Music of the Distant Stars

by Alys Clare

  I took a breath to steady myself. ‘You want me to become a bard.’ There. I’d said it. I felt my face, neck and throat flush with the sudden rush of hot blood.

  ‘No, Lassair,’ Granny said softly.

  I hung my head, shame flooding me. How had I dared to presume to take on Granny’s role, to think I could fill the shoes of one such as her? Why—

  ‘Look at me.’

  I made myself meet Granny Cordeilla’s eyes. They were crinkled up in a smile, and she was looking at me with such love that a sob broke out of me. Her hand made a small movement where it lay on the clean linen sheet and, realizing what she wanted, I took it between mine. Hers was cool.

  ‘So warm,’ she murmured, her fingers entwining with mine. Then she said, ‘You do not need to become a bard, Lassair. You have a very good memory, and all the skill you will require runs in your blood, for you are my granddaughter and Leir the Bard was your kinsman.’ She paused, a faraway look on her face as if she saw things I could not see. ‘Every one of us,’ she went on, ‘Leir, me, you, all the other extraordinary storytellers, singers and poets in the family, are descended from Ligach the Pearl Maiden of the Fens, the most famous bard of all time. Her talent was bestowed on her by the gods,’ Granny added with pride thrumming in her voice, ‘and she sang before kings.’

  I could not speak. Yes, I’d had an inkling that Granny was going to say it was up to me to take on the bard role, but I’d thought it was because, out of all the family, it was I who clamoured most frequently to hear her tales. I’d never dreamed I would be commanded to take my place as the latest in this long family line of illustrious ancestors.

  It was quite a lot to take in.

  Granny squeezed my fingers again, then let me go. ‘You’ll get used to the idea,’ she said briskly. Then, wrapping her shawl more closely around her thin shoulders, she flapped her hand in dismissal and told me to send in my brother.

  I only had one more conversation with her after that. Then she died.

  I don’t know how long I stood there staring down into Granny’s grave. It felt like an age, but I don’t suppose it was very long really. I couldn’t stop myself from speaking to her, calling out to her, even though I knew she couldn’t hear me.

  ‘Granny, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry!’ I sobbed. ‘We should have stayed with you, then this – this desecration wouldn’t have happened! Oh, who did this to you?’

  I paused, my grief overcoming me. It was such a recent loss, and I was still raw, for I had loved my Granny Cordeilla very much. Doing everything just right had been a consolation; the funerary rites had eased the pain, as I imagine is their purpose. But, oh, now this awful thing had happened, and everything was spoiled, we’d have to—

  It was a sort of miracle, I suppose; I heard – or thought I heard – Granny’s voice.

  It’s not your fault, child, she said, softly but firmly. It sounded as if she was speaking from a long way away, and almost at once I realized I wasn’t hearing through my ears but right inside my head. Stop standing there howling and pull yourself together! That was typical Granny, so much so that I smiled and a sort of snorty laugh broke out of me. Funeral rites are for the living, she went on decisively, and although I’m grateful for what you have all done, it is not that important, certainly not enough for you to get in such a lather about.

  ‘Not important?’ I cried, amazed and shocked. ‘But—’

  Don’t interrupt, Granny said. Child, think about what is important.

  I thought. ‘Your grave has been violated,’ I began, ‘and—’

  Nonsense, Granny interrupted. That doesn’t matter, as I’m no longer there.

  Shock after shock; whatever did she mean, she was no longer there? Did that imply that none of them remained with us, all those beloved, honoured ancestors?

  I swear I heard Granny sigh. Lassair, we will never leave you, she said patiently. But listen, child! What did you see in the grave with me?

  ‘Another body,’ I whispered, the horror flooding through me all over again.

  Yes, quite, Granny said testily. I thought she added, At last!

  ‘But it’s got no right to be there in your special place!’ I protested. ‘This is our island, for our people!’

  Death is death, Granny answered. This poor soul died too soon, and the corpse has been hidden here. That is not right, Lassair.

  ‘Died too soon,’ I repeated softly. ‘A corpse hidden in someone else’s grave, where but for the small mistake of leaving the stone slab slightly out of place, nobody would ever have found it . . .’

  Because, of course, if someone had slipped a body in with Granny then it was very likely that the poor dead soul hadn’t died of natural causes in his or her own bed. It was eminently likely that this was a murder victim, and that the killer had cruelly and cynically used my Granny’s grave as a convenient hiding place.

  I had found the body. It was up to me to act.

  I pushed the slab back in place, placed my flower wreath over Granny’s head and then, in some haste, I’m afraid, said my prayers and made my pleas for her soul.

  Then I packed up my satchel, fastened it and, gathering up my skirts and clutching my shawl, fled across the wooden walkway and raced back to Aelf Fen.

  TWO

  I only saw one person on my headlong flight to the safety of home. I was about halfway back to the village. I’d just run past a clump of willows when I heard the sound of someone weeping; a man, I thought. The sounds were gruff and full of pain.

  I am a healer, or at least I am training to be one, under the tuition of my aunt Edild and a strange man called Hrype, who is a cunning man and the father of my friend Sibert. Even trainee healers know they must not ignore those who suffer. I stopped and, very cautiously, approached the willows.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I called softly.

  The weeping ceased abruptly. Nothing happened for a few moments, then two thick-leaved branches parted and someone crept out.

  It was a man, or I suppose that is what you would call him, for although he is fully grown and perhaps eighteen or twenty years old, his mind is that of a child. His body is misshapen under an over-large head, and his poor face is lopsided. I knew who he was; I had good reason to. I held out my hand, smiling, and said, ‘It’s all right, Derman. It’s me, Lassair. Come with me and I’ll take you home. Have you had breakfast?’ He risked a quick glance at me, his deep-set eyes furtive, drew the back of one hand across his nose and shook his heavy, lolling head. ‘Then you must be hungry,’ I went on briskly. ‘Come on, we’ll walk fast, then you’ll have something to eat all the sooner!’

  Talk of food distracted him, as I hoped it would. For the length of time it took to reach the village, we amused ourselves describing what we most liked to eat. Not that he contributed much to the conversation, for his stock of words is paltry and those he does know he pronounces oddly, as if his tongue were far too large for his mouth. By the time I led him up to his door, he was smiling again, and the only reminders of his tears were the streaks of dirt on his face and the snot coming out of his nose.

  Derman is a cross we are going to have to bear, for it looks as if he is going to become part of our family. My brother Haward is finally sweet on a girl, and we all have a shrewd idea that there could be a marriage before too long and a new bride in the house. It’s high time Haward was wed; he is nineteen, and although he has a kind heart, gentle ways and a handsome face, he has never sought out the pretty girls with the rest of the young men of the village because of his stammer. It wasn’t just that people made fun of him – although, of course, they did – it was also that if he ever met a girl he liked, some other lad would have charmed her with his silken tongue and led her away while poor Haward was still struggling to say h–h–h–h–hello.

  Zarina isn’t like the other girls, either in our village or any other in the vicinity. She isn’t really like anyone. She’s got hair so black it almost looks blue, and her eyes are a greenish-gold colour that changes accor
ding to what she’s wearing. Her skin is smooth and silky, the colour of pale oak wood. She’s only a year or so older than me, but she seems ancient, somehow, as if she’s seen a lot and has had to learn how to look after herself. Haward met her at the Lammas Fair, where she was in the company of a group of travelling entertainers. It was unclear whether or not they were her kin, but either way she had no compunction about staying behind when they moved on – she’d met Haward by then – and now she lodges with an elderly widow in the village and spends her days doing laundry. If – when – she marries my brother, she’ll make an interesting addition to the family.

  Zarina, however, comes at a price, and that price is her brother Derman. I don’t know how Haward feels about his prospective brother-in-law, for we have not spoken on the subject. Knowing Haward as I do, I imagine he will readily make room in his life for poor Derman if it means he can marry his beloved Zarina. My brother is full of what the Christians say characterized Jesus Christ: a sort of all-encompassing loving kindness that accepts people for who and what they are. Had Derman been evil, malicious, spiteful or sinful, it might have been a different matter, but what ails him is not his fault – Zarina says he was born that way – and Haward is not likely to hold such misfortune against him. If Haward and Zarina marry – and I am all but sure they will – then the family and the rest of Aelf Fen will just have to make the best of it and accept Derman, even if he does look like a gargoyle and frighten little children. Zarina has implied that he cannot support himself and, as she is apparently the only living relative who cares whether he lives or dies, it is up to her to take charge of him. I suppose we’ll get used to him, given time.

  I handed Derman into the care of his sister – our knock on the door must have woken Zarina, for she answered it with loose, tumbled hair, a sleepy expression and a tattered old shift clutched loosely around her body, and even under those circumstances she looked absolutely lovely – and, waving aside her thanks, I hurried away.

  Edild was already up. She was stirring the breakfast porridge as I arrived and I noticed bread and a pot of honey on the table; she knew I would not have broken my fast before I set out, and clearly she wished to have food ready for my return.

  One look at my face told her something was wrong.

  ‘What?’ The single word cut the tense silence in the tidy, fragrant little house.

  Swiftly, I told her. Her face went pale, and her eyes widened in shock. Without another look at the carefully-prepared meal that lay waiting for us, she grabbed my arm and dragged me back along the track to the burial island.

  We did not speak as we hurried along. Sometimes we ran, then we would slacken our pace for a while and reduce it to a fast walk. When we crossed the planks on to the island, both of us were red-faced and sweaty. I knew, even before Edild laid a restraining hand on my arm, that this was no way to approach my grandmother’s grave. We helped each other, Edild rearranging my hair and I hers, each of us straightening the other’s robe as best we could. Edild took a large, folded square of linen from her sash, and we both wiped our faces. By now our breathing was almost back to normal; my aunt took my hand, and together we stepped up to the stone slab.

  We each took a corner and pushed hard. The slab moved quite readily; I recalled that earlier I’d managed to put it back in its rightful position by myself, and it was, naturally, much easier with two. Then we stared down into the grave.

  I heard Edild mutter something – a prayer, an incantation, I did not know – as gently, lovingly, her hand dropped on to Granny’s brow in a caress. Then, the due observance of the grave’s rightful occupant accomplished, Edild turned to look at the interloper. Kneeling right beside her, I now took in the details that my horrified eyes had slid past the first time.

  The second body was quite short, wrapped in a length of grubby cloth that looked like cheap, coarse linen. The cloth seemed to have been knotted clumsily around the body’s waist, for it made a bulge that was not in keeping with the narrow shoulders and the slight build. Was it a youth or a young woman? It could have been either . . .

  Edild was carefully unfastening the linen, concentrating on the head. Soon she had uncovered the hair – which was a chestnut shade, long, glossy and curly – and then the face.

  The young woman had been comely. Not beautiful, perhaps, for her cheeks were round and her mouth was wide and full. I knew, from that very first look, that this girl would have been fun. Young as she was – she must have been about my age, and I was just seventeen – already there were laughter lines around her eyes and the suggestion of dimples in her cheeks. Alive, she would have been the sort of girl who smiled readily and convulsed into giggles at the least excuse.

  And now she lay dead in my grandmother’s grave.

  I swallowed the sob that threatened to burst out of me and made myself concentrate on what Edild was doing. She had gathered up the folds of linen at the head of the corpse and, in response to her nod, I did the same at the feet. Then, very carefully, we raised the body and laid it on the ground beside the stone slab.

  Outside the narrow confines of the grave, it was much easier to remove the enshrouding linen. Quickly, Edild untied the knots that bound it and folded it out of the way. Now we could study the girl’s clothing. She wore a gown of faded red, beautifully sewn with embroidered borders at the neck and cuffs, the colours of the silks chosen by an expert eye. The gown was not new, for not only had the fabric faded but, in addition, it was too tight for her. Her full breasts strained against the cloth, and she had recently let out the waist, where bright-red darts showed up to indicate she had altered the seams. Her hands lay folded over her stomach, and I was about to point out to Edild something I had just noticed when I was struck by something far, far more important.

  I raised my eyes and looked at my aunt. She, too, had seen; I knew it from her face.

  ‘Two people lie dead here on the grass, Lassair,’ she said quietly.

  I nodded, too sad to speak.

  The young woman had been pregnant.

  I was sent back to the village for help, leaving my aunt sitting on the ground beside the young woman and the child that swelled her belly. As I hurried away I could hear Edild’s sweet, soft voice in a lament. It was a comfort, if only a small one, for had it been me lying there, I could think of nobody I’d rather have to plead for me with those who take in the souls of the dead.

  I dried my tears and forced myself to walk faster. I had a job to do, and there was no time for sentiment.

  I wanted very much to run for my parents’ home. I no longer lived there – it was more practical to live with Edild, in the place where we both worked – but all the same, I saw my parents and my brothers regularly. Particularly in the recent days since Granny’s death; mourning her as we did, it seemed that we had all moved closer, as if to try to fill the huge gap she had left. I would have given much, just then, to be able to fly to my home and throw myself in my father’s strong arms while my mother made me something soothing and comforting to eat.

  I could not do that. Instead I turned off the track to the village and headed for Lakehall.

  Lakehall is where the lord of our manor lives. His name is Lord Gilbert de Caudebec, and he’s fat, easy-going and not very bright. He is married to Lady Emma, whose intelligence far outstrips that of her husband. Fortunately for us, she’s a good woman. Lord Gilbert and Lady Emma have two little children, and there’s a rumour going around in Aelf Fen that she is expecting a third. The rumour is accurate. Healers get to know these things, although of course neither Edild nor I would dream of breaking a professional confidence.

  The villagers do not, in the normal way of things, see very much of either the lord or the lady. If we have business at the manor, we speak to the reeve. His name is Bermund, and he is a fair but withdrawn man of early middle age and unprepossessing appearance, being very tall and thin with a sort of poky, pointy face. My little brother Squeak says he looks like an anxious rat. As I hurried into the courtyard, Bermund
was emerging from one of the outbuildings.

  He saw me, stopped, sniffed and said, ‘Yes? Is it about the eels?’

  My father, as I have said, is an eel catcher and so, seeing me, I suppose it was a natural assumption. There’s no reason why Bermund should have remembered that I no longer live under my father’s roof and am a healer.

  ‘No, sir,’ I said. I took a deep breath. ‘There was a body in my grandmother’s grave. I found it – her – early this morning.’

  It seemed to take him a moment to understand what I was telling him. Just when I was wondering if I ought to have explained that the body wasn’t my grandmother’s but a second one, not put there by us, he spoke.

  ‘Do you know the corpse’s identity?’

  I had to admire the way he went straight to the point. ‘No,’ I replied. ‘As soon as I’d made the discovery I ran back to fetch my aunt – that’s Edild, the healer?’ He nodded impatiently. ‘She came back with me to the grave – it’s on the island out in the mere.’ Again that quick nod, almost as if Bermund were saying, Yes I know, get on with it. ‘Together, Edild and I lifted the body out of the grave, and Edild unwound the shroud. It is – it was – a young woman, about sixteen or seventeen, with chestnut hair and wearing a red gown. She—’

  The flash of recognition in Bermund’s narrow eyes was unmistakable. He held up an imperious hand and said, ‘Wait.’

  I waited.

  Not, however, for long. After only moments, Lady Emma appeared at the top of the stone steps that led up into Lord Gilbert’s hall. She looked very distressed, her face pale and her cheeks wet with tears. She beckoned to me, and as I crossed the courtyard and ran up the steps to stand beside her, she reached out and took my hand.

  ‘Oh, Lassair, tell me what you told Bermund!’ she pleaded.

  ‘I found a—’ I began.

  ‘No, no!’ she cried sharply, then instantly said, ‘I apologize. I did not mean to shout. I meant, tell me what this poor girl looks like.’