Music of the Distant Stars

by Alys Clare

  ‘We have discovered no sign of him,’ Edild said. ‘We have searched the ground between the island and the hall, without success.’

  ‘We t–too have been searching, out on the other side of the village, and we didn’t find him either,’ Haward said. I met his eyes and tried to smile. He must have seen my exhaustion on my face, for straight away he hurried to my side and put his arm round my waist. ‘You should g–g–go home!’ he said to me. ‘You’re w–worn out.’

  ‘We must find him,’ I said dully.

  ‘We will search again in the morning,’ Hrype announced. ‘For now, it is too dark to pursue the hunt. Besides, you two should not be out here by yourselves.’ He looked at Edild, a worried frown on his face.

  She was tired too, but not so tired that she did not stiffen at his words. ‘Why not?’ she asked, and I detected a warning chill in her tone.

  ‘Someone has just been murdered,’ he said gently, ‘not a mile from where we now stand. We have no idea why she was killed and no idea who killed her. It is not safe for you.’

  ‘But it is all right for you men to risk the danger of being attacked?’ Now Edild sounded plainly angry.

  Hrype sighed. ‘Edild, there are three of us, and we are armed.’ He carried a long knife in a scabbard at his belt. Haward and Sibert held heavy clubs.

  I glanced at Sibert. He raised his eyes to the darkening skies in a gesture of exasperation, and I very nearly laughed. He knows his uncle – his father – pretty well, although I don’t think he’s aware of the relationship between Hrype and my aunt.

  I was sagging against Haward, and I guessed he was having quite a job to support me. ‘I want to go home,’ I said. ‘I’ll search for Derman all day tomorrow, but now I need to sleep.’

  Edild brushed past Hrype and Sibert and, beckoning to Haward, said, ‘Bring her back to my house, please, Haward.’ She shot Hrype an icy look. ‘We shall speak of this in the morning.’

  We plodded the remaining mile or so to Aelf Fen in silence. When we reached the first of the houses, Edild stopped, for our way led off up to our right and the others would go straight on into the village. ‘I will take her now,’ she said regally to Haward, who relinquished his hold on me, kissed me briefly on the cheek and strode away.

  ‘I can manage on my own!’ I exclaimed, twisting away out of her reach as she went to take my arm. I’d had enough. Without a backward glance, I strode away up the track to Edild’s house. I was aware of Hrype’s and Edild’s voices muttering in the darkness behind me, although I could not make out the words. I did not care. I wanted my bed.

  I made a detour to the jakes and the water trough before I went inside. Even the chill of cold water on my hands, face and neck did not revive me; I was worn out. I stumbled back round the side of the house, and my hand was on the door latch when I heard it.

  He was singing the same song. The same eerie sequence of notes filled the night air, eloquent of misery and loss. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and I shivered as some strong emotion evoked by the chant coursed through me. I wanted to weep for all the sorrows in the world.

  Slowly, I turned my head. Where was he? I stared wide-eyed into the shadows, but I could make out no human shape. But he was close, he must be! Why couldn’t I see him?

  Dread filled me. Perhaps he wasn’t human at all. Perhaps he was a spirit, a sad ghost trapped here on earth by his grief and impotently singing his pain to the stars . . .

  All at once my nerve broke. Flinging open the door, I fell inside the house, slamming the solid wood behind me. I stood for some moments with my hands behind me, pressed against the door. It took a while for me to realize that I could no longer hear the singing.

  I threw myself down on my bed and, just in case it started up again, covered my head with my pillow.

  The singer watched as the young girl with the copper-coloured hair and the boyish figure wrested open the door of the little house and disappeared inside. You hear me, don’t you, lass? he thought. You listen to my song and you go rigid as you perceive my pain. You have a good heart, and I am sorry that I frighten you.

  He heard footsteps on the path: a quick, light step that he recognized as belonging to the older woman who lived in the little house. He slipped back into his hiding place and watched as she hurried up to the door and let herself in. She was a healer; his sense of smell was strong, and he could detect her profession from the scent of her clothes, as he could from those of the copper-haired girl. The house itself smelt of clean, fresh things: of herbs and fresh-cut grass. He liked the smell. He liked being close to the house. It gave him comfort, of a sort.

  But there was no real comfort, not any more. His world had come to an end. He was alone, away from the place he had known all his life. He felt the great surge of anguish rise up in him, and a few notes of his song emerged from his lips. As if the music lanced his pain, for a few moments it eased.

  Music. There was always the music.

  His sense of hearing was even more finely developed than his sense of smell. Ever since he had been a small boy he had heard music in the natural world all around him: in birdsong, in the rustle of leaves in spring, in the rush of water over a stream bed, in human activities such as hammering and sawing. In the cool breeze of evening, and in the distant stars that lit the heavens. He had a small harp that he liked to play, although his preferred form of expression was his own voice.

  He used to sing with her. His love for her had begun when she was quite young, and it had started with a song. He had been singing at a village celebration, a well-known song that everybody knew and, a little drunk as they were, the people had bawled out the chorus. He didn’t mind; in fact he liked it when people joined in. It was good to sing. It made you happy, made you forget the hardships of life.

  He knew a lot about life’s hardships. He had endured many; one in particular, vicious and bitter, that had taken all the joy from living. Until that day at the festival when he had suddenly realized that a sweet, high voice was not just singing the chorus but joining in with him for the verses.

  She was harmonizing with him.

  His heart had filled with happiness. He had turned to see who it was, feasted his eyes on the vision of her sweet face and fallen in love.

  It had been as simple, as easy, as that.

  And now she was dead.

  His eyes filled with tears. He crept away, leaving the safe place from where he watched and sang and melting back into the darkness.

  She was dead. And he knew what he must do.

  First, he must write a song for her, for he would not allow her to be forgotten and it was up to him, who had loved her, to make sure that her sweet essence lived on.

  There was another task too, a far less pure and gentle one.

  Straightening his back, his jaw set in a hard line, he went hunting.

  SEVEN

  My brother is a habitually early riser, wide awake and padding quietly about so as not to wake anyone else long before the rest of the family stirs. I am not; Edild often has to shake me quite hard. The exception is when I have something serious on my mind, and that was the case the morning after we’d got back from our hopeless search for Derman and I’d heard the invisible singer for the second time.

  I love my brother Haward dearly. I had so hoped he would find happiness with Zarina; she was so good for him, and I’d noticed that his love for her – and hers for him – had filled him with a new belief in himself so that now he barely stuttered at all. Last night, as he’d hurried to support me, the tongue-tying stammer had come right back.

  He filled my mind as I lay awake in the thin light of dawn. I sensed he was calling out to me. Silently, I slipped out from under the bedcovers, pulled my gown over my shift, picked up my boots and let myself out of the house. The chill air struck me like a slap, and quickly I reached back inside for my shawl. I ran across the village, and just as I approached my parents’ house, the door opened and Haward emerged.

  We grinned at each oth
er, both of us struck by the strange link between us that had brought us to this spot at precisely the same instant. He opened his arms and hugged me. He smelt of home. After a moment he said, ‘We’re going to search again as soon as it’s light. If we make an early start there’s a while before we have to start work.’

  We. ‘Who’s going? I can come, for a while anyway.’ It would not be long, for Edild had warned me we had a great deal to do that day and I dared not be absent when she wanted me.

  Haward smiled. ‘You’d be an asset, for sure. Hrype and Sibert will come, and Father said he’d spare us as much time as he can. He’s going to bring Squeak.’

  ‘That’s good.’ My little brother is one of the most observant people I know. ‘I’ll—’

  Haward grasped my hands in his. ‘There’s something else I’d much r–rather you did,’ he said. The stutter, combined with his sudden, deep frown, gave away his anxiety.

  I said a silent goodbye to my happy little daydream of me being the one to find Derman – quite unharmed, of course – and bringing him safely home, cries of, However did you find him, Lassair? Did you use your magic powers and dowse for him? ringing in my ears. I looked at my brother and said, ‘Whatever it is, I’ll do it. You only have to ask.’

  His face intent, he said, ‘Watch Zarina for me.’

  ‘I will!’ I replied. ‘Only, I’ve got to get back to Edild’s quite soon, like I said, because—’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t mean right n–now. I meant, watch out to see how she copes with Derman’s absence. Whether she goes on being as distressed as she is now, or whether—’ He stopped, shaking his head.

  I did not understand. ‘But you’ll probably find him this morning, or else he’ll come home by himself!’ Even as I said the words, I did not believe them. ‘Or perhaps not,’ I muttered.

  Haward opened his mouth to speak, then, with a glance over his shoulder towards the house, took my arm and led me away along the path. Whatever he wanted to say, I knew it was very important. I waited, dread flooding through me.

  ‘Lassair, Zarina will not m–m–m–marry me,’ he said in a harsh tone, struggling so hard over marry that his face went dark red. ‘I know she loves me, and I certainly l–love her, b–b–but she will not inflict D–D–Derman on our family.’

  I stroked his arm, trying to soothe him. ‘I know,’ I murmured. ‘She told me.’

  I don’t think my brother was listening. ‘Sh–sh–she says he is not c–capable of killing anyone,’ he went on, ‘b–but he was missing on the m–morning the girl was found dead, and we all kn–kn–know he was sweet on her. If she rejected him, wh–who’s to s–s–s–say how he’d react?’

  Haward stopped speaking, his eyes intent on mine. Clearly, he did not want to put it into words, but I had no such compunction. ‘You mean he might have been so angry and frustrated that he killed her. That’s why I found him weeping, and that’s why he’s run away. Because he realized straight away what he’d done and could not face us?’

  ‘Or because he knew he would be hanged for her murder,’ Haward said harshly and with no trace of a stammer. I understood then the depths of his resentment and perhaps even hatred for Zarina’s brother.

  I took in the implications of what my brother had said. If Derman had murdered Ida – and my head told me it was quite possible – then once he was found, he would be tried, convicted and punished. Then he would be dead, and Zarina could marry Haward.

  I stared into Haward’s eyes. I could not believe that my beloved brother, gentle, peace-loving, kind-hearted, good Haward, would wish anyone to hang, even the impediment to his happiness that Derman was. Haward just wasn’t that cold and selfish, that he would wish another’s death so that he could get what he wanted. Even if that other person was a murderer . . .

  I had to ask. ‘Do you hope you find him?’

  I thought he was going to say yes. For a moment, I really believed Haward was going to act so out of character that I’d hardly recognize him. But then the uncharacteristically hard expression left his eyes. His shoulders sagged and he said, ‘No. Of course I don’t. I hope he runs so far and so fast that we never catch him.’

  I realized then why Haward wanted me to watch Zarina. He wanted to know how she would feel if her brother didn’t come back. And I think he already had a very good idea . . .

  I walked slowly back to Edild’s house, so many thoughts and impressions warring inside my head that I was back there before I knew it.

  ‘I’ve been to see Haward,’ I said by way of explanation.

  She nodded. There was no need to explain. ‘The search resumes?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  As if she fully understood Haward and Zarina’s terrible dilemma – well, undoubtedly she did – she muttered, ‘Poor, poor things.’ Then she fixed me with a determined look and said, ‘A messenger came from the hall. You are to go up there and tend Lady Claude.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You.

  ‘But – it’s the hall, and you’re the healer!’

  ‘You, too, are skilled, adequately so for what is required.’ Her face softened a little and she added, ‘They did in fact ask for me, but I cannot go. I have to tend a nervous new mother who needs urgent reassurance that her baby girl is not going to die, as well as a lad with a very painful boil that has to be lanced and a case that I suspect is quinsy, for the man can barely breathe.’

  ‘What’s the matter with Lady Claude?’ I ran my eyes over the contents of my leather satchel, waiting for my aunt’s reply before deciding what remedies and potions to add.

  Edild said, ‘She has a headache, and she cannot sleep.’

  I reached for feverfew, wood betony and lavender, out of which I would make an infusion for the headache. I always carry lavender oil, which I would mix with almond oil as a massage for the brow and temples, if the lady would allow it. In our herb garden Edild and I had a patch of wild lettuce that had gone to seed; I would make a preparation that would have Claude sleeping like a baby tonight.

  Edild watched as I came back inside, carefully wrapping the lettuce before stowing it in my satchel. She said, ‘Remember that the body exhibits its inner state in external symptoms.’

  I understood; it is one of her most frequently-repeated maxims. She believes that disturbances in the mind bring about aches, pains and sickness in the body. I don’t understand how this can possibly happen, but she is my teacher and I deeply respect her wisdom and experience. ‘I am to question her and see if anything is troubling her?’ I asked.

  Edild sighed. Sometimes I feel I have a tremendously long way to go before I am anything even approaching a healer. ‘You know something troubles her, and you also know what it is,’ she said patiently.

  ‘Her seamstress is dead, and she feels bad because it was she who brought Ida here to the hands of her killer,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. And?’

  ‘Her initial reaction, which she made the mistake of speaking aloud, was regret at the loss of a fine needlewoman, and she probably feels bad about that too.’

  ‘Good,’ said my aunt. ‘Now, off you go. The lady is waiting.’

  Lady Claude had taken to her bed. On announcing myself at Lakehall, I was ushered inside, across the wide hall and through a curtained doorway on the far side. A short stair led up to a bedchamber; Lord Gilbert was clearly advanced in his domestic arrangements and liked to offer his guests a room for the use of themselves and their personal servant, for there was but the one bed in the chamber, with a truckle bed tucked away beneath it where the servant slept.

  The bed was high, the sheets were fresh, crisp linen. The occupant was dressed in a high-necked linen shift, beautifully sewn, and her head was bare. She was lying back on her pillows regarding me through half-closed eyes. She beckoned to me, and I approached, dropping a swift courtesy. Her short hair, I now saw, was of an indeterminate, light-brown shade, fine in texture, thin and lying flat on her head. I studied her face. She had been pale before, but now
she looked grey, her eyes sunk deep in her head. I felt her pain coming off her in waves, and instinctively I summoned my defences. It was not that I wasn’t sympathetic – far from it – but I would be no help to her if I, too, collapsed with a similar, agonizing pain.

  Without asking, I put my hand to her brow, my open palm hovering a finger-joint’s length over the skin. Left temple, left side of forehead, right side, above the eyebrows, up in the hairline, right temple. Yes. I had felt the heat of the pain as my hand hovered over Claude’s left eyebrow but, as Edild had taught me, I covered the whole area before I began the treatment, in case the malaise was centred in more than one place.

  I had asked the man who showed me in to bring hot water, and he had quietly slipped into the chamber and put a big, steaming jug on the floor, together with a mug. Now I selected the herbs from my bag, mixed them in a strong potion, tied them in a little cloth of fine linen and set the bag to steep in a mug of hot water. Then I poured almond oil into the small clay dish that I carry in my satchel, dropping in lavender oil and mixing it well. Returning to the bed, I said very quietly, ‘My lady, have I your permission to soothe your poor head?’

  Her eyes were closed. She nodded: a tiny movement, barely perceptible.

  I leaned over her and began the massage. I paused after a while to give her the infusion, then went back to the massage.

  After quite some time, her eyes fluttered open. She looked up at me, and I read two things: the pain had eased its iron grip, and its recession had allowed what was really troubling Lady Claude to push forward and dominate her.

  I went on stroking her head. I did not know what to say. I was not Edild, who can ease a patient’s extreme distress with the right words. It was quite possible that my attempts to help would do more harm than good. I kept quiet.

  Presently, she gave me a rather tight-lipped smile and, taking hold of my wrist, removed my hand from her forehead. ‘The pain has gone?’ I asked. I knew it had, but it would be good to hear her say so.