important men. He is a terror, Loys, a terror, and you are now his mirror. Rejoice. You could be on your way to great riches.’
Loys smiled. ‘But to get there I must have commerce with demons.’
The master pointed at the pouch in Loys’ hand. ‘You already have,’ he said.
6 Taken
Beatrice only picked at her embroidery that morning. She was a northern woman, just one generation from the people who had settled the lands of the Franks in Neustria, and was not used to her life being so closed in.
She put down the thread and frame and went to the window. The streets were so full of bustle and interesting people, but the Greeks would never tolerate her walking on her own. The smells of the market drifted up towards her – the frying omelettes, the little fires that had been set to cook them, a waft of cheese, the more pervasive note of fish. Just down the street a fisherman sat at a brazier taking live mackerel from a net of fluttering silver, coshing them on the pavement, then gutting and cooking them while a queue of people waited.
She needed to walk, to get out of that freezing little room and stretch her legs a while.
Pregnancy was gruelling. How long had it been? Six months? Seven? Her body seemed full and heavy as if she’d taken an enormous drink of water. She was beginning to waddle when she walked.
Beatrice lay on the bed, hoping Loys would come home early and they could go to see the markets. She had a great desire to eat figs, which she took in itself for evidence of her condition. She should have asked him to get her some.
She had told him her dreams had receded since she had come to Constantinople. In fact they had grown worse. She was always wandering that riverbank where the trees stood like things of pale stone, where the moon silvered the water, where something blundered and snuffled in the woods that stretched away from the bank. The thing in the trees seemed closer now. It sought her. To do what? Harm her. Yes, harm her, but without intention, like the smashing power of the sea, like the tree that falls to crush and kill, as destructive and inhuman as the wind. She did not forget the fear of her dreams when she woke, it was always there, like the bell that tolled the hours.
Only Loys made her feel better. When she woke from her nightmares to find him at her side, she wrapped her arm around him and felt safer in his human warmth.
She got off the bed and returned to the window. Down the hill, stretched the houses of the lighthouse quarter, falling in a ramshackle tumble to the edge of the bright blue waters of the Golden Horn and the lighthouse gate – the only sea gate where they admitted unlicensed foreigners. Sitting at this window was her sole entertainment, though it was good entertainment. The city streets fascinated her, the people so varied and so many – the Moors with their skin like ink, the easterners in their desert wraps, the many colours of the bureaucrats’ robes, who seemed to be everywhere. She watched the squabbles of the market traders, the little children sneaking in to steal fruit or a loaf, the world travellers disembarking among the press of frauds and thieves.
Over the water the blue hills rose up towards the big white church of St Dimitri. A faint haze smudged the horizon and she wondered if that was usual in the city at that time of year.
She did miss the court, her family and the familiar faces of Rouen. She longed to hear how her little sisters Emma and Hawis were getting on. The memory of them running in the woods playing hoodman’s blind made her laugh but brought a tear to her eye too. Her maids said ladies shouldn’t play such rough games, but they were Franks, employed by her father to teach his girls nice manners. Little Hawis had told her maid that she was a Viking’s daughter and, as such, needed to toughen up because northern women were not like the fainting Frankish ladies. When their husbands beat them they didn’t weep and whine but picked up
Loys smiled. ‘But to get there I must have commerce with demons.’
The master pointed at the pouch in Loys’ hand. ‘You already have,’ he said.
6 Taken
Beatrice only picked at her embroidery that morning. She was a northern woman, just one generation from the people who had settled the lands of the Franks in Neustria, and was not used to her life being so closed in.
She put down the thread and frame and went to the window. The streets were so full of bustle and interesting people, but the Greeks would never tolerate her walking on her own. The smells of the market drifted up towards her – the frying omelettes, the little fires that had been set to cook them, a waft of cheese, the more pervasive note of fish. Just down the street a fisherman sat at a brazier taking live mackerel from a net of fluttering silver, coshing them on the pavement, then gutting and cooking them while a queue of people waited.
She needed to walk, to get out of that freezing little room and stretch her legs a while.
Pregnancy was gruelling. How long had it been? Six months? Seven? Her body seemed full and heavy as if she’d taken an enormous drink of water. She was beginning to waddle when she walked.
Beatrice lay on the bed, hoping Loys would come home early and they could go to see the markets. She had a great desire to eat figs, which she took in itself for evidence of her condition. She should have asked him to get her some.
She had told him her dreams had receded since she had come to Constantinople. In fact they had grown worse. She was always wandering that riverbank where the trees stood like things of pale stone, where the moon silvered the water, where something blundered and snuffled in the woods that stretched away from the bank. The thing in the trees seemed closer now. It sought her. To do what? Harm her. Yes, harm her, but without intention, like the smashing power of the sea, like the tree that falls to crush and kill, as destructive and inhuman as the wind. She did not forget the fear of her dreams when she woke, it was always there, like the bell that tolled the hours.
Only Loys made her feel better. When she woke from her nightmares to find him at her side, she wrapped her arm around him and felt safer in his human warmth.
She got off the bed and returned to the window. Down the hill, stretched the houses of the lighthouse quarter, falling in a ramshackle tumble to the edge of the bright blue waters of the Golden Horn and the lighthouse gate – the only sea gate where they admitted unlicensed foreigners. Sitting at this window was her sole entertainment, though it was good entertainment. The city streets fascinated her, the people so varied and so many – the Moors with their skin like ink, the easterners in their desert wraps, the many colours of the bureaucrats’ robes, who seemed to be everywhere. She watched the squabbles of the market traders, the little children sneaking in to steal fruit or a loaf, the world travellers disembarking among the press of frauds and thieves.
Over the water the blue hills rose up towards the big white church of St Dimitri. A faint haze smudged the horizon and she wondered if that was usual in the city at that time of year.
She did miss the court, her family and the familiar faces of Rouen. She longed to hear how her little sisters Emma and Hawis were getting on. The memory of them running in the woods playing hoodman’s blind made her laugh but brought a tear to her eye too. Her maids said ladies shouldn’t play such rough games, but they were Franks, employed by her father to teach his girls nice manners. Little Hawis had told her maid that she was a Viking’s daughter and, as such, needed to toughen up because northern women were not like the fainting Frankish ladies. When their husbands beat them they didn’t weep and whine but picked up
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