I had understood – no, they had all encouraged me to understand, Thorfinn, Hrype, even Gurdyman – that the place Skuli was bound was Miklagard. But now I saw very clearly two major objections to that. The first was that, while the journey was undoubtedly long, arduous and dangerous, it was regularly and routinely travelled by many mariners, none of whom had the aid of a magical stone. The second was this: if Skuli had reached Miklagard safely, then that meant his mission was over. Why, then, was Hrype still so very eager for me to go on trying to use the shining stone to see what Skuli was up to?
In the darkness, I was smiling in triumph. I’d always known there was more to this tale of Skuli’s mysterious journey than had been revealed to me. Now, in my own mind, I had proof. What I was going to do with that proof, and, more importantly, how I would react next time someone asked me to look into the shining stone, I had yet to work out.
I could hear Edild’s deep, regular breathing. She had gone to sleep, and she had advised me to try to do the same. I knew she was right, and that I needed my sleep. The storm was still howling outside, and now its violence was intensifying. I must rest. Deliberately, I visualized putting my excitement over my brand-new discovery into a bag and stowing it away. Then I turned to the vivid, violent images which the stone had put in my mind. Slowly, one by one, finishing with those awful ravens, I banished the pictures I’d seen.
One image, however, I allowed myself to see again. Although he looked very different – he was in pale robes, with a headdress that covered his blond hair, and his skin had been darkened, either by the sun or by his own skill – I had recognized him instantly. His presence among the visions I’d seen in the stone was puzzling. What on earth was he doing there, somehow involved with Skuli’s voyage to the south? Even if I’d imagined it all, why had my mind elected to place him there?
I had an explanation, although I shied from it. I tried to tell myself it was nonsense, but it persisted, nudging at me until I steeled myself to face it.
The explanation was this: what I had seen was an image of Rollo Guiscard, who is my one and only lover; the man who stays in my heart although he is usually far away and we are together only rarely. We had made each other no promises, recognizing our love simply by a hand fasting and the exchange of gifts: I gave him a braided leather bracelet, and he gave me a heavy gold ring, which I wear on a chain around my neck. It was almost a year since I had seen him.
Had he appeared before my eyes in that flash of vision because a part of me wanted to make sure he was at the forefront of my thoughts? Was my heart issuing this timely reminder that Rollo was the man I loved; the man I was content to wait for, no matter how long, because our future was together? Hadn’t I once had that brief, lovely image of the child I would one day have with him; the son who would be a mix of Rollo’s Norman and my Saxon blood, a warrior to take on the whole world?
I squeezed my eyes tight shut, as if that would shut off my inner vision. It didn’t. I wanted to cry my distress, and it took a big effort to hold back.
I knew why my conscience had pushed that image of Rollo out of the shining stone and before my eyes, and it had precious little to do with Skuli and his travels.
It was because Jack Chevestrier had entered my life.
Out at sea, huge waves were being driven hard by the howling wind. The full moon meant a high tide anyway, but, that night, an unremitting gale out of the east-north-east was pushing the waters yet higher. With nowhere for the piled-up waters to go, the Wash was overflowing.
Low-lying coastal villages received the punishment first. Small craft were beaten against the shore, some of them smashed to splinters on breakwaters and quays. Tracks became wet, sodden, then turned into streams. Dwellings of every sort flooded, from great manors to lowly hovels, for the elements are no respecters of a man’s wealth and position. People gathered together, trying to help one another. Trying to protect their property. Trying to save lives.
Seawater began to flow up the fenland rivers. Fresh water gave before the onslaught, as huge and powerful wind-driven waves crashed inland. On the Ouse at Lynn, the lower reaches of the town were swiftly inundated. Boats moored at the quays clashed together, and the sound of smashing wood competed with the howls and screams of the gale. Still the water pushed on, and now it drove before it a tide of wreckage.
The waters of the river were still rising some ten miles inland to the south, and abnormally high waves drove repeatedly upstream. In many places, the water swiftly overcame the muddy, marshy fenland river banks, and the surrounding land was soon flooded. Occasionally, the headlong rush of the torrent and its piled debris met an obstacle. The broken planks of a wrecked boat caught against the underside of a small wooden bridge, and the resulting pile-up of water on the seaward side swiftly spread out into a widening pool.
Caught in the swirling current, the torn and shattered pieces of wood moved in swift circles. From time to time, one would be thrust right up out of the water, before once more being drawn down beneath the surface. Amid the wreckage, something white suddenly appeared, to flash briefly in the faint light of early dawn. It was swept under, then, after a while, it bobbed up again. This time, some random eddy in the hugely swollen river cast it up against the side of the little bridge, where it lodged.
It was pale, shimmering slightly under the pre-dawn sky. Perhaps the waters receded a little: for, slowly, more of it became visible above the flood line.
It was a body. It was naked, and lay face down. Its limbs were long and well-muscled; its hair was soaking wet and muddy but, where it was beginning to dry, could be seen to be fair.
The body was in the very early stages of decomposition. The eyes had gone, and small marine creatures had started to feast on the flesh. It stank.
Dawn broke.
The wind began to abate, and, at long last, the great mass of water that had been forced up the rivers and over the land stopped rising. Infinitesimally, it began to recede. The light grew and the new day began. In the ports, towns and villages where the devastation had hit, people began to clean up and count their losses. Several had been killed, and dozens wounded by water-borne debris they had failed to see in the darkness. Livestock had been carried away. Many dwellings had been damaged beyond repair. Crafts of all sizes had been driven from their moorings, many to be wrecked on the shore.
People began the slow trudge up the rivers, searching for swept-away items. Anything that might come in useful for the hundreds of repairs necessary would be eagerly dragged out of the water and carried home. Not long after dawn, a group of three men – a grandfather, his son and his grandson – came down from their village on the fen edge to inspect the wreckage around the little bridge.
On spotting the body, the grandson – he was just a lad – was sick. The grandfather sent his son to fetch help while he stood vigil.
And, as the morning broke, the man came hurrying into Aelf Fen, where he ran up the track to Lakehall and banged hard on the door.
SIX
The South, autumn 1093