by Alys Clare
He studied her for a moment, and he understood. She was upset because she had failed to find the answer she had gone looking for, and the talk of the journey to Aelf Fen had prompted the strong desire for home. ‘Very well,’ he said.
Gurdyman led them back along the passage to the door on to the alley. He, too, seemed to recognize Lassair’s dejection. Stopping beside the open door, he said, ‘I am sorry that I could not help you.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said, managing a smile. ‘It was good to meet you anyway.’
He bowed. ‘Thank you. We shall meet again.’
Lassair, apparently unable to think how to answer, merely nodded.
Hrype had followed her down the steps and was about to turn to take his leave when Gurdyman said thoughtfully, ‘What has Sir Alain to say on the matter?’
Hrype looked at Lassair, then said, ‘What matter?’
Gurdyman tutted. ‘The lad at Heathlands who made Ida pregnant.’
Hrype saw his own incomprehension mirrored in Lassair’s expression. ‘What would he know of the household there?’ he asked. ‘He didn’t know Lady Claude personally before she came to Lakehall. The idea, or so we understand, was for her to stay with her cousin Lord Gilbert while she met and became acquainted with her future husband, who had recently been appointed justiciar and was living close by.’ He shook his head. ‘Sir Alain de Villequier would not know any more about the servants at Lady Claude’s home than she chose to tell him, and I can’t imagine the two of them are so desperate for conversation that they have to discuss the staff.’
Lassair gave a little gasp. Gurdyman turned to her, his eyes twinkling. ‘And what has Lassair to say?’ he enquired.
‘We have made a false assumption,’ she whispered. ‘We all thought that Lady Claude went to Lakehall to meet her future husband. We believed that the marriage designed to unite the two families – first between Sir Alain and Lady Geneviève and, when that failed, Lady Claude – was arranged before the bridegroom had met either bride. That is not so, is it?’ She looked up at Gurdyman standing on the steps, her eyes wide.
‘No, it was not,’ he said. ‘Sir Alain was a frequent visitor at Heathlands. Before he was awarded his new appointment and went to live at Alderhall, his home was close to Thetford. He used to ride over regularly to play chess with Claritia, and usually he let her win.’
Hrype found himself saying their goodbyes by himself. Lassair, lost in her own thoughts, barely said a word until they were almost home.
THIRTEEN
One good thing about Hrype as a companion is that he’s content in his own thoughts and is about as loquacious as a door post. On the long walk home from Cambridge, he seemed to accept that I didn’t want to talk and so left me to the whirl of conjecture and suspicion that filled my head.
Sir Alain de Villequier had visited Lady Claude at Heathlands! To begin with, I was totally preoccupied with trying to decide how, and when, I had become so certain that the two had not met until she was staying with Lord Gilbert. Moreover, it was not only I who had been convinced. Hrype had been too, for he had just told Gurdyman that Lady Claude had gone to Lakehall to meet Sir Alain. Had Lady Claude said something that had allowed me to receive this wrong idea? I cast my mind back over the two occasions that I had met her, and I realized swiftly that she had not even mentioned her future husband except indirectly, when she had showed me the beautiful but sinister embroidered panels that would decorate the marriage bed. What about Lord Gilbert and Lady Emma? Again, I pieced together all that I could recall of their exchanges with me and came up with nothing.
But there had to be something. I knew it, and I could not cease worrying at the problem until I found it.
In the end the memory surfaced while I was thinking about a different matter. Breaking the long silence as we trudged along, nearing the end of our journey, Hrype asked me if, having seen Gurdyman’s attempt to represent a journey as a diagram on a piece of parchment, I now felt better able to do the same for the road from Cambridge to Aelf Fen. I had been fascinated by what Gurdyman had shown me, and for some moments Hrype and I discussed the extraordinary potential in what the sage was trying to do. Then we came to a place where the road forded a shallow stream and, once we were safely across and had replaced our boots to walk on, once again we lapsed into silence.
And out of nowhere I heard Sir Alain’s voice: When she knew she was to marry me it was arranged that she should come here to meet me and stay for these weeks before our wedding with her cousin, Lord Gilbert.
It was the day that Edild and I had laid out Ida’s body. Sir Alain had walked with us back to the village, and I’d thought it was because he’d wanted to repair the damage that Lady Claude had done by her apparently callous remarks about Ida, to the effect that she mourned her only as a skilled seamstress and not as a likeable human being. Now, thinking back, I realized the extent of my mistake. For one thing, the opinions of lowly folk such as my aunt and me mattered not a dried bean to the likes of Sir Alain de Villequiers. It would make no difference to him and his future wife what we thought of her. We were totally unimportant.
I also realized – far more significantly – how very clever he had been. Subtly, skilfully, he had slipped in that innocent little comment and thereby removed himself from the list of men who had known Ida at the time she became pregnant and, horrified at the news that she bore a child, might have had reason to dispose of her.
I thought the possible sequence of events through again, right from the start, this time without the erroneous conclusion concerning when Sir Alain and Ida had first met . . .
Lady Claude was informed by her formidable mother that, with her elder sister sick and unfit for marriage, it would be Claude, the younger sibling, who would marry into the powerful and influential de Villequier family, in the shape of Sir Alain. Lady Claude did her best to protest, but her mother was adamant. Lady Claude conceded and set about sewing her trousseau, engaging the help of the skilled and personable Ida. With Sir Alain now resident at Alderhall, close to the home of Claude’s cousin Lord Gilbert, what was more natural and compassionate for a reluctant bride than to suggest she went to stay at Lakehall, where she and her bridegroom could get to know each other before the wedding?
The purpose of the visit was not, however, for the pair to meet each other, for they had already done so. According to Gurdyman, Sir Alain had been a frequent visitor at Heathlands. He used to play chess with Lady Claude’s mother.
Now I wove another thread into my tapestry. I made an image in my mind of Sir Alain arriving at Heathlands for the first time and being escorted into a great hall, richly furnished and with an extravagant fire burning in the hearth. Well-trained and expensively-clad servants were hovering in the background, ready and waiting for the subtlest signal that would make them spring into action to obey the least whim of their mistress. There she was, Lady Claritia – I pictured her as a fleshed-out version of her daughter Claude, with the same stiff, mirthless face and the same small, carefully expressionless eyes – dressed in a gorgeous gown of heavy silk, the cuffs lined with fur, with heavy gold jewellery encrusted with precious stones at her throat, ears and wrists. Here is my daughter, she would say to Sir Alain, and Lady Claude would step forward, pale, skinny, unlovely, unloved, unlovable, the black habit-like gown as effective as a smack in the face proclaiming fiercely I don’t want to be your wife, for it is my vocation to be a nun.
They would have negotiated, that rich and determined woman and the man who knew his duty and would do it to the best of his ability. Power he had, for he belonged to the de Villequier family; money he needed, and money his wife would bring. How much did he demand as her dowry? Did he add on a sum for each of her drawbacks? I did not know, could not know, how these matters were arranged. Sir Alain had impressed me as a pleasant, even kind, man. He was certainly attractive, and I had no doubt that any woman whose hand he sought would readily give it. Yet he had agreed to marry Lady Claude. Perhaps it had even been he who ha
d initiated the proceedings, for his new appointment must surely offer the possibility of advancement if he performed well, and advancement needs money if it is to be sustained.
I sent my mind back to that day, the first meeting between Lady Claude and Sir Alain in her mother’s great hall. I saw Sir Alain as at last he took his leave. I saw him mount his beautiful horse – I recalled the bay mare with the star on her brow – and ride away, his emotions a mix of triumph because he had secured a wealthy heiress as his wife and dejection because of who and what that wife was. I saw him turn a corner in the track and come across a young woman with a bunch of wild flowers in her hand. I sensed the instant attraction that flared between the man and the young woman, shooting out like a visible, tangible thing. A thread, fine but unbelievably strong, that drew them to each other and then bound them together.
I do not know if that was how it was; the circumstances might have been different – they probably were – but the result was the same. Sir Alain and Ida fell in love, they became lovers – the most secretive lovers there have ever been – and then Ida conceived a child. Sir Alain’s child.
How did she react? Was she apprehensive, nervous, delighted, exuberant? She was happy, of that I had no doubt, for both Lord Gilbert and Lady Emma had spoken of her as cheerful and smiling. She must have known what difficulties the future would hold. There would be many, of that there could be no doubt, for her lover was to be married soon, and Ida would always have to remain hidden in the background of his life. If she had appreciated this – and surely she must have done? – then it had not dented her delight. Perhaps she had trusted him to make provision for her and the child. Perhaps he had suggested some workable arrangement whereby she would be set up in a little house, not too far away, where he would be able to visit regularly. There would, after all, be plenty of money once he was married to Lady Claude. Would he see anything immoral in using his wife’s money to support his lover and her child? Would his conscience be pricked as he lay in the luxury of his marriage bed with the chilling depiction of Lust staring down on him?
I was temped to condemn him for his immorality and his dishonesty. Then I remembered that he was going to have to share the remainder of his life with Lady Claude, and I began to have a little sympathy. My impressions of her were singularly unfavourable. It might not be her fault, but she would, I was quite sure, be a reluctant wife and do her uxorial duty with clenched teeth and tightly-closed eyes, her bony body rigid and unreceptive. I tried to feel sorry for her, too. She wanted to be a nun, not a wife, and perhaps, having set her feet on that difficult path, she had already eschewed any thoughts of physical love. Chastity, charity, obedience; those were the vows of a nun, as I knew from my sister Elfritha.
Unbidden, into my mind came a memory of Elfritha and her nuns at Chatteris, faces alight with laughter and eyes full of joy. It was very hard work being a nun – you could not help being aware of that if someone you loved entered a convent – but it had become clear to my parents, my siblings and me that the life had its compensations, and that these were rich and sometimes unexpected. I tried to imagine Lady Claude in the company of the Chatteris nuns, and I failed. Before I could prevent it, I had the unkind thought that the Lord Jesus would have accepted poor Claude, but even he might have been a little reluctant.
The poor woman would have—
Suddenly, I was struck by a thought so dreadful that I stopped dead. Hrype turned to stare at me and, not ready to share my suspicion, I forced a smile and started walking again. We were close to home now, but all thoughts of something to eat and drink and the wonderful expectation of taking off my boots and soaking my sore feet in cool water flew out of my mind.
But I like Sir Alain! I wailed silently. He’s a man who loves life, and who is naturally cheerful and affectionate! Reluctantly, I admitted to myself that I found him attractive, as indeed I suspected most women would.
I ought not to like him. He was not – could not be – what he seemed. For his own and his family’s sound reasons, he was betrothed to a stern and unforgivingly righteous woman whose idea of suitable decoration for her marriage bed was a harsh depiction of the Seven Deadly Sins. He had impregnated his future wife’s seamstress – and if Claude ever found out, he could swiftly wave farewell to the life he envisaged with her, the life that her money would buy him. He would lose his grand new appointment – Lady Claude’s mother would make sure of that – and the name of Alain de Villequier would fade inexorably from the consciousness of everyone who mattered in King William’s realm, the king himself included.
I ought to hate him. He had seduced poor Ida and made her pregnant. Unable to risk the possibility that she would reveal her secret and run to her mistress to tell her who had fathered the child in her belly, Alain had killed her.
Trying not to let emotion overwhelm me, I thought about that. How had he managed to get her out on the artificial island? Had they had a regular trysting place where they went under the kind cover of darkness, and had he, knowing what must happen as they met for the final time, suggested crossing to the island? They would, he might have said, be even less likely there to attract unwelcome attention, even as he planned to use the lonely location for his own violent purpose.
How had he appeared, that day I led him out to where I had found Ida’s body? I had attributed the emotion in his face and the gruff break in his voice to his sorrow at a young life choked out; I had been wrong. He had been horrified because his careful hiding place had been so swiftly discovered.
What a clever, efficient dissembler the man was . . .
Something in me that had warmed to him, trusted him, liked him, cracked and broke.
Hrype felt the sorrow flow out of his silent companion. He was aware of the trend of her thoughts; indeed, his own had worked to the same conclusion. If Sir Alain had fathered Ida’s child – and the possibility could not be discounted – then it was highly likely he had killed her to prevent her condition, and his responsibility for it, becoming known to Lady Claude.
Hrype was aware of the machinations of the men of power in the world, although he did not comprehend their motivation. There were things to which he gladly dedicated, and would probably give, his own life, but political power and position were not among them. He knew he would never have agreed to marry a woman like Lady Claude de Seés. He might not have met her, but he did not need to. He had lain with two women in his life; he felt sympathy and deep responsibility for one of them, and he loved the other wholeheartedly. She was so very different from Claude that the two might have belonged to separate species.
He sighed. There was half a mile to go before they were back in the village, and he knew he must hurry on to the house he shared with Froya and Sibert, for it was late and Froya had probably decided he would not be home that night. She would be alarmed by his unexpected return, and it would take some time to settle her again. The sooner he began, the sooner they could all go to sleep.
He did not want to go home. He wanted to go on with Lassair to Edild’s house. He and Edild kept their secret, as Ida and Alain had kept theirs; Edild would never conceive Hrype’s child all the time their love had to be hidden – she was far too well versed in the power of herbs to permit an unwanted pregnancy – but, despite the fact that he could never say so out loud, it was with her that his heart lay. His instinct was to sympathize with Alain de Villequiers. Steadily, carefully, he inspected this instinct, for he had learned to trust such an awareness that came to him unbidden.
Had Alain killed Ida? He had the motive, and it would not have been difficult for him to persuade her to slip out of Lakehall by night to meet him in some lonely place, for she’d loved him and must have longed for the chance to be with him. Coolly, Hrype tried to imagine Alain winding a length of tough braid around the neck of the woman who bore his child. Drawing it tight, pulling on the ends until the life was choked out of her. Looking down at the dead face. Slipping the inert body into the grave so conveniently at hand.
Hrype
thought about it for some time.
He could not convince himself that Alain de Villequier had killed Ida but, on the other hand, he could not have sworn that he hadn’t.
They were in the village now, approaching the track that led up to Edild’s house. Hrype stopped, and Lassair turned to face him. Studying her expression, he knew he had read her thoughts correctly. She looked utterly desolate.
He reached out and laid a swift touch on her arm. ‘We have work to do,’ he murmured.
Her eyes widened. ‘But he is the justiciar!’ she said in a loud whisper. ‘Who do we go to if there is a crime to lay at his door?’
‘Shhh!’ He put a warning finger to his lips. ‘We cannot yet swear that he has committed any crime.’
‘But—’
Again he hushed her. ‘We can make no accusation until we know more,’ he said soothingly.
‘And where will we go to find out what we need to know?’ she asked scathingly.
He smiled to himself. He had always admired her spirit, even if it was still too wild. Once she had learned to control her fire, what a woman she would be.
‘We will find out,’ he assured her. ‘I will come to your aunt’s house tomorrow, and we shall talk together, the three of us.’ She looked slightly mollified. He suspected, however, that her anger and her bitter disappointment in the man she had taken at his own value would not allow her much sleep. To distract her, he said, ‘You made quite an impression on Gurdyman.’
Her expression changed, and he saw both pleasure and apprehension in her face. ‘How do you know?’ she demanded. ‘You had no chance to speak to him privately, and I did not hear you discussing me.’
He smiled. ‘We did not need to.’
She nodded, and he knew she understood. Her cheeks flushed slightly – he knew she was modest and did not yet appreciate her undoubted gift – and, gathering her courage with a visible effort, she said, ‘I thought you’d taken me there for some special purpose. I thought that asking him what he knew about Lady Claude’s household at Heathlands was just an excuse and the real reason for the visit was so that he – Gurdyman – could teach me something.’ She gave a rueful grin. ‘I was very scared.’
