Alys Clare - Mist Over the Water

I heard Rollo speaking in my head. Does anybody truly want another battle like Hastings? I thought of Granny Cordeilla, who still cannot speak of those terrible times without her voice breaking, for among those she had lost on that unforgettable day had been her best-loved brother Sigbehrt, known as the Mighty Oak, who fell defending his brother Sagar Sureshot, as well as his lord and, ultimately, his king.

Men fight battles , Granny is wont to say. Women break their hearts in the aftermath . She is old and she has lost so many that she loved. But as I stood there beside Gewis, for a moment I was fired with the image of myself wielding a sword, shrieking my war cry as I galloped into the fray to fight for what I thought was right. The image faded, and my feet gently bumped back on to the solid ground.

Rollo was right. Twenty-four years ago the people of England had fought and lost, and since then there had been peace, give or take a rebellion or two. Even if a figurehead representing the great kings of the past were to materialize among us, did it honestly make sense to rise up and support him?

It just wasn’t worth the price.

Gewis must have noticed I was no longer listening. ‘Lassair!’ he whispered. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes. Sorry, what were you saying?’

‘I said he’ll have gone inside the abbey. The monks knew I was there so obviously Lord Edmund has support among them, and I know the prior is in league with him.’

I felt a chill around my heart. The abbey was a great deal more secure than this house, stout and well built though it was. Did that mean Lord Edmund knew he was in danger? Had his men informed him that a Norman spy was in the town?

Rollo was in danger. I knew it. I felt it throughout my body.

‘I know a way over the wall,’ I said. Gewis looked surprised; perhaps he had expected I would try to talk him out of trying to get inside the abbey. ‘You’ll have to give me a leg-up, and I have no idea how we’re going to get you over, but we’ll just have to do our best.’

He stood there, slowly shaking his head. Then a grin broke out on his face and, grasping hands, we hurried away.

I found the place where Rollo and I had got out of the abbey. As I had thought, it was very difficult getting up the high wall on the outside, without the help of the compost heap; Gewis made a stirrup of his hands and, after a few fruitless efforts where he shot me up too fast and I lost my grip, falling quite heavily on the hard ground, eventually I was astride the wall. Then I reached down and, fighting to hold on with my right hand, held out my left and tried to haul him up. I couldn’t have lifted his weight unaided, but he was agile and his toes found all but invisible spaces in the stones of the wall, so that he supported himself and all I had to do was provide a bit of lift.

All the same, we only just managed it.

I pointed out the compost heap, and we dropped down on top of it. It broke our fall but at a price: we stank.

We brushed ourselves down as best we could, and I stood getting my bearings. There was no hope that I would remember the tortuous route along which Rollo had guided us, but there was no need to. We could see the walls of the new cathedral rising up some distance before us to our left; all we had to do was head that way and we would be in the heart of the abbey.

Without a word, we set off.

Rollo had been inside the abbey since early evening. He had slipped in as the tide of workmen constantly going in and out had begun to tail off and found a hiding place in a secluded corner of the new build. He was going to seek out Brother Mark; he waited until the last of the workforce finally left and then, slipping off the worn cloak with which he had covered his garments, returned to the gate house to ask for him.

He had come inside in the guise of a workman. Now he would present himself as he really was.

Brother Mark arrived quickly following the summons. He looked curiously at Rollo.

‘Do I know you?’ he asked, smiling.

Rollo took in the details of his appearance. Brother Mark was in early middle age, wiry and muscular with springy, dark hair curling around the shaved tonsure. He gave the impression of enthusiastic vigour, and Rollo’s instinct was to both like and trust him. He was, however, too cautious and far too experienced to go with his instinct alone. ‘I am Rollo Guiscard,’ he said. The name might mean something to the master of novices; it might not. It depended on what the king had seen fit to do.

The spark of interest in Brother Mark’s eyes gave the answer. ‘I see,’ he said quietly. ‘Come with me.’

He led the way along a narrow, twisting succession of passages, stopping outside a low, wooden door set in a pointed arch, which he opened, ushering Rollo inside. When the door was closed, he said, ‘I was told that you might come and why. It is because of the boy, Gewis, known as Brother Ailred.’

‘Yes.’ Rollo studied the monk, all his senses alert.

Brother Mark hesitated. Then he said, with quiet passion, ‘We cannot have another rebellion. We have been made to suffer greatly because of the last one. Ely will not survive again.’ Rollo made no comment. ‘The abbey is on the threshold of greatness,’ Brother Mark added softly. ‘Our new church will be the wonder of the age. Pilgrims and good Christians will flock to us, and our place in the history of the world will be assured.’

Still Rollo did not speak.

Brother Mark smiled. ‘You think it worldly, for a monk to view this matter so, in terms of our abbey and its fortune? You believe I should decide according to my conscience instead?’

‘I make no such judgement,’ Rollo said quickly. ‘I have come to my own decision after long and careful thought, and I see no reason to suppose you have done otherwise.’

Brother Mark nodded. ‘Thank you. I wish-’ He paused, then said quietly, ‘Many of our older brethren have put their faith in the House of Wessex and the blood kin of King Edward the Confessor, whom they view as little less than a saint. The decision is, of course, theirs to make, as you have just implied, but many of the younger monks grow impatient with them.’

Brother Mark, as master of novices, would have much to do with the younger monks, Rollo reflected. ‘They do not oppose the Normans for the harshness of their rule?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Brother Mark said shortly. ‘They are monks, and they understand the need for firm discipline if the community is to thrive. The same applies to a country as to an abbey.’

It was enough. Rollo was satisfied. ‘I know that Lord Edmund, known as the Exile, is within the abbey,’ he said. ‘He has four bodyguards and also, I would guess, the means to summon many more fighting men. The object of his search has evaded him, and now I must ensure that nothing comes of his presence here.’

Brother Mark nodded, apparently understanding much from Rollo’s brief words. ‘We will be behind you, Rollo Guiscard,’ he said. ‘I have trustworthy brethren whom I can summon.’ He paused, and Rollo guessed from his expression that there was more he would say.

Rollo waited. Brother Mark edged closer and then, lowering his voice, he murmured, ‘Should this business reach the desired conclusion, I trust that the one who sent you will learn of our help?’

Rollo hid a smile. People were so predictable. ‘He will,’ he replied. ‘Among his many pressing concerns, this will not be forgotten. If I am able to return to him with the reassurance he requires, he will, I am sure, be grateful.’

Brother Mark nodded again. ‘Then I am satisfied,’ he said. ‘What do you wish to do now? Am I to gather my brothers and come with you to challenge Lord Edmund? He is at present-’