Halldor gently lifted the body. Only tatters of clothing around her torso had not been burned away, and parts of her legs and arms were covered with blackened flesh that stuck to Halldor’s hands. He gritted his teeth and prayed for the gods to curse any man who took this fire in his hands ever again. He laid her gently on the decking by the tiller and found a linen rain cape to cover her. He could not bear to pull the shroud over her head; even as seared as her face was, there was still the beauty of her features, an exquisite marble darkened with soot.
Haraldr’s woollen tunic was intact, and his head and hands seemed to have suffered the worst burns; the skin was raw but not badly charred. Ulfr lifted him over the top frame and he found his feet on the deck. He slumped with his hands on his knees and looked up with white, stunned eyes as Ulfr steadied him. ‘I lost her,’ he said, sobbing. ‘If only I could have held her tighter. She was ripped out of my arms and I lost her.’ He fell to his knees beside Maria’s body. ‘Oh, God, save her! Give her back to me!’ He turned to Halldor and Ulfr. ‘She is alive,’ he said frantically. ‘She talked to me in the water. She forgave me. Oh, merciful God . . . All-Father!’
Ulfr knelt beside Haraldr. ‘Haraldr, no one survives such wounds. Let Maria have her death.’
Haraldr calmed himself. ‘She is alive.’ He reached over and grasped her hand, oblivious to the sticky serum that coated the skin. ‘Darling, don’t go.’ Reason struck him like a thunderbolt and he remembered how she had stilled in his arms at least an hour ago. She was . . . He turned to Ulfr and whispered, ‘She is gone, I know that. If I could only talk to her again. Just once. If only I could say one thing … it … it would be my eternity.’
‘She is watching you from Paradise,’ said Halldor. ‘She knows. I swear to you she knows your heart at this moment.’
Almost perfunctorily, Halldor bent over and felt the pulse at Maria’s neck. He knelt, his finger still to the artery. He looked up expressionless. ‘There is life. But the thread that holds it is gossamer.’
Maria was wrapped in blankets, and Eilif, a Varangian who had learned some Roman and Saracen healing arts, put a greasy salve on the worst burns and gently prodded Maria’s abdomen. She stirred and groaned slightly. Eilif looked at Haraldr, still clutching Maria’s hand, and then at Halldor and shook his head sadly. He whispered to Halldor, ‘She’s broken inside as well. She will be gone soon. There’s nothing more I can do.’ Halldor motioned everyone away.
Haraldr maintained his desperate vigil, trying to will her back. His soul was cold to the core, and yet somewhere a light flickered. He struggled for that light, as he had when it had meant his own life.
The tips of her fingers twitched slightly. And then the life came back, slowly; her hand no longer simply rested in his but knew his touch. She pressed his fingers as weakly as an infant. Her head rocked and her eyes fluttered beneath her scorched lids, and then the miracle, the thing he had willed and prayed for, a glimmering like sapphires hidden among ashes. He squeezed her hand gently and leaned over her.
‘My darling, my lifetime.’
‘Don’t . . . look … at me,’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘I am … a cinder.’
Haraldr struggled to control himself. His entire life was here in these blessed few moments, to be lived with dignity or squandered in futile tears. ‘You were never more beautiful to me than when you played the old crone in Neorion,’ he whispered, fighting his tears with all his force. ‘Until now. Now I see the soul without any artifice, and it is more dazzling than any sight I have ever seen.’
Maria’s body shuddered and her breath came in short, uneven gasps. Her eyes closed but she fought her way back. ‘Darling,’ she whispered, ‘you must . . . know this. That day … we wondered if death could tell us … if our souls had been true to us … or had only worn masks.’ She fought again for breath. ‘I know . . . now . . . that my soul has never lied to me . . .or to you . . .’ Her throat rattled and her head rolled from side to side, but her eyes became lucid again.
Cold tears burned Haraldr’s raw face. ‘I believe more than anything in the truth of your soul. To you and to me. Your soul will always be in my soul. You will touch whomever I touch for the rest of my life--’ The gates of resolve shattered and he broke down. ‘Oh, my love, I would give anything if God would exchange our fates. Oh, God, I did not mean to kill you.’
‘Stop this,’ she hissed, tilting her head up with an enormous will. ‘You were my miracle … my resurrection. Listen to me. I have seen what follows the fiery end of the world. It is not the darkness I lived in before you came inside me. Death is not dark. There is the light . . . There is only light. You promised me, darling . . . now I promise you. I will come to you and hold you again. Even after the last black dragon flies. I promise you I will hold you in the light. There is only light . . . And only . . . love . . .’
Maria’s head fell back from the great effort of speech. Haraldr felt the strength ebb from her hand, but he would not let her go in the darkness. He spent the long hour to the dawn in a lifetime of memories, smelling her dark hair and feeling her white skin and hearing her crystal laugh.
Just as the sun brought pink life over the death-fouled Bosporus, Maria’s head turned to him. She did not open her eyes but her lips moved several times. Somehow she formed the words. ‘The king . . . beyond the creek . . .’ Her head rolled back. A short while later she whispered, ‘Love,’ and a smile flickered over her face.
The sun rose above the green banks of Asia and glittered the water. A brilliant shaft slanted over the railing and struck Maria’s crusted face. Her eyes opened and Haraldr clutched her hand tightly and leaned over her. The colour of her irises was like some rare and impossibly lovely blue gold. Then Maria simply closed her eyes, and Haraldr felt her soul leave her body and enter his.
Epilogue
Northumbria England 25 September 1066
The trumpets sounded and the ducks flocked skywards from the calm surface of the River Ouse. As if by this command, the egg-blue mists began to lift. The Norsemen began to leap over the sides of their dragon-ships and assemble on the damp, grassy flats beside the river; there were enough of them to populate an entire city. The clearing air had the dry fragrance of a lingering summer that would not yield to fall. The day would be hot.
The King of Norway waited on the bank, his diamond-sharp blue eyes sweeping over the long rows of lean, swooping-prowed Norse dragons. The most powerful invasion force the world had yet seen awaited his bidding. His army gathered in a vast cordon, his court men crowding next to him, eager for the honour, their banners, limp in the quiescent air, proudly set. The warriors fanned out in a vast cordon that blanketed the tree-dotted slopes to the north. The King waited for their jubilant banter to fall to a reverent hush.
‘Comrades!’ bellowed the King. ‘Northmen! Men of Ireland! Men of Scotland! Men of Flanders! Men of England!’ He waited for the answer.
‘Alvardr Haraldr! Hradskyndir Haraldr! Hrodaudiger Haraldr! Haraldr Hardraada! Haraldr Hardraada!’ The gale of Norse acclaim was mixed with the oaths of the other tongues. Ducks raced overhead, their startled protests unheard. A golden sliver of sun shimmered on the horizon.
‘Brave comrades!’ The King’s seamed face blazed with the force of his words. ‘Five days ago we showed England the iron fist of our allied might! The corpses of the fyrd of Northumbria built a bridge for you across the River Humber!’ The army exploded in another chorus of triumph, and King Haraldr waited until the echoes vanished. ‘Today we go to Stamford Bridge to accept the victory we won at Fulford Gate! We come to accept all of England north of the Ouse.’ Again the chorus of triumph. ‘But today we must show England the open hand of our just intentions! We have come to rule, not to pillage! We have come to govern, not to slaughter!’ The army cheered with lessened enthusiasm. Haraldr looked around at the sea of blood-eager faces that could have inundated him in an instant if they did not at this moment worship him. He caught the sparkling blue eyes of Eystein Orre, the ferocious, already legendary ‘orcock’, his fiercest commander, the man who had annihilated the English rear and centre in the overwhelming victory at Fulford Gate. The man who reminded Haraldr of the untroubled glories of his own youth. The man who would be husband to the King’s firstborn, his most beloved, his daughter Maria. Eystein dipped his shaggy blond head in understanding. If necessary, he would second his King in this.