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—’
‘No,’ Rollo interrupted. ‘Forgive me, but I would prefer to avoid a confrontation if possible.’
‘I understand,’ murmured the monk. ‘I have another suggestion.’
‘Yes?’
‘There is one place in the abbey that is uniquely special to the supporters of the House of Wessex, and my guess is that Lord Edmund will go there before the night is very old.’
Rollo had already surmised as much, but it was tactful to let Brother Mark believe it was his own contribution. ‘Where is this place?’ he asked. ‘Why is it important?’
He listened as Brother Mark explained.
Rollo had been waiting for a long time. He was aware that Brother Mark was close by, regularly emerging from wherever he was passing the time to check whether Lord Edmund had arrived. Then the bell tolled to summon the monks to the last office of the day, and Rollo knew he was alone.
Lord Edmund had evidently been waiting for this moment. As Rollo watched, he materialized out of the gloom on the far side of the site of the new church and, slowly and unhurriedly as if he were in a procession, walked to the place where the ruins of the ancient wall marked where the Saxon church had once stood. He knelt before it, closed his eyes and began to pray.
Rollo watched him. He was reluctant to disturb a man at his devotions and, in any case, there appeared to be no urgency. The mutter of Lord Edmund’s words rose and fell on the still air, forming a rhythm that was almost hypnotic. Rollo felt entranced, as if he were falling under some spell, and for a moment he thought he saw a white form emerge from the ancient wall. He rubbed his eyes and the illusion vanished.
Enough
, he thought. He walked forward, steadily closing the gap between himself and Lord Edmund. When he was a couple of paces away, Lord Edmund looked up.
‘The boy has gone,’ Rollo said. ‘He will not come back, nor will he suffer himself to be your figurehead, for he knows that you killed his mother.’
‘I?’ Lord Edmund feigned innocence.
‘Men acting on your orders,’ Rollo amended. ‘It amounts to the same thing.’
Lord Edmund got up from his knees with a groan. ‘I regret the necessity for her death,’ he said. ‘It was, however, unavoidable. You must know, Norman spy, how the success of a plan depends so often on not releasing information too soon, and, knowing that the healer girl was on her way to visit Gewis’s mother, I feared that she would discover what must remain secret.’
The healer girl
. Rollo felt fear clutch at his heart. ‘She has gone,’ he said dismissively. Desperate to turn Lord Edmund’s attention from Lassair, he went on quickly, ‘You have lost your last throw of the die, my lord, and—’
But Lord Edmund was not to be distracted. ‘She has gone on meddling,’ he said, anger darkening his face. ‘I should have disposed of her as soon as I knew of her existence and, by God, I wish I had. I am old enough and experienced enough to know that people are not always as they seem and even one such as she, small and insignificant, can bring the threat of ruin to a careful plan. She came here to this sacred spot in the guise of a nun, and she met Gewis. I am told they spoke together. I do not know what the lad told her but I feared the worst. Now he has gone, and it is in my mind that he did not escape alone. Friendless as he is but for her outside the abbey, it is, is it not, logical to suppose she is involved in his flight?’
Treating the question as rhetorical, Rollo did not answer. His fear increased. Lord Edmund knew so much. He had but to reach out his hand for Lassair, and if his clutching fingers found her he would not rest until he had found out what he wished so much to know . . .
Frantic now, it took all this strength to keep his face impassive. The stakes ran high. To break Lord Edmund’s dangerous focus on Lassair, he must risk his most powerful gambit. ‘Of course,’ he said laconically, ‘it is by no means certain that the boy Gewis is who you think he is. The fifteen years of his life have been spent in obscurity in a village on the fen edge. Where is the proof of his illustrious ancestry?’
Lord Edmund’s face had gone purple. ‘He was kept in obscurity because that was where we wished him to be!’ he snarled. ‘Nothing happened in that place,
nothing
, that was not relayed to us. We have watched over him since his birth, and we know who he is!’ His voice had risen to a shout, and he was panting from exertion.
Rollo raised an eyebrow. ‘And your proof?’ he persisted.
He thought Lord Edmund was going to puff up until he burst. He struggled for control, and then said in a strangled voice, ‘We know who his father was, and who in turn fathered him. The family resemblance is unmistakable. There can be no doubt whatsoever.’
‘Ah.’ At last they were approaching the crucial point. Rollo had already been told of this by the king but he wanted to hear it from Lord Edmund. ‘You speak of that pale hair, white skin and almost colourless eyes,’ he mused.
‘I do!’ Lord Edmund cried. ‘King Edward the Confessor had the look and so did his brother.’
The rumour that reached the king was right then, Rollo thought. No wonder William had not been able to put it from his mind. ‘They say the brother died unmarried and childless,’ he said. He was gratified to hear how calm he sounded, as if this vitally important matter were of only passing interest.
Clearly, it was far more than that to Lord Edmund. ‘Do you not know the story?’ he demanded, the light of fanaticism in is eyes.
‘Remind me,’ said Rollo.
Lord Edmund took several deep breaths, then he raised his eyes as if searching inspiration from the heavens and began. ‘Our great king, Aethelred, left many sons, but fate decreed that, out of those born to his first wife, only one followed him as king. His marriage to Emma of Normandy produced two sons, Edward, later King Edward the Confessor, and Alfred Aethling, and in early childhood the boys were educated here at Ely, where the monks grew to love and honour them. But later, for their own safety, the boys were sent as children to the land of their mother, for in England the House of Wessex was gravely threatened. For many years the Danish kings ruled, and they would have killed the young princes to remove the possibility that either would ever be proclaimed king. The Danes were ruthless rulers.’
He sighed. ‘When Queen Emma was widowed, King Cnut took her as wife but, always aware of those who would take his throne from him, he ordered the deaths of the surviving sons of Aethelred; still Edward and Alfred could not return. After Cnut’s death, his son Harold, known as Harefoot, became king and for the first time the sons of Aethelred and Emma saw the glimmer of a hope that England might once more welcome them.’ He sighed again, this time putting up a hand to knead his brow as if remembering old pain.
‘Edward, later crowned king, was wise and, sensing danger even before danger threatened, turned around and left the shores of England behind him, not to return for five years. Alfred Aethling was more trusting and, when the great Earl Godwin went to meet him and offered his hospitality in his fine house at Guildford, the young man accepted readily. Godwin gave every indication of being a good friend and a loyal supporter, offering to swear his allegiance to Alfred and the House of Wessex.’ A sound broke from him that was almost a sob. ‘Poor Alfred, our own prince! Godwin betrayed him, for he was in league with Harold Harefoot. Every last man in Alfred’s entourage was savagely butchered, and, even as their blood ran in the streets, Godwin’s men mutilated Alfred.’
The tale was abhorrent, Rollo thought. To take a man into your house, to have him sit at your table to eat your meat and drink your wine, to offer him your loyalty while all the time you plot his death; these actions went against a code so ancient and so venerated that it should be inviolate.
‘He did not die there, our beloved Alfred.’ Lord Edmund picked up the story. ‘They had hacked into him and castrated him, for Godwin’s orders were that he was not to be allowed the slimmest chance of fathering a son. Then they brought him here to Ely, and as they led him aboard the boat that was to ferry him across they put out his eyes. Blind and impotent, he was no longer a threat, and nobody cared any more what became of him.’
Castrated. Blinded. Rollo shuddered. It did not bear thinking about.
‘The monks received him with love and tended him with care and skill,’ Lord Edmund went on, ‘for they had loved him and his brother Edward when they were boys and that love stayed true. The healers did their best but it was to no avail, for quite soon Alfred died of his terrible wounds.’
There was a long silence. Then Lord Edmund looked up and, meeting Rollo’s eyes, said, ‘Alfred greatly resembled his brother Edward, as I have said. Edward left no son, for he was a chaste and holy man and his marriage to his queen, Edith, was one of the spirit and not the body. You ask yourself, I do not doubt, how then it is that we are so sure that in Gewis the true blood of the House of Wessex runs pure.’
‘I do,’ Rollo acknowledged.
‘The nature of Alfred Aethling was not like his brother’s, and when temptation came he did not resist,’ Lord Edmund said. ‘What would you have done, Norman spy? Far from friends and kin, perhaps afraid and already suspicious of the man who would soon take your manhood, your eyes and your life, would you in your loneliness have turned your back on love when it was offered?’ Rollo made no answer. ‘Alfred did not. He bedded Alma, the daughter of one of his trusted followers, who loved and pitied him, showing him kindness and tenderness. It is said that in secret they were wed. After Alfred had been torn away from her and suffered his terrible fate, Alma realized she was with child. In time she was delivered of a boy, who, for fear of Harold Harefoot and his brutal, ruthless followers, was taken and hidden in a remote village. He was taught a skill, for he would have to live his life not as a prince of the House of Wessex but as a carpenter. He grew to adulthood and married, and his wife bore a son.’ Rollo felt the power of Lord Edmund’s eyes and, reluctantly, turned to meet their gaze.