Music of the Distant Stars

by Alys Clare

  Had she killed her brother? No, came the answer, but it was tentative, and I wished I could have been certain.

  I wandered back aimlessly through the village towards Edild’s house. As I approached the path up to it, I remembered what I had intended to do today: I had promised to pay another visit to Lady Claude. I had my satchel with me – I rarely go anywhere without it – and so I changed direction and headed on along the track out of the village towards Lakehall.

  I was ushered into Lady Emma’s presence with such urgency that my immediate thought was she herself was unwell. Unfastening my satchel even as I hurried towards her, she saw my anxiety in my face and said quickly, ‘No, Lassair! I am well, thank the dear Lord, and –’ she lowered her voice to a whisper – ‘the baby thrives.’

  ‘I am relieved to hear it, my lady.’ I tried to catch my breath. Bermund had been standing by the gate as if he had been waiting for me; he had grabbed my arm and made me move so fast that my feet had hardly touched the ground. Now I realized why. ‘You sent for me.’ It was not a question, for I knew she had.

  ‘I did.’ She frowned, looking puzzled. ‘You arrived very quickly, I must say.’

  I smiled. ‘I was on my way here already, Lady Emma. I have another patient here besides you and, when I came to see her three days ago, she was not in her room.’

  ‘Of course,’ Lady Emma murmured. ‘Well, Lassair, it is indeed on Lady Claude’s behalf that I summoned you.’

  ‘She is unwell?’ In my head I ran through the symptoms she had complained of when I’d first seen her, recalling the remedies I had suggested and the doses I had prescribed.

  Lady Emma put her head close to mine, although the only other people in the hall were a group of servants too far away to overhear. ‘She is anxious about the coming wedding,’ she whispered, ‘and, indeed, she was already tense and nervous on her arrival here a month ago. Then poor dear Ida died, for which Claude blames herself since it was she who brought Ida here.’

  ‘No blame can attach to her for that!’ I exclaimed. ‘The servant goes where the mistress bids.’ I imagined – although I did not say so – that, while Lady Claude might have been a hard taskmistress, nevertheless Ida would have been the first to appreciate that she could have done a lot worse. In an uncertain age when starvation was always lying in wait for most of us, a good job where the work was not too arduous and, above all, was indoors, was not to be sniffed at.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Lady Emma was saying, ‘and both Lord Gilbert and I have repeatedly said as much to Claude.’ Her frown returned, deepening. ‘Now this morning we hear the dreadful news of the death of the simpleton. We tried to keep it from Lady Claude, but unfortunately she was entering the hall as Sir Alain was told the news.’ She sighed deeply. ‘Poor Claude begins to speak of this being an accursed place –’ she looked slightly indignant, as indeed she might – ‘and I do fear, having listened to her wild talk, that her very reason is threatened by these foul deeds.’

  I would not have been at all surprised. My impression of Lady Claude was of a driven woman, fierce in her desire to do her duty, intolerant of sin and of sinners. I sensed that there was something . . . not quite right about her, was the best way I could describe it to myself. Well, the poor soul had been thwarted of her vocation. Perhaps this reaction to the horrors she perceived around her was a symptom of a woman in torment.

  ‘Shall I go to her?’ I suggested. Lady Emma clearly meant well, for hadn’t she just sent for me? However, there was little good I could do for Lady Claude standing there chatting in the hall.

  ‘Of course, of course!’ She shook her head at her own thoughtlessness and, gathering up her skirts, hurried away, with me on her heels. We left the hall, went along the passage and up the steps to Lady Claude’s room, where Lady Emma tapped gently, listened for a moment and then carefully opened the door.

  I followed her into the room. Lady Claude sat straight-backed on a stool, dressed as before in black, the stiff white linen framing her face covered by a long black veil. She looked more nunlike that ever. Her face was deadly pale, her mouth was a small, tight line, and her eyes were dull: the grey semicircles beneath them seemed to extend halfway down her cheeks. There was a young woman attending her – one of Lady Emma’s maidservants – and, with an imperious wave of her hand, Lady Claude dismissed her. ‘Go,’ she said. ‘The healer is here now.’

  The maid scuttled out. I caught sight of her face as she passed me. She was young, not much more than twelve or thirteen, and it was clear from her expression that she couldn’t wait to get away.

  Studying Lady Claude, I didn’t blame her.

  Lady Emma bent over her guest. ‘Would you like me to stay, Claude dear?’ she asked.

  Claude shook her head.

  Lady Emma followed the maid out of the room, and I sensed it was only her good manners that stopped her relief from being equally visible.

  I approached my patient. I knew how much pain she was in, and I was already calculating potions and proportions. ‘I will give you a mixture for your headache,’ I said, keeping my voice low and even. I have often heard skilled grooms soothing restless horses, and I sometimes think a healer speaks in much the same tone.

  Lady Claude looked up at me. I read horror in her eyes, and I wondered how I could best reassure her. It was an interesting phenomenon, I thought absently, how her distress at the death of her seamstress and, now, of some man she didn’t even know, had somehow got tangled up with the abrupt end of her hopes of being a nun and her fears concerning her impending marriage, knotting her up so tensely that the searing pain in her head was the result. I realized that her life just then must be all but unendurable. Edild and I often talk all evening about the human mind. All we ever resolve is that its mysteries are so far beyond us that the solution might as well be hidden away on the furthest star.

  My present task, however, was not to speculate on the workings of the mind, but to alleviate my patient’s agony. Quickly, I set up the tools of my trade on a small side table placed against the wall, going over in my mind what else I needed. I put my head out of the door and, seeing Bermund hovering in the passage below, asked him to send up both the hot water I would need for mixing certain ingredients and also some very cold water, with which to make a compress for Lady Claude’s head.

  While I waited, I suggested she lie down on her bed. To my surprise, she agreed. I helped her, for she staggered as she stood up, and took her hands. They were icy-cold and shaking. I supported her while she lay down, then covered her with a soft woollen blanket. As I straightened up from my ministrations, my eye caught something different in the room; something that I knew had not been there on my previous visit.

  Behind the wooden bed head a small square of embroidery had been pinned to the wall. I peered closer; Lady Claude had closed her eyes, probably from the relief of lying down, and would, I hoped, not notice my curiosity.

  I thought at first that it was another in the Seven Deadly Sins series, for some of the figures were recognizably similar: Lust in her scarlet gown, Wrath with his furious, cruel face. Then I noticed that the intricate, beautifully-worked border was made up of tiny letters. Concentrating hard, I began to make them out, and then I knew the subject of this little piece that Lady Claude had chosen to hang over her bed. She had embroidered the Ten Commandments.

  My first reaction was a stab of pity for Sir Alain, who was to take as wife this peculiar, fanatical, devout woman. My second thought was that the pity surely belonged rather to Lady Claude.

  The hot and cold water arrived, brought by a manservant under the watchful eye of Bermund. I needed privacy now. I thanked the servant, nodded to Bermund and, as they left, firmly closed the door. Then immediately I bent to my task.

  We call the extraordinary substance that leaks out of the white poppy lachrima papaveris, for it does indeed resemble the poppy’s tears. It can be found in our country, although it is rare, with nowhere near the spread of its cousin the red poppy. Only the white poppy
will do in cases such as the one I now tackled, and healers generally conserve their supplies of its tears jealously, for it is costly and hard to come by. I mentioned this once to Hrype, and he went off into a sort of trance and told me an extraordinary tale, of traders from the east who brought with them out of the mysterious lands there great blocks of a magical substance that took away pain, brought beautiful dreams and, if taken to excess, brought about a sleep from which you didn’t wake up. Edild, when I told her, sniffed and warned me never to experiment with this miraculous substance, although she refused to say why. Pressed, she merely said that repeated use would give me diarrhoea so badly that I would not dare to venture more than five steps from the jakes.

  That was back in my early days as a healer, before I understood that one of our basic rules is that we never use our precious materials for anything but the desire to heal. That was what I was doing now: with careful hands I prepared the raw drug, then mixed it in hot water with a little honey to sweeten it and took the cup to my patient. Hardly aware now – I sensed her pain from two paces away – she obediently swallowed the drink and slumped back on her pillows.

  The poppy juice itself induces sleep, but I added one or two other ingredients that take effect more swiftly. Lady Claude needed rest; I fervently hoped I had just given it to her.

  I stood by her side for a while, watching the steady rise and fall of her narrow chest. I wondered, looking at her, if she had bound her breasts or was naturally flat. Her waist was insignificant, her hips angular and jutting under the soft, silky folds of her black gown. I eased the veil away from her headdress, careful to stick the pins that had secured it into the little pincushion by the bed. Then, gently turning her head, I undid the ties that held the stiff white wimple in place and removed it. She would sleep more peacefully without it. I noticed how tightly she had fastened it; no wonder the poor woman had a headache.

  Her light-brown hair was greasy and smelled slightly unpleasant; the odour was a little like rancid lamb fat. I fetched a bottle of blended lavender and rosemary oils from my satchel and, mixing some in the hot water – still warm – I shook some drops on my hands and spread the liquid through the thin hair. Lady Claude stirred in her sleep, and I thought I saw a fleeting smile on her narrow mouth.

  I retreated to the stool and sat down. I would watch over her a little longer, then leave her sleeping. I could soon be back if I was needed; Lady Emma knew where to find me.

  A deep peace descended. The chamber was pleasantly cool, and I felt myself drifting into a doze. I shook myself – it would never do for Lady Emma, or even worse, Bermund, to discover the healer as deeply asleep as her patient. I stood up, quietly gathered my bottles, jars and potions together and slipped out of the room.

  SEVENTEEN

  It was late afternoon by the time I was back at Edild’s house. I was physically exhausted, and I realized, with mild surprise, that I had not had any food all day. I pushed the door open and went in, the thought uppermost in my mind that I must find something to eat.

  Edild was not alone. Hrype sat beside her and, seated on a stool with his back to me, I recognized Sir Alain de Villequier. On hearing me come in he stood up, turned and gave me a brief bow. Amazed – it was so extraordinary for a man of his stature to bow his head to someone like me – I managed to stammer out a polite greeting.

  The reason for his courteous gesture became apparent as soon as he spoke: ‘You have been looking after Lady Claude, Lassair, and I have no doubt that you have eased her pain. I thank you.’ He hesitated, and I sensed there was more he wanted to say.

  ‘I was pleased to be able to help her,’ I replied. Then I added, ‘She is troubled, sir. The violence of these two deaths has deeply disturbed her.’ Especially, I could have added, since she was already so distressed. That distress, however, was caused by having to give up her vocation and instead marry this man, and since it would have been tactless to say so, I didn’t.

  ‘I cannot reach her,’ Sir Alain burst out. ‘We are shortly to be man and wife and, for all that it suits us and our kin that this union be brought about, still there are other considerations.’ He paused. ‘I would have her happy,’ he said simply.

  And you wish to be happy yourself, I thought. It was understandable – who did not seek earthly happiness, no matter how unreachable it sometimes seemed? – and I did not think the less of him. ‘I believe,’ I said, ‘that her mind may be easier once Ida’s killer has been found.’

  He nodded, slowly sinking back on to his stool. I went to crouch beside my aunt, who met my eyes briefly. I thought I read warning in her eyes. I resolved to keep my peace and let the rest of them speak.

  ‘We have been discussing the death of Derman,’ Hrype said after a moment. ‘Sir Alain has seen the body, which Edild has prepared for burial.’ I had noticed as soon as I had come inside that Derman was gone. I looked at Hrype, raising my eyebrows in enquiry. ‘He is in the crypt beneath the church,’ he murmured. ‘He will be buried tomorrow.’

  ‘Sir Alain suggests that the death might well have been accidental,’ Edild said, her tone giving nothing away. ‘He observed marks on Derman’s shins –’ I noticed she did not say that we had also remarked on them – ‘and proposes that Derman tripped, caught the edge of the causeway planks across his shins and, as he fell into the water, hit his head on one of the supporting posts.’

  I opened my mouth to protest – there had been many more than one blow! – but Edild’s eyes flashed an urgent message, and I kept silent. Swiftly, another thought blasted inside my mind: Why was Sir Alain so eager to attribute the death to an accident?

  The answer came hard on the heels of the question: Because he killed Ida and Derman saw him do it, so Derman, too, had to die.

  I lowered my head, hoping that Sir Alain had not seen the shock in my face as realization dawned. My mind was in a frenzy. Hrype must have picked it up, for I felt his hand reach out and take hold of mine. His was cool, and he began to stroke my fingers with his, the rhythm fast at first but gradually slowing. I felt my racing heartbeat begin to slow too, and soon I felt in control of myself. Gently, I disengaged my hand, turning to give him a quick smile of thanks.

  I said, my voice quite calm, ‘Lady Claude will be very pleased to hear that Derman was not the victim of another murder. She did not know Derman, so will not grieve for his death. Perhaps she will be able to put the matter from her mind now.’

  Sir Alain’s swift nod of agreement suggested that he hoped so too. He started to say something, but I did not hear; it had just occurred to me that if indeed he had killed Derman and had decided to adjudge the death an accident, then it surely meant he would not accuse Zarina of murdering her brother.

  My thoughts were whirling once more. Was Sir Alain guilty? If he was, then it meant my liking and admiration for him were unwarranted, that my instincts were wrong, so badly wrong that I could barely bring myself to believe it. If he had killed Derman, then why was I so sure that there was something very dark that Zarina was keeping from me? Were my instincts about her wrong as well?

  I wanted to talk to Hrype and Edild. I desperately wanted Sir Alain to go and, clamping down on the wild confusion in my head, I turned all my thoughts to willing him away. Quite soon I had my reward; relieved that all my powers hadn’t abruptly deserted me, I stood up as he rose to leave and wished him a polite farewell.

  Hrype stood in the doorway and presently said, ‘He’s gone. Heading for Lakehall, I should think, to visit Lady Claude.’

  Edild was busy preparing food and I went to help her. ‘Derman didn’t die like he said,’ I said quietly. ‘It’s quite impossible, and I can’t think how Sir Alain hoped to convince us. We’re healers!’ I added resentfully. ‘Does he think so poorly of us as to believe we cannot tell one accidental blow from many savage and deliberate ones?’

  ‘Hush,’ Edild said mildly. ‘Use your energy setting out the bowls and the mugs.’

  Hrype closed the door and went back to his seat by the hearth.
‘Now there is nothing to prevent Haward and Zarina’s marriage,’ he remarked.

  Amid all the other emotions, I felt a stab of pure joy. But swiftly it was obscured; my brother might very well be marrying a murderess . . .

  I looked at Edild and at Hrype. Both appeared serene, although I knew from long experience that they were very skilled at not allowing their emotions to show. If they were anything but happy at this prospect, they were concealing it very well.

  The food was ready: Edild must have been as hungry as I was, for she had set out a simple but very generous meal. The bread was fresh, and the cheese tangy, and straight away the three of us began to eat.

  Up at Lakehall, Alain de Villequier tried to comfort the woman who was so soon to be his wife. He had arrived to find her sitting stiff and straight-backed, barely responding to Lady Emma’s attempts at conversation. Her face was a deathly white mask, her small eyes sunk deep in her head. She was dressed in her usual black, the veil drawn forward so that it all but covered the starched white that so tightly framed her face. She smelled slightly unpleasant, although the odour was masked by a more wholesome perfume. Sniffing discreetly, he thought he smelt lavender and rosemary.

  Of course, he thought. The healer girl was here.

  It was late by the time he succeeded in reassuring Claude – if, indeed, he had, and her apparent quiescence was not just a pretence – and Lady Emma persuaded him to stay to supper and accept a bed for the night. Claude forced herself to sit at table for the evening meal, although Alain wished she had not. The sight of her pushing food around her plate and nibbling at the tiniest mouthfuls was singularly irritating, although he told himself repeatedly not to be so hard on her. The meal proceeded on through several courses – Alain could well appreciate why Lord Gilbert was the size he was – and finally, as the last platters were cleared away, Claude stood up and announced she was going to bed. Alain felt relief race through him.