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Eadgyth’s parents’ intention was to survive under the new regime. And their main asset, as they saw it, was their only daughter.

‘They brought me back from my convent. I was told I must marry the son of the Norman lord who now owns us. I met the boy. No more than seventeen. He tried to rape me before I told him my name. He’s a bishop now.’ She laughed, not bitter.

‘So you ran away.’

‘I’ve travelled from safe-house to safe-house, sheltered by the clergy and by the people of places like this.’

Orm had heard of this. For peasants stripped of custom and English law, hermits like Eadgyth were a reminder of the old days, the old English ways.

She said to him, ‘And you—?’

‘Orm. My name is Orm Egilsson.’

‘Why are you here? You are not Norman, or English. This is not your home.’

‘I am a mercenary. I fight for pay.’

She shifted in her cramped hole. ‘You were at Hastings?’

‘I was.’

‘On such a day it was better to fight for the winner. Why have the Normans brought you here?’

‘To put a stop to the rebellions.’

Eadgyth said, ‘My own uncle is a wildman, in the fen country of the east.’

‘Yes. The Normans call them
silvarici.
People of the woods.’ All over England the wildmen had taught the Normans another new word:
murdrum,
furtive slaughter. ‘The north has been worst, though. This country. And so it will suffer most grievously. Everywhere it is like this, from Durham to York - burned - uninhabited.’ There would be no harvest this year, no lambs or calves; famine would follow the steel.

‘So at last the Conqueror has come here,’ Eadgyth whispered. ‘From Hastings all the way to this remote place of farmers and sheep and cattle.’

Orm heard voices calling. ‘We have no more time,’ he said.

‘Then you must earn your pay.’

He looked into her calm eyes, so like Godgifu’s.

‘What’s this?’ The voice was heavy, the accent crude French.

Orm was dismayed to see Roger fitz Gommery standing over him. Roger was a common soldier, a slab of hardened muscle from toe to brain, and an ardent rapist. The crotch of his leather trousers was already smeared with blood and ordure from his day’s sport. ‘Have I broken into your party, Orm Egilsson? Let’s see what we’ve got.’

He closed his leather glove over Eadgyth’s short hair, and dragged her to her feet. She screamed, and her legs flapped, too weak to support her weight.

‘Roger-’

‘You’ll get your share, Orm.’

With his gloved hand Roger ripped at the neck of Eadgyth’s habit. Old, much patched, the material gave easily. She was left naked save for pants of stained wool, which Roger pulled away. Her body was skeletal, her skin pocked by lesions, her breasts shrunken mounds behind hard nipples. She whimpered, her eyes closed, and she seemed to be praying:

 
As she gabbled these words, Roger looked her up and down, contemptuous. ‘Skin and bone. Chicken legs. You know what, Dane? I can’t be bothered; I’ve had my fill today. But we can still have a little sport. Have you ever carved a chicken?’ He took a knife from his belt and, almost thoughtfully, drew it across Eadgyth’s back. She jerked rigid at the pain, and warm blood poured.

And her eyes snapped open.

She stared directly at Orm. ‘Egilsson,’ she said. ‘Orm Egilsson. Can you hear me? Are you there?’ All the weakness had gone from her voice, despite the way Roger held her up by her hair, despite the wound that crossed her back. It didn’t even sound like her voice any more, but deeper, heavier, the accent distorted. ‘Are
you
there, Orm Egilsson?’

Roger gaped. ‘Is she possessed?’

‘Orm Egilsson. Listen to what I have to tell you. Listen, and remember, and let your sons and their sons remember too.’ And again she began to intone her eerie, unfamiliar prayer.

 
Roger crossed himself. ‘By God’s wounds, she’s a prophet.’

She spoke on in that clear alien voice, of fires consuming an ocean, of war.

Orm was unaccountably afraid of this naked, helpless woman. ‘What peacock, what dove? I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Find him,’ Eadgyth said, and her voice was a hiss now.

‘Who?’

‘Sihtric.’

It was the name of Godgifu’s brother, the priest. He had not told Eadgyth of him. The name shocked Orm to his core. ‘But Sihtric is in Spain,’ he said weakly.

‘Find him. And stop him.’

Roger lost his nerve. He let go of the woman’s hair and she crumpled into a heap. ‘Screw her, kill her, or marry her, she’s all yours, Dane. I’m having no more of this.’ He turned and stomped off, massive in his armour, obsessively crossing himself.

The woman was huddled over on herself, her back bright with blood. Orm lifted her face with a gloved hand. Spittle flecked her lips, and he saw blood on her tongue. She had bitten it while speaking. He said, ‘Who are you? By whose authority shall I command Sihtric?’

She looked at him. ‘Orm?’

‘Who
are you?’

‘I am Eadgyth. Only Eadgyth.’ She frowned. ‘I - have I fallen?’

‘Do you remember what you said to me?’

‘What I said... What’s happened to me, Orm Egilsson?’

He stood up. The bright February day became insubstantial around him, and a harsher light shone through its sparse threads. He remembered all Sihtric’s talk in the days before Hastings, the mystical babbling of a possibly heretical priest - talk about the tapestry of time, and how its weave might be picked undone and remade by a god, or a man with sufficient power. The Weaver, Sihtric had called him. And now Sihtric and his mysteries had returned to Orm’s life.

But on the ground before him was a woman, helpless, naked, shivering, bleeding. That was the reality. He reached up to his horse, pulled a blanket from the saddle, and draped it over her shoulders. The Norman soldiers, drunk on blood and rape, drawn by Roger’s gabbled account, gathered around curiously.

I

MUSTA’RIB AD 1085

I

The north Spanish country did not interest Robert, son of Orm.

Why should it? Green, damp, mild even in July, it was too like England. And besides, Robert, fourteen years old, believed that his soul yearned for spiritual nourishment, not for spectacle. So he was glad when he and his father reached Santiago de Compostela, the city of Saint James of the Field of Stars, where he would be able to prostrate himself among the flocking pilgrims before the tomb of the Apostle, Santiago Matamoros, James the Moorslayer.

As it turned out, it was not his soul he would give up in this city, but his heart, and not to the dusty bones of a saint, but to the sweet face of a half-Moorish girl.

The three of them, Robert, Orm and Ali Ibn Hafsun, their guide, sat on little stone benches in the shade of an apple tree, resting bodies weary from the day’s ride from the coast, and sipping a vendor’s sharp-flavoured tea. Saint James’s city was small, shabby, somewhat decayed, as if nobody had repaired a wall or fixed a broken roof tile since the departure of the Romans. But this little square bustled, as pilgrims in travel-stained dress queued to pay homage, children chased chickens, women shopped for food, and men in loose white clothes conducted business in various tongues.

And in the shadow of the squat church, camels groaned and jostled. The camels were extraordinary. Robert thought they looked
wrong,
somehow, as if put together from bits of other creatures.

Orm laughed at the camels. ‘I always heard that Africa starts on the other side of the Pyrenees. Now I know.’

Ibn Hafsun was studying Robert. About Orm’s age, somewhere in his forties, Ibn Hafsun dressed like a Moor, and yet he had greying blond hair and blue eyes. He seemed to sense Robert’s restlessness. ‘You are distracted, boy. I can see it in the way you gulp down that hot tea, the way your gaze roams over every surface, looking at all and seeing nothing.’

Orm had always said Robert had the spiritual soul of his long-dead mother, Eadgyth, who had once been a hermit. But Robert had the build and temper of his father, who was a soldier. ‘What’s it to you?’ he snapped back, fourteen years old, bristling.

Ibn Hafsun raised his hands. ‘I mean no offence. I am your guide in this strange country. That’s what I’m paid to do. And though I have delivered your body to this place, I’m doing a poor job if I allow your spirit to wander around like a chick that has lost its nest.’ He spoke an accented Latin dialect. Robert had expected everybody to speak Arabic, but there were two tongues in Spain, Arabic and this diverged version of Latin, which the people called
aljami
or
latinia.

‘I’m not a lost chick.’

Ibn Hafsun smiled. ‘Then how do you think of yourself?’

‘I am a pilgrim. And I’m here in this city of Saint James to visit the tomb of the brother of Christ, who came here to die.’

Orm murmured, ‘You must forgive him, Ibn Hafsun. It’s the fashion these days to be pious. A generation after the Conquest, the English kings are forgotten and every boy in England wants to be a warrior of God like King William.’

‘But this is only a way station,’ Ibn Hafsun said innocently to Robert. ‘Your first stop in Spain. Your destination is Cordoba. And as I understand it you are here in Santiago to meet not a long-dead apostle, but a living priest.’

Robert snorted. ‘If it isn’t all some elaborate hoax, devised by some trickster to empty my father’s purse.’ They had quarrelled over the purpose of the journey many times in England.

Orm shifted on the bench. He was still a big man, but his body, battered and scarred from too many campaigns, was stiff, sore, uncomfortable even in rest. He said firmly, ‘I wrote to Sihtric, and he wrote back, and I recognised his writing. Oh, Sihtric lives. I’m sure of that.’

And he shared a look with Robert, for the central truth went unsaid: what had drawn them here was Orm’s story of the ‘Testament’ spoken by Eadgyth, Robert’s mother, when Orm had first found her hiding from Normans in a hole in the ground. Now, after years of saving and preparation, Orm was ready to fulfil her command to seek out Sihtric.

Robert only half believed all this. But when he had been very young his mother had drifted away to the old church of Saint Agnes near York, now rebuilt by the Normans, and had crawled back into that hole in the ground, ignoring her distracted husband and distressed young son. And Robert had been only six years old when she died, her lungs ruined by her years of flight from the Normans.

Ibn Hafsun watched the silent exchange between them, and Robert saw a calculating curiosity in those pale eyes. ‘Well, you’re here, Robert, whatever the motivation. So what do you think of the country?’

‘Not much. It’s like England.’

Ibn Hafsun laughed. ‘I won’t deny that. Yes, this comer is like England or Ireland. Wet, windy, dominated by ocean weather from the west. But very little of the peninsula is like this. You’ll see.’

‘I think he’s not quite sure what a “peninsula” is, Ibn Hafsun,’ Orm said.

‘At least tell me this: what do you call the land to which you have come?’

‘Spain,’ Robert snapped back.

‘Ah. Well, it’s had many names. The Romans called it Iberia, named for a river, the Ebro, which drains into the Mediterranean. Later they called it Betica, after another river that drains to the west into the Ocean Sea - the river that runs through Cordoba, in fact. Later still it became known as Hispania, or Spain, after a man called Hispan who once ruled here - or perhaps it was named for Hesperus, the evening star. Many of these names were invented by even older people, of course, the folk who lived here before the Caesars came. And the Moors call it al-Andalus.’

‘The Moors are in the south,’ Robert said. ‘They never came here.’

‘Didn’t they?’ Ibn Hafsun grinned. ‘Once there was but a tiny salt crystal of Christianity in a cupful of Islam, here in the north, after the Moors overran the peninsula in just a few years. And once, oh, this is only a century ago, a great Moorish vizier called AI-Mansur sacked this very city and carried off the bells of Saint James’s church to Cordoba where they rest to this day.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ Robert said.

‘About what?’

‘That the Moors took only a few years to overrun the whole of Spain. The Romans would have pushed them back.’

‘I’m afraid it’s true,’ Ibn Hafsun said. ‘It was only a hundred years after the death of the Prophet. The kings then were not Roman, for the empire had lost the west, but Gothic. We ruled as the Romans did, or better, for centuries. But we could not stand before the Moors.’

Orm asked, ‘Why do you say “we”?’

Ibn Hafsun said proudly, ‘My family were Gothic counts. Our family name was Alfonso.’

‘Like the King,’ Robert said.

‘In my great-grandfather’s time we converted to Islam, and took an Arabic name. The Moors call the likes of us
muwallad,
which means “adopted children”. And now I find myself a left-behind Muslim in what is once again a Christian kingdom. You see, history is complicated.’ He smiled, a Muslim with blue eyes and blond hair.

Robert said rudely, ‘If your family were once counts, why are you reduced to escorting travellers for pennies?’

Behind him a new voice said, ‘Because in al-Andalus, it’s hard for anyone but a Moor to get rich.’

Robert turned. A man approached them, short, not strong-looking, with a pinched face worn with age. He wore a modest priest’s black habit, and his tonsure was cut raggedly into a scalp that was losing its hair. A girl followed him, in a simple flowing gown. She had her face downcast modestly.