Alys Clare: Land of the Silver Dragon

I did wonder if my father suspected the truth. The story I told was that the Norsemen knew the shining stone had been left in the keeping of a woman called Cordeilla who lived at Aelf Fen, and had sought me out to help them find it because they knew I was Cordeilla’s granddaughter. The family appeared to believe it, but once or twice I looked up to find my father watching me with an expression on his face that suggested he knew I was holding something back, and that by doing so I had hurt him.

I found that all but unendurable.

The trouble was, it wasn’t my secret to tell. His mother, whom he had both loved and respected, had slept with another man, and my father was the result. If Cordeilla had chosen not to tell him, I did not think it was up to me to reveal the truth.

The reasoning was sound. It didn’t make it any easier.

The other factor in my not being terribly enthusiastic about the celebrations was that I was missing Thorfinn. I had watched Malice-striker sail away, and the big, broad-shouldered figure that I knew to be Thorfinn remained standing in the stern until, blinded by tears, I could no longer make him out.

The only person in the village who knew what Thorfinn and I really were to each other, and why it was so hard to see him go, was Hrype. For a variety of reasons, I didn’t feel I could go and cry on his shoulder.

Therefore it was with considerable relief that, on the morning of the third day, I announced I was going back to Cambridge. It might have been my imagination, but I thought my father’s farewell hug was tighter than usual. As I hugged him back, I whispered to him that I loved him.

I do hope he knew it was true.

Gurdyman greeted me with a smile and a hot meal. As soon as I set eyes on him, I felt a huge stab of guilt: just how long, I wondered, had he been worrying about me?

He didn’t look like a man who’d been tearing his hair and pacing the midnight hours away, though, and I berated myself for exaggerating my self-importance. He’d probably been so preoccupied with his work and his experiments that he hadn’t even missed me.

Sitting in the courtyard, gobbling down the (excellent) food, I felt his gaze on me and dropped my head, embarrassed, hoping he didn’t perceive the turbulence of my thoughts.

He did. I felt a cool hand on my shoulder, and he said softly, ‘Hrype sent word when you returned to the village. I gather there have been further dramas, but your presence back here with me suggests they are now over.’

I looked up at him. ‘They are,’ I said.

He nodded. ‘Finish your meal,’ he said calmly, ‘then you shall tell me all about it.’

It was he, in fact, who began the narration. He said, as I was gathering myself to begin, ‘A moment, Lassair.’

Something in his tone alerted me. I looked at him closely, and saw an odd expression on his face. If it didn’t seem so unlikely, I’d have said he felt guilty.

‘I know something of what has been happening,’ he said, staring down at his hands folded in his lap. ‘Rather a lot, in fact; Hrype has told me much.’ Now he met my eyes, and his emotion was all too clear. He was guilty, and he was also in some anguish. ‘I — we — owe you an apology, Lassair. Hrype and I knew about your treasure, and, although we had no idea precisely what it was, we knew it was of value to a mariner such as Skuli. Hrype learned of his existence, and we knew — or, I should say, we guessed — that it was he who had come searching for it.’

They knew ? In my amazement, I could only manage one word: ‘How?’

‘Concerning Skuli,’ Gurdyman said, ‘Hrype, as I dare say you know, has mysterious contacts in many places, not a few of which are on the coast. I imagine that gossip concerning a man such as Skuli would spread among the Norse mariners and those with whom they trade, and Hrype is very good at uncovering what he wants to know. Concerning matters closer to your own kin — ’ now his tone became grave — ‘your grandmother Cordeilla confided the secret of your father’s parentage to Hrype as she was dying, as now you will be aware. Hrype knew, too, that some precious object had been left in her care by her lover, and he guessed that it had been entrusted to Edild, although he never discussed it with her. Our guilt,’ he went on, ‘Hrype’s and mine, is because, had we explained to Edild that danger threatened, in the shape of a very forceful and slightly deranged giant determined at any cost to get his hands on the treasure, then it is highly likely she would have shared her part of the secret with Hrype. Had that been so, you would not have been abducted and put in such danger.’

I felt deep pity for him. It was quite clear his guilt was eating into him. I could see two objections to what he had just said, and, pausing briefly to arrange my thoughts, I voiced them.

‘There is no need for guilt,’ I said, trying to keep my voice calm. ‘For one thing, there’s no reason why Hrype and my aunt pooling their information would have stopped any of what happened subsequently. Unless you’re suggesting that Hrype should simply have given Skuli the stone, then he’d still have gone on the rampage while he searched for it. We could, I suppose, have warned the households he ransacked and the people he killed and hurt, although we’d have had to know exactly where he was going to look.’

I drew a breath, then said, ‘The second thing is personal to me.’ I hesitated. Was this really the moment for levity, when two women were dead and the toll of death and maiming might very well have been a lot worse? Oh , I thought, why not? ‘Dear Gurdyman,’ I said softly, ‘I have, as I dare say you know, been to Iceland and back. Believe me, I would not have missed that for the world.’

His eyes rounded. ‘You enjoyed it?’ he said, his incredulity making his voice almost a squeak. ‘All the way across those furious, icy seas in an open boat, and an uncertain welcome when you got there?’

‘But I thought you …’ I’d been about to say that I thought he’d told me he had travelled extensively in his youth, so surely he would understand. Something in his face, however, warned me not to. Perhaps the contrast between the free-roving spirit he had been when young, and the old man living his life within his own four walls as he was now, was something of which he preferred not to be reminded.

‘I loved being on board Malice-striker,’ I assured him instead, ‘once I’d got over the seasickness. And my welcome in Iceland could not have been warmer.’

‘Well, they are, after all, your kinsfolk,’ Gurdyman muttered. He risked a small smile, then a larger one. ‘You really are not angry with us? With Hrype and me, who should have entrusted you with what we suspected?’

‘No,’ I said very firmly. ‘Not in the least.’

Now he was beaming. ‘In that case — ’ he leaned forward and poured chilled white wine into our cups — ‘tell me the whole story.’

He must have been bursting with impatience to see the shining stone, probably from the moment I walked into the twisty-turny house, but he restrained himself. It was only when I had finished my tale that he said in a whisper, ‘May I be allowed to see this magical object?’

I went to fetch it from where I had stowed it, with my satchel, up in my attic room. I laid it on the table in the courtyard, and slowly, reverently — half, I admit, reluctantly — unwrapped the sacking.

As the sun’s rays fell upon it, the shining stone shot out a great flash of gold. Gurdyman made an odd sound — a sort of gasp — and instinctively drew back. Then, his eyes wide with wonder, he leaned forward and very gently touched the smooth, glassy surface with the very tips of his fingers.