched into a swift and efficient distillation of all that he had learned in the Holy Land and in Constantinople, concluding with his own opinion: that Alexius Comnenus would have no choice but to ask the west for help, and that the request would not be long in coming.
What he believed would happen if the kings and the lords of north-west Europe answered the appeal, Rollo didn’t say. He had had a vision: a dreadful, haunting image of long, straggling lines of ordinary people, tired, hungry, diseased, far from home, dying. Far from the well-drilled, expensively accoutred and ultimately victorious army that others might predict, Rollo believed he had received a clear warning that the truth would be very different.
But since he wasn’t going to be among the rabble and nor was his king and master, there was no need to mention that fact.
When at last he had finished speaking, William sat for a long time in silence, his elbow on the beautifully carved arm of his chair and his chin in his hand. ‘Robert will go,’ he muttered, more to himself than to Rollo. ‘He won’t be able to resist. He’ll want to go in style, too, with a hundred matched horses, richly coloured silks and the loud bray of trumpets to announce his coming.’ He tapped the fingers of his other hand on the chair. Short, stubby fingers, Rollo observed, with tufts of hair on the backs, and not made more elegant at all by the costly rings that adorned them. If anything, the opposite was true.
Quite unexpectedly, Rollo felt a sudden stab of compassion for his tubby, determined, capable and clever king.
‘Enough!’ William barked suddenly. Rollo jumped guiltily back into the present moment. It surely wasn’t done to feel pity for a king, and it was always dangerous to daydream in his presence. But then he realized that William’s exclamation must refer to whatever thoughts were going through his own head, not Rollo’s.
‘Pour wine for us,’ William commanded, pointing to the beautiful glass jug and the two fine goblets set on a board beside the bed. Rollo leapt up, poured the rich red wine, and returned to his seat.
‘You have done well, Rollo Guiscard,’ the king said, raising his glass in Rollo’s direction.
‘Thank you, my lord king.’
William went on staring at him, the eyes with their bright flecks intent. ‘You have earned your reward, and you shall have it.’ He reached down to the small wooden chest, bound with iron, beside his chair, turned the key in the lock and threw back the lid. Inside were many leather bags of varying sizes, and the king extracted one, handing it to Rollo.
It took all his strength not to pull open the drawstrings and look inside.
William sat back and sipped his wine, a broad smile on his face. ‘You trust your king to pay you well, then?’ he said.
Rollo bowed. It was, he sensed, a moment for honesty. ‘Indeed I do, my lord.’
‘You do my bidding precisely to the letter,’ said the king, ‘and you are utterly reliable. Both qualities, believe me, are rare and to be valued.’
Rollo bowed again. He wasn’t sure if he should speak; he opted for silence. It was certainly not, he thought with a private smile, the moment to mention his visit to Normandy…
‘What shall you do now?’ William asked.
Deciding it was mere politeness, perhaps a way of easing towards a conclusion to the meeting, Rollo chose levity. ‘I shall find a bathhouse, a barber and a purveyor of fine woollen garments, my lord.’
The king laughed. He rose to his feet, and instantly Rollo did the same. ‘Enjoy them!’ he exclaimed. ‘You have earned some pleasure.’
Bowing deeply, Rollo edged towards the door. Just as he was about to open it, King William said, ‘Do not venture too far, Rollo Guiscard.’
THIRTEEN
I spent two more days at Aelf Fen.
They were uneasy days. Apart from the fact that I longed to be back in Cambridge – despite the reassurances from Hrype, I was still anxious about Gurdyman and, most pressingly, very worried about Jack – I couldn’t help feeling uneasy. I tried to reassure myself: I was in my own home village, where I knew every inhabitant, every house, every hiding place and winding track through the waters.
But I couldn’t convince myself. Even though I couldn’t see them, I was still utterly certain somebody was watching me.
I’d had an identical sensation not many weeks back, when Jack and I were in the fenlands together, and I wondered if the same eyes were on me now. Was Jack also absent from the town – not with me, but on some private errand of his own – and was Gaspard Picot spying on me because he thought I’d lead him to Jack?
I was horribly afraid it was so. Rather than go on suffering in doubt, however, I decided to try to find out.
In the late afternoon of the second day I slipped out of Edild’s house, the shining stone in my satchel, and took a path leading to the fen edge. I followed it down to one of my favourite places, opposite which is the little island where many of my forebears, including my Granny Cordeilla, lie buried. I wasn’t planning to cross over to the island this time, for the day had turned cold and I didn’t welcome the idea of getting wet to the waist. Instead, I sat down cross-legged, face to the island, and got out the stone. I laid it in my lap, on the fabric of my gown stretched between my knees, and, my hands placed lightly on either side, stared down into it.
I felt the instant when it became aware of me and responded. Felt and saw it: there was a very faint sort of thrumming in the rapidly warming stone in my hands and a flash of brilliant green from its dark depths. Very softly I said, ‘Greetings.’
Straight away an image appeared: I saw eyes, shaded under a hood, staring at me out of the shadows. It might have been because the fear of someone watching me was uppermost in my mind; the stone could simply have been reflecting my own concerns back at me. I’d all but convinced myself that was so when I saw something else.
Fear raced through me. For now there was a second watcher, and if the motives of the first were unclear, there was no doubt at all that this one had nothing but malice – evil – in mind.
I quelled my fear as best I could and strove for the sort of neutral state of mind that is best for staring into the shining stone. As my anxiety subsided, I realized that my first panicky impressions were right. One set of eyes looked at me with love: It’s Jack, I thought with a surge of joy, and he’s come back secretly to make sure I am safe. I felt a warm happiness spread through me, and the stone too felt suddenly hotter.
But then I saw the other eyes, and I cried aloud.
They were hostile: whatever Gaspard Picot wanted with me, he didn’t mean me any good. His face was in shadow and I could barely make out any details. He was deliberately keeping well hidden. He had no way of knowing I had suspected he was near, nor, of course, that I had a powerful ally in the shining stone. Well, forewarned was forearmed, and I would-
But then all thoughts of Gaspard Picot were driven out of my head.
The images came swiftly, one after another, flash, flash, flash. I saw again those terrible corpses, their throats torn out: Robert Powl; poor, pretty little Gerda; Mistress Judith; the young priest I’d seen die with my own eyes; Morgan and Cat.