She wandered across to a large wooden chest that stood against the far wall. A lamp stood on it, and, stooping, she lit a spill from the glowing fire in the little hearth and set it to the lamp’s wick. A pool of brilliance spread out, and a ray of light struck the shiny surface of the mirror that had been put down beside the lamp.
It had been kind of Lady Emma to supply it. Rosaria never carried a mirror, and would have refused the offer if she’d dared. It was a handsome object. The reflecting surface was a plate of brass, highly polished, in size perhaps the width of a hand with the fingers widely spread. This plate was set into a piece of beautifully carved cherry wood, which formed the handle. It was a costly, luxurious item. Rosaria recognized and loved fine quality.
She stood quite still, staring down at the mirror. In the short time that she had been a guest at Lakehall, she had stood like that many times before, for the mirror was always on her mind and she could not forget it.
It was a constant, agonizing temptation.
You must not look, they had told her.
She knew they were right; she understood the consequences of disobedience. They meant it for her own good, for she would suffer if she yielded.
She watched as her hand stretched out towards the mirror’s handle. She saw her long fingers close around it, and her eyes widened in alarm.
Her free hand was clutching at her veil, unfastening the ties that held it so firmly and permanently in place. She never removed it when there was even the remotest chance that anyone could see her face. When she took it off as she went to bed, she replaced it with a close-fitting cap which merged into a high-necked collar, and the collar included a fold of the same soft fabric that could be drawn up over her mouth and nose.
Do not let them see you.
The mantra was so deeply entrenched in her that it had become a part of her.
Her fingers were on the veil, slowly, gradually drawing it away from her face, pulling at the ties so that the veil inched slowly downwards. Now it was under the bridge of her nose. Now it was halfway down, and in the lamplight she could clearly make out the curve at the top of a deeply etched nostril. She gave a little gasp.
She felt as if something outside herself was forcing her hand. Making her act, when everything in her cried out Stop! The veil had caught on the tip of her nose, and, in a sudden, violent movement, she tore it away.
She stared into her own deep, dark eyes. She watched as the tip of her pink tongue wet her full, beautifully shaped lips.
She took a deep breath and looked herself full in the face.
Then she began to weep.
TWELVE
For perhaps the fourth or fifth time, Thorfinn eased aside the heavy awning that turned a small boat into a reasonably comfortable refuge and stared into the deepening darkness. Then, climbing up on to the bank, he stood and breathed in the night air. He realized he might well be looking out for somebody who wouldn’t turn up; there was no certainty, and his expected guest had only said maybe. He had a long way to come, and timing could never be precise when it depended on currents, tides and winds.
Nevertheless, Thorfinn kept on looking.
Eventually, when night had fallen and bright stars were beginning to appear in the black sky, he heard the sound he had been listening out for. With a smile, he jumped up on the bank once more, and, bending over the small brazier that stood on the bank, poked up the fire and put water on to heat. His visitor would undoubtedly be cold, hungry and thirsty. Thorfinn knew which of those needs would be the most urgent. As he heard soft footfalls on the narrow track that led to where the little boat was concealed, he drew out from under his cloak a silver flask of mead.
He smiled again. It was very fine mead, made by his own kinswomen back at home, and he kept a barrel of it stowed away in the prow of the boat. It would warm his guest better than the little fire and the hot food.
‘It’s me,’ a deep voice said softly.
Thorfinn hurried forward and took him in his arms in a bear hug. Then, as the two men broke apart, he thrust the silver flask into his visitor’s hand. ‘Drink, son,’ he said. ‘I will prepare food. Then, when you are restored, we will talk.’
And Einar, with a swift grin at the wisdom of his father’s priorities, stepped on to the boat, sank down on to the narrow bench that ran around its sides and proceeded to drain the flask.
Quite a short time later, when Einar had wolfed down the savoury porridge and gnawed his way through the strips of dry cured meat, he wiped a large hand across his beard and moustache, turned to Thorfinn and said, ‘Is there more of the mead? It’s particularly good.’
‘It is, isn’t it?’ Thorfinn reached over to the barrel, deftly filling the flask from it. He watched Einar take another couple of mouthfuls, then, unable to restrain his impatience any longer, said, ‘You have news?’
Einar nodded. ‘Yes. I waited, just where you suggested, anchoring at Gotland, close to Visby. You reasoned that the returning crew we sought would put in there, and you were right. For many days and weeks, there was no word of them. Others arrived, but few from the right place.’ He grinned ruefully. ‘My crew began to complain that we were wasting our time and because I could not tell them the true reason for our mission, I was at times hard put to explain why we must not yet leave. But, in the end, Yngvar came.’ He gave his father a rueful look. ‘You judged your old friend and confidant astutely, Father.’
‘And he had news of Skuli?’
‘Yes. He told me Skuli had reached Miklagard, making amazing time. He must have driven his men to the limits of endurance, and, in addition, had extraordinarily good fortune with the winds and tides. They say he managed to cover the many miles of portage in record time – not much over a week, although I find that hard to believe. Apparently he paid out very generously for the strongest ox teams and the toughest men.’
‘What of the rapids?’ Thorfinn demanded. ‘Those seven cataracts are no place for reckless speed; not if you want to reach the far end with your ship and your crew intact.’
‘He didn’t,’ Einar said shortly. ‘He lost three crewmen. They say he was reluctant to leave the water and waste time carrying the ship around the obstacles and only did so at the waterfalls, where there was no alternative. He took that fine ship of his straight down the rapids, and it was only because he is such a fine mariner – or maybe because he was so desperate – that he did not come entirely to grief.’ He was watching his father intently. With a soft exclamation, he leaned closer, studying the fine old features in the gentle light of the oil lamp. ‘This is not news to you,’ he breathed. ‘Is it?’
‘I suspected, but I needed confirmation,’ Thorfinn replied.
‘Why did you suspect?’
Thorfinn turned away. Then, keeping his face averted, he said, ‘Because of the shining stone.’
Einar grabbed at Thorfinn’s sleeve, turning him round so that once more they were face to face. ‘She’s mastered it? Already?’
‘No, oh, no. That would be far too much to expect. She has a long way to go.’ Thorfinn paused. ‘She begins to have glimpses, it seems. She can-’
Einar shook his head impatiently, and the small coins braided into the two long plaits either side of his face clinked together. ‘I don’t care what she can and can’t do. Just tell me what she saw.’
‘She knew, somehow, that Skuli had reached Miklagard. She also knew he had lost men.’
Einar gave an impatient snort. ‘That much she could have guessed. She is not stupid.’