‘Your speech and noble bearing. That splendid sword you carry.’
It was like being pestered by flies. Vallon reined in. ‘I’ll tell you the difference between north and south. First, I prefer to do my fighting in the sun, not slogging in the mud. Second, I can’t return to France. I’m an outlaw. Any man who takes me will receive the same bounty as if he’d delivered a wolf’s head. I don’t mind dying in combat, but I’ve no wish to meet my end hanging in a village square while some pork butcher pulls out my entrails and holds them up for my inspection.’
The Sicilian bit his downy lip.
‘You’re right about one thing,’ said Vallon. ‘You’re too tender for the task. I’ll let you follow me as far as Aosta. Take the ransom note to the Benedictines. For a few of those coins, they’ll post it from abbey to abbey. It will reach Normandy long before you could deliver it.’
The Sicilian looked back at the pass. ‘My master said a journey uncompleted is like a story half-told.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. A journey’s a tiresome passage between one place and another.’
The Sicilian’s eyes swam. ‘No. I must go on.’
Vallon heaved a sigh. ‘Payment for my advice,’ he said, holding up the finger banded by the ring he couldn’t take off. ‘Sell that pretty pony and buy a nag. Exchange your gay costume for pilgrim drab. Shave your head, carry a staff and mumble prayers. Join an escorted company and only sleep in hospices. Don’t blab about ransoms or wave coins and alchemists’ toys about.’ He flicked the mule’s reins. ‘We’re done.’
He thought he’d ridden clear when the Sicilian’s dismal postscript lodged.
‘The Count’s lands aren’t in Normandy. He fought with Duke William in the English campaign. His fief’s in England. Far to the north.’
Vallon laughed.
‘I know I won’t reach it on my own.’
‘Then we part in agreement.’
‘That’s why I was so heartened when Master Cosmas promised you would be my guide and protector.’
Vallon whirled.
‘With his dying breath, he said fortune had appointed you to lead the way.’
‘Appointed? He was sick in his wits!’ Vallon wrenched off the cape. ‘I won’t wear a dead man’s mantle.’ He made another futile attempt to remove the ring. ‘Don’t say another word. Don’t follow me another step. If you do … ’ He slapped the mule’s neck, squeezed its flanks.
It wouldn’t budge. It rolled its eyes and laid its ears back.
Vallon booted its ribs.
The beast reared. In the moment it took him to regain control, Vallon heard a muted fracture. From the nearest summit to the west a cornice fell like a severed wing and exploded into fragments that skipped and bounded into the valley. The slope began to crawl, accelerating, until the whole snowfield was sliding. The mass surged across the valley floor and smashed against the opposite side in a cloud of frozen surf.
When Vallon’s ears stopped ringing, the first thing he heard was a noise like pebbles clicking together. A black-and-red bird flirted on a rock, cocking its tail and fluttering its wings. Vallon knew that if the Sicilian hadn’t delayed him, he would have been right in the path of the avalanche.
Twice in the last twenty-four hours, fate had steered him away from what he deserved. There had to be a reason. His shoulders slumped.
‘Show me that pagan contraption again.’
He played with the compass, but couldn’t outwit its mechanism. Magic or trickery, it didn’t matter. Whatever direction he took, in the end he would find what he was looking for, or it would find him.
‘If I employ you as my servant, you’ll learn to curb your tongue.’
The Sicilian hung the cloak about Vallon. ‘Gladly. But with your permission, when the road is lonely and the night long, I’ll entertain you with tales from the ancients. Or, since you’re a military man, perhaps we could discuss strategy. Recently, I’ve been reading Polybius’s account of Hannibal’s campaigns.’
Vallon gave him a look.
‘And if you should fall ill, I’ll restore you to health by the grace of God. In fact, I’ve already diagnosed your condition.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘The melancholy cast of your features, your restless sleep — those are the symptoms of lovesickness. Tell me I’m right. Tell me that you lost your lady to another and mean to win her back by feats of arms.’
Vallon bared his teeth. ‘Can you make a hanged and quartered man skip?’
The Sicilian’s expression turned solemn. ‘Only God can perform miracles.’
‘Then start praying we aren’t caught in France.’
Vallon steered the mule around, not sure which of them was the dumber weathercock. The gem on his finger mirrored the flawless sky. The prospect of retracing his steps freighted his feelings with lead.
‘You’d better tell me your name.’
If the Sicilian had worn a tail, it would have been wagging. ‘My lord, I’m called Hero.’
III
Hero found himself at a standstill in the middle of black nowhere. They were still in the trees and the faint rustling he could hear was snow sifting through bare branches. A dog driven mad by loneliness barked a long way off. Movement close by made his eyes stiffen in their sockets.
‘Is that you, sir?’
‘Who else?’
‘Why have we stopped?’
‘I can smell smoke. We must be near a settlement.’
Hero populated the night with Norman patrols, Danish pirates, English cannibals … ‘Let’s rest here until daylight.’
‘By morning you’ll be as stiff as a fish.’
Tears pricked Hero’s eyes. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘So stay awake. And stop your teeth clattering.’
Jaws clamped together, Hero continued downhill in blind zigzags. Eventually he sensed from a loosening of the night that the trees were thinning. He smelled turned earth and the sour reek of a burned-out hamlet. The going became easier. After the lurching descent, it was like floating on darkness. The hiss of fast-flowing water grew louder until it smothered all other sounds.
‘The castle’s upstream,’ Vallon murmured, steering Hero that way. After a while, they stopped again.
‘We’re at the bridge.’
They felt their way across the wooden boards. The castle must be directly above them, blotted out by darkness and snow.
‘Stay here,’ said Vallon, and disappeared.
The river wouldn’t settle on an even note. Each splash and gurgle strung Hero’s nerves tighter. The snow had fattened into flakes. A thread of ice-water trickled down his spine. He sagged over the mule’s neck and groaned. This was punishment for pride, he decided, recalling how he’d ridden out from Salerno convinced that he was destined to witness a thousand wonders to impress his fellow scholars when he returned home.
Home. Longing clogged his throat. He saw the white house above the busy harbour. He hovered above it like a ghost, looking in at his careworn mother and his five sisters. The Five Furies he used to call them, but what he would give to be back in their company. There they were, chattering like starlings and applying make-up until Theodora, the youngest and least cruel, said, peering into the polished brass mirror, ‘I wonder where our dear Hero is.’
He gulped on his heartsickness.
‘Not so loud,’ Vallon hissed at his side. ‘We’re within bowshot of the walls and there are watchmen above the gate.’
‘What will we do?’
