Alys Clare: Land of the Silver Dragon

With a visible effort, he came back to me. ‘It is an object of very great power,’ he said, ‘but you already know that, Lassair.’ He studied me keenly. ‘Its power is neutral: it is neither good nor bad. It will do what it does, and it is up to whoever holds it to channel the power.’ He paused, perhaps sensing that I did not fully understand. Then he said, ‘Imagine, if you can, a magnificent horse; a stallion. He is swift, strong, eager, and his strength far outweighs that of any man who would try to ride him. One man tries, but he is overconfident and tries to master the stallion with harsh bit, spurs and whip. A second man tries, but he has taken the trouble to become an expert rider; moreover, before he even attempts to mount the fierce stallion, he spends a long time getting to know the animal. Once he feels that he has sufficient respect for the stallion’s nature, he mounts him, and the two remain bonded for life.’

‘So — so you’re saying I must study the stone before I begin to use it?’ Oh, but using it was the furthest thing from my mind! ‘Gurdyman, I don’t want to use it!’ I wailed. ‘I’m terrified of what it might do!’

‘You must use it.’ His eyes were staring right into mine, as if he was seeing inside my head. I made a pathetic little sound, practically a whimper. His expression softened. ‘I will help you,’ he said kindly. ‘I will teach you all that I know, and we shall hope that will be enough.’

My eyes slid away and once more I stared at the stone beneath its sacking wrappings. We shall hope that will be enough really didn’t sound very reassuring.

‘For now,’ he added, very quietly, ‘why not put it away, safely, up in your room?’

It was the most welcome suggestion he’d made for some time.

As if he were very aware that we had touched on the edge of dangerous waters, Gurdyman made sure that our preoccupations for the rest of the day were of the most prosaic nature. He pointed out that the house had become very untidy and not a little dirty in my absence, and together we set about putting that right. He sorted out the great drift of parchments, books, odds and ends of food and drink, half-completed experiments and things set aside to think about later , as he expressed it, while I tucked up my skirts, rolled up my sleeves and washed every dusty, sticky surface until the whole house shone with cleanliness. It smelt nice, too, for Gurdyman had given me a little bottle of fragrant oil, and I had put a few drops in the final bucketful of rinsing water.

Tired out, I put away the broom, mop and pail and, rolling down my sleeves, went out to the courtyard to join Gurdyman in the last of the day’s sunlight. He was sitting in his chair, the big parchment spread out across his knees.

I went to crouch beside him. I studied the wiggling line stretching away to the lower right of the great map. Then I looked at the vast stretch of sea that opened up to the left. Then something occurred to me: stretching out my hand, I measured the distance between the mark that was the fens and the blob in the middle of the sea that was Iceland.

Thus far I have travelled , I thought. Then, holding my thumb and middle finger the same stretch apart, I measured how much further it was to go right down to the middle sea, where Skuli was bound. How much further to go, as Thorkel had done, on from Iceland to Greenland, and then to explore the eastern shores of that vast and unknown land mass beyond, which even Gurdyman, in all his wisdom and knowledge, could only guess at.

I whispered, ‘Can the world really be so big?’

He smiled. ‘Bigger, far bigger, than this.’ His hand brushed over his careful work.

I shivered. ‘That’s very frightening.’

‘Frightening?’ He considered it. ‘Perhaps.’ His smile broadened.

‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘What are you thinking, and why is it amusing you?’

He reached out and, just for a moment, took my hand. ‘You’re the descendant of Norse mariners, child.’

He seemed to think that was sufficient explanation. It wasn’t. ‘What of it?’

He laughed softly. ‘It’s in your blood.’

‘ What is?’ I was worrying now.

The laughter had gone, and he was no longer smiling. Looking right into my eyes, he said, ‘The hunger for travelling. The urge to go and see for yourself.’

I shivered again, a great shudder that went right through me. I might have recently discovered my true ancestry, but I wasn’t going to let it change me. I was the daughter of an eel catcher and a woman who came from a long line of shepherds. I was a fenland woman, and that was that.

I wasn’t going to be travelling anywhere .

At sea off Sicily, midsummer 1093

Rollo stood on deck, watching the land of his birth disappear into the hazy light of early morning. The ship had sailed at dawn; the bustle and hurry of departure were now just a memory. Above him, the big sail filled with the westerly wind, so that the sleek craft sped over the deep, profoundly blue water.

Rollo was thinking about his kinsman, Roger Guiscard. He pictured the handsome face; heard in his head Bosso’s smooth, civilized tones that masked the reality of the man’s tough, ruthless nature.

Roger had a personal motto: The right hand of God raised me up; the right hand of God gave me courage.

With a wry smile, Rollo wondered if the Almighty had bestowed a little of that courage on him, too. He was going to need it.

Rollo had sent word home to King William. Via an elaborate chain of discreet men and women, many of whom Rollo had himself recruited, he had dispatched a carefully coded message, telling William what he had found out concerning the rumours of an expedition to rescue the Holy Land from the Muslims. In what Rollo sincerely hoped was in a still deeper and more impenetrable level of code, he had added a brief, succinct report on the Norman kingdom of the South, and its ruler’s current opinions and preoccupations.

Count Roger, Rollo reflected as the distance between the ship and Sicily steadily increased, could not have so much as had a suspicion of the report’s existence, let alone set eyes on or, God forbid, interpreted it. Not that Rollo had done anything but give his king a fair and accurate account; the sin, in Count Roger’s eyes, would be in Rollo’s sending the report at all. If the Count had discovered the treason — for it was certain that it would be in those terms he would view it — then Rollo would not be where he now was. He’d probably be …

Bearing in mind Count Roger’s views on the suitable treatment of those who had, in his view, betrayed him, Rollo did not permit himself to dwell on that.

He had waited, staying with his mother in Sicily, for King William’s response. From time to time, he had imagined the message speeding on its way to him. He was proud of his men and women. He had chosen them carefully, looking out always for people who stood a little apart; who observed with intelligence but were not overhasty to give an opinion. His approach usually followed the same pattern. He would find an opportunity to speak privately to the potential recruit, and, within quite a short time, would have an idea whether or not the person had what he was looking for. Sometimes he got it wrong. Far more often, his initial instincts were right.

The work he required of his recruits usually amounted to no more than the passing on of written and sometimes verbal messages to the next person in the chain. For this they were well-paid, and the reward guaranteed continued efficiency. Very occasionally, he would seek out someone who happened to live in a place where certain information could be found, and, again, the reward was not inconsiderable. Rollo believed he had a solid network of discreet, reliable spies, for want of a better word. It was at times reassuring to remember the achievement.