by Alys Clare
I wasn’t.
There were several river craft tied up along the quay and among them was one that I recognized. Her name was The Maid of the Marsh, and I had met her master when I’d tried to help a distressed noblewoman who had arrived in the town alone and troubled.3 At least, so I had believed when I’d met her. The Maid of the Marsh was the vessel on which she had arrived; a long, narrow craft, not large, with oars down her sides and a mast amidships. There was a big open space on her foredeck for cargo, already filling up. Any passengers she carried had to make shift as best they could on the deck, with no shelter other than what they could contrive for themselves.
As I approached, a short, sturdy man with a cheerful expression and a face creased with laughter lines called out. ‘Looking for me?’ he said.
‘Yes, I believe I am,’ I replied. ‘May I come aboard?’
‘Indeed you may.’ He waved his arm in an expansive gesture towards the narrow plank that provided access to the boat. ‘Watch your step, mind.’
I felt his eyes on me as I negotiated the plank and walked up the deck to where he perched, in the stern. ‘I know you,’ he said. ‘You came to seek me out before, with that big lawman.’
I’d been with Jack but I was trying very hard to forget the fact. ‘Yes. My name’s Lassair.’
‘Lassair!’ he repeated. ‘Yes, I remember. And I’m Alun.’
I grinned. ‘I remember that, too.’
‘What can I do for you?’
‘I need passage up to Lynn, and soon, if possible. Could you take me?’
‘Gladly. I’ll be leaving tonight. That soon enough for you?’
‘Yes,’ I said. Gurdyman had said we needed to depart with all speed, so if tonight was too soon for him that was just too bad.
‘Just yourself, is it?’ There was a definite twinkle of interest in the master’s eyes, and I recalled now that he was a bit of a flirt.
‘No, there will be two of us,’ I replied repressively.
‘You and that big lawman?’ I’d swear he winked at me.
‘Me and an elderly man,’ I said.
He muttered something that sounded like, ‘Shame!’ Then he said, ‘We leave at sunset. Be here in good time, then you can settle in the most sheltered spot, which is there.’ He pointed.
‘Thank you. Do I pay you now?’
He eyed the purse I was holding out. ‘No need,’ he said. ‘When you come aboard will do fine.’
I thanked him, made my careful way back across the plank and onto the quay and walked away.
So that was the first part of our journey arranged. The Maid of the Marsh would take us to Lynn, and after that some larger craft – a knarr? a cog? – would take us on the next stage. All the way to wherever we were bound, or would we have to change ships again? I recalled what little I knew about sea voyages, wishing it were more.
Why was Gurdyman being secretive? It alarmed me. But another aspect of his behaviour was providing greater cause for unease; I had noticed something about him, something I tried to tell myself was only in my imagination. But I didn’t believe my own denials.
Gurdyman was afraid.
Back in the passage outside the twisty-turny house, Hrype watched as Lassair hurried off. Then he let himself in and went down to the crypt.
He knew without a doubt that he would find Gurdyman there.
‘I imagine you’ve just dispatched her to find you a boat,’ he said. He looked around, taking in the very tidy shelves, the absence of any ongoing experiments or note-making on the long workbench, the books and scrolls packed away neatly in their chest and the large leather bag standing open on the floor. There was a thick woollen blanket taking up quite a lot of space in its base, on top of which were some items of personal linen and a soft suede purse. Gurdyman was in the act of folding an undershirt, tucking a small muslin bag of dried lavender between the folds. ‘I judge by all this activity that you really are going?’
‘Yes,’ Gurdyman confirmed without looking up from his task, ‘and as soon as we can.’ He glanced up. ‘As you rightly surmise, Lassair has indeed gone to arrange our passage up to the coast.’
‘You’ll take the sea route all the way?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Gurdyman replied on a sigh, ‘for we shall have to travel by road once we make landfall, and that will be quite sufficient. The longer walk is too much for me now. Also, we must travel by the fastest means.’
Hrype frowned thoughtfully. ‘You will sail to Corunna? You told me, as I recall, that it was the preferred port.’
‘You remember accurately. There are other ports closer but they are small and far less used, and we might find ourselves waiting too long for a ship to take us to them.’
Silence fell, interrupted only by the sound of Gurdyman’s soft leather slippers on the stone floor as he moved about the crypt, collecting various small items and stowing them in the leather bag. After some time, Hrype said, ‘You haven’t told her, have you?’
‘No.’
Hrype waited, but it seemed Gurdyman was not going to elaborate. ‘Don’t you think you should?’
‘It is nothing but the vaguest of suspicions!’ Gurdyman said tersely. ‘There are any number of perfectly sound and reasonable explanations.’
‘None of which you find the least convincing,’ Hrype said.
Gurdyman put down the pair of small phials he was holding and turned to stare at him. ‘You cannot know,’ he said. His tone was cold.
‘But I do,’ Hrype countered. ‘I know, old friend, because you are packing away your life’s work and preparing to set off on a journey to a far country at entirely the wrong time of the year, during which all the usual perils of travel await you, not to mention the particular one you so clearly fear.’
‘I don’t—’ Gurdyman began hotly.
‘You do.’ Hrype’s firm voice overrode him. ‘Even if you take the less strenuous sea route rather than going overland on foot, what you are undertaking is taxing for a man of your age.’ He paused. ‘And once you reach Corunna,’ he added quietly, ‘you will, as you just pointed out, have no choice but to walk, because the destinations for which you are bound lie inland; one of them by hundreds of miles.’
‘Less than three hundred,’ Gurdyman muttered.
‘Will you not think again?’ Hrype asked.
Gurdyman walked over to him, coming to a halt a pace or two away. ‘I have no choice,’ he said.
‘But to take her with you is surely—’
‘I have no choice over that, either,’ Gurdyman interrupted. ‘For one thing, I require her presence. As our experiences with Mercure demonstrated,4 a man such as he – as I – needs his anima.’
‘But she—’
Once again Gurdyman didn’t let him finish. ‘For another thing, Lassair needs to get right away. She is not herself, Hrype. She has suffered two devastating losses, three if you consider the child that was miscarried. Her spirit is gravely diminished and her powers are at present negligible.’
‘So why, then, do you insist on taking her if she will be no use to you?’ Hrype demanded angrily.
‘Because she will recover once she is away from here!’ Gurdyman shouted. ‘Don’t you see? It is being in this town, upon which is centred all the drama and the tragedy of recent events in her life, that is the problem! She is in a fugue, and it is as if she views the world and its potential through a dark and suppressing veil, and can no longer see it for what it is.’
‘And going on this journey with you, with all its inherent perils, will shock her out of this fugue?’
Gurdyman didn’t answer for a moment. Then he said, with utter conviction, ‘Yes.’
Hrype bowed his head. ‘So be it,’ he murmured. ‘I cannot after all stop you.’ He looked up again. ‘But I still think you should tell her about the dead vagrant.’
Gurdyman gave a groan of frustration. ‘Tell her what, precisely? That while she was away on her mission with her Norman a beggar died in the alley outside and was found propped agai
nst the wall beside my door? Finding dead beggars in the back alleys is a common occurrence, Hrype, as we all well know.’
‘But this one was different, wasn’t he?’ Hrype said silkily. ‘This one disturbed and scared you, so that when I visited you later that same day, you had taken to your bed over there’ – he indicated the mattress on its simple frame in the corner, its blankets folded at its foot, its pillows plumped and stacked – ‘and you were deathly pale, struggling for breath, and complained that your heart was leaping and jumping.’ He leaned closer. ‘You asked me to prepare a potion of belladonna, and even after you had taken it, still you felt weak and trembling.’
‘I had been overworking,’ Gurdyman said.
‘You had been working no harder than you usually do,’ Hrype replied. ‘Admit it, Gurdyman: the instant you inspected that dead man and saw what he clutched in his hand, you were struck with dread.’
‘He was a thief!’ Gurdyman protested. ‘He was probably a pickpocket, and had but recently robbed some rich townsman of the contents of his purse.’
‘He wasn’t much of a thief,’ Hrype observed. ‘He was searched, and he had but the one item on him,’ he went on relentlessly. Gurdyman made no reply. ‘One large, perfect pearl,’ Hrype added softly. ‘Held tight in the hand of a dead man, whose corpse was left outside the door of perhaps the one man in the town for whom such a jewel held significance.’
‘Coincidence,’ Gurdyman said.
‘A jewel that you took from him and hid away, so you told me, as if you could not bear to look at it,’ Hrype said very softly, as if Gurdyman hadn’t spoken. ‘And the dread is still here. It is present right now, in the crypt with the two of us like an extra presence, only this one is dark and filled with dangerous power.’
Gurdyman turned sharply to face him, but before Hrype had more than a glimpse of his expression he relaxed it into blandness.
Hrype went on looking at him, staring right into the bright blue eyes, and eventually Gurdyman looked away.
Hrype walked towards the steps leading up out of the crypt. ‘You are a stubborn old man,’ he said, ‘and you will not listen to the voice of reason.’
‘Reason, is it!’ Gurdyman cried.
‘It is. Moreover, you insist upon taking Lassair with you, and you tell me it is for her own good.’
‘I would have thought you, of all people, would be pleased to see the back of her!’ Gurdyman exclaimed. ‘She is hardly your favourite person, Hrype.’
Hrype stopped dead. He said nothing for a few moments, as if pausing to judge his reaction. Then in a cold voice he said, ‘You are right, and there have been times when I have resented her for over-confidence; for demonstrating far too clearly that she can do easily and without apparent effort what it took me years of endeavour to achieve. But if you think that means I’m glad to see her taken into peril by an old man who is putting his own need above hers, then you are mistaken.’
Then he ran lightly up the steps and off along the passage, and presently Gurdyman heard the bang of the street door as he slammed it behind him.
When I got back to the twisty-turny house, Gurdyman was putting the last few items in his capacious leather bag. I thought he looked a little pale; perhaps, now it came to the point, packing up his work and abandoning the crypt where he had lived and worked for so long was proving more stressful than he had anticipated.
If that was the case, then the sooner I broke the news about our imminent departure, the better. ‘I’ve arranged passage up to Lynn for us on a boat called The Maid of the Marsh,’ I said brightly, ‘and we’ll be setting out at sunset. Her master says we need to get there in good time so we can settle ourselves in a sheltered place.’
I wondered if he would protest; if he would say that this evening was far too soon and order me to go back and try again. But he merely nodded, smiled briefly and said, ‘Then you had better go out to the market square and forage for some food for us. I suggest we partake of a substantial meal now, and that we pack up provisions to take with us, for I doubt that we shall be able to purchase more until we reach Lynn.’ I turned to go. ‘And after that,’ he called after me, ‘you must pack your satchel, remembering to include the most frequently required remedies. Yes, I know you always carry a few supplies with you,’ he went on, before I could protest, ‘but on this occasion I think you should take as much as you have available.’ He indicated his own bag. ‘I have space to spare, and can probably pack anything you cannot fit in.’
I nodded. Suppressing the disturbing thought that this journey was all at once becoming far too real and immediate, I hurried on up the steps and went to do his bidding.
Gurdyman might have obeyed his own command and partaken of a hearty meal, but I had little appetite and only ate the small amount I did to please him. My mind had already turned to packing my satchel; to deciding which, among my meagre sum of personal possessions, I couldn’t bear to leave behind. My shawl – a long-ago gift from my sister Elfritha before she went to Chatteris to be a nun – went everywhere with me, usually wrapped round me or bundled up on the top of my satchel. It is of fine wool, soft even from the time of its making at my sister’s hands but now, after years of wear, even more so. It is in shades of green, which she knew were my favourites. I would also take the shining stone in the leather pouch I made for it when I became its guardian. Then there was the collection of small bottles and jars that I always carry, and that contain the most frequently required remedies. A collection of pieces of old linen, worn with age, laundered and neatly folded, for bandages. A pewter spoon that my little brother Leir found and solemnly presented to me. A horn comb made by my brother Haward. A clean cap and a change of underlinen. The thick, warm cloak that Jack had given me. Don’t think about Jack.
And that was more or less all.
I glanced round my little attic and my eyes fell on the bed. Blanket! I really should not set off without a blanket, and a good, warm one at that. I folded the best one into a strip and then rolled it, tying the roll with several lengths of strong twine (another useful item to take on a journey). I ought to be able to carry it across the top of my satchel or, if we encountered cold weather, wrapped around my body.
When I had finished – and tidied and swept out the room for good measure so as to leave all in good order – I sat down on the floor and wondered what to do next. Looking out through the little window, I judged that it was still an hour or two before sunset. I tried to think of something to occupy my thoughts but for once I couldn’t. All I could see in my mind’s eye were the faces of the people I loved and who I would be leaving behind. For an undefined length of time.
For a while I let the images come. Better to do it now, I thought, and to shed my cowardly tears where there was no witness. Then I dried my eyes, picked up my satchel and my cloak and went down the ladder to seek out Gurdyman.
We left the twisty-turny house as the sun was falling down the western sky. Like me, Gurdyman had been determined to leave everything neat and tidy, and the old house shone with cleanliness and order. He locked the door, tucking the big iron key away in his bag.
I hated to think of the house, left all by itself during our absence. ‘Will nobody go in while we’re away?’
He turned to me with a smile. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said gently, and I sensed that he understood my question perfectly well because he felt the same way himself. ‘There is another key,’ he added, ‘left in the hands of someone I trust.’
He didn’t say who, and I didn’t ask.
We walked at a steady pace through the alleyways, out onto the road and towards the bridge. I couldn’t bear to look towards the castle, and Jack. I kept my eyes down, watching my boots fall one by one onto the track, sending up little puffs of dust with every step. And then we were going down the steps to the quay and, on the deck of The Maid of the Marsh, Alun was waiting for us. He traversed the gangplank with the casual ease of someone who did it several times a day and took our bags, depositing them on board before returning
to offer Gurdyman his hand. Too sensible to be proud, Gurdyman took it. I followed him.
‘If you want my advice,’ Alun said as he put the coins Gurdyman had just given him away in his purse, ‘I’d settle yourselves over there.’ He pointed to a place beneath the boat’s high side a little forward of where the mast rose up, immediately behind a pair of barrels and a large stack of bulging sacks. ‘The piles of cargo will provide you with some shelter, and if it rains, as it well might, you can rig up a shelter over the angle formed between the sacks and the side of the boat.’ He indicated. ‘You’ll be clear of the oars there and you won’t have to keep leaping out of the way.’
Gurdyman was nodding, clearly seeing the sense of the suggestion, and swiftly we claimed our spot and settled down. The early evening was mild, with only a light breeze blowing off the water. I folded up my blanket and sat on it, keeping my cloak handy for when the temperature dropped. Gurdyman didn’t speak, and I could think of nothing to say.
A few more passengers came aboard. A man and his wife, the man with an angry, resentful expression, as if the prospect of the journey was not to his liking; a woman with a small child; two men in the dark garb and cowled robes of monks. There was a steady increase in activity as the crew prepared for our departure. An air of busy efficiency crept over the boat. Then, as the bright oranges and pinks of the sunset splashed brilliantly across the deep blue sky, men on the shore let go the fore and aft mooring ropes, others on the boat pushed us away from the quay with long poles, the oarsmen bent over their oars and, slowly at first but gaining pace with surprising speed, The Maid of the Marsh set off for the coast.
THREE
We went on for hours, until long after it was fully dark. I slipped into a doze, and would have gone into deep sleep had it not been for the woman with the child, who came over to our sheltered corner and asked if she and the infant could share it because the child was cold. I moved over and made room for her, and we put the infant – a little boy – between us to keep him safe and warm. Lying on my blanket, with our two cloaks and her blanket over us, we were snug and as comfortable as it’s possible to be on a hard wooden deck. Some time later I was woken again and I stayed awake long enough to register that we had stopped, and that the crew were settling for what was left of the night.
