This is the story of a city, a city that is now in ruins: Madinat al Zahra. The year is 947 AD, a time when southern Spain is under the rule of the Moors. The ruler, Caliph al Rahman III is rich, powerful and cultured. His lands are, at long last, at peace and the capital, Córdoba, is considered to be not only the most beautiful city in the civilised world but also the seat of learning and culture. Against this background we meet the artisan Qasim - he and his family have moved to Madinat al Zahra to make their fortune as potters.
Qasim is a good husband and father. He works hard, says his prayers and keeps out of trouble. But Qasim has a secret; his past is not what it seems. When a stranger arrives asking questions about him, he is worried that his secret will be discovered and everything he has worked for will be destroyed. He has to take action.
“Exotic, romantic, and rich with historical detail, The Shining City is a timeless story of love, family, and the unexpected consequences of our actions. Author Joan Fallon provides richly imagined portraits of ordinary people caught up in extraordinary circumstances during the short-lived rise of the opulent palace-city of Madinat al-Zahra.”
Karen McCann, author of “Dancing in the Fountains”
Available in paperback from most on-line bookstores and as an ebook from:
www.amazon.co.uk
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In December 2014 THE SHINING CITY was commended as a notable book in the epic/saga category by SHELF UNBOUND magazine.
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BRAG Medallion Honouree 2017
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SPANISH VERSION
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Read an extract
PROLOGUE
Córdoba
987 AD
The old man sat in the shade of the mosque wall. It was still early but already the heat was building with its usual summer ferocity. He loosened his robe slightly and fanned himself with the napkin he had in his hand. Omar was not a rich man but neither was he poor. His djubba was made of the finest white cotton, with long narrow sleeves and over that he wore his djellaba, a hooded cloak of the same material. It was light, cool and comfortable. He was of the generation for whom appearances mattered. Even his cap, crocheted in a green and white design, sat elegantly on his long, white hair. His beard was trimmed and shaped; once it would have been touched with henna but now it was as white as his hair.
‘More tea, old man?’ the waiter called from the entrance to his tiny shop.
Omar waved him away, irritated that he did not automatically come over and refill his cup. That was so typical. Standards were slipping all the time. He took off his cap and scratched his head.
‘There you are, uncle. We’ve been looking for you everywhere.’
It was his nephew, Musa, the youngest son of his brother Ibrahim. He was with his friend, Ahmad. Omar looked at them and smiled. Lanky youths, with their hair cut short in the latest fashion, they behaved as though life was theirs for the taking. If only they knew what vicissitudes lay ahead of them. Not that they would pay any heed. He certainly hadn’t at their age. The boys sat down beside him. The two were never apart; it was as if they were joined by some invisible rope. Where one went, so did the other. They reminded him of his own childhood; he had had a close friend named Yusuf. Just like these boys they had done everything together and were so similar in looks and mannerisms that they were often mistaken for brothers.
‘Drinking tea, uncle?’ Musa said.
‘Would you like some?
The boys nodded and Omar waved across to the waiter, who still lounged in the doorway.
‘Another pot of tea and two more glasses, please,’ he said.
He turned to his nephew and asked, ‘So child, you have been looking for me. What is it that you want?’
He already knew the answer: nothing, just the opportunity to drink mint tea and listen to Omar’s stories.
‘We wanted to see if you were all right.’
‘And why wouldn’t I be?’
The boys looked at each other and giggled.
‘Is it true that you are more than a hundred?’ Ahmad asked.
‘No, it’s not true, although I certainly feel like it some days. Now what is it you want to know?’
‘Have you ever been inside the Khalifa’s harem?’ Musa blurted out.
‘The Khalifa’s harem?’
‘Yes, what’s it like?’ they both chorused.
‘Well ...’
The waiter arrived and set the freshly brewed mint tea on the table.
‘Maybe something sweet for the boys to eat,’ Omar said, looking at the waiter.
‘Churros?’
‘Excellent.’
Omar turned back to his eager audience.
‘So, what were you saying?’
‘The harem.’
‘Oh yes.’
The old man smiled; for a moment he let his thoughts drift back to when he was young. He sighed and turned back to the boys.
‘Yes, well, let me see. The harem you say?’
‘Yes uncle,’ his nephew said, barely keeping the impatience from his voice.
‘You do realise that no man is permitted to enter the Khalifa’s harem, other than the Khalifa himself. It is an offence punishable by death.’
The boys nodded.
‘We know that, uncle.’
‘Very well, as long as you do not tell anyone that I was once there, I will tell you about the most beautiful harem in the world.’
He paused and looked at the boys; their eyes were as round as moons.
‘Now, in the year 947, when I was not much older than you, my father took me with him to work in the new city, Madinat al-Zahra.’
The boys looked at each other and smiled. Omar’s stories always began in that way.
‘Our ruler, Abd al-Rahman III, wanted to build a city-palace worthy of the title of Khalifa so he sent his engineers and architects out to find the perfect location. And they did. They found a spot in the foothills of the Sierra Moreno, green, fertile, sheltered from the north winds, with as much water as you could wish for, yet set high enough above the plain so that you would be able to see anyone approaching. From there you could see across the valley of the Guadalquivir to Córdoba and beyond.’
‘He called it after his favourite concubine, didn’t he?’ Ahmed said with a smirk, urging him to get to the more interesting details.
‘His favourite concubine was certainly called al-Zahra and he lavished every possible luxury on her so it is possible that that was why he called the city al-Zahra. But do you know what else the name means?’
He looked at the boys, who shook their heads.
‘It means shining, glistening, brilliant. Possibly his concubine glittered and shone with all the jewels and beautiful silks he showered upon her but then so did the city. It was indeed the Shining City. When visitors entered through the Grand Portico, passing beneath its enormous, red and white arches, when they climbed the ramped streets that were paved with blocks of dark mountain stone, passing the lines of uniformed guards in their scarlet jackets and the richly robed civil servants that flanked their way, when they reached the royal residence and saw the golden inlay on the ceilings, the marble pillars, the richly woven rugs scattered across the floors and the brilliant silk tapestries, when they saw the moving tank of mercury in the great reception pavilion that caught the sunlight and dazzled all who beheld it, then they indeed knew that they were in the Shining City.’
It was a shame that his nephew had never been to Madinat al-Zahra and probably would never go. Soon the city would be as if it had never been, its stone buildings returned to the rock from which they came.
‘But they say that he loved his concubine more than anyone else,’ said Musa.
‘Maybe. Who knows what goes on in the hearts of men, even less in the heart of a Khalifa.’
‘They say she was the most beautiful woman in his harem.’
‘She was certainly very beautiful, but the most beautiful, no. There was another more beautiful than her, more beautiful than all his wives and concubines.’
‘Who was she? What was her name?’ asked Ahmed.
‘Jahwara,’ he whispered.
He could still feel the pain as he said her name. The boys waited, eyes wide in anticipation but Omar did not elaborate.
‘Did you ever see him? Did you see the Khalifa?’
‘Yes, once.’
‘What was he like? Was he big and strong?’
‘He was a bit on the stout side.’
He could see the disappointment in the boys’ eyes.
‘But he was a good-looking man, with white skin and blue eyes,’ he added.
‘White skin? Wasn’t he an Arab?’
‘Of course he was. Who else but an Arab could be Khalifa? But his mother was from the north. She was captured from one of the ruling families during the war and became his father’s slave and concubine. Abd al-Rahman inherited his fair skin and hair from her.’
‘I heard that he used to dye his beard,’ Ahmed said.
‘Yes, I believe he did. He wanted to look more like his subjects.’
The boys nodded wisely. Omar stifled a smile.
‘Tell us more about the harem,’ Musa insisted.
‘What can I tell you? There were hundreds of beautiful women, trained in all the arts of love and music; they knew a thousand and one ways to please their lord and master.’
‘The Khalifa?’
‘Of course, who else? Every woman who entered the Khalifa’s harem belonged to him and no-one else.’
As he said the words, he could hear the bitterness creep into his voice.
‘They were slaves?’
‘Indeed they were. Even if one of them wanted to leave she could not. The Khalifa would never permit it.’
Before the boys could start another stream of questions, he said, ‘Here, eat your churros and then you should be off. Is there no school today?’
He saw Musa blush. His nephew was a good boy and not able to tell a ready lie.
‘We’re going now, uncle. Come on Ahmed.’
The boys picked up the churros, doused it with honey and crammed it into their mouths.
‘Ma'a salama uncle,’ Musa said, honey dripping down his chin. ‘See you later.’
‘Goodbye, Hajj,’ Ahmed said, hurriedly eating the last piece of churros and following his friend.
Omar watched the boys skip down the road. If they hurried they would be in time for the first lesson of the day. He wished he had asked them what they were being taught these days. When he had been at school the curriculum was very strict: reading, writing, geometry, arithmetic, the Quran and the sayings of the Hadith. Everything in Arabic of course, although not many spoke it in the streets in those days; people retained the habit of speaking a variety of the local language among friends and family. That was normal. He signalled for the waiter to come over and paid him for the tea and churros. It was time he took some exercise. His doctor had said it was important to walk every day even if his knee was paining him. He would walk across the old Roman bridge and see if there were any fish in the river this morning. It was his favourite walk these days because he would stop half-way across and look back at the city of Córdoba and its beautiful mosque, towering against the skyline. This ancient city was once again the centre of power, his beloved Madinat al-Zahra abandoned and neglected since the young Hisham II had inherited the throne. Today the boy-Khalifa was isolated in Madinat al-Zahra, alone, living the life of a recluse, his city crumbling around him.
As he stood up a sharp pain shot through his knee and up his thigh. He grasped the ebony stick that he always carried with him these days and used it to propel himself forward. A wave of longing for his old home leapt to his breast. It had been years since he had visited Madinat al-Zahra yet there was never a day when he didn’t dream of its beautiful palaces and its fragrant gardens; when he closed his eyes he could still hear the sound of the fountains that fed the tranquil lakes and smell the orange blossom that used to grow outside his house. But he knew he could never return; the pain would be too great. The city lay only a couple of Arab miles to the west of Córdoba and yet it might as well have been in distant Arabia. Yes, there were many tales he could tell Musa about his days in Madinat al-Zahra.
PROLOGUE
Córdoba
987 AD
The old man sat in the shade of the mosque wall. It was still early but already the heat was building with its usual summer ferocity. He loosened his robe slightly and fanned himself with the napkin he had in his hand. Omar was not a rich man but neither was he poor. His djubba was made of the finest white cotton, with long narrow sleeves and over that he wore his djellaba, a hooded cloak of the same material. It was light, cool and comfortable. He was of the generation for whom appearances mattered. Even his cap, crocheted in a green and white design, sat elegantly on his long, white hair. His beard was trimmed and shaped; once it would have been touched with henna but now it was as white as his hair.
‘More tea, old man?’ the waiter called from the entrance to his tiny shop.
Omar waved him away, irritated that he did not automatically come over and refill his cup. That was so typical. Standards were slipping all the time. He took off his cap and scratched his head.
‘There you are, uncle. We’ve been looking for you everywhere.’
It was his nephew, Musa, the youngest son of his brother Ibrahim. He was with his friend, Ahmad. Omar looked at them and smiled. Lanky youths, with their hair cut short in the latest fashion, they behaved as though life was theirs for the taking. If only they knew what vicissitudes lay ahead of them. Not that they would pay any heed. He certainly hadn’t at their age. The boys sat down beside him. The two were never apart; it was as if they were joined by some invisible rope. Where one went, so did the other. They reminded him of his own childhood; he had had a close friend named Yusuf. Just like these boys they had done everything together and were so similar in looks and mannerisms that they were often mistaken for brothers.
‘Drinking tea, uncle?’ Musa said.
‘Would you like some?
The boys nodded and Omar waved across to the waiter, who still lounged in the doorway.
‘Another pot of tea and two more glasses, please,’ he said.
He turned to his nephew and asked, ‘So child, you have been looking for me. What is it that you want?’
He already knew the answer: nothing, just the opportunity to drink mint tea and listen to Omar’s stories.
‘We wanted to see if you were all right.’
‘And why wouldn’t I be?’
The boys looked at each other and giggled.
‘Is it true that you are more than a hundred?’ Ahmad asked.
‘No, it’s not true, although I certainly feel like it some days. Now what is it you want to know?’
‘Have you ever been inside the Khalifa’s harem?’ Musa blurted out.
‘The Khalifa’s harem?’
‘Yes, what’s it like?’ they both chorused.
‘Well ...’
The waiter arrived and set the freshly brewed mint tea on the table.
‘Maybe something sweet for the boys to eat,’ Omar said, looking at the waiter.
‘Churros?’
‘Excellent.’
Omar turned back to his eager audience.
‘So, what were you saying?’
‘The harem.’
‘Oh yes.’
The old man smiled; for a moment he let his thoughts drift back to when he was young. He sighed and turned back to the boys.
‘Yes, well, let me see. The harem you say?’
‘Yes uncle,’ his nephew said, barely keeping the impatience from his voice.
‘You do realise that no man is permitted to enter the Khalifa’s harem, other than the Khalifa himself. It is an offence punishable by death.’
The boys nodded.
‘We know that, uncle.’
‘Very well, as long as you do not tell anyone that I was once there, I will tell you about the most beautiful harem in the world.’
He paused and looked at the boys; their eyes were as round as moons.
‘Now, in the year 947, when I was not much older than you, my father took me with him to work in the new city, Madinat al-Zahra.’
The boys looked at each other and smiled. Omar’s stories always began in that way.
‘Our ruler, Abd al-Rahman III, wanted to build a city-palace worthy of the title of Khalifa so he sent his engineers and architects out to find the perfect location. And they did. They found a spot in the foothills of the Sierra Moreno, green, fertile, sheltered from the north winds, with as much water as you could wish for, yet set high enough above the plain so that you would be able to see anyone approaching. From there you could see across the valley of the Guadalquivir to Córdoba and beyond.’
‘He called it after his favourite concubine, didn’t he?’ Ahmed said with a smirk, urging him to get to the more interesting details.
‘His favourite concubine was certainly called al-Zahra and he lavished every possible luxury on her so it is possible that that was why he called the city al-Zahra. But do you know what else the name means?’
He looked at the boys, who shook their heads.
‘It means shining, glistening, brilliant. Possibly his concubine glittered and shone with all the jewels and beautiful silks he showered upon her but then so did the city. It was indeed the Shining City. When visitors entered through the Grand Portico, passing beneath its enormous, red and white arches, when they climbed the ramped streets that were paved with blocks of dark mountain stone, passing the lines of uniformed guards in their scarlet jackets and the richly robed civil servants that flanked their way, when they reached the royal residence and saw the golden inlay on the ceilings, the marble pillars, the richly woven rugs scattered across the floors and the brilliant silk tapestries, when they saw the moving tank of mercury in the great reception pavilion that caught the sunlight and dazzled all who beheld it, then they indeed knew that they were in the Shining City.’
It was a shame that his nephew had never been to Madinat al-Zahra and probably would never go. Soon the city would be as if it had never been, its stone buildings returned to the rock from which they came.
‘But they say that he loved his concubine more than anyone else,’ said Musa.
‘Maybe. Who knows what goes on in the hearts of men, even less in the heart of a Khalifa.’
‘They say she was the most beautiful woman in his harem.’
‘She was certainly very beautiful, but the most beautiful, no. There was another more beautiful than her, more beautiful than all his wives and concubines.’
‘Who was she? What was her name?’ asked Ahmed.
‘Jahwara,’ he whispered.
He could still feel the pain as he said her name. The boys waited, eyes wide in anticipation but Omar did not elaborate.
‘Did you ever see him? Did you see the Khalifa?’
‘Yes, once.’
‘What was he like? Was he big and strong?’
‘He was a bit on the stout side.’
He could see the disappointment in the boys’ eyes.
‘But he was a good-looking man, with white skin and blue eyes,’ he added.
‘White skin? Wasn’t he an Arab?’
‘Of course he was. Who else but an Arab could be Khalifa? But his mother was from the north. She was captured from one of the ruling families during the war and became his father’s slave and concubine. Abd al-Rahman inherited his fair skin and hair from her.’
‘I heard that he used to dye his beard,’ Ahmed said.
‘Yes, I believe he did. He wanted to look more like his subjects.’
The boys nodded wisely. Omar stifled a smile.
‘Tell us more about the harem,’ Musa insisted.
‘What can I tell you? There were hundreds of beautiful women, trained in all the arts of love and music; they knew a thousand and one ways to please their lord and master.’
‘The Khalifa?’
‘Of course, who else? Every woman who entered the Khalifa’s harem belonged to him and no-one else.’
As he said the words, he could hear the bitterness creep into his voice.
‘They were slaves?’
‘Indeed they were. Even if one of them wanted to leave she could not. The Khalifa would never permit it.’
Before the boys could start another stream of questions, he said, ‘Here, eat your churros and then you should be off. Is there no school today?’
He saw Musa blush. His nephew was a good boy and not able to tell a ready lie.
‘We’re going now, uncle. Come on Ahmed.’
The boys picked up the churros, doused it with honey and crammed it into their mouths.
‘Ma'a salama uncle,’ Musa said, honey dripping down his chin. ‘See you later.’
‘Goodbye, Hajj,’ Ahmed said, hurriedly eating the last piece of churros and following his friend.
Omar watched the boys skip down the road. If they hurried they would be in time for the first lesson of the day. He wished he had asked them what they were being taught these days. When he had been at school the curriculum was very strict: reading, writing, geometry, arithmetic, the Quran and the sayings of the Hadith. Everything in Arabic of course, although not many spoke it in the streets in those days; people retained the habit of speaking a variety of the local language among friends and family. That was normal. He signalled for the waiter to come over and paid him for the tea and churros. It was time he took some exercise. His doctor had said it was important to walk every day even if his knee was paining him. He would walk across the old Roman bridge and see if there were any fish in the river this morning. It was his favourite walk these days because he would stop half-way across and look back at the city of Córdoba and its beautiful mosque, towering against the skyline. This ancient city was once again the centre of power, his beloved Madinat al-Zahra abandoned and neglected since the young Hisham II had inherited the throne. Today the boy-Khalifa was isolated in Madinat al-Zahra, alone, living the life of a recluse, his city crumbling around him.
As he stood up a sharp pain shot through his knee and up his thigh. He grasped the ebony stick that he always carried with him these days and used it to propel himself forward. A wave of longing for his old home leapt to his breast. It had been years since he had visited Madinat al-Zahra yet there was never a day when he didn’t dream of its beautiful palaces and its fragrant gardens; when he closed his eyes he could still hear the sound of the fountains that fed the tranquil lakes and smell the orange blossom that used to grow outside his house. But he knew he could never return; the pain would be too great. The city lay only a couple of Arab miles to the west of Córdoba and yet it might as well have been in distant Arabia. Yes, there were many tales he could tell Musa about his days in Madinat al-Zahra.
CHAPTER 1
A VILLAGE IN SAXONY
The screams woke her. At first Isolde thought it was part of her dream but then she heard loud shouts and an enormous crash as the door to their hut was kicked open. The monstrous figure of a man filled the doorway. The axe in his hand glinted menacingly, its sharp blade glowing red from the flames of their neighbour’s burning house. Instinctively Isolde reached for her young brothers, lying curled up by her side. They too had heard the noise and whimpered in their half-waking state. Hans, the older of the two, sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The man shouted again. He wanted them to leave. Isolde could not move; she was paralysed with fear but her mother jumped up, wide awake and screaming. She rushed towards the man, beating at his breast with her hands. Nobody was going to harm her family. What she thought she could do against such a monster, who knew, but she was prepared to defend her children to the death. And that is exactly what she did. Isolde watched petrified, as the intruder picked up her mother as though she weighed no more than the bag of straw she used as a pillow and threw her against the wall. Her mother’s screams died in her throat as she slipped slowly to the ground, with barely a moan. The man strode into the room, knocking over their stove and kicking the animals out of his way. Again he shouted at them to leave. Isolde ran across to where her mother lay motionless, blood trickling down her face and soaking into the earthen floor of their home. Isolde wanted to help her but she didn’t know what to do. She tried shaking her gently.
‘Mama,‘ she cried. ‘Mama, wake up.’
There was no reply, no movement from her; she stared at her daughter with unseeing eyes.
‘Mama.’
Isolde shook her again, this time harder. Nothing. She did not move.
‘Mama,’ she cried again and again but her mother could not hear her.
By now, both Isolde’s brothers were awake and crying; they huddled together in the corner, their terrified eyes on her.
‘Isolde, what’s happening?’ the younger boy asked. ‘Who’s that man? What’s the matter with Mama?’
‘It’s all right; it’s all right. I’m here,’ she said, turning to them.
‘Out,’ the man said again, more loudly than ever and moved towards them.
Now Isolde knew who he was. He was a viking, a foreigner from across the sea. She began to tremble. They had all heard about the vikings; their infamy had spread far and wide. They were cruel, hard men who took what they wanted and killed anyone who got in their way. The man held the axe aloft and roared at them again, ‘Out.’
Isolde tried to move but she could not stop shaking. This could only mean one thing; like their mother, they were going to die. At last she managed to take control of her trembling legs and stood up, reaching for her brothers.
‘Come on boys. Here take my hand,’ she said.
She had to remain calm for their sake. She led them out into the yard and stopped in horror at the scene before her; it was a nightmare. The God of War himself had turned on them. The villagers’ wooden houses were in flames, their thatched roofs burning like bonfires and lighting up the night sky. Her friends and neighbours were herded together like animals in the village square. One woman sat on the ground, cradling her dead baby in her arms and wailing. What manner of men were they that they could kill an innocent baby she asked herself. The night air, normally home to the sounds of nothing more than a barn owl or the occasional howl of a wolf, was now filled with cries of pain and despair, the sound of the women’s anguish so strong it drowned the squeals and snorts of the terrified pigs that skittered around, desperately seeking an escape. Her neighbour’s donkey, the one she gave a tidbit to each morning, kicked against his stable door, braying in terror while chickens ran wildly around the yard, trying to avoid the vikings’ axes. People and animals alike were terrified.
Isolde stumbled forward, gasping. By now the air was thick with black smoke. She tried to cling to her brothers but one of the vikings pulled them away from her. They struggled to free themselves, kicking and screaming but he wound a length of rope around their wrists and tied them to the other children.
‘Isolde, don’t let him take us,’ her younger brother cried. ‘Don’t leave us. Don’t leave us.’
‘What about this one?’ the viking asked, pointing at Isolde.
The leader of the raiding party, a huge brute, with a long red beard, pulled her towards him and held a burning torch up to her face while he studied her. He wore a cloak of animal fur around his shoulders; she could smell the rank odour of the skins and twisted her head away, trying to pull out of his grasp. He was obviously a man of some importance because his cloak was fastened with an enormous double clasp of twisted gold and on his head he wore a helmet embellished with golden figures; he was a rich man, a powerful man but also a cruel one.
Isolde could feel her knees give way. She thought she would collapse with fear. The man continued to study her for a moment, turning her head first one way then the other.
‘Mmn. She’ll do. Put her with the other women for now. I think we’ll get a good price for this one, so don’t rough her up. I don’t want to see any marks on that pretty face. And keep the other men away from her; that’s an order. I don’t want her deflowered; a virgin brings a higher price and this one is destined for a king.’
A VILLAGE IN SAXONY
The screams woke her. At first Isolde thought it was part of her dream but then she heard loud shouts and an enormous crash as the door to their hut was kicked open. The monstrous figure of a man filled the doorway. The axe in his hand glinted menacingly, its sharp blade glowing red from the flames of their neighbour’s burning house. Instinctively Isolde reached for her young brothers, lying curled up by her side. They too had heard the noise and whimpered in their half-waking state. Hans, the older of the two, sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The man shouted again. He wanted them to leave. Isolde could not move; she was paralysed with fear but her mother jumped up, wide awake and screaming. She rushed towards the man, beating at his breast with her hands. Nobody was going to harm her family. What she thought she could do against such a monster, who knew, but she was prepared to defend her children to the death. And that is exactly what she did. Isolde watched petrified, as the intruder picked up her mother as though she weighed no more than the bag of straw she used as a pillow and threw her against the wall. Her mother’s screams died in her throat as she slipped slowly to the ground, with barely a moan. The man strode into the room, knocking over their stove and kicking the animals out of his way. Again he shouted at them to leave. Isolde ran across to where her mother lay motionless, blood trickling down her face and soaking into the earthen floor of their home. Isolde wanted to help her but she didn’t know what to do. She tried shaking her gently.
‘Mama,‘ she cried. ‘Mama, wake up.’
There was no reply, no movement from her; she stared at her daughter with unseeing eyes.
‘Mama.’
Isolde shook her again, this time harder. Nothing. She did not move.
‘Mama,’ she cried again and again but her mother could not hear her.
By now, both Isolde’s brothers were awake and crying; they huddled together in the corner, their terrified eyes on her.
‘Isolde, what’s happening?’ the younger boy asked. ‘Who’s that man? What’s the matter with Mama?’
‘It’s all right; it’s all right. I’m here,’ she said, turning to them.
‘Out,’ the man said again, more loudly than ever and moved towards them.
Now Isolde knew who he was. He was a viking, a foreigner from across the sea. She began to tremble. They had all heard about the vikings; their infamy had spread far and wide. They were cruel, hard men who took what they wanted and killed anyone who got in their way. The man held the axe aloft and roared at them again, ‘Out.’
Isolde tried to move but she could not stop shaking. This could only mean one thing; like their mother, they were going to die. At last she managed to take control of her trembling legs and stood up, reaching for her brothers.
‘Come on boys. Here take my hand,’ she said.
She had to remain calm for their sake. She led them out into the yard and stopped in horror at the scene before her; it was a nightmare. The God of War himself had turned on them. The villagers’ wooden houses were in flames, their thatched roofs burning like bonfires and lighting up the night sky. Her friends and neighbours were herded together like animals in the village square. One woman sat on the ground, cradling her dead baby in her arms and wailing. What manner of men were they that they could kill an innocent baby she asked herself. The night air, normally home to the sounds of nothing more than a barn owl or the occasional howl of a wolf, was now filled with cries of pain and despair, the sound of the women’s anguish so strong it drowned the squeals and snorts of the terrified pigs that skittered around, desperately seeking an escape. Her neighbour’s donkey, the one she gave a tidbit to each morning, kicked against his stable door, braying in terror while chickens ran wildly around the yard, trying to avoid the vikings’ axes. People and animals alike were terrified.
Isolde stumbled forward, gasping. By now the air was thick with black smoke. She tried to cling to her brothers but one of the vikings pulled them away from her. They struggled to free themselves, kicking and screaming but he wound a length of rope around their wrists and tied them to the other children.
‘Isolde, don’t let him take us,’ her younger brother cried. ‘Don’t leave us. Don’t leave us.’
‘What about this one?’ the viking asked, pointing at Isolde.
The leader of the raiding party, a huge brute, with a long red beard, pulled her towards him and held a burning torch up to her face while he studied her. He wore a cloak of animal fur around his shoulders; she could smell the rank odour of the skins and twisted her head away, trying to pull out of his grasp. He was obviously a man of some importance because his cloak was fastened with an enormous double clasp of twisted gold and on his head he wore a helmet embellished with golden figures; he was a rich man, a powerful man but also a cruel one.
Isolde could feel her knees give way. She thought she would collapse with fear. The man continued to study her for a moment, turning her head first one way then the other.
‘Mmn. She’ll do. Put her with the other women for now. I think we’ll get a good price for this one, so don’t rough her up. I don’t want to see any marks on that pretty face. And keep the other men away from her; that’s an order. I don’t want her deflowered; a virgin brings a higher price and this one is destined for a king.’