‘I’m sorry you are sad,’ he said softly. He put his arm around her and she snuggled against him. ‘Would it help to talk about it?’
‘No,’ she replied, then immediately added, ‘That was rude and I apologize. I know you’re trying to be kind.’
I would always wish to be kind to you, he thought.
They sat close together, not speaking. Presently, he raised a hand and, gently cupping her face, turned her so that he could kiss her. She kissed him back.
After an embrace that had lasted quite a long time, he said, ‘What’s your name?’
‘Lassair.’
‘Do you live here on Ely?’
‘No.’
He did not ask her where she did live; he sensed she would not answer.
‘What are you called?’ she asked.
‘Rollo.’
‘And you don’t come from here either.’ It was a statement, not a question.
He said simply, ‘No. I was born a long way away.’
‘You sound foreign,’ she remarked. ‘You don’t talk like other people round here.’
He smiled. ‘I speak several languages. This is one of them.’
She reached up and ran a finger the length of the scar that bisected his eyebrow. She said softly, ‘Rollo.’ Then she grabbed hold of his face and kissed him with an intensity that took his breath away.
She was warm in his arms, her smooth hair soft under his hands. It was long — so long — since he had held a woman. She was arousing sensations and emotions in him which he had believed he had put aside. For now, anyway, when there was a job to be done.
But the job was as yet incomplete. Gently and reluctantly he broke away from her and, still holding hands, they sat for some moments, the silence broken only by their fast breathing that slowly returned to normal. Then he said, ‘The boy in the abbey; did you get inside specifically to try to see him?’
‘Yes.’ Her answer was instant and, if she regretted the intrusion of the real world, she gave no sign. Perhaps she too recognized that this was not the time to indulge whatever it was that had so suddenly sprung into existence between them.
He forced himself to concentrate. ‘Why?’
‘Because my cousin witnessed those four big men who guard him bundling him in through the gate. Then someone tried to kill him — my cousin, I mean — but they didn’t because they thought he had drowned, but he managed to hold his breath and evade them, only he managed to stick an eel gleeve in his foot and the wound went putrid. Then two other eel catchers dressed in cloaks exactly like my cousin’s were murdered, and we guessed the men were trying to get rid of Morcar — my cousin — because he’d witnessed them manhandling the boy.’
He digested the rush of words. Then: ‘So you thought you should help the pale boy in case he had been taken inside the abbey against his will?’
‘Yes, but it wasn’t only that. They had tried to kill my cousin, and there was always the possibility they’d make another attempt and succeed — well, they won’t now because he’s not here any more and he’s well hidden somewhere they won’t find him — and we thought it might help if we had some idea of what this was all about.’
Slowly, he nodded. ‘When you say we?’ he said, turning it into a question.
‘Sibert and me, mainly. He’s my friend who I told you about. The one who has just discovered that his uncle is his father.’
‘I see.’ He wanted to smile, for her life seemed full of tangles and he was enchanted by the way she had no hesitation in sharing them with him. Except, he noted, she had told him neither where her home was nor where she and her friend had hidden the cousin; in all likelihood the places were one and the same. He did not blame her for being careful. She might have opened her heart to him — he was still staggered by what was happening between them — but she was sufficiently cautious to watch her tongue where others were concerned. Since he intended to do the same, he was in no position to criticize.
He said, ‘Do you know who the pale boy is?’
She hesitated only for a moment. Then she said, ‘His name is Gewis. He’s the son of a carpenter called Edulf, who died four years ago, and a woman called Asfrior, who died the day before yesterday.’
The boy’s mother was dead. It was as he had thought. The woman knew the whole story, and, knowing he had closed in, they would not have risked letting her stay alive. The secret had died with her. Except that of course it hadn’t, for it was known to a select few of her own people. He knew it too. He was her enemy.
How much did Lassair know?
Knowledge such as this was dangerous. He knew then that he would protect her, whatever happened.
He said, carefully choosing his words, ‘He is someone of great importance, although he does not know it.’
‘He does, and I’d already guessed as much,’ she said. He detected a hint of irony. ‘People don’t normally make such a fuss about a carpenter’s son from a small fenland village.’ She turned to stare at him. Her eyes looked green in the bright light. ‘He has gone, Rollo. Whatever you, or they, want him to be a part of, he will not do it. I told him they killed his mother, and even if he hadn’t made up his mind before he did then.’
He sighed. ‘I had nothing to do with the death of his mother,’ he said. ‘It is true that the slaying of his father was the work of the faction to which I belong — ’ was that right? Did he belong with the king’s party? Just then he did not know — ‘but I was not involved. Four years ago I was a thousand and more miles away from eastern England.’
She nodded quickly. ‘I believe you.’ He was surprised at how much pleasure those three words gave him. ‘Why did your people kill Gewis’s father?’
He paused. Should he tell her? This was the most dangerous part of the secret, but then she knew so much already and he did not think she would rest until she had uncovered the whole story. ‘Because the blood of kings ran in his veins. He was of the bloodline of the House of Wessex, and from that house came Edward the Confessor, the last Wessex king. Many men who support the old regime want to see a Wessex king back on the throne of England.’
She did not speak for some time. She whispered, almost to herself, ‘My kinsmen fought and died for the old regime.’ Then aloud she said, ‘Gewis, too, must be of the bloodline.’
‘He is.’
‘He’s aware that he belongs to some ancient family, but does he know what an elevated one it was?’
‘No. Or, rather, he did not know yesterday, although I have reason to believe he was taken to see someone last evening who was in a position to enlighten him.’
She frowned. ‘He did see someone last night. He ran away from whoever it was, and he found his way to us.’ Her frown deepened. ‘I’m quite sure he didn’t mention the House of Wessex.’
Then, he thought, they probably didn’t tell him.
She was very quiet, and he knew she was thinking hard. Then she said, ‘Why is your faction so determined that the House of Wessex shall not rise again?’
He sighed, for the answer was complex. ‘The old kings made this country,’ he said, ‘but they had their time and now it is over. The Normans are not universally popular — ’ her snort of derision suggested she agreed — ‘but they are strong, and they will make England march according to their rules. They are fair, in their way, and they have the might to stamp out rebellion before it takes hold and tears the country in two. That is why they will not permit the existence of a figurehead out of the elder days to whom men could rally.’ She did not answer. He leaned closer and said, ‘Lassair, does anybody truly want another battle like Hastings?’
She winced, and he knew he had hit home. ‘No,’ she whispered.
‘Did you lose many of your kin?’
‘Yes.’
She could not have been born then, he thought, but no doubt the memory of the fallen was kept alive and vibrant by the family story tellers. Not that there was anything wrong with that; the living ought to sing the praises of their dead warriors, no matter on which side they had fought.