by Alys Clare
But my mother was nodding. ‘Yes, yes, I know! He was there two days ago, and the news was spreading like fire in a hayrick. The dead nun’s from Chatteris!’
Chatteris Abbey is a small foundation of Benedictine nuns, neither very wealthy nor very important. There are perhaps twenty nuns there, maybe twenty-five. And one of them is my beloved sister Elfritha.
I heard the echo of those desperate words. I need you! I braced myself to face the horrible possibility that they had come from my sister.
We hurried home again, and the news must have reached even the outlying lands of the village, for all the family were back.
My father said firmly, ‘We have no reason at all to believe that anything has happened to Elfritha. She is one of a score, so the chances are slim.’
Slim, perhaps, but they could not be discounted.
‘I thought she’d be safe in her convent!’ my mother sobbed. ‘Life is hard and full of many dangers, and it was my one great consolation, when she went away to shut herself up with the nuns, that she’d be safe!’
‘She probably is perfectly safe,’ my father said. I thought he sounded less certain than he had before.
There was only one way to find out. Someone would have to go to the abbey and ask. Dreading that this was indeed the answer to the mysterious summons, I said, ‘I will go to Chatteris. I’ll set out straight away, and I ought to get there tomorrow.’
There was a chorus of protests, mainly from my father and Haward and mainly to the effect that I ought not to go off travelling alone when there was a murderer about. I held up my hands, and my family fell silent.
‘It makes sense for me to go,’ I said calmly. ‘For one thing, any of you would have to get Lord Gilbert’s permission to leave the village, whereas he doesn’t know I’m here so I’m free to come and go as I like.’ It was a rare luxury for people like us, and I was not surprised to receive one or two envious glances. Lord Gilbert believed I was in Cambridge; he had given permission for me to go and study there because, as Edild and Hrype had explained when they went with me to present my case, the more I learned, the more use I would be in the village. Lord Gilbert undoubtedly believed I was being taught further healing methods. Neither my aunt nor Hrype mentioned the other skills that my new teacher possessed in such abundance, and I certainly wasn’t going to.
‘For another thing,’ I went on, ‘I’m used to travelling and I know how to look after myself.’ I tapped the knife I keep at my belt.
I could now protect myself in other ways, too; Gurdyman had already taught me many things besides the first rudiments of alchemy. But I did not think it wise to reveal this to my family.
There was a short silence. Then my mother looked at my father, and even from where I sat I could read the appeal in her eyes.
‘So I am to risk the safety of one daughter in order to set your mind at rest concerning another?’ my father muttered. He turned his eyes from my mother and looked at me, and I read such love in his face that I felt tears smart. I blinked them away and gave him a smile.
‘You truly are prepared to do this?’ he asked.
‘I am, Father.’
He sighed heavily. ‘My heart misgives me, and I want more than anything to go with you,’ he said. ‘But I cannot.’ His eyes fell, and I had a strong sense of his sudden hatred for his lot: if he followed his powerful desire to look after me, he would risk his livelihood, his home and the well-being of all the other people who depended on him.
It was not easy for people like us.
I went over to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘I will be quite safe, Father,’ I said quietly. ‘It is, as you say, most unlikely that Elfritha has come to harm. As soon as I know she is safe, I will send word.’
His only answer was to take hold of my hand and squeeze it, so hard that it hurt.
I set out for Chatteris while there still remained some hours of daylight. The sky was clear and the weather continued to be mild; I had no fear that a night in the open would do me any harm. My mother packed food for me and a leather flask of small beer, and Zarina rolled up a light blanket. I was dressed for travelling, having journeyed from Cambridge, and had my heavy cloak with its deep hood. The leather satchel that I always carry contained the personal items that I would require, as well as a freshly-replenished basic stock of medicaments. A healer is always a healer, wherever she is, and must be prepared to give aid whenever she is asked.
We said our goodbyes inside the house. It seemed sensible not to make a big public display, which would have got people talking. I didn’t think anybody had taken any particular notice of me so far; I was dressed sombrely and from a distance probably looked just like everyone else. There was no need to suspect Lord Gilbert had been informed of my presence in the village.
I embraced my family and, with the impression of their loving kisses still on my cheek and the sight of their anxious faces before my eyes, slipped out of the house and quietly left the village. I saw no one except in the distance, and none of those still working the fields and the fen edge took any notice of me. Soon I had left Aelf Fen behind and, as I trod the road that would curve in a long loop around the southern edge of the fens and then north again to Chatteris, I could have been alone in the world.
I made good time, setting my feet to a marching rhythm and humming to myself to keep my spirits up. I told myself that my sister couldn’t possibly be dead, since she had called out to me for help. I didn’t allow myself to consider that the sort of summons I had received could equally well have been sent by a dead spirit as a living one. I kept saying to myself, Elfritha is safe! She’s safe! and the words wove themselves into the pattern of my footsteps. After a while I thought I saw a familiar shape out of the corner of my eye: perceiving my need, Fox had come to keep me company and was silently pacing along beside me.
Until I realized this, I hadn’t let myself face my fear of the coming night. With my animal spirit guide at my side, my dream – if it came – would not be so terrifying.
When at last the light began to fade, I looked around for a place to sleep. I had passed the landward end of the Wicken promontory now and taken a short cut that I knew across the marshes to the north of Cambridge. Some years ago I’d had to find a similar safe path from the island of Ely to the mainland, and I’d discovered that it’s actually quite easy to do if you’re in the right frame of mind. I think it’s part of being a dowser, and that’s a skill I’ve had most of my life. It seems that, in addition to being able to find underground water and lost brooches, I can also trace the line of the firm ground through the fens.
Now, not wanting to settle for the night out on the marsh – it’s far too wet, for one thing, and you’d wake up very soggy – I turned southwards and was soon clambering up a steep bank to the higher, drier ground. Presently, I came to an outlying hamlet. It was almost fully dark now, and the small group of mean-looking dwellings showed no lights. I made out the ragged shape of a tumbledown hay barn and crept inside. The hay was old and smelt a bit musty, but I heaped it up against the most solid-looking of the walls and reckoned that, with my blanket and cloak, I would be snug enough.
I decided I could risk a little light, so set a stump of tallow candle on a patch of ground from which I’d carefully removed all the stray bits of hay, and struck my flint. The warm, yellow glow showed that the barn was even more dilapidated than I’d thought, and I thanked my guardian spirits for a fine night. I opened the pack of food and ate hungrily; I hadn’t realized how famished I was.
I had almost finished when I heard a low growl from out of the shadows. Alarmed, I raised the candle and saw a black and white bitch slowly advancing on me. She had a wall eye and held her head turned slightly to one side so as to look at me out of the good eye. I spoke some quiet words – Hrype had taught me how to disarm angry animals – and she gave a soft wuff. I twisted off a small piece of the dried meat from my food pack and held it out to her. She walked slowly up to me and, with a gentle mouth, took it from my
fingers. I smoothed my hand over her head, still speaking the spell, and soon she came to lie beside me. When I finally curled up to sleep, it was with the wall-eyed bitch at my back and, as I closed my eyes, the last thing I saw was Fox pacing to and fro in front of me.
I don’t know whether it was my fatigue or the presence of my two animal companions: either way, I slept without dreaming. However, when I woke at first light I heard the echo of those words ringing in my head: come to me! I need you!
With a new urgency driving me on, I got up, packed up my little camp, brushed the hay from my clothes and, with an affectionate farewell to my wall-eyed bitch, set off again.
Quite soon I came on a busy road leading roughly north-westwards, and I guessed it was the route leading out of Cambridge that skirts the fenlands to the west. I cadged a ride with an elderly woman driving a small cart pulled by a mule and laden with brushwood, advising her on how to treat the stiffness in her poor, twisted hands in exchange. I gave her a small bottle of Edild’s remedy, explaining that she must rub it into her joints each morning and evening. She looked at me sceptically, but I just smiled; the remedy would work, I knew it.
She dropped me off close to where the ferries run across to Chatteris, on its little island. Feeling increasingly apprehensive, I walked the last half a mile and waited at the fen edge until a boatman tied up at the quayside. We bartered for a while and then settled on a fare, and he rowed me over the water to my destination.
I’d visited the abbey several times before. The nuns of Elfritha’s order keep themselves to themselves in general, although they do have a small infirmary where they treat outsiders, and their refectory hands out food from time to time. Not that the food is anything to get excited about: vowed to poverty as they are, the nuns eat very plainly and very sparsely.
My boatman was a taciturn man whose face wore a permanent frown, and I was disinclined to ask him if he knew about the murder. If the news was bad – I was praying as hard as I knew how that it wouldn’t be, even though I appreciated that not being bad for us meant it was bad for some other family – I didn’t want to hear it from a grumpy boatman.
The crossing did not take long. I paid my fare and clambered up on to the quay, stopping at the top of the stone steps to take in the view. There were two or three rows of shabby dwellings, undoubtedly housing those few families who managed to survive on the island, either by ferrying people to and from the abbey or by providing fish and other basic necessities to the nuns. In the distance, the track wound away through some fields and a bit of sparse scrubland before eventually losing itself in the muddy, marshy margins of the surrounding fen. The abbey dominated the scene, although in truth there wasn’t much to dominate and it wasn’t much of an abbey. Its high walls were interrupted by a pair of stout gates facing the track, and above them could be seen the roof-lines of the various abbey buildings, tallest of which was the church. I knew from visits to my sister that there was also a huddle of buildings around the cloister, consisting of refectory, chapter house, dormitories, infirmary and one or two others whose function I was not aware of. Chatteris was a pretty desolate spot, and it had always come as a surprise to discover that my sister and her fellow nuns were by and large a happy, cheerful lot. Perhaps that was the reward you got for giving your life to God.
I realized straight away that the mood was very different from on my previous visits. There were clutches of locals huddled together, muttering and looking around them with fearful glances. Everyone seemed on edge, and one or two people stared suspiciously at me. Having no idea of what dangers might lie before me, I didn’t want to be conspicuous. Pretending that I needed to adjust my small pack, I stopped at the entrance to a dark little alleyway leading off the main track and prepared my defences.
Hrype told me that it’s actually quite easy to become invisible. You don’t actually do so, of course – or, at least, he might be able to, but such high magic is far beyond me. It’s a matter of taking the time to study the scene – what sort of mood predominates, how the local people look, how they wear their clothes, how they move – and then slowly and steadily thinking yourself into looking just like them. You can, of course, make small alterations to your clothing if you like, but it’s more a question of feeling like the rest of the crowd. That day, I could see that people were moving furtively, keeping their heads down, glancing over their shoulders as their fear got the better of them. When I was ready, I stepped out into the street and merged with them. I hope it doesn’t sound arrogant if I say that I don’t think anybody recognized me for the stranger I was.
I had noticed already that the abbey gates were closed. This was a blow: I had expected to walk in like I usually did and ask the gatekeeper nun if I could see my sister. I wondered what I should do. I had a perfect right to enquire after Elfritha, and surely many of the anxious people standing outside the gates had come here for the same purpose. I was on the point of stepping out from the place where I had paused, beneath the shade of a stand of alders, but some instinct held me back. I am learning to trust my instincts, and it is as Gurdyman, Edild and Hrype all tell me: the more you listen to these inner promptings, the better they will work for you.
I tried to work out why I should keep hidden. If Elfritha was unharmed, then surely it did not matter if it became known that I was there? But if she was the murderer’s victim – she’s not, she’s NOT! I cried silently – then it might be a different matter . . .
I stood in an agony of indecision. Finally, I could bear it no longer. Any answer, even the one I so feared to hear, would be better than this terrible uncertainty. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders and was about to step out in the open when firm, strong fingers grasped my arm and a big hand went over my mouth. There was a harsh whisper in my ear – ‘No, do not show yourself!’ – and I was pulled backwards, deeper into the shady space under the trees.
My heart thumping, I twisted my mouth free of that hard hand and turned round to face my assailant.
FOUR
It was Hrype.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ I hissed angrily. ‘You’ve cut my lip!’ I put my fingers to my mouth and held them up, bloody, right in his face.
‘I am sorry, Lassair,’ he said softly. ‘I had to stop you, but I hope you know I did not mean to hurt you.’
I muttered something, still cross with him. Then, my curiosity piqued, I said, ‘Why did you have to stop me? Don’t you understand why I’m here? A nun’s been killed and this is Elfritha’s abbey!’ In case he had missed the point, I added in an anguished hiss, ‘She’s my sister!’
For the first time the reality of the situation hit me. Perhaps it was because, now that I was no longer alone, I could let my defences slip a little. I felt tears form in my eyes, and I brushed them away.
He must have seen, for he took hold of my hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘I know,’ he said soothingly. ‘We will find out what has happened as soon as we can, although I do not believe—’ He stopped.
He did not believe what? That Elfritha was the murderer’s victim? I turned to him, words of urgent appeal bubbling up, but he shook his head. ‘Do not ask,’ he said, ‘for as yet I cannot be sure.’
Suddenly, I felt faint. I saw big black spots before my eyes, and I thought I was going to vomit. Hastily, Hrype pushed me down to the ground and made me put my head between my knees. ‘Take deep, slow breaths,’ he commanded.
I kept seeing Elfritha’s face. Sweet-natured, gentle, and by far the nicer of my two sisters, Elfritha would have made a wonderful wife and mother to some lucky family, only from a very young age she knew she belonged to the Lord. I have never told her, but from the day she left to enter Chatteris Abbey, there has always been a bit of a hole in my life.
I was feeling better. I raised my head – slowly – and looked up at Hrype. ‘What do you suggest we do?’
He lowered himself down to sit beside me and, leaning close so that he could speak very quietly, said, ‘There are things I must tell you.�
� He paused, gathering his thoughts. ‘There are – rumours, of a fanatic of the new religion who has not the tolerance of some of his fellows.’
Yes, so Sibert had suggested. I did not say so aloud. It had been, I supposed, only a matter of time. We who still honoured the old ways were open-minded. I, for example, had developed a growing love for the saviour god of the Christians, and I understood how appealing it was to believe you had a loving, stalwart friend constantly at your side, encouraging you always to do the good thing – one who, whilst he was sad when you let him down, was ever ready to forgive if you were genuinely sorry. But our tolerant attitude did not appear to be shared by the priests of the new religion, who seemed to take the view that they and only they were permitted to know the true nature of the god of us all and reserved the exclusive right to approach him. This, I guessed, was how they had been able to make themselves so very important to the people to whom they ministered. It had been shrewd, I reflected, to tell the people that their god was all-powerful and ever-present, but so mysterious that his word could only be read by those vowed to his service, who would pass on to their flock only as much as they felt the flock ought to know.
God may well be powerful, I mused, but it seemed to me that the true power rested with his priests. And, for all that they said King William was irreligious, even pagan – although I do not understand what people mean by that term – it was all too apparent that the priesthood’s hold on the consciences of men was steadily tightening . . .
‘A fanatic?’ I prompted Hrype, who was deep in thought and frowning.
‘Hmm? Yes. He is newly arrived at Chatteris. He was the confessor at Crowland, shut up out there with the monks on their lonely, muddy island, but the monastery was destroyed last year. They are rebuilding it, of course,’ he said with a faint sigh, ‘but for the time being, their priest has been moved to Chatteris. He is acting like the new broom of the old saying, sweeping vigorously into secret corners that it would be better to leave alone.’ Hrype paused. ‘I have been investigating him. I did once encounter him, for I had . . . business at Crowland some time ago.’ He clearly did not want to elaborate, and I wasn’t going to ask. ‘I needed to find out more, however, so I spoke to some of the serving men at Crowland, and I have learned much about this priest. He is utterly single-minded in his faith, and he does not baulk at using the most rigorous methods to persuade others to obey his god.’ He gave a brief, rueful smile. ‘They said at Crowland he was as hard on himself as on any of those whose souls were entrusted to him, for he fasted regularly and burdened himself with a heavy wooden cross slung around his neck as a constant reminder of his Lord’s suffering. He is – a powerful man.’
