fourscore winters. She had once been the village midwife, but swollen joints and the general debility of advancing years had put an end to that occupation more than five years ago. Her mind, however, was still as sharp as the knife she had once used to sever umbilical cords, and the villagers continued to seek her out for advice, for herbal remedies, and because she could read the runes.
Normally Arlette would not have dreamed of consulting Ragnild about anything, for it went against all the teachings of the Church, but today she was in sore need, and her state of grace was already smirched by last night's abandon.
Walking directly to the fire, she stood before the old woman. 'I want you to read the rune stones for me,' she demanded without preamble.
Ragnild sucked her gums. Her skin was as wrinkled as oak bark and her eyes were so deeply set that they looked like small caverns sunk in weathered stone. 'And what would you be wanting with the pagan old ways, mistress?' she asked. Her voice was cracked, but its depths held the remains of a once alluring huskiness.
'Please, I will pay you well.' Ill at ease, Arlette unpinned her silver cloak brooch and put it in the old woman's misshapen claw. 'There is something I have to know.'
'And praying on your knees will not give you the answer, hmmm?' Ragnild gave a wheezy chuckle in which there was more than a hint of malice. Berthe joined in until the old woman rounded on her. 'Go and suckle the child elsewhere, you useless slut. Me and my lady has business together.' She stowed the brooch in her pouch, and brought forth a small drawstring bag. Glowering, Berthe left the fire and went to sit at a trestle table on the other side of the fire.
Arlette looked round the hall and shifted from foot to foot. Already she was beginning to regret the impulse that had made her speak to Ragnild.
'Rest easy, my lady, no-one's looking, they're all too busy this morning. It won't take but a moment.' Ragnild blinked up at Arlette through the twirling hearth smoke. 'What's your question?'
Arlette licked her lips and clutched her cloak together at the throat where the clasp had held it. 'Lord Rolf, will he be safe?'
Ragnild smiled contemptuously and shook a score of bleached white stones onto the hard earth floor at the side of the hearth. Each stone bore an angular rune and she leaned over the pattern in which they had fallen, squinting shortsightedly, the edges of her dirty linen wimple concealing her face from Arlette's view.
'Well?' said Arlette nervously as the silence stretched out.
'Pick up the stones for me, daughter, my hands are none too nimble,' Ragnild commanded in a softer voice than she had thus far used. Its lack of vinegar filled Arlette with foreboding and she hastened to do Ragnild's bidding.
'What is it, tell me!'
Ragnild shook her head. 'Peace, wait a moment. You have the stones in your hand? Now, throw them again, yourself.'
Arlette tossed them, and watched them land, their pattern more scattered this time. Ragnild hung over them, her breath hissing between her lips. 'You ask me if your husband will be safe,' she crooned. 'The runes say that Odin's ravens will glut themselves on many battlefields in the months to come, but that they shall not feed on the flesh of Brize-sur-Risle.'
Arlette was flooded with relief and actually found herself smiling at the revolting old woman. 'Then he will come back to me?'
Ragnild's leathery face was impassive. 'He will come back to you, mistress.'
Arlette gathered up the runes and hastily returned them to their grubby linen bag. Now that Ragnild had given her reassurance, she wanted desperately to escape from her.
'They say our Duke has moved harbours to be closer to English soil,' Ragnild muttered as Arlette turned away. 'Beware lest others do the same. The axe will chop the mooring rope clean in twain.'
But Arlette did not hear, for the priest had entered the hall, seeking to break his fast, and she was already hurrying towards him as if towards a haven.
Rolf was dining on bread, cold sausage and watered wine at one of the camp fires when he saw a dishevelled, exhausted-looking Aubert de Remy join the host and gratefully take a cup and a portion of food from the soldier in charge of the provisions. Excusing himself from present company, Rolf hurried over to the travel- weary merchant.
'You are haunting me.' Beneath his smile, Rolf's curiosity was as sharp as a knife.
Aubert returned the smile in a preoccupied fashion and took a gulp of the wine. 'I wish I had the time,' he groaned wearily. 'It was long after dark when I rode in last night, and I plan to be well ahead of your horse convoy by dusk. One of your grooms is saddling me a remount even now.' He rubbed his buttocks. 'God, my arse has more callouses than a leather-worker's palm!'
'You are bound for St Valery then?'
Aubert nodded and looked at Rolf from beneath his frizzy grey brows. 'I sailed into Dives last night on a Flemish trader. The narrow sea is empty; Harold has disbanded his fleet and sent his southern troops home. He hasn't been able to keep them provisioned in the field.'
'It was anticipated.' Rolf felt slightly cheated. Although it was good news, it was expected, and the tension in Aubert's manner had led him to believe that something more spectacular was afoot. 'So now we pray for a southerly wind.'
'There is more.' Aubert glanced round and lowered his voice. 'Harold might have disbanded one army, but he's gathering a fresh one on the march even as we speak. I have heard that the Norwegians have landed in the north of England. King Harald Hardraada has put forward his own claim to the English crown, and Harold's rebel brother Tostig is with him.'
The Scandinavian element in itself was no surprise. In Normandy it had long been known that the King of Norway also desired to be the King of England, but that he should attack now, aided by Tostig Godwinson, put a new twist on the thread. Thoughtfully Rolf drained his wine. 'So when we land on England's shore, we may not have the English to face, but the Norwegians.'
'Yes.'
Rolf's spirits lightened. The odds against Norman success were considerably diminished by Aubert's news. 'Whatever happens can only be to our advantage,' he said. 'Our army will be coming fresh to the fight, and whoever wins, Harold or Hardraada, he will have taken a softening punishment from the other side.'
Aubert nodded. 'And the winner will also have to march south to meet our army — providing that the winds allow us to sail and we don't all founder in mid-channel.'
A groom led a chestnut courser up to the camp fire and tugged his forelock to Aubert. Aubert acknowledged him and groaned once more. 'I never want to see a saddle or the sea again after these last few days,' he complained as he finished his food in two swift bites. Wiping his hands on his chausses, he reached for the bridle.
Rolf chuckled. 'God speed you on your way, and may it not be too rough on your backside!'
Grimacing, Aubert gingerly lifted himself into the saddle. Adjusting his stirrups, he suddenly paused and looked at Rolf. 'Felice is still in England,' he said sombrely.
'Could you not get her away?'
'She is with child, Rolf, and not carrying well. I did think about it, but if she had made the journey home with me, she would likely have miscarried and perhaps died. You know how dangerous these matters can be.'
Rolf knew that Aubert had resigned himself to the fact that Felice was barren. To have it proven otherwise, to know that she was at such risk must be devastating. Aubert adored his vivacious, dark-eyed wife. She was his pride and joy. 'I am sorry to hear it,' he said gravely. 'So she is still in London?'
Aubert fiddled with the leather stirrup strap. 'I am afraid that she is, and I am known for a spy there. My Saxon neighbour, the armourer — he and his wife have taken Felice to the convent of St Aethelburga for refuge, but I know that Harold has set a watch on the place lest I should go there seeking my wife. I would go to her if I could, but what use would I be to Felice and the child as a corpse?' He sighed heavily and, straightening in the saddle, drew on the rein to turn his horse around. 'I tell you, after this campaign, I am never going to be other than a simple wine merchant ever again!' Saluting Rolf, he guided the chestnut around the camp fire, and urged him into a trot.
