by Alys Clare
‘Sit down,’ he urged his guests. ‘I will bring refreshments. Enjoy the sunshine and the sweet air,’ he exhorted them, ‘for it is good to be outside again after the fug in my crypt.’
He spun round and dipped back inside, humming to himself. Hrype, sensing Lassair’s tension, waited. When she could contain herself no longer, she burst out in a hissing whisper, ‘What was he making down there?’
Hrype smiled to himself. ‘Why don’t you ask him?’
‘I daren’t!’
‘He frightens you?’
‘He—’ She paused. ‘Yes.’
Hrype did not reply. There was no need for her, of all people, to fear the sage, but it was up to her to find that out for herself. She would not believe him, Hrype decided, if he told her.
They waited. After some time Gurdyman returned, bringing mugs of beer, lightly flavoured with honey and rosemary, and roughly-sliced chunks of gingerbread. He urged both food and drink on his guests, and only when they had consumed all they wanted did he sit back, fold his hands across the curve of his stomach and say, ‘Now, then. Hrype sent word that you had something to ask me.’ He looked enquiringly at Lassair.
She in turn spun round to Hrype, who almost laughed at her terrified expression. ‘Go on,’ he murmured, ‘he won’t turn you into a goblin.’
She gave a sort of snort, which might have been hysterical laughter. Then she gathered her courage and said, with admiral brevity, ‘A young woman has been killed. She was from Brandon, but came to Aelf Fen with her mistress, Lady Claude de Seés, being her seamstress. Ida – that’s the dead girl – was pregnant, and the child must have been fathered by someone she knew before she came to our area. She had no followers among the young men of the village – an older man who loved her did no more than admire her from afar – so her lover must have been someone she knew when she worked for Lady Claude at Heathlands. We – er, Hrype says you know quite a lot about Lady Claude’s kin, so I hoped you might be able to tell us of the household at Heathlands, so we could perhaps make a guess as to which of the servants fathered the child.’
She had done well, Hrype thought, silently applauding her. She had kept out all unnecessary detail, which suggested she had already realized that Gurdyman’s exceptional intelligence and astute mind needed nothing but the bones of a tale. He waited to see how the sage would respond.
With a question, as it turned out, and a not altogether unexpected one: ‘Why do you concern yourself with this matter?’ he asked Lassair.
‘Because people think a simple-minded man called Derman killed Ida, and I’m sure he didn’t,’ she replied promptly. ‘Ida was not married, and my suspicion is that her lover discovered she bore his child and killed her so that her condition did not become known. Perhaps he did not wish to marry her, or was already wed, and such a revelation would have ruined him.’
‘You know of this child she carried,’ Gurdyman observed.
‘Yes, my aunt Edild and I realized she was pregnant as soon as we saw her – my aunt’s a healer – but since it was us who laid her out, nobody else found out, and we have told nobody but Hrype, and now you.’
‘You, too, are a healer,’ Gurdyman murmured.
Lassair looked momentarily disconcerted and even slightly annoyed, as if she were wondering why Gurdyman had ignored all that she had said about Ida and was speaking of her. Hrype, who knew him well, did not doubt that the sage had heard, digested and decided upon every word. The truth was, Hrype decided, that Gurdyman was far more interested in Lassair than in the mission that had brought her to him.
‘I’m learning to be a healer,’ Lassair said shortly.
Gurdyman sat forward in his chair, his compact and beautifully-shaped hands grasping the dragon claws that formed its arms. ‘I have visited Heathlands,’ he said. ‘I knew Ralf de Caudebec, who fought with the Conqueror, for although we did not agree on the subject of kings, there were other matters on which we were happy to share our thoughts. Through him I met his cousin Claritia, mother of your Lady Claude, and I have been a guest at Heathlands on several occasions, the last one at the time when a husband had been selected for the elder daughter of the house.’
‘The one who fell sick,’ Lassair put in.
Gurdyman nodded. ‘Indeed she did.’
Hrype waited to see if Lassair felt sufficiently comfortable now with the sage to ask the question that he sensed burning in her. She did. ‘What was the matter with her?’
Gurdyman did not speak for a few moments, and it seemed to Hrype that he withdrew into himself as if searching for whatever thoughts and impressions he had had at the time. ‘I believe,’ he said after a while, ‘that Geneviève de Seés suffered a severe shock, and that the fear engendered in her by this experience turned her mind.’
Hrype listened attentively, for he had not heard this theory of Gurdyman’s. I did not ask the right question, he thought ruefully.
‘What sort of experience?’ Lassair was saying.
Gurdyman weighed his words. ‘Geneviève is a shy young woman, very modest, sheltered and innocent. Her mother was, I believe, wrong to push the proposed marriage. It was her desire to unite the de Seés with the de Villequiers that drove her, but she ought to have had more thought for her elder daughter’s suitability for the match.’
‘Sir Alain’s quite a nice man,’ Lassair said. ‘He seems sympathetic and kindly, and he’s—’
Gurdyman put up a hand. ‘I do not speak of his nature, but of Geneviève’s,’ he said. ‘She was, as I said, an innocent. She had been told by her mother what a wife is to expect on her wedding night – knowing Claritia, who is a somewhat coarse and insensitive woman, I do not imagine she spoke gently or cautiously – and Geneviève was said to be fearful and apprehensive. Then, as negotiations proceeded, she was found one morning wandering outside in the cold dressed in nothing but a thin shift. She had seen something that had terrified her, or so it was deduced, but she was unable to say what it was. The result, however, was that her quite understandable nervousness concerning the proposed marriage turned to abject horror. Then, when her mother attempted in her robust way to bring Geneviève to her senses, the girl fainted dead away and could not be revived for two days. Since then she has been a slight, silent shadow who flits on the periphery of her family’s life and, in the main, is left alone.’
Hrype watched Lassair digest this. Her face revealed her emotions very clearly. Then she said, ‘So Lady Claude had to be betrothed to Sir Alain instead, even though it meant giving up her desire to be a nun.’
‘She did.’ Gurdyman sighed. ‘Claritia must have seen all her hopes of allying her insignificant family with the de Villequiers, and thereby regaining the position in society that she believes is her rightful one, rapidly disappearing. Claude did not stand up to her mother’s determination for very long.’
‘Hrype said she shaved her head and started wearing a nun’s habit,’ Lassair said. Hrype was gratified that she had remembered.
Gurdyman smiled sadly. ‘She did, although it did her no good. The maltreatment was what finally wore away her resolve.’ He drew a hand over his face. ‘For a mother to beat and starve a daughter is cruel, but Claritia is a determined woman.’
Nobody spoke for some moments. It was as if, Hrype reflected, all three of them were quietly sympathizing with Claude; mourning with her for the life she had wanted so desperately and been so ruthlessly forced to give up.
It was Lassair who broke the silence. ‘Please, sir,’ she said, eyes fixed on Gurdyman, ‘will you tell us if you can think of any boy or young man in the service of Lady Claude’s family who could have fathered Ida’s child?’
Hrype watched the sage and the young healer, each focused so thoroughly on the other that he might not have been there. He sensed Gurdyman’s interest in the girl; his fascination, even, for Hrype could feel how the sage was sending out subtle probes into Lassair’s mind, testing, assessing, exploring. She was holding her own. Amused, Hrype saw her shake her head violently a
s if ridding herself of a persistent wasp, at which Gurdyman, with a wide grin, withdrew.
‘I will tell you what you wish to know as well as I am able,’ he said. ‘Heathlands is a very well-run, efficient household, as anyone would expect who was acquainted with Lady Claritia, for she is a hard mistress and tolerates no laziness, slackness or mistakes. There is no need to look beyond the indoor servants for your girl’s lover, for in truth I can think of no circumstances in which she would have been free to form the necessary liaison with any of the outdoor workers. She would barely have had the opportunity to meet any of them, never mind take one as her lover.’ He paused, frowning thoughtfully.
‘And the indoor servants?’ Lassair asked eagerly.
‘It is possible that some handsome lad caught her eye, but, again, there is the question of opportunity,’ Gurdyman said slowly. ‘Ida would have slept in Lady Claude’s quarters, the lady being fanatical about the needlework she was producing for her marriage and insisting that Ida guard the finished objects and the costly materials at all times.’
‘Yes, she did the same when they were at Lakehall,’ Lassair put in. ‘That’s her cousin Lord Gilbert’s manor, on the edge of our village.’
‘Yes, I know of Lord Gilbert,’ Gurdyman murmured.
Once more, silence fell. Hrype sensed the frustration build up in Lassair until it spilled over and she cried, ‘Somebody fathered Ida’s child! It can’t be anyone she met since she went to Lakehall, because she was already pregnant when she arrived there. She didn’t have lovers among the village lads and the man who wanted so badly to marry her once he was free to do so never touched her!’ She paused for breath. ‘Now you say she wouldn’t have had the chance to meet a lover while she was at Heathlands, so what are we to conclude?’ She looked round at Hrype, and he saw that her grey-green eyes were alight with the strength of her passion. The crescent moon scar on her left cheek stood out white against her flushed skin.
Pitying her, he said, ‘If the suggestion is that it was this unknown lover who killed her, his reason being that he had cause to fear the revelation of her secret, then should we not ask whether any of the other servants accompanied Lady Claude from Heathlands to Lakehall?’
Lassair flashed him a beaming smile. ‘Yes!’ she breathed. ‘Yes, of course, he loved her, and he’d have wanted to be with her, so he’d have—’ But then her face fell. ‘Lady Claude wouldn’t take a male servant,’ she said dully. ‘Would she? I mean, what would he do for her that Lord Gilbert’s staff couldn’t do? She only took Ida because she was such a good seamstress. She didn’t even take a personal maid, or if she did, nobody’s told me, and I tended her when she was unwell so I’d have probably met or heard about any maid then.’
Hrype watched as she shouldered her disappointment. He understood why this mattered so much to her, and he wondered if she would confess her interest to Gurdyman. It would depend, he mused, what impressions she was forming of the sage . . .
Favourable ones, it appeared. ‘My brother is in love with Derman’s sister, Zarina,’ she said suddenly, addressing Gurdyman. ‘Derman’s the—’
‘The simpleton accused of murdering Ida,’ Gurdyman supplied. ‘You said.’
‘Derman’s run away,’ Lassair went on, undeterred by the mild irony, ‘which might be a good thing, since Zarina says she can’t marry Haward – my brother – because she doesn’t want to impose Derman on my family, but the problem with that is that she really cares about him and she won’t be happy all the time he’s missing and she’s so worried about him. So you see—’
‘You must discover who really killed Ida, so that Derman may be exonerated and return home and Zarina’s fears for him will cease,’ Gurdyman finished smoothly. ‘Whereupon she will realize she was wrong in permitting the existence of her brother to come between her and Haward, and they will marry and be as happy as you have seen them to be.’
Lassair’s mouth dropped open. ‘You – how did you know?’
Gurdyman laughed delightedly. ‘I did not know, I guessed,’ he corrected her. ‘You have a set of runes in your satchel, unless I am much mistaken, and they resonate with your power. You have just revealed what is uppermost in your mind: over and above your determination to find out who killed the young woman and her unborn child, you want your brother to be happy because you love him dearly. Therefore, I concluded that what drove you to consult the runes was your overwhelming desire to know if all will end aright for him.’
‘The runes showed them together,’ Lassair whispered. ‘They were laughing, and they were devoted to each other.’ Gurdyman nodded. ‘Was that true? Did I read it right?’ she asked him.
Gurdyman said gently, ‘The runes are enigmatic, Lassair. It is very often the case that we consult them and end up less than satisfied, for reading is in itself a complicated business and one which takes many, many years to learn.’ He glanced at Hrype, his bright eyes crinkled in a smile. ‘Hrype here is a rune master,’ he said, ‘and if he is prepared to teach you, you are fortunate indeed.’
‘She shows some promise,’ Hrype allowed.
‘In this case, however,’ Gurdyman went on, ‘I believe that a simple question received a simple answer.’
Lassair went on staring at him. ‘You mean—’ she began.
But he shook his head. ‘Do not ask me,’ he said with sudden firmness. ‘It is between you and the spirits who guide you; I will say no more.’ Hrype watched as she slumped down on her seat, a small frown of perplexity on her face. Then Gurdyman got to his feet, took Hrype’s arm and drew him over to the small table beside his chair. Unrolling the manuscript, he spread it on the larger table, and Hrype, staring down at it, recognized what it was.
‘You have done it!’ he exclaimed.
‘No, no, for I cannot claim to have produced anything other than the vaguest of outlines,’ Gurdyman said. ‘It is here in my head –’ he tapped the bald dome of his skull – ‘but I am unable to find a satisfactory way of expressing what I see in my mind in a visible form.’
Lassair’s interest was piqued. Hrype saw her quietly get up and lean over to look at the manuscript. ‘What are you trying to do?’ she asked.
Gurdyman spun round to her. ‘You travelled here to Cambridge from Aelf Fen this morning, did you not?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then think, if you will, of the line made by your feet as you journeyed. Think of the land over which you passed, the streams and rivers that you crossed, the hamlets, villages and towns you passed.’
‘Ye–es.’
‘Now, imagine I asked you how to get from here to Aelf Fen. What instructions would you give me?’
She closed her eyes and said, ‘Leave your house, turn right, then left, then right again, then – oh, several more lefts and rights until you emerge into the street. Go on past the big stone houses, past the quays and over the bridge, then go right, and on through the outskirts of the town till you—’
‘Yes, that will do,’ Gurdyman interrupted smoothly. ‘Now, Lassair, instead of telling me, draw it for me.’ He smoothed out another piece of manuscript – it had clearly been a practise piece and was fluffy from erasures – and held out his quill.
Hrype could see in her face that she was at a loss. Nevertheless, she tried, and, quickly becoming absorbed in the challenge, soon had drawn a wiggling line that made abrupt turns here and there, passed swiftly-sketched trees and buildings, and finally ran off the edge of the parchment. ‘Aelf Fen is sort of there,’ she said, pointing to a place halfway across the table.’
Gurdyman smiled. ‘A good attempt,’ he observed, ‘although I fear your drawing would not help me find your village if I did not already know where it was.’
‘Oh.’ She looked downcast.
‘Do not be distressed,’ Gurdyman said brightly. ‘Many wise men are working on this problem, and not a few do worse than you, my girl.’
‘What is the destination that you are trying to illustrate?’ she asked, leaning against Hrype as she studied
the manuscript, peering as she tried to make out the tiny writing and the details of the colourful little pictures.
‘Can you read?’ Gurdyman asked.
‘A little. My aunt is teaching me, as well as instructing me in the use of written letters.’
‘A sensible skill for a healer,’ the sage remarked. ‘You cannot, however, read that word?’ He pointed.
‘No.’
Hrype could: the word was Rus, and it was written over an area on the right hand side of the parchment. But then Hrype had the advantage of knowing what Gurdyman was trying to do.
Like Hrype’s own ancestors, Gurdyman’s forefathers had come from Sweden. Explorers and traders, they had manoeuvred their long ships south and east down the great rivers of the mighty, endless land mass that stretched apparently into infinity, encountering people who spoke different tongues, worshipped different gods, wore different dress, ate different food. They had sold the goods that their own lands produced in such abundance – chiefly furs – and brought back extraordinary objects unheard of in the homelands. Hrype’s own ancestor had brought the jade from which Hrype’s runes were made; Gurdyman’s uncle had brought the glorious, heavy silk shawl that he habitually wore. Gurdyman, with his quick, enquiring mind that ranged far and wide and recognized no boundaries, was attempting to translate the ancestral voyages into a form that could be read like writing on a page.
Hrype became aware that Lassair was trying to attract his attention. Turning with some effort from his fascinated study of Gurdyman’s work, he raised his eyebrows in im-patient enquiry. ‘If we go now we can be back by dark,’ she whispered.
