‘When I left him, he was lodged at a civilised establishment a week’s ride east of Constantinople.’
‘Civilised?’ Olbec spluttered. ‘The Turks aren’t members of Adam’s race. They’ll roast their own babies rather than go without a meal. When they wreck a city, they rebuild its walls with the skulls of its defenders.’
‘Stories they spread to demoralise their enemies. It’s true that the common soldiers have no more use for civilisation than a wolf has for a sheep pen. But their masters have won an empire and know that to hold it they must rule rather than ravage. For that reason they employ Persian and Arab administrators.’ Vallon nodded towards the priest. ‘One of them set down the terms for your son’s release.’
Olbec swung round. ‘You dumb dog. How much longer do you need?’
The priest groaned. ‘If only the scribe had been a more learned man.’
‘It’s as I said,’ Drogo snapped. ‘The documents are forgeries.’
Vallon plucked the manuscript from the priest and gave it to Hero. ‘No frills.’
Hero rose. His hands trembled. He opened his mouth and emitted a pathetic squeak. He cleared his throat and tried again.
‘“Greetings noble lord, and the mercy of God be with you. Know that Suleyman ibn Kutalmish, Defender of Islam, Strong Hand of the Commander of the Faithful, Emir of Rum, Marquis of the Horizons, Victorious Captain in the Army of the Valiant Lion, Right Hand of-”’
Olbec hammered his stick on the floor. Spittle flew. ‘I don’t want to hear this heathen bullshit. Get to the meat.’
‘My lord, the Emir pledges to release Sir Walter in exchange for the following indemnities: “Item. One thousand gold nomismata or their equal by weight.”’
‘What in hell’s name are nomismata?’
‘Byzantine coins, my lord. Seventy-two nomismata make one Roman pound, which is the equivalent of twelve English troy ounces, making a total of sixty-nine pounds.’
Olbec gripped his knees.
‘“Item. Ten pounds of finest Baltic amber. Item. Six bolts of …”’ Hero’s voice trailed away. Olbec’s face had knotted in the fixity of a man straining to shift a turd the size and shape of a brick.
Drogo sniggered. ‘It seems that Walter hasn’t lost his talent for exaggeration.’
The scar down Olbec’s face thickened into a livid rope. ‘Sixty-nine pounds of gold! My estate isn’t worth a twentieth that much. God knows, King William himself would struggle to raise such a sum.’
‘And,’ Drogo pointed out, ‘His Majesty won’t drain the exchequer to ransom a knight who fought for heretics while the King’s loyal vassals were advancing William’s cause in England.’
Margaret darted a vicious glance at him. ‘You want Walter dead.’
‘He shames our name. By God, if I’d been at that battle, I’d have cut my throat rather than let myself be taken by barbarians who suck from their horses’ teats.’
‘My son’s as good as dead,’ Margaret wailed.
‘There’s an alternative,’ said Hero.
They leaned forward again.
Hero was beginning to enjoy being the centre of attention. ‘Outside warfare, the Emir’s chief delights are hawking and hunting. He prides himself on possessing the finest falcons in Islam. He’ll set aside the previous demands in exchange for two matched casts of gyrfalcons, each one as white as a virgin’s breasts or the first snows of winter.’
Lady Margaret broke the imaginative silence. ‘What’s a gyrfalcon?’
‘The largest, rarest and most noble of hawks. They’re variable in plumage, ranging from charcoal-black to purest white. The palest and therefore the most valuable live at the world’s northernmost end, in Hyperborea, on the islands of Iceland and Greenland. The Portuguese call them
Vallon kicked him. ‘What my servant means is that four white falcons will secure your son’s liberty.’
Olbec brightened cautiously. ‘Four falcons doesn’t sound too steep. How much do they cost?’
‘The finest specimens fetch as much as two good war-horses.’
Olbec winced. ‘Well, that’s a price worth paying for my lady’s happiness.’
‘The price will be much higher than that,’ Drogo said. He menaced Hero with a smile. ‘Tell us, Greek, how we lay our hands on four gyrfalcons as white as virgins’ breasts that live at the world’s end?’
‘Sir, some fly south to escape the winter and are trapped on a plain in Norway. The Norwegian king reserves them as gifts for his fellow monarchs.’
‘Then I’ll petition William to request a royal gift.’ Olbec rubbed his hands. ‘That’s settled.’
Margaret, staring at Hero, plucked at her husband’s sleeve. ‘I see a “but” in his eyes.’
Olbec saw it too. His smile died. ‘What’s the problem? Are we at war with Norway?’
Vallon stepped in. ‘The falcons aren’t trapped until October. That will be too late. The Emir has a wager with a rival lord to settle who possesses the finest hawk. They’ve agreed a trial this autumn.’
‘And if they don’t reach him in time?’
‘I imagine your son will be sold as a slave. Since the Emir is well disposed towards him, he’ll probably let him keep his balls.’
Margaret swooned. Olbec caught her. She squirmed to face him. ‘We must send our own expedition to these islands.’
‘I don’t even know where they are.’
‘Iceland is a week’s voyage from north Britain,’ Hero said. ‘Greenland lies another week’s passage to the north-west.’
‘They must trade with civilised lands,’ Margaret insisted.
‘Yes, my lady. Each summer a merchant fleet leaves Norway for Iceland, returning before the autumn storms. Gyrfalcons are usually included in the cargo.’
‘There’s the solution,’ Margaret cried.
‘And how will the falcons be carried to Anatolia?’ Drogo demanded.
Margaret pointed at Vallon. ‘The same route this man travelled.’
‘It’s taken him half a year to bring us a piece of parchment. Imagine how much longer it will take to transport falcons overland to Anatolia.’
‘There’s an alternative route,’ Hero said. ‘Your blood-ancestors, the Norsemen, discovered it. It’s called the Road to the Greeks.’
Olbec waved his hand. ‘Go on.’
‘From Norway the falcons would be shipped up the Baltic Sea to Novgorod, a northern trade centre in the Land of the Rus. Then, by a series of portages, they would be transported south to Kiev. At the Russian capital they would be consigned to one of the merchant fleets that voyage down the Dnieper to the Black Sea. Having reached the coast, they would be taken by ship to Constantinople.’ Hero saw that he’d lost his audience. ‘From there,’ he said on a dying note, ‘they would complete the journey into Anatolia.’
Nobody spoke. Hero sensed their imaginations spreading out like ripples beyond the horizons of their understanding. Iceland. Greenland. Rus. The Black Sea. Mysterious city-states with outlandish names scattered to the four corners of the world. Even Drogo had been stunned into silence.
‘The voyage can be completed in three months,’ Hero added. ‘So I’m told.’
Lady Margaret pointed at Vallon. ‘Do you know this route?’
‘Only at second-hand. In Castile I heard an account of its perils from an ancient Viking who’d made the journey fifty years earlier. He set out from Novgorod with more than forty companions, all battle-hardened warriors. They were transporting a cargo of slaves. Within days they found themselves caught up in wars between rival Russian princes. They lost a ship and its crew before they reached the capital. South of Kiev the river plunges into a series of cataracts. The old Viking told me their names. He called one the Gulper, another the Echoer, a third the Insatiable. The torrents claimed the lives of another six men. Once the Vikings reached calm water, they found themselves in territory overrun by savage nomads. Day after day they fought running battles with horse archers. Of the forty Vikings who left Novgorod, eleven reached the Black Sea. And none of their cargo survived.’ Vallon shrugged. ‘Fortune was no friend of that Viking. A few months later Moorish pirates captured him.’
‘That was fifty years ago,’ Margaret said in a small voice. ‘Perhaps conditions have improved.’
‘It’s not only the dangers,’ Olbec groaned. ‘Think of the cost.’
