Conqueror

VI

'You look well.'

'So do you,' she said mockingly.

In Normandy and Brittany eighteen months before, as she rode with the warrior princes of Normandy and England, Godgifu had worn mannish clothes. Now pins studded her hair, and she wore a long dress tied tight at the waist, with heavy, expensive-looking brooches and clasps. She was dressed for court, not for the field. She was not beautiful. She was too short, her face was too square, her nose too long, her blue-eyed gaze too direct for that. But Orm was stunned by her mixture of femininity and strength. This was a woman to have at your side, he thought, when you won your land, and carved out your life. And, he saw, his own interest was returned in the lively warmth of her gaze.

'I haven't seen you since Normandy,' he began. 'Bayeux, that business of Harold and the oath.'

'Well, I know that.'

In the tension and confusion after that murky oath-taking, Orm, expected to stand beside his Norman lord, had lost track of Godgifu and her brother. And he had not seen her from that day to this.

'I was glad you wrote to me. I thought we might never see each other again. And we have unfinished business.'

She grinned, almost lascivious. 'So we have, Viking.'

'And we have business too,' said Sihtric. The priest came bustling from the tavern bearing a brimming tankard. 'Although I'm not interested in the contents of your trousers, Orm, but of your head.'

'For a man of God you're crude sometimes, priest.'

'Not crude but truthful, and God has no problem with that.' And he downed half his ale with a gulp. Sihtric was clean-shaven, his tonsure and eyebrows neatly plucked, and he wore a white tunic which glittered with golden thread. He was putting on weight too; he had a pot belly comically protruding from the front of his slight frame. He was evidently doing well. And yet the slyness and ambition Orm had discerned in the young priest he had met in Brittany was, if anything, even more striking.

'So what do you think of our new cathedral of Westmynster, Orm?'

'It is an impressive building.'

'Yes. The first cruciform church in all England, you know, and bigger than anything they have in Normandy -'

'I hate it,' Godgifu said with surprising strength. 'It's a Norman box. A coffin for God. It has no place in England.'

Sihtric grinned at Orm. 'You'll have to forgive my sister. Lacks sophistication sometimes. The cathedral is a sign of how the church has prospered under Edward. As, indeed, have I.'

Orm said, 'In her letter Godgifu told me you're closer to Harold now.'

Godgifu nodded. 'He has been ever since that business of William and the oath.'

So Sihtric had seen his chance and taken it, Orm thought. He said, goading, 'I'm surprised. I thought you were Earl Tostig's man. Aren't you loyal? Didn't you follow your master into exile?'

Both Godgifu and Sihtric glanced around nervously. Apparently the tensions surrounding the fall of Harold's brother were strong.

'Come,' Sihtric said. 'Not here, you never know who's listening. Let's drink and talk.' He led them both into the tavern, and fetched more ale.

'I am destined to meet you two in taverns, it seems,' said Orm.

'My brother likes his ale,' said Godgifu.

'My only vice,' said Sihtric, 'unlike poor Tostig.'

Harold's brother had been appointed Earl of Northumbria a decade before. It was a difficult realm, full of English who pined for the great days of their own kingdom, and of Danes who dreamed of the restoration of the Viking kings of Jorvik. For seven or eight years, though, Tostig looked secure. Then he murdered a few rivals, and, worse, tried to raise the Northumbrians' taxes.

Sihtric was slightly drunk. 'The thegns and ealdormen wouldn't have it, oh no, Tostig could murder their sons if he liked, but for him to come between them and their purses…'

The crisis had come in October, just three months ago. Tostig had been in the south, hunting with Edward, when the thegns had occupied Jorvik, slaughtered Tostig's officers and his housecarls, and sacked his treasury. And then they had called for a new earl: Morcar, brother of Edwin the Earl of Mercia, son of Siward the old rival of Godwine, a scion of the only great English family strong enough to challenge the sons of Godwine.

It had been a genuine crisis. King Edward had backed Tostig, who was his appointed earl. But Harold had ridden north, unarmed. And he recommended to the King that the demands of the rebels be met. Edward reluctantly backed down, Morcar was installed, and the crisis was passed.

But the cost for Harold was an irreparable breach with his brother. Tostig sailed off to exile in Flanders; rumour had it that he was plotting.

'Harold, you see,' said Sihtric, 'sacrificed his brother for a greater good – he did it once before, with another troublesome sibling called Swein who seduced a nun – although he let Tostig live, and I believe that was a mistake. Harold is a great man who will put the interests of peace even before his family – a remarkable man.'

'And,' Orm said, 'you who were Tostig's man are now welcome in Harold's court.'

'In Normandy I heard Harold's confession,' Sihtric said piously, 'for taking an oath he doubted he would ever be able to keep.'

Godgifu snorted. 'You weren't just there when Harold took the oath. You urged him to do it. Harold sees you as a witness to his sin, I think. Or perhaps even the demon who goaded him to it. That's why he keeps you close.'

'Providence shapes all our lives. If I were not close to Harold I would not be able to bring him the Menologium.'

'The what?'

'His prophecy,' Godgifu said dryly. 'You remember. Comets and kings and dubious poetry.'

'He still believes all this?' Orm said.

'Oh, yes,' Godgifu said. 'He's even been writing to Moor scholars in Iberia to have them check his calculations of the dates. '

Sihtric said, 'I have found an astronomer in Toledo, who has some philosophies about the comet.'

'What comet?'

Sihtric's face remained impassive. 'The one that will appear in March, according to the Menologium. Or rather reappear.'

Everybody knew that comets, hairy stars, were bad omens. But as signs in the sky they were quite unpredictable; they came and went according to the whim of God. 'If a comet appears in March, priest,' Orm said, 'I'll swallow my own sword whole.'

Sihtric glowered darkly. 'Don't make promises you can't keep, Viking.'

Godgifu said, 'Oh, don't be so pompous, Sihtric. He has a rival, you know.'

'A rival?'

'There is another sibyl hanging around Edward's court. A monk called Aethelmaer.'

Sihtric said, 'A buffoon who dreams of marvellous machines-'

'And who speaks of comets,' Godgifu reminded him. 'In laughing at him the thegns are learning to laugh at you too, brother.'

Sihtric snorted. 'I'll deal with Aethelmaer. Of course the challenge is interpreting the Menologium. I told you it couldn't be a coincidence that you are involved, Orm, a descendant of Egil. Now I think I have worked out how you can help me interpret the Menologium, and to persuade Harold to accept its advice.'

Orm frowned. 'You're going too fast, priest. Perhaps you should show me this prophecy of yours.'

Sihtric raised his eyebrows. 'Can you read?'

'I find it helps when some wily cleric in the pay of an illiterate Norman count puts parchments in front of me to sign.'

The priest had a small leather bag under the table. 'I have a copy of it here…' He drew out a parchment and unrolled it on the sticky tabletop. Orm saw the stanzas of the Menologium, neatly transcribed, but tangled in a thicket of notes and arrows, all in a crabbed hand that Orm presumed was the priest's. 'I told you it remains cryptic,' Sihtric sighed. 'Even after a lifetime's study. But look here…' He read the ninth stanza aloud.

The Comet comes/in the month of March.

End brother's life at brother's hand./A fighting man takes

Noble elf-wise crown./Brother embraces brother.

The north comes from south/To spill blood on the wall…

'A bit of nice symmetry about those lines, don't you think?'

'I'm no skald,' Orm growled. 'So a brother slays a brother. Why do you think it refers to Harold?'

'Who else? What fraternal rivalry matters in England save the feud between Harold and his fuming, exiled brother?'

'And what about the rest of it? What's all this about fighting men and elves?'

'That doesn't concern you,' Sihtric said dismissively.

'The truth is he doesn't understand that bit himself,' Godgifu said.

Suddenly all this talk of prophecies and politics was too much for Orm. He regretted coming. He longed to be free of this place, this cramped city, free of this grasping, manipulative priest with his entangling words – free to be with Godgifu. 'Just tell me what you want from me.'

'It comes here.' Sihtric pulled his parchment across the table. 'The seventh stanza. I need to understand these words.'

Orm glanced at the stanza: 'The dragon flies west./Know a Great Year dies/Know a new world born.'

'I believe this stanza hints at the ultimate prize,' Sihtric said, his face flushed. 'That in our grasp is not just England, but a new world.'

Orm looked at Sihtric. 'What new world?'

The priest smiled. 'Vinland.'

A young man in a drab black habit came into the tavern. Squinting in the gloom, he spotted Sihtric, hurried over, and whispered in his ear. Sihtric nodded, stood and hurried out.

Orm and Godgifu followed his lead. Orm called after Sihtric, 'Where are we going?'

'The King is dying, the doctors confirm it. And he has asked for Harold.' Sihtric seemed full of energy, as if this news had burned off the drink. 'The world pivots, this dismal afternoon.'

Godgifu said, 'And Harold has asked for you?'

'No, but I'm going to be there anyway. I bet you didn't expect all this when you paddled up the river in your dragon-ship today, eh, Viking? Come with me, but stay close.' And he bustled ahead.