which to linger. However, the rest of the Italian peninsular became an ever-increasing source of wonder for them as they took the opportunity to visit Pisa, Siena, Florence, Bologna and Padua, before completing their sojourn in the magical city of Venice. The great church of St Mark, in the final stages of being rebuilt, was a haven not only for worship, but also for learning and philosophy. Everything on the Italian peninsular seemed to be built on such a vast scale; the churches, roads, palaces, monasteries and castles dwarfed anything they had seen in their homelands.
Torfida was like a human sponge in collecting knowledge and like a magpie in collecting artefacts. She bought a richly illustrated parchment map of the known world. When she showed the map to the others, they looked on in awe as she tracked their journey around its fringes.
The map also offered a stark reminder of the next phase of their travels: the Alps. They were grateful that it was high summer; it was not a journey they would have wanted to make in winter. Their passage took them past huge walls of white peaks stretching as far as the eye could see. Hundreds of feet beneath them, like a world in miniature, lay a wide valley of forests, lakes and pastures. At one point, Torfida jumped off her horse and walked into the distance on a tapestry of wild flowers to admire a sight more beautiful than anything she had ever seen.
After several minutes had passed, Hereward walked over to join her. She was motionless; her eyes were open wide, tears running down her cheeks.
She looked at him and began to sob. ‘How can anything be so beautiful? I have seen many wonders in many places, but how can this be? This is how Heaven should be.’
‘Perhaps it is Heaven.’
‘Oh, Hereward, let’s go down into the valley and stay awhile. The children can swim in the lakes; we can catch fish for dinner and collect wild berries. It is so magical.’
‘Of course we can stay — as long as you like.’
He held her tightly, rocking her like a baby. As she buried her head in his chest, he looked out across the vast expanse before them.
Torfida was right: how could anything be so astonishing?
They made camp in a wide meadow by a lake, sheltered by a huge wall of rock towering above. Fish were plentiful; there were numerous varieties of berries, as well as mushrooms of all kinds, and the forests teemed with game.
Gunnhild and Estrith were identical twins and resembled their mother. Although their hair and eyes were not as dark as Torfida’s, they were unmistakably her daughters. They had also inherited her curiosity, picking up anything that moved, and poking, prodding, pulling and plucking anything that did not.
They were learning to talk in the many languages of their extended family. Knowing only too well that ability with languages was one of the few ways in which a woman could gain a modicum of respect in a world dominated by war and trade, Torfida insisted that everyone in the group spoke to the girls in their native tongue. Not satisfied with that, Torfida was also determined to teach them Greek and Latin.
From their father, they had inherited boundless energy. They walked very early and were well coordinated and athletic but, unlike their father — whose restlessness and truculence had started as a toddler — Gunnhild and Estrith were well behaved. Indeed, Torfida would not have it any other way.
The idyllic setting of the Alps put Torfida into a contemplative mood. She did not want to leave, and spent hours weaving fantasies about how they could build a life for themselves high in the mountains and raise their children in peace. Late one afternoon, Torfida was deep in such a reverie when she was suddenly and cruelly reminded of reality.
She was clambering among the crags, high above their camp, on one of her frequent expeditions to collect specimens of the myriad alpine flowers she used in her medicines. The air suddenly turned foul like the stench of a blacksmith’s furnace and her hair stuck out from her head at right angles. There was a faint but audible crackling in the atmosphere around her and she suddenly felt very cold. Then came an ear-piercing crash, as if the earth were rending itself open, and Torfida was thrown at least ten yards down the crags, landing on her back on a grassy slope. Her whole body ached as if every part of her had been kicked and punched, and she could smell the sickly odours of singed hair and scorched flesh.
She opened her eyes a few moments later, as a booming echo of thunder rumbled round the mountains. Torrential rain began to fall and, as it did, steam rose from the ground around her, the sky was as black as pitch and the wind began to howl.
She knew she had been struck by lightning and, by some miracle, had survived. She lay motionless, as if petrified, drenched by the storm’s downpour. Aware only of the continuous screeching in her ears, she was unable to hear Hereward’s desperate calls.
Martin reached her first, closely followed by Hereward, Alphonso and Einar; all feared she was dead. Martin had seen the lightning go to ground only a few feet from her. Knowing the mountains well, he had sensed the sudden change of atmosphere and the drop in temperature and, realizing that Torfida was high up, had scanned the slopes to locate her.
Just as he saw her, the bolt struck.
They carried her down the mountain as her body began to convulse. The skin on her face, legs and hands looked as if it had been hung in a smokehouse; tiny vessels had burst in her eyes, there were trickles of blood from both nostrils and her hair looked as if it had been frizzled in an oven. They could feel how hot her body was, and they noticed that her clothes were smouldering.
It took Torfida several days to recover. Her bloodshot eyes cleared and oil of lanolin helped restore her hair, but her mood remained sombre. The weather had continued to assail the mountains, even though it was late August. For Torfida, a place that in one moment had been a paradise had, in an instant, presented a glimpse of Hell that would give her nightmares for the rest of her life.
She spoke to Hereward alone. ‘I had begun to forget our purpose. This is an omen, a warning not to forget again. We must leave tomorrow; time is moving on and God only knows what is happening in England.’
Torfida began to cry. She looked as bereft as Hereward had ever seen her.
‘The King is old now, perhaps he is dead already. War may have started.’
‘Torfida, calm yourself.’
‘I am frightened, Hereward. We think we have the ability to make things happen, to change things, but compared to God and the world of nature he created, we are insignificant. That knowledge shakes me to my very core.’
‘Torfida, don’t talk like that, I need you. Whatever it is that we’re supposed to be doing with this cursed thing around my neck, I need you.’
She began to fight back the tears. ‘Hereward, get me out of these mountains. Let’s make haste for Normandy.’
‘Get some rest. We’ll break camp in the morning and sleep on lower ground tomorrow night.’
Hereward kissed her and held her tightly until she finally fell asleep. As he listened to the wind wail around the mountains, he too felt a quiver of anxiety. He had never believed in prophecies and omens, but now he felt a primordial shudder of instinctive fear and, desperate for the reassurance they would bring, he longed to wake the others.
He fought his demons and held Torfida even tighter. Whether it was an omen or not, Hereward knew that mountains were dangerous places and he feared that lightning could indeed strike twice. He resolved to get as far away as possible, as quickly as Torfida’s recovery would allow.
Everyone remained subdued for the next few days; they all wanted the mountains to be out of sight and for Torfida to regain her vitality.
Eventually, after several weeks and a detour to avoid the French strongholds of Paris and Chartres, they entered the Norman province of Evreux. They had not been so far north in a very long time and everyone shivered in the fresh autumnal winds. But, more importantly, Torfida was happier. Hereward stayed close to her. She seemed to be back to her alert, purposeful self. She had cut away all her singed hair, leaving a boyish bob that made her look much younger. Her eyes had regained their brightness and her skin its clarity.
Torfida’s decisiveness was also back, and she advised Hereward that they should head for Rouen, the seat of Duke William’s power.
They arrived in Rouen three days later.
