Several answers flashed through Hrype’s mind. He had formed an opinion of men of the church — soundly based, in his view, and uncompromising. Yet there was something about this Ingulphus. . From out of nowhere came a quiet voice, echoing in Hrype’s head: all gods are one god, and behind them is the truth.
And it had been a long time since he had met a man quite like Ingulphus of Crowland.
He bowed his head. ‘I would be honoured.’
Then he shouldered his pack, swirled his cloak around him and strode away.
SEVENTEEN
Rollo and I had drifted eastwards to find our shelter under the pine trees, and now we set off back towards the fens. We seemed to be on a different track from the one I’d come out on, although it was difficult to tell, for there were many barely-visible animal trails leading along the ridges that had built up like frozen waves behind the foreshore. We veered slightly inland, and presently emerged on to a proper road, simultaneously dragged out of our magical solitude and back into the world of living men and women.
The road was busy with traffic of every kind, from single pedestrians, most of them carrying loads of varying weights and sizes, to huge, overloaded ox carts lumbering along right on the crown of the road and holding everyone up. After only perhaps a quarter of a mile, we came to a crossroads, where another track ran roughly north-south and intersected with the one we were on, going east-west.
As soon as I set foot on the track that came up out of the south, I knew it for what it was. Involuntarily, I stopped, quite unable to go on.
Rollo, beside me, spun round to look at me, his face full of concern. ‘What is it?’ His voice was so low that nobody but I could have heard.
I shook my head, incapable of putting into words the huge emotions that were coursing through me. He took hold of my arm and led me to the side of the road; by pure chance, the place where we sat down on the grassy bank beside the crossroads happened to be on the east-west stretch rather than the north-south. Immediately, the fierce sensations abated and I was able to speak.
‘The road coming up from the south is a greenway,’ I said, my voice rather shaky. I knew he would not know what that meant, so I made myself go on. ‘It’s difficult to explain, but there are certain tracks which have always been used: some for reasons of practicality, perhaps because they run along higher ground and so keep relatively dry; some because they are power paths which link places where the forces in the earth are particularly strong. I can-’ No: that would be too boastful. ‘The paths emit a sort of vibration — ’ it was the best word I could think of, yet it did not begin to describe the extraordinary feeling that had so recently fizzed and sparkled up through me — ‘and some people can sense it.’
He nodded. ‘And you are one of these people.’
‘I’m only-’
‘No time to be coy, Lassair,’ he said with a grin. ‘Don’t forget, I’ve already seen what you can do with a concealed path across a bog.’ I knew what he meant, although I could have argued with his description. ‘These greenways,’ he went on, ‘link particular places, you said?’
‘Yes.’ It seemed that he would not be content with the brief explanation, so I thought quickly for a way to elaborate that would not involve being there all day. ‘Our ancestors have always lived in these lands,’ I began, ‘or so we are led to believe. Our bards trace the lineage back to the days of the gods, and legends tell of a time long, long ago when men were given the gift of fire and taught how to use metals. In those days the spirits still walked the earth, teaching mankind and encouraging them always to question, always to explore, to push back the boundaries of darkness and superstition so that they could see the pure light. In return, mankind honoured the spirits, making sacred spaces where they were worshipped and where sacrifices were made. These holy sites are long gone, but their power was so strong that they have left an echo.’
‘Which people like you can sense,’ he said softly.
‘I — yes.’ It was not really a time for false modesty. I was about to go on, but a glance at his expression suggested he had something very important on his mind: his dark eyes were full of light, and he looked as if his entire being had suddenly been lifted up.
‘That place at the end of the path,’ he said, ‘where I was about to die and where you found me. Is there one of these sacred places anywhere near it?’
‘There is,’ I whispered, although there was nobody anywhere near enough to have overheard, and those who were passing by were far too intent on their own troubles. ‘There once was an ancient wooden circle, in the centre of which stood an upturned oak stump, its splayed roots open to the sky.’
And I went on to tell him, as briefly as I could, about the dream I’d had which had led me to him.
When I had finished there was a long silence. After a while he reached out and took my hand. I had no idea what he felt about magic; on the one hand he was a Norman, and the Normans were not renowned for being sympathetic to the old ways. On the other hand, the strange abilities with which I’d been bestowed had saved his life.
When at long last he spoke, it was not at all what I was expecting.
‘Before we go any further,’ he said — in itself a lovely remark because it suggested we would go on together — ‘I should tell you that, while my father was born into a powerful Norman family, he refused to marry the suitable but dull daughter of his father’s best friend who had been selected for him. Instead he chose my mother — they never bothered to get married — and she is a dark-haired, black-eyed woman of the south, fiery and fierce, and the peasants of Sicily fear her because they say she is a strega.’ A shadow passed over his face, and for a moment he looked grief-stricken. ‘Strega means witch,’ he said huskily. ‘My mare was called Strega.’
Then I understood the sorrow. Before we left our shelter in the pine trees, we had said a blessing for his lost horse. I had seen his face wet with tears, and loved him the more.
I felt the sharp edge of his grief retreat a little, and the respite allowed me to reflect on what he had just told me. So his mother was a witch, was she? That answered quite a lot of questions I’d been storing up about him. .
One of us had to reassert the impatient present, and it was him. ‘So this old road led up to the wooden circle?’ he said.
‘They do say so,’ I agreed. ‘It’s claimed that it was built by the southern invaders when they needed to be able to move their armies around quickly — after the Great Revolt — but we know there was a greenway there long before that. There’s nowhere else it could lead to except the shrine of the crossing place.’
‘The crossing place,’ he repeated, almost to himself. I knew there was no need to explain; he already understood. Then, so abruptly that it took me by surprise, he stood up, pulled me up after him and said, ‘This is a crossroads, and where you find them you usually also find an inn, so let’s go and seek it out.’
He kept his promise and treated me to the biggest meal I’d ever eaten. It was probably breakfast, because although we seemed to have been awake for ages, it was still early. There was another promise he had made — to explain what he was doing — and he had not yet honoured that one. I was prepared to wait, for a while at least.
We were sitting at a long table, sharing it with other hungry travellers. One of them mentioned the weather — in a group of strangers flung together, someone usually does — and after a few grumbles about it being too wet, too cold, too hot and not hot enough, an old man next to Rollo leaned closer into the group and said, ‘No more storms like that one back at Michaelmas,’ and a sudden silence fell.
It was Rollo who broke it. ‘I heard tell of that storm,’ he said, an awed note in his voice. ‘Many men died, or so it was said.’